My little brother sent me a recipe he found online called Stuffed Zucchini. You make yourself a thick meat sauce (sausage or ground beef, your choice). You take a zucchini and scoop out the innards. Take those innards and mix it into the sauce. Let it simmer for a bit then stuff the shells of the zucchini with your meat sauce. Cover the whole mess with a generous amount of cheese and place it in the oven on 325 for fifteen minutes.

I am inside that zucchini, hot and cooked. Moving, yet going nowhere.

Why? I ask myself.

Why am I back in this hell? This alcohol fueled parade of well-worn high heels and stale cologne.

My legs want to run. Instead they only move in place to the endless Guantanamo bay pop-night-playlist. Useless things. My body does its favorite dance: half-paralyzed-giraffe-swatting-flies-with-shoulder-blades.

Someone puts a human being into my arms.She isn’t very heavy. She looks at me, startled. I look at her, startled. She smells like a child that got bored following her mother around the essential oils department of a JCPennys. I put the perfume-basted girl down. She disappears into the meat.

I continue to move, wondering why my left ear is a little clogged. My arms decide to move along with my legs. Something cold splashes my elbow. I turn and a large man is regaining control of his beer. He growls at me. I give up. I pry my way through the hot meat and find the door.

Outside, with the fiends, I sit and smoke. I look up at the price of a drink, no change. I look at my phone. Six in the damn morning? I look at The Gates. They are guarded by an obese, bearded man staring into a paper cup of coffee allowing a mass of flesh to inundate the den of fiends on their way to the meat pocket. His sad look convinces me.

I get my jacket from check in. I leave through the flood gate. After a few oomfs and muttered apologies, I step in a puddle and make my way out on to the street.

Before I begin my self-remonstrating walk home I stop to put on my gloves next to the looming cathedral. A stain glass window faces me. Jesus is there, watching. His eyes are dark as a dream-less sleep. He is smiling.

I walk home. It is cold.

Author Benjamin Davis and artist Nikita Klimov created one story and one picture each day for one year. In May 2018 they published their first book, The King of FU

One Comment on “Disco and Perfume in a Stuffed Zucchini

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