The Long Way

Chapter I

1.
“Exact change only”, Repeated Riley for the third time, with just as much anger and distaste as the first and second repetitions.
	“Yes, you’ve already told me this”, responded the incredibly confused and possibly equally angry driver whose once crisp $5 Dollar bill was now a crumbled jumble and the perfect object of representation for the moment, “but you just haven't told me what it is you want me to do—”
	“Look here, Mac, I don't want to be here just as much as you don’t, probably more if I we really take personality into consideration, considering as you seem to be as stupid as you are ugly—“
	The Driver’s wife gasped, his Adult Children began to feel very uncomfortable and regret urging their father to take The Long Way to the store for a laugh.
	“Look, madam…” Said Riley, truly astonished at the response of the suburban family to what was unquestionably the shittiest thing a person could ever do, “Are you actually surprised that I would pick up on the definite reminisce of your stupid, mongoloid-ancestors in the dopey and doughy face of the man that you managed to create a small battalion of Adult Children? I really do adore charity, but carrying this man’s Children—“ This said with a look toward the three uncomfortable, balding, Adult-Men-Dressed-In-Children’s-Sailor-Uniforms, who had congregated in the dwelling beneath the stairwell mere hours earlier to discuss plans to send their father to The Home where he had sent their grandfather, and their grandfather’s father before him, to continue the family tradition of locking up the unquestionably insane members in the mini mansion up on Dwine’s hill, known only as The Home, much less sad that way. While each man thought it, none of them dare mention who would send them to the home once their time came, seeing as each was in that rarely sexually-desirable sect of “Men who look like haggard old women, but are in fact men under the age of 40”. The car was silent before hand, but now even the noise of passing traffic had seemed to die down, making things far more dramatic and uncomfortable.
A calm before the storm in a way.
“Now, That’s! some real commitment to the act of procreation!”, quipped Riley.
	At this point it didn't matter what Riley I.Toole had to say. He could’ve been reciting verses to any number of the most calming songs known to man, yet coupled with the anger brought to the Driver by the mere act of turning a key in the ignition of his maroon sedan would’ve been enough to make what happens next occur regardless of words exchanged.
	Firstly, the Driver brought his foot down as hard and fast as he possibly could on the gas, peeling out from the location he’d been idling (and polluting I might add) in a rapid manner, and speeding away. This was Riley’s last straw, “Fuck you!” he screamed, “I’ll record your plates, I’ll have you arrested!”, sweating as he stammered each word out.
The car stopped, it couldn’t have been farther than 20-feet away, and began to reverse. Riley’s eyes widened as he slammed the small door of his tollbooth closed.
The Driver exited his car and began to pound senselessly on the window that Riley, with the greatest of his might, attempted hold shut, which broke after a 2 or 3 light jabs from the driver as it was designed solely for the protection from the elements (not including hale, snow, heavy rain, or angered fists of those offended by ignorant tollbooth operators), leading to a gash above the right eye of Riley who had deemed it safe to use his freakishly large head as a blockade against the weather window.
	“I’ll have you hanged-“ Yelped Riley, blood gushing from the wound, “I’ll have that car mushed to little bits with your cow of a wife and the lot (referring to the Adult Children) inside of it, my god how you’ll rue the day you decided to fuck with Riley Ignatius Toole!”
	The driver’s sudden swing of a fist into the cranial region of Toole’s gargantuan head swiftly introduced him to the world of concussions and black outs, reducing him to a lifeless pile of flesh, wrapped in an orange-reflective safety vest (green was standard issue, but Riley insisted that he receive an Orange one due to his positions as “Head Tollman” and “Custodian to the masses” (both self appointed)), puke green chinos, and a pair of hiking boots that stayed on his feet from the time he woke up to the time he slept, a nearly 16 hour period (their smell was evident of this).
