If it wasn't for those x-rays taken earlier this oven-baked summer month identification of the young man's fragmented remains would have been impossible.

    Peter Sack, first and last son of retired Three Star Army General, sits with spit and grease flat-line smile in Dr. Robert's dentist office. Hollow pale grey eyes pan from fake wood framed certificates of authenticity surfacing faded crayola-yellow wall, to chrome reflection of vaseline face. The eighteen year old, sporting new day-green splotched sandy blond hair, tries to seat himself in a comfortable position but the office's black vinyl chair holds a sticky-pinch grip to his sweaty exposed lower back. Twig arms raise in slow motion flex, with hope to catch the eye of passing alabaster clad nurse. Hairless boy pits flow aroma of garbage truck driver lazy screw.
    Tip-toed stiletto heels step Nurse Foo Foo in giggling: over endowed, possible former Russ Meyer film extra. Her loaded syringe stings. Slap stab is accompanied by aged voice, cigarette hoarse.
    "This'll help you relax Peter. My little Peter - Peter Peter." Shaking her head. "It seem just like yesterday you in here with your daddy, you'd that cute little flat-top all pink skin justa little stubble top, and sunburn ears flingin' out, just like big Peter. Now you're all fillin' out, got few fuzzies on lip-n-chin. You making into a fine young man. Tell old Foo Foo what-cha into these days," nurse asks as her cold callus chapped hands work tying paper towel bib around gnat dotted slide and crawl black, filth red neck.
    "Cars. Alternative music. The internet."
    "Well that's nice. What's that on you arm?" Tee-shirt torn sleeveless, white limbs flaunt five inch nails, thorn in cheep blue ink. "It's the... The muscle band of a primitive culture."
    "Well that's nice. Start countin' backwards from hundred and Doctor Roberts will see you shortly."
    The shot kicks in and takes over Peters mind. He begins to dream.

    Dentist waltzes in and main lines drain-o; fingers nurse's plumbing with rubber glove powdery snap spilling hot holly berry candle wax down fishnet legs kicking off the grime of man's polished crime.

    Peter wakes sluggish to find familiar family room and Poppin' Fresh Dough Boy in living colour: big screened high resolution. Prescription in jean's front pocket begins to warm head and heart, festering desire for another high. Returning from crew cut pharmacist, the notion hits - bang daddy's bar and wash down these ten chalky tiny tablets. Five healthy helpings from the unlabeled mason jar stream crystal clear swirls white leading Peter's eyes down void. Piss stains floor, feet and pant's crotch. Button-fly fumbles and is left undone. Side stepping sway kicks sleeping dog to barking. Stumble turns to fall bringing along hall mirror and knickknack shelf. Slivers splinter. Younger and older sisters shrieking about being on the phone, trying to read, needed sleep and ride to ballet.
    "Oh Lord!" maid quivers, "what mess are you making now Petey?"


Mumbling words slur together in a crescendo, "Shut-up-all-you, slitless-cunts. " Out ki tchen door into cinder block and concrete garage, Peter's skin tightens and goosebumps rise cool. Motion, uncontrollable peed and thrill obsesses young man. Spare ice-box's turquoise blue door winging open, bends tarnished hinges and knocking to the ground green metal cylinder. Bottled Rolling Rock, twelve pack, is pulled to painted door. Stretching out flat, Peter speaks to no one yet anyone, "What the hell is that?" He gazes at cylinder rocking between worn stacked tires and refrigerator.

    "Listen little private, don't touch any of my belongings, particularly my military souvenirs - only damn things I have left! understand? I can't hear you! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

    Spit and grease flat-line smile bends upward with the realization that the object in sight will satisfy desire for speed and thrills. Springing up jump and he's on two feet; thieves "backpacking through Europe" sister's 1976 Chevy Impala car keys. Green metal cylinder is slung into back seat. Dust trails disappearing car. A new land speed record is quested.

    "See those fighter jets over there son?"
    "Yes daddy."
    "And see those small bomb-like tubes attached to their sides?
    Those aren't bombs, they're called a JATO. LISTEN! A JATO helps airplanes go real-real fast in a short amount of time so they can lift off the ground and go flying high in the sky. They're rockets. Remember the spaceship we saw a little while ago, the one that flew to the goonie-moonie? That was a rocket."

Vacation suntanned Mister P. Sack Senior sits in swivel, black cushioned plastic chair, stone still as State Trooper explains what has happened. "It's about your son, sir."
    "What did he do this time?" Monotone voice questions.
    "Peter was in an automobile accident and he's dead."
    "Was he drinking?"
    "Sir, Mister Sack, let me explain. There is no way for us to determine that. The only thing we could recover was a piece of debris we believe to be a section of steering wheel. We pulled from it a couple of teeth, which we were able to match to dental records. The only thing we are sure of is it was your son. Your daughter call us a few weeks after, reporting her car was stolen. She thought her brother had something to do with it. That's how we were able to match a name up with the teeth.
    "How did it happen?"
    "Again sir, we're not sure. The lab could only speculate on the report. Somehow your son managed to power the car with some kind of incredible force. There was a half mile of thick rubber marks on the road surface. Where they end, the car musta become airborne, roughly, a miIe and a half, before the straight-a-way of the road ended. That's where the car impacted the cliff, at the apex of the curve. One hundred and twenty feet above the road." State Trooper folds hands on desk. Could you like one of our officers to take you home?"

    Staring through white venation blinds, vacation suntanned flat-line tile stands, says thank you and leaves State Police Station.

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