I got out of bed at noon. I had a few friends over the night before and they treated my place like it was their own. Cigarette butts scattered everywhere, a slick of vomit covered the black & white tiles of the bathroom floor, half-empty cans of Schlitz ($3.99 a twelve pack) were stacked in a rough pyramid in the middle of the living room. My good friend Janet was passed out under a dirty bedspread on my legless couch. She looked like she put on ten years in the span of a night and a thin string of drool was flowing down her cheek. Her hair was a tangled mess covering her eyes. I turned the radio to 1000 am just in time to catch the Classic Country Show. The radio blasted "Tennessee Flattop Box." Janet didn't even stir. I went to find some clothes, on the way I opened the fridge. To my pleasant surprise some philanthropist left an almost full half gallon of vodka in the fridge. I took a 32 ounce tumbler, filled it with ice, half vodka and half orange. As a rule, I can't let that much booze just sit around. It radiates to much psychic energy to the booze addled mind. A half gallon of alcohol is an invitation to party. I was going to try to make it a party of one. I took a big gulp. I put on the clothes I'd worn the day before and brushed my teeth. Back in the living room Janet was still on the couch, but now she had covered her head with the bedspread. The radio was blaring "Carrol County Accident" by Porter Wagonner. "Please turn that off!" she screamed. "Goddammit, I hate you!" I turned it down. "Where the hell did you find that music?" she asked. "Where all good Americans find it," I said as I offered her a cigarette, "In my true, blue, pea-pickin' heart." Janet lit her cigarette and took a long drag. She put it down and pulled her hair into a long ponytail. "You got anything to eat?" "No." "You wanna get some breakfast," she asked. "Sure," I said. "You buying?" "No," Janet said. "I'm cashed out till Friday." I took a drink. "Why don't you mix yourself a little cocktail," I said. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" she said. "No, but it's a beginning," I said. "You got a better idea? She got up, walked to the kitchen and mixed herself a drink. She was in her bra and panties. She looked good that way. "Make yourself at home," I said. "Please." I looked out the window and noticed a storm was almost right overhead. Lightening was flashing, but no thunder accompanied it. I went out on the front step and sat down. After a few minutes Janet joined me. She had changed into some of my clothes. They looked a hell of a lot better on her than they did on me. "Watching the storm," I answered without her asking. She offered me a cigarette and we sat silently for a moment. "What the hell is that guy doing?" Janet asked. Across the street a fat man in a white t-shirt, for lack of a better name we called him Porky, propped a ladder on the roof of his lean-to porch. The ladder was too short, so as he climbed it began to fall backward. He stepped down and repositioned the ladder. Directly next door, Mrs. Johnson, a huge, wrinkled old woman with the voice of a dozen beer-drunk lumberjacks walked out to the sidewalk. She had yesterday's rollers in her hair, last weeks too-short house dress on and this morning's nip of bourbon in her hand. She looked directly at us. "What the hell is that dumb son of a bitch doing?" she screamed. I shrugged, Janet shrugged. A flash of lightning jagged across the sky. "That dumb son of a bitch is going to kill himself!" she yelled. Her voice was worse than grinding gears. "Hey dildo," she yelled. "You're gonna get killed up there!" Porky kept on going as if he hadn't heard her. He struggled up the ladder and climbed to the peak of the two story house. He pulled out a pipe wrench and started twisting the support post on the huge TV antenna. Lightning crackled above. "Hey Porky!" she yelled. "You are one dumb son of a bitch!" I took a drag off my cigarette. "I don't think he hears you, Mrs. Johnson," I said. She snorted and walked across the street and onto Porky's lawn. "Fucking asshole!" she screamed, to no one in particular. I looked back and Porky must have finished his adjustments because he was working his way back down the steep slope of his roof. Just then a huge, bright light erupted from the clouds and met with the antenna and exploded like a bomb. Janet threw her drink into the air. "Shazaam!" she screamed. Porky did a barrel roll off the roof, smacked on top of the porch, teetered on the edge, fell and landed on the grass of his front lawn right at Mrs. Johnson's feet. "Jesus!" I screamed. Mrs. Johnson calmly took a sip of her hi-ball. "I told you!" she screamed. "I told you you'd get it, you dumb piece of shit." "I'll dial 911," Janet said. "Good idea," I said. "And bring back a towel, you made a mess." I watched across the street. Mrs. Johnson was still raving. She bent over at the waist and slapped his face. Her dress had pulled up exposing her entire ass. It was all dirty gray hair and wrinkled waxy-blue veiny flesh cascading down to the back of her knees. It looked more like a dog's ass than a human one. One huge fuckin' ugly dog's butt. My whole head dropped to the ground. I took a drink. It seemed to coagulate in my mouth. I could barely get it down. I tried to shake the scene out of my head, but it was stuck like it had been fused with an arc welder. I drained my tumbler. Janet came back with a couple fresh cocktails and a towel. "Well?" I asked, "Are they on their way?" "I don't know," she said, "the line was busy." "Good God!" I said. But someone must have got through. I could hear sirens already. "Hey!" Mrs. Johnson screamed, "I think the fat bastard is dead!" She shuffled back across the street, shifting her gaze from house to house. "I think that fat fuck finally did himself in." But on the ground Porky was already moving. He got up, put his hands on his knees and vomited. Then he wiped his face on his arm and staggered up the stairs to his front door. "Do you think he's gonna be o.k.," Janet asked. I took a drink. "I don't know if I'll ever get over it," I said. A few minutes later an ambulance pulled up. Porky answered the door like nothing happened. The paramedics shrugged and got back into their ride. They pulled up to the curb in front of us. The man in the passenger seat leaned out the window. "Anything weird happen around here this morning?" he asked. Janet took a drag off her cigarette. "Nothing out of the ordinary officer," she said. The guy smiled. "I'm not a cop, I'm a paramedic." "Whatever," Janet said. She sipped her drink. The paramedic lost his smile, and pulled his head back into the vehicle. The driver shifted into gear and pulled off. It started to rain.