His body is such a hanger. Not even a nice hanger, but one of those wired ones that get bent and twisted. Plug your nose and say each syllable of Massachusetts real slow, that’s Russell. He is one of those little birthday horns that you include in the goody bags for your toddler’s birthday party. That plastic twang that makes the air stale. Now all the other parents hate you. This is how I hate Russell sometimes. He turns around and looks at me from the passenger seat.
“We pulled your name first for this round so you have to fill up the tank.”
“Yeah, we pulled my name first but you already volunteered before we took names down so you have to first.” I look nowhere but outside my window. I hate that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks cliché but I always think of this when Russell is in one of his moods. Convincing him to do something is like trying to fix that coat hanger; you can try but it will never work out perfect. Now you want a new coat hanger, or maybe even a new dog.
Or I guess you could use the hanger to fix the dog. But Russell's first name is Jack, so he is the dog. And the hanger. And Massachusetts and a birthday horn. The trouble with a guy like Russell? He uses up all your metaphors on the first page.
Opening: Fred Whittle.....Continuation: Anon.