by Jane Etarie
But then bitch starts struggling more, and manages to like pull her head out. And she's bent over and kind of whipping her head back and forth like a dog with a chew toy or some shit. But I still got her hair, and I'm like pulling her blouse up over her head.
And then I stop.
Or really, it was more like time stopped. Like it stood still. For real, it was like Keanu Reeves. It was like I was the Matrix. Like I could see everything. And there it was. Right between her dimples. Right over her crack. Right over her perfect ass that stung me and made me hate her even more. My tattoo. My tramp stamp. I swear to god it was exactly the same. There was like kanji for Magnificent over top of Love, surrounded by a tribal design. And for a second, it was like, this cunt that I was beating up— it was like I was beating up me.
So I let go of her. I mean, I don't know why. I guess I was just stunned. Like it was too weird. Like I saw myself. What were the odds? The exact same tattoo? Like I was fighting the sister I didn't have or some shit. My twin. My bitch twin.
And then she like backs up and is all tangled in her blouse. I snapped out of it. And then I see it. Her dangly bellybutton ring. And I grab that fucking thing and pull. At first I just miss it, like I couldn't get a grip. And she backs up all quick into the sink, sort of bent over, still struggling with her blouse. Finally she just pushes it off so she's just in her bra. But it's too late. I get a good grip on the dangly and yank. She screams and sort of falls to the floor. And I got her dangly and I shove it into my mouth and swallow it. Then I'm like standing over her, trying to catch my breath. And I point at her and I'm all like, Keep your skinny cunt away from Robert... or I'll cut you up... I swear to god I'll cut your face you fucking bitch... You tell him about this... I come back here and cut your tits off... got that?
I owned her. Like I was a dangerous prison dyke, like she was my bitch. And if she wasn't careful I'd rape her with the dirty prison mop handle after I'd finished beating her with it.
And then I like hear the music get louder and some laughing and the door swings open. A couple of chicks walk in and they just stop. We're a mess. We must look like a couple retail boxes duking it out in the shitter, like some YouTube clip. And one of the girls must have thought so too, because she puts up her phone like she's going to film us.
So I pull the bear spray out of my jacket and spray them. They're like screeching. And I then I bear spray Gingerbox, and I rip the used tampon thing off the wall and throw it at her too. She's like all pathetic and crying on the floor. I really don't know what else to do and my eyes are like starting to sting, so I pick up the garbage bin and throw it at her. And I spit on her. And then I just run. I shove those shrieking bitches out of my way and I run like FloJo.
I run for maybe like the first time since high school. And I bear spray the idiot bartender who always says Cheers after he serves you. And I bear spray Mike and Chloe, the cool young Aussie couple at the pool table who I shot a round with earlier. I bear spray the red faced old man with the gross pitted Karl Malden nose who's buying pull tabs and reeks like booze and pipe smoke. I bear spray the security camera at the exit. And then I run to the Escalade and drive the fuck away from that shit hole.
TWO
Risk
I handed Robert an orange from my handbag because I was getting sick watching those two eat. Like for real. Nachos with chili and cheese sauce, bean and cheese burritoes, hot pockets stuffed with donkey dink, all sorts of chocolate bars, like twenty bags of candy. It's sick. And I can't help it. I tell them about the sugar, the gluten, the sodium, the chemicals. How all the shit they're eating is garbage. It's disgusting.
And I tell them about the diet I'm on, like for me and the baby. How I've got these supplements. Like acai berry and organic greens, how I lose weight and the the baby lives off my fat. And this sterilized dirt and civet manure slurry from the jungles of Sumatra that I was going to get. Loaded with colloidal minerals from the volcanic earth. Microbiotically balanced and shit. You eat a teaspoon a day and it helps with nutrient absorption— which is so important for a growing baby. And Dean's all like, Ya. That'll work.
Dean does not get it. He just does not get it. You know? He just doesn't understand. I can't believe the guy. I've dieted my whole life. I know a little bit about what I'm talking about. I'm trying to help him and he says shit like that. And Robert just laughs and peels the orange so that the rind looked like a dick.
