May 23, 2010

RE: I believe it's time to go

To: bethechange at smartmail

From: riversideblues at smartmail

You've been gone ten days. I know I promised I would stay, and that I wouldn't do anything crazy, but most of the time I don't think I can do it, Sammy. For maybe ten minutes out of every day I'm not making plans to rescue you. For maybe ten minutes when I'm helping Ben clean out the garage or drinking a beer on the back porch with Lisa you aren't the number one thought in my mind.

For the other 1430 minutes of the day (see, you're not the only super-genius...okay, okay, I used Ben's calculator) my thoughts range from plans to break into Hell and rescue you by whatever means necessary, and imagining exactly what I'll do to Lucifer once I get my hands on him. I've been dreaming about some of Alistair's more creative punishments recently (on the nights when I actually manage to sleep) but for once the dreams aren't nightmares, they're more like wish fulfillment. Stop scowling at me. You know it makes you look like a constipated gorilla.

I drove out to a cross-road tonight.

I'm driving an '89 Ford F250 now. The first time I tried to drive the Impala after arriving at Lisa's I pulled over before I made it ten minutes and got sick all over the road. Don't worry, she's safe and sound in Lisa's garage. Anyways, I drove all the way out to the cross-road, and then I realized that when I left the house I'd grabbed your wallet instead of mine, so I didn't have a picture of me to use.

Then I smashed a fist into the side of the truck, and then I kicked some rocks, and then I sat down in the middle of the cross-road and cried, really cried for the first time since I left Kansas. (Dr. Phil says it's good to get your emotions out...I've been watching far too much daytime television recently.)

Anyways, I drove back to the house to get my wallet, but by that point I was a little less drunk (maybe I cried out the beer...can you cry beer? That would be cool.) and I kept remembering that stupid promise you made me make. So here I am, writing an email to you instead of going down to hell and rescuing you and torturing Lucifer.

I miss you, Sammy.

A/N: Email subject is a line from Robert Johnson's "Me And The Devil Blues." This story is titled for the Black Sabbath song of the same name. Apologies for the email address formatting-this was the only way I could get it to show up.