Part Three
Sacrine, the day of the ransom pick-up
«Chapter Thirty»
Let me stress, I cannot stand the morbid, depressing whinging lyrics of country music. First am subjected to listening to Mindy McCready, Ten Thousand Angels, and now Jo Dee Messina is blasting from Raye’s car CD player as we cruise along Scarlett Road. Am sitting in the passenger seat and my fragile brain is marinated in a concoction of red wine, sex on the beach, and sambuca shots, not to mention mind-altering drugs. It is a miracle why it’s still functioning. And this tortured-soul, mental mind-rut she calls music, is grating on my nerves. Somehow, the woman finds solace in the moaning, misery and melancholy found in the lyrics while wallowing in some broken-hearted memory.
I wonder what misery she’s going through now.
Should I even bother to ask?
Hell low!
In retrospect, she laughed when I said country music came about by manic depressant musicians, and not my cup of tea. Then she accused me of being influenced by computerized, manufactured sounds, created in money spinning studios where so-called musicians tried to develop a soul.
Ugh!
God, she makes me yawn.
With both hands gripping the steering wheel she sings along, completely out of tune in this awful Southern accent, then stops abruptly. She sticks her tongue out to lick this gross thing at the corner of her mouth. She’s been bathing it ever since we left my apartment. Am trying my utmost best not to look.
Oh, here we go, she is at it again.
Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Page 5