	The Driver, now in a far calmer state, brushed the stray bits of plexiglass from his tweed vest, a gift from his wife’s father, and took notice of the tremendous amount of perspiration that had accumulated in his under arm region. He got back into his car, breathed a breath of fresh air, and began to once more embark on the journey home. Hoping only that this time there would be no interference and deciding that perhaps The Long Way was not in fact the best route home and realizing that his three Adult Children were possibly all little assholes. His wife, proud of the manner in which her husband would stand up for his family through the use of violence directed towards the weak willed, placed her hand over his, sending a vibe of  love, fear, and self-loathing, all of which was absorbed by the driver and sent back to her ten-fold. “
	“Lets avoid the toll roads next time honey”, said the wife. The whole car laughed at this and continued to do so for a good two minutes, at which point car veered off the road and went careening off a cliff, killing the entire family and all three Adult Children.
2.
Riley awoke to see a caravan of sedans passing through his lane, not a paying customer a one of them. The mere sight of people who would so truly disregard “the law” was almost enough to lead Riley to blacking out for the second time in this day. He managed to pick himself up with the assistance of a nearby swivel chair, which buckled under his weight and put all of its might into giving back the equivalent opposing force that Newton demands. Riley grabbed the bottle of tepid mandarin Vitamin Water that had become a staple of his steamy little traffic shack, and tossed back his head, downing the disgusting thing in one large, loud, gurgle.
	He wiped the moisture from his mouth with the sleeve of his tan parka (a gift from a long dead, similarly-obese, grandfather or uncle of some sort, Riley never was one for family), and spat, hitting yet another non-paying patron of what he called “his-stretch”. The car slowed to a stop and began to reverse, Riley, not wanting a repeat of the day’s earlier events, cowered and stuffed as much of himself as possible under the desk of his “traffic shack”, and prayed that he wouldn't be brought to a sudden unconscious state once more. What was unknown to Riley at the time, was that the driver had no intention to beat him, nor did they even notice the spit, they in fact just wanted to pay the toll they had neglected to in the previous moments, yet were unable to due to Riley’s sudden “disappearance”. The car, and it’s passenger, continued down the road, noticing an usual amount of smoke coming from up the road a bit, and slowing down to rubberneck.
	“Oh man...” Said the driver, a woman named Beth in her mid fifties, “Look at that will you?”, She asked to her rider, a very man in a poncho she’d picked up at a truck stop and was taking to the nearby town for what he shadily referred to as “Business” and what undoubtedly was prostitution.
	“Not a lawman in sight”, continued Beth, “Someone really should call someone in that position and let them know of the havoc down on twelve”.
Both the passenger and driver remained silent after this statement.
“Yup, somebody really should call this in,” said the woman
Oui said the man, both of them knowing damn well neither would do so
3.
Riley was feeling flustered and bloated (even more so than usual) and he knew something was up to something (probably nothing good) in the pipes and tubes region of his insides and he didn't want anything at all to do with it. He opened the small door of his shack, checking both ways for oncoming traffic, and grabbed the handmade “EZ-Pass” sign (His own invention, for when he had no desire to work) to pop up over the “State Road Toll $1.25” plaque that he saw as a real detractor of traffic and begged that toll prices be on more of an “abstract concept” than anything else and really not set in stone (or aluminum).
	Riley grabbed his Vitamin Water and began the long, 2 km., walk to the bus home. He passed a large amount of trash on his way, nothing edible or worthy of collecting, just the average animal parts and used condoms. There was a strong smell of skunk drafting from one of the town bus houses, he decided to avoid the very cloudy and robustly smelling booth and went with the more pleasant and clean looking shelter, populated by one man in a trench coat.
	The man in the trench coat nodded at Riley as he entered the shelter, and quickly returned to what he was doing before the Riley’s intrusion. The activity the trench coat man was doing at the time happened to be masturbating, but when one’s faced with wandering into a hot box, or being near someone who may, or may not, be touching their dick, the choice really is obvious…Unless you’re Riley, who stuck with the latter and even began to chat with the man after he had finished with his...business
	The bus arrived after about 5 minutes, stopping briefly, then starting once more, emitting a burst of thick white exhaust that was uncomfortably reminiscent of 2 minutes ago.