Most of my armies were holed up in Kamchatka, so I could like escape into Europe or Alaska if I had to. I've been on the move, on the attack too much. I wasn't going to last much longer. We were playing Risk. I suck at games, but Robert and Dean wanted to play. I was pretty sure Dean was winning. He was hiding out in Australia, building up his armies.
The late news was on tv, and there was all sorts of miserable garbage. There was some shit about global warming, like they're interviewing idiots in the street. Some crazy bitch was going on about how it gets hotter every time they send shit into space. The other crybabies were boring, and they were whining about the same old bullshit. And then they tied that into the next story. Some Chinese shit hole or whatever just got hit by another typhoon. There was like footage of cars and houses and people being washed away. A million people were missing or dead or some shit. And I nearly cried I was so happy— they showed a dog and an ox that were rescued off a roof.
And Dean was all like, They're getting hit pretty hard out East. Earthquakes. A hurricane. Flooding... God must hate them... He's punishing them. Punishing those sodomizers... Fucking queers. Then he goes on about how he saw a couple dudes walking down the street holding hands on his way to the horse track. How he would have beat the shit out of them if he wasn't in such a hurry.
And then I go to him, So what? Who cares if they were holding hands? Big deal. So they like each other and want to hold hands. And I just shake my head in disgust and I'm all like, You're such a fucking racist sometimes.
And he was all like, Whoa. Didn't know your girlfriend was such a dyke, Robbie. And then he tells us that he's done his turn, and he moves all his armies from Indonesia into Southeast Asia, like he's positioning himself to move into China and Mongolia and Kamchatka to take me out. Destroy me. Knock me out of the game next turn. I would have cheated, but the cards and armies were across the table. And I don't think Robert's heard a word, and he was all like, Man... this is the sweetest orange I've ever eaten.
There was another story on the news, about some man who was like crippled and blind. It looks like his face was ripped off by a bear or was caught in a burning escalator or some shit. He drools and wheezes when he tries to talk about his stolen scooter. He's had a rough go, and the scooter and his guide dog have really made things less miserable for him. You can like barely hear or understand him he's wheezing and gargling so much. It sounds like his voice box has AIDS. There's like captions under him. Everyone agrees it's like a real tragedy. Whoever did it was a real piece of work, a real scumball. A stupid senseless crime, committed by cowards, the officer says. And anyone with information can call this number on the news, or the police department. Everything's anonymous. Gargler doesn't care about the stolen pension check, but he'd really like to get the scooter back.
Robert turned the channel. He was gagging. He says seriously— he can't eat with that shit on the tv, that it shouldn't be on there when people are trying to eat. And I guess he couldn't get it out of his head because he got up all quick to go puke. So Dean turned the news back on. It was pretty much finished. There was like some human interest story about some kid in a puddle, some bum in a junkyard, or some guy balancing on a fence or doing some stupid shit in the park. Maybe it was an old couple bragging about how they met, I can't remember.
So Robert got back and it was his turn. He attacked Dean. And he kept attacking but he kept rolling ones. Ones and twos. And it was like he wasn't even swearing— he wasn't saying anything he was so mad. He just kept shaking his head, like he was so disgusted, like the world was against him. And I swear
— he rolled ones and twos like twenty times in a row. Maybe the world was against him.
But I mean, it shouldn't have been a big deal. He should have expected it. Dean always wins games, but that's because the guy's a cheating weasel. It's like his life depends on it. Like his life is a waking struggle where he needs to cheat and lie, to shuck and jive, or he'd get like beaten and killed and die in the ditch.
So me and Dean were like waiting for Robert's next move. And he was just looking at the board like he was in deep thought, like he was thinking. Like he's holed up in the Alamo, or Waterloo, or Hitler's bunker. And then he just swings his arm across the table and throws the board and the dice and all the little pieces across the room, and he was all like, Fuck this, I'm leaving. It was pretty sudden.
