Bowie Burnt in the Burbs

"Bowie, you've gotta let me in fast. A big hungry wolf is after me," I shouted as I made a dash toward the door of my brother Bowie's new house. Being the true yup-master he didn't stop talking business on the phone until after he opened the screen door and let me in. I mean, come on, being attacked by a monster of a wolf has got to be a higher priority than talking to some suit in the city and arranging nouveau nibbles.

This is how I order things:

  1. Survival
  2. Beer
  3. Hanging out in the mud

Then money is something that happens down near the bottom of the list where you don't mind kissing some Fascist butt, subjugating yourself for enough bucks to buy some leathers and a Harley Hog.

At least Bowie had the decency to offer some beer after he had locked the door behind me. And does he know his beer or what? He brought out a couple of smooth German lagers. I started chugging away, but not fast enough.

A knock came at the door. Bowie, not ready to believe my story, checked the peep hole and totally freaked. He hussled his Gucci's to the home office where I think he meant to call emergency. Instead he made a full demonstration of his home safety hazards by tripping over a tangle of electrical wires and started a fire. The place went up in a flash and the wolf only needed to give a huff without a puff for the walls to crumble into ash.

Now Bowie may be capitalist scum, but you know, I still like having him around. So I grabbed him by the elbow as he stood there stupidly gaping at the remains of his home, and dragged him with me to Zoe's house.


Copyright May 1996 Katherine Phelps