	Riley boarded the bus to see a driver equally as large as he and feeling disgust over the size of this man. Riley dished out a handful of coins into the tollbox and dragged himself to his seat. “How could anyone let themselves go so?”, wrote Riley in the small black notebook he carried to write cruel things about seemingly-innocent people. “A truly vulgar being”, he continued in his normal, very vulgar manner of speech, “I highly doubt the fellow has been in anything resembling a loving affair since he popped out of his nan and looked back up”. What’s been written in this notebook, in the small, scribbulus jottings of a Manchild (not an Adult Child), really was something eye opening. What could be seen through Riley’s scribbles was the psyche of a very disturbed individual who channeled his deep inner hatred towards others and manages to find some form of sick enjoyment from it. Of course this could be true, but one can never be sure and there’s not much reason to overthink it, nor would there be anyone with the urge to overthink it, especially in the nasty case of Riley’s life.
	The bus slowed to a stop as Riley tugged violently upon the cable and he began to lumber to the exit. The doors swung open revealing that the bus had pulled off to what was probably the only neighborhood in Boston that did not have a curb.
	“You-“ Barked Riley, “Turn that dial there and drop the bus down, I wish to get off without breaking my kickers”.
	The bus driver, who’s bushy, push broom mustache muffled his already slurred speech, reducing what little care he had left in his voice to nothingness, “No.”
	“Ah”, said said Riley, speaking in a tone of voice which manages to say It Talks? without actually doing so. “I see…well tell me this my dear sir, If, you are a City Employee-“, Sit-Teee Em-Ploy-Yeee “Then tell me why you would refuse to do the most basic of basics tasks you have been employed to do.” The Bus driver began to move his great jowly mouth just as Riley cut him off once more.
	“Then tell me, Good Sir! Why would you even bother to bring your fat, self-loathing, greasy, unshaven, hulking, behemoth of human bulk onto this bus to try, and I use that word reaaaaly fucking loosely, try to do your job, and again I use that word very, very loosely”
	The driver looked toward the road in front of him and thought about his family, tuning out Riley, who had reached his second-to-last state of anger, Blind Rage.
	“I’ll have you know, you fat fuck, I’m happen to be a state employee-“ The first word harboring two very hard T’s, and the latter being pronounced in that familiar Em-Ploy-Yeee style, “And I could have you removed from this position with a mere snap of my fingers-“ Riley lifted his fingers to convey the ease it would take, he dared not attempt to snap as the action had a tendency to make little to no noise when in his hand and feared it would damage the already weak character he had created and making his side of this argument completely meaningless.
	The driver (The second man of this description to have fallen under Riley’s wrath) had all but completely ignored the angry man blocking him from continuing on with his job. Occupied with deep thoughts of returning home to his family and feeding them handfuls of very dry, fish-flavored biscuits from a plate that with an abstract depiction of the nursery rhyme This Little Piggie using pigs, hats, and a human hand.
If this is unclear, this man lives alone with a number of formerly-stray cats that, if they could speak, would probably treat him with less respect than Riley would ever give him, and he knew it…
	“And another thing-“ Said Riley, finishing a speech akin in length and subject to a roughly three page letter to the editor that had been fermented in anger and topped off with a dollop of bottled up hatred.
	The driver snapped out of his day dreams and noticed, seemingly for the first time, the tremendous oaf of a man towering over him and blocking what appeared to be 15 or so soon-to-be boarders (A good half of which had gathered after seeing a crowd and hearing yelling, hoping perhaps to witness a fight or street performance).
	“I can't have you mucking up my route with your complaining” Bellowed the bus driver, scaring Riley, who believed the driver to be a mute after his prolonged silence and stumbled back just the slightest bit after being yelled at for the second time today (you’d think he’d get used to it). His stumble was just enough to go right over the edge of the first of the three steps that led from the bus to the curb, just enough, to make Riley fall the three feet that separated him from the ground. Of all the people nearby during the fall, the most unfortunate was probably those who had gathered to spectate or get on the bus, and did not have the time to escape from underneath Riley as he fell. I feel like the following day’s paper can convey the events that followed far better than I ever will:

...Oh those poor souls who were nearly crushed under this screaming oaf as he fell from a city bus after berating its driver for a minor eternity with deep personal insults. Our hearts go out to the bus driver in question, who is best left unnamed for his safety, all those present that day and most of all the families of the cat and its owner who are now in critical condition after being fallen on by the loud and bloody man authorities are still seeking for question.

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