So Dean tells him to calm down, relax, it's only a game. Here, lets go on the deck and spark one up, he says. So they went onto the balcony and smoked a joint and I poured myself some vodka while they were out. When they got back in, we watched Baraka on DVD and everybody mellowed out. Me and Robert were on our couch, and Dean sank into his couch like some filthy animal. Like some filthy animal that would do three circles and scratch the dirt before it layed down in its own shit.
After Baraka, Robert was tired and wanted to go to sleep, which was fine by me, because I had to work in the morning and was sick of these guys anyways. And Dean said he had to get up early too— he had some appointment with his ambulance chaser.
Dean was like beaten pretty bad a few months back at some apartment complex. He was dealing and they stole his money and weed. At least that's the story he tells us. The police report says he was beaten and robbed by some young black men. A random mugging. But for real, I think he owed someone and he was overdue and they collected. But I don't know, whatever. I don't give a shit.
Anyways, because he can't get any money from the dudes who beat the shit out of him, he sues the owners of the apartment complex. For like having no security systems in place. Poor lighting. That kind of shit. He says that he tried to pull the fire alarm when he stumbled down the hall, but it didn't work. So his sleazy lawyer— who I think tested the alarms himself and told him to say that— figures he's got a pretty good case.
I was leaving and I looked at Dean. He was crashed out on the couch. Snoring. Even when he slept he still looked like a dude who would do anything to get by. Like he'd suck some old perv's cock for twenty bucks and then stab him with his rusty screwdriver. I fucking hated him, just lying there. All useless. His chipped snaggleteeth. His open eyes. And I wished he'd get raped. Raped by some mental hospital nigger who'd crawl through the window while he slept. I wished he'd get raped and dry fisted by that animal maniac and catch Hep A and die.
Or I could kill him. While he snored and drooled, I could kill him. Except for I'm not crazy.
But I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think of murdering him. Of smothering him. Of sitting on his ugly face and grinding him to death. He'd struggle and he'd scream into my fat ass. But it would be no use, because no one would hear him. No one but me.
And then I had this idea. I've got this crystal that I keep in my handbag. It's like attached to a string. And you hold it between your bird and your thumb and it'll like swing back and forth or in circles. You can ask it questions if you want. Or use it to find ley lines and faery circles if you're into that shit. But I like to use it to read people. Like their energy, their aura. We are all covered in chakras, which are like full of energy, and different energy affects the crystal in different ways.
So I held my crystal over Dean, and I swear to god, it like swung out and pointed right at him, like on a forty-five degree angle. I'm not even joking. Like he was a crystal magnet. And it started to swirl around real fast. Like a fan, clockwise. And when I pulled it away, it swirled in a tighter circle, even faster.
I don't think the crystal is supposed to act that way. I don't think it is like even scientifically possible. I've never seen that before. It was intense. And I don't really know what it means, but I think he like sucks energy from everywhere. Like the crystal was being sucked into his energy drain. His black hole. I believe Dean has no aura because it's like sucked into his asshole, what we yogas call the Kundalini.
This really explained everything. He was like a bad influence, like bad energy, always dragging Robert into his shit. He just wasn't the kind of guy you wanted to be around. I mean, he was the kind of guy who said tekillya instead of tequila. Every time. Like he was always saying it for the first time, like it always got funnier.
I knew I had to cut Dean out of our lives. It was like a priority. But I mean really, it was only a matter of time now anyways. With Boo and I starting a family, we'd have to move in together. Like, we hadn't discussed it yet, but it was obvious. It didn't make any sense for us to be living apart and paying rent for two places while we were trying to raise a child.
And whatever. Dean could keep this shit hole for all I cared. He could keep the black lights and black light novelty posters. The Pantera posters. The Slayer posters. The bongs. The dragon skulls. The shop class swords. His ratty couch. He was just going to get evicted anyways.
I didn't care, I just didn't want that sleazy shit, that dangerous pedophile, anywhere near our child. I swear to god he's a for real dangerous pedophile, that sick fuck.
Telephone Seven
There are a lot of stupid baby names. Like a lot of stupid baby names.
