SKIMBS

Alternate universe in which I stumble upon the great freebooter, inspired by the thespian talents of our big chief

I can’t stop thinking about Donald Trump’s perfect-in-presentation, evil-in-character, alleged but you-can’t-make-this-shit-up birthday note to bestie Jeffrey Epstein. In a perfect world, Donnie boy is a low rung TV writer for adult swim, not a raging pedophile. Peripherally, though in no way do I intend to accuse Naked Man of such sexual deviance, there is a Naked Man on the lam from Gibson City, Illinois, fresh off escapades such as shooting a couple cops, burning his house to the ground, and running amok where the dogs and heat sensors can’t catch him: the corn. The remotely plausible scenario of running into ol’ Naked Man way out at my boyfriend’s mother’s cabin has plagued me, and you could say that Donnie’s penchant for living-life-like-a-play has inspired me. I’m off that good kush; it’s getting late.

Voice Over: There must be more to life than having everything.

Sadie: Jesus. Fuck. Do you need a Red Bull?

Naked Man: Why are you in a panic? Is your luck cursed?

Sadie: I have a sugar-free twelve ounce and some really warm Leinenkugel shandies in my car—maybe five of them? I could cook you a brat over the fire, but the dog will likely wake, and he really needs rest, you see, he’s gnawing at his feet lately, and Charlie will get up if the dog gets up, and Charlie has a gun. Why aren’t you in a panic?

Naked Man: We have certain things in common.

Sadie: Shandies?

Naked Man: Wonderful, wonderful secrets.

Sadie: I’m really not trying to fuck with you, man. You’re butt-ass-naked, straight out the corn. I realize now that you mean the gun?

Naked Man/David: David Jordan.

Sadie: Sadie Kimbrough. God, your hand is really soft, all things considered. Can you cover up your penis?

David: Enigma’s never age, have you noticed that?

Sadie: Sure. Just expected calluses, from, like, the corn. Doesn’t matter. Yeah. Like, I feel like I should have gone clubbing more at 22, though. I guess I’m trying not to drink so much, and that feels like a really elderly thing to do. There’s, like, a nervous, unpracticed energy in my waist.

David: Your hips will suit you well for birthing.

Sadie: Like, proportionally, I think they work out for my body, but, like, I’ll probably have a scheduled C-section? I don’t really know you like that, so please don’t say something like that again. Wait, so you agree? That I’m an enigma? I wanna be mysterious, but I don’t think I am. Do you think I’m mysterious?

David: You take compliments like a blister.

Sadie: Like, picking at it until it bleeds? Do you really think I’m an enigma? Be honest.

David: Sade, tell me why the gospel of evil?

Sadie: My name is Sadie.

David: Sade, are you diabolical or divine? Diabolique ou divin?

Sadie: Okay, are you talking about the band Enigma?

David: You like?

Sadie: Holy fuck. Have you heard the AI song made about you? Everyone in Gibson City is freaked. They’re like, zig-zagging to their cars like those poor fuckers pumping gas and hopping off school buses when the DC snipers were at large. They got your name wrong. Leroy. I kind of liked it better.

David: They?

Sadie: It, the AI machine.

David: Put not your trust in machines, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.

Sadie: Trust no son. Coulda told you that. Hey, do you have a lady waiting for you back at home? Not that you have anything structurally sound to return to, no offense, but like, is there someone you want me to call?

David: Sweethearts, maybe. When the gown extends only to calves, maybe that’s all it is. A casual affair. A wonderful secret.

Sadie: She wore a midi dress? Like as a wedding dress? Sorry, I’m confused. Does she have nice calves?

David: She studied secretarial science diligently, though nobody ever respected the art of organization as bonafide discipline.

Sadie: Actually, I’m a librarian, so.

David: Only she understood how many beats to count before answering the phone, how many paper slices truly made a stack. I’ll take the Red Bull.

Sadie: Sure. I guess American loneliness is the only legitimate moral panic, right? Besides poverty? Like, that’s what did Jeffrey Dahmer and Amy Fisher in. Well, I actually can’t speak too much on Amy Fisher. I only recently heard her story. I’m twenty four, ha ha.

David: Red Bull?

Sadie: Yeah, sorry. Oh, shit. The dog’s up.

David: When your dumpster full of cow dung is on fire, don’t jump in there.

Sadie: Yeah, he might tear your ass up. Not used to strangers. Good dog, though.

David: I’m not a bad man.

Sadie: Yeah, obviously. You’re riding a red Schwinn bike. You shot two cops. That’s like, so wholesome. And kind of gay. In a fun way.

David: If only I could stop thinking about that Red Bull.

Sadie: I’m getting it, I’m getting it. Just stay here, okay?

David: Our wonderful secret.

Sadie: Right, but like, I’m probably gonna put something about this on my story? I’m honorably discharging from my war on Instagram. I think it’s so fun, I always have. Like, obviously it probably gave me an eating disorder and like, severely altered my capacity to learn and grow? But, it’s like a scrapbook for my life. It’d be dishonest not to include you.

David: Don’t show them my calves.

Sadie: I wasn’t planning on it. Not really your best feature.

David: Cruelty is too easy. You’re crueler than you know.

Sadie: Okay, your hands are softer than they look. What’s the hard thing?

David: You think the hard thing is running, the dogs, the stalks, the gun. But these are easy. Easy is setting the fire. Easy is pulling the trigger. Cruelty is easy. The hard thing is the secret, so closely pressed to me that it bruises. Remember that I wasn’t cruel. Just secret. And that was the hardest thing. I’ll return to the green mouth, back to the rows where the minions of civil order can’t see. But every stalk is a witness. Every tassel is a tongue.

Sadie: I’m gonna shoot you in the ass, Naked Man.

David: Red Bull. Please.