Excerpt 2 His Head Was Found at the Driver's Wheel excerpt from S E V E N T E E N
Head at the Driver’s Wheel excerpt 2
On the anniversary of the Great Socialist Revolution, 1952 brought in a big heat that set up headache stories, like Lola’s most days or Wilhelm Geo’s flash back, to the war five minutes ago, before he dismissed his lab students Thank you Yewah for summer vacation. Lola lingered as usual. He busied himself.
Lola had just sliced open the belly of a formaldehyded toad and was reading it, as sanctum, in the way you would a Book of Revelations: Let’s see, in four years Cheryl Turner will stab her mother’s boyfriend dead the same week Ronald Harrison a chauffeur will be driving Miss Jayne Mansfield, the Blond Bomb Shell of the Proletariat. The air is clear and the night starry. Maybe her Electra crashes head on into the back of a tractor trailer spraying mosquito fogger on a two lane road three thousand miles east of Miss Mansfield’s pink colored palace on Sunset Boulevard. That way she’ll be even more famous dead. Her hair or head will be found in the driver’s side windshield by a crack reporter who might lease or own a big spread with a stunning view of a pine studded Hollywood canyon that always catches a devastating forest fire in late August and is the scene of natural disasters as well.
“This is where I want to live!”
“I certainly hope not, Miss Lola. The school board would kill me. Let’s pack up and go.”
On the anniversary of the Great Socialist Revolution, 1952 brought in a big heat that set up headache stories, like Lola’s most days or Wilhelm Geo’s flash back, to the war five minutes ago, before he dismissed his lab students Thank you Yewah for summer vacation. Lola lingered as usual. He busied himself.
Lola had just sliced open the belly of a formaldehyded toad and was reading it, as sanctum, in the way you would a Book of Revelations: Let’s see, in four years Cheryl Turner will stab her mother’s boyfriend dead the same week Ronald Harrison a chauffeur will be driving Miss Jayne Mansfield, the Blond Bomb Shell of the Proletariat. The air is clear and the night starry. Maybe her Electra crashes head on into the back of a tractor trailer spraying mosquito fogger on a two lane road three thousand miles east of Miss Mansfield’s pink colored palace on Sunset Boulevard. That way she’ll be even more famous dead. Her hair or head will be found in the driver’s side windshield by a crack reporter who might lease or own a big spread with a stunning view of a pine studded Hollywood canyon that always catches a devastating forest fire in late August and is the scene of natural disasters as well.
“This is where I want to live!”
“I certainly hope not, Miss Lola. The school board would kill me. Let’s pack up and go.”