Violet, Scarlett, Ruby, Adelaide, Isla, Ava, Harper, Amelia, Seraphina, Imogen, Asher, Caleb, Milo, Hudson, Liam, Oliver, Levi, Jasper, Atticus, Kai and Finn.
These are all shitty, these are all common. Like finding a Li at the dog meat stand. These are the new Johns and Janes. Last year's Ethans and Emmas. When they go to school, they're going to get garbage nicknames. It's true. Or a last name initial added to their name because there's going to be like a dozen of them in their class. Just wait and see.
Place names like Brooklyn, Madison, Bronx, and India suck. And last names that are used as first names make me sick. Cullen, Carter, Cohen, Hayden, Miller, Conner, Grayson, Aiden. They're all garbage. It's a joke.
These parents are sheep. They're stupid. They like think that if they give their baby a unique name, it will somehow make their baby unique. They're wrong. Their stupid average baby will grow into a stupid average adult. It's true. It doesn't matter if they name their dumb baby Rama-Lilac or Penelope-Rose. You can name a piece of shit after any flower you want, but it's still going to stink like shit.
And Celebrities are no better.
Audio Science, Kal El, Moonblood, Pilot Inspektor, Acrobat, Aleph, Kingsley, Kyd, Bear Blu, Spike, Destry.
It's like they let some retard who runs around in a Batman cape name their kid, only they didn't. I swear to god they're wife beaters. Break their bitch's arm. I mean, there's no way you get both parents to agree that those names are a good idea. But really, it's probably just drugs.
Naming your baby after your parents is fine if you love your parents. But then it's like, which parent do you name it after? Because one side of the family's going to feel left out. So that's usually a garbage idea, unless the parent is dead. That way the alive parents look like douches if they get jealous or upset. They can wait until they're dead too.
You can also name the child after a dead pet if you loved your pet and it had a nice name. But not if your pitbull was named Gucci or Deisel or some shit. Naming it after a live pet or a relative's pet is just stupid and confusing because they'll like both look if you call them.
Grandparents are just a shitty idea because they have old ugly names. And it's like trendy to name your kids old ugly names now anyways. Alice, Mavis, Maude, and Matilda will be forgetting their grandkids seventy years from now like the ones that are shitting in their Depends and dying today.
Anybody who names their kids after themselves is crazy. Like egotistical. They need to be brought back down to earth, like to get over themselves. Get publicly gang raped and beaten, like in prison or some shit. I m
ean, that guy in North Korea didn't even name his kids after himself, and it's like law over there to have his portrait hanging in your bedroom over your bed. Like on your lunch kit and shit.
And some people just get desperate for names, and come up with these weird ones that don't even exist. Or they're just cruel, and call their kids shit like Hitler, @, Satan, IKEA, 4Real, Anus, or long ones that I can't even pronounce. I'm not even making these up, it's like the Government has to throw the parents in jail to stop them.
And if they needed help thinking of a name, there's like no end to the help online. Cool names, cute names, best names, elf names, goth names, hip hop, mythical, odd names, sci-fi, wiccan, popular, top names, trendy, super hot, unique names... all for real. And there's a hundred other categories.
So I ask Boo what names he likes. He likes Hunter— Hunter Shiloh, Hunter Knox, Hunter Rhapsody, Hunter Keegan, Hunter Coogan, Hunter Seven. Hunter Mason... Hunter is good for a boy or a girl, he says. And he has a few other names. Brody, Xander, Xax, Kes, Blaze, Bailey, Blaze Bailey, and JD. We're not using any of his names, but I don't tell him that. He'd get thrown in jail or fined if he tried those in Scandanavia or China. I just nod my head and smile.
I throw out a few boy names for him, but I already know it's going to be a girl. I tell him Mikel, Jaxon, Owen, Luc, Heath, Richard. Just some dead people off the top of my head. I don't give a shit about these names and I know we aren't using them. I mean, I don't want to sound insane, but I already know it's going to be a girl. I focused, I asked the universe, I put it out there, I felt it in my bones, and I let it go. This is the Secret to getting what you desire, to manifesting your destiny, and it has always worked for me. Always.
