You want to be like me, don’t you, horns and all, flashback. I must warn you I have real wings and real red sneakers too, stinky feet. Are you a thief of hearts like me? Are you afraid of ghosts?
FYI: I maintain a bomb shelter for special occasions, like when mom comes home with a hairy man or members of the ZZ Top tribute band. Last week I discovered the need for weed and hairspray, just kidding. I don’t understand the cape however I get the sense you want to fly with the Queen of the Damned, or Queen. I love your horns and sunglasses too. You must be in love with Dracula.
I read about your Uncle Jack, about that damn Cadillac and flask, heart beating, vroom vroom. I have an Uncle Jack too. Her name was Jill. She was as tall as me so she wasn’t very tall at all but at the time she was bigger than anything I’d ever seen before. Once I found her worshipping at the ledge of disaster with a Schlitz Malt Liquor in her hand. She had cold feet and visions of bulls. She hated meat and Pablo Picasso too.
Once, when I was a small boy (or girl), she dressed me up as a goat. It was Halloween and she called me Billy. No lie. Mom was very stern with her and told her, “never again.” I think that’s when my fascination with gender began—Halloween. Or maybe it was the Day of the Dead.
In Pamplona Aunt Jill fell to her death trying to avoid the fall of Icarus, her lover at the time. That’s what mom says. I think Jill jumped this time for real and became a kind of Jack, falling like a rock through a thousand graves. Or, at the very least, she finally made it to the other side.