"Oh, man, you bet I was burned up. If that son of a bitch thought he could just talk like that to me, he had another-fucking-thing coming! He's lucky I didn't just haul off and scatter his teeth like dominoes."
(more) Doyle was pissed off again, this time with a trucker who had given him some guff after Doyle made a snappy comment about the other's driving prowess. To be fair to Doyle, that trucker was a dipshit who, on the third try, had only just managed to square the back of his trailer with the receiving door. And Doyle was not the type to let that form of incompetence go unremarked. "Drive much, do ya" Doyle tartly mocked the guy as he handed over the freight bill. I had to walk past the pair to retrieve the forklift and, when I came back, the men were jabbing at each other with pointed fingers, and, who knows, maybe on the verge of scattering teeth like dominoes. But at some level, both knew they had gigs too good to lose over unkind words from strangers. They opted to keep their teeth and walked away.
Speaking of teeth: Whenever Doyle was angry, nervous, or agitated, he'd work an omnipresent toothpick fixed between his crinkled lips in tight little circles, as if it were a miniature rapier twirled musketeer style: en garde! He kept a dispenser shaped like a bird full of them on his desk. You'd press a button, or more properly, Doyle would press the button since he never shared his toothpicks with anybody, and the bird's head would snap downwards then spring back up with a fresh cinnamon flavored toothpick in its beak. I don't recall a time that Doyle didn't have a toothpick jammed in his own beak.
For a mere additional five dollars
We'll throw you a funeral
With all the best fixings
Cake, resentment, jealous relatives
A mariachi band, mother's perfume
(more) We'll write you the best eulogy in town!
Guaranteed or your money back!
So, step right up!
Tom Waits not included.
This is the end my beautiful friend
And we don't want you to be alone!
So, act now and we'll include
a once in a life time,
limited offer of free wifi installed
at your rest of time immemorial
Just think, the kids can visit
and take selfies regardless
of mortality's limitations
Fun for the whole family!
Now for only $19.99!
This price won't last long
So, please act now
before it's too late!
Sena looked up, eyebrows raising as Hiruma threw him a handful of coins. "Run to the store and get me some gum."
Sena stood up, nodding quickly and collecting the coins.
"Uhm, Hiruma...don't you think you're asking too much of Sena?" Kurita asked, once the small brunette(more) had left the room.
Kurita shrugged, looking around at everything but Hiruma. "Isn't this what he'd been looking to get away from? Being a runner boy for a bully-er, for anyone?"
Hiruma didn't move from his chair, even after Kurita shrugged and stood up, leaving him in silence. "It's not even that far," he muttered. Still, guilt feels like shit.
"I can't stay, Monta-kun! I've got to run home and then back to the grocery store, bye!"
Right as Sena burst out of the clubroom, Hiruma grabbed him by his collar. The way his eyes widened and his mouth flew open was almost comical, but Hiruma didn't react as he calmly set him back down and began to walk.
"What? Get your ass over here."
"Uh...what are you doing?"
"Walking. Which grocery store?"
"I can't go yet. I don't have money-"
"I fuckin' do, okay? Which grocery store?"
"Thanks a lot, Hiruma! It really means a lot-I'll pay you back when I can, but my parents are going to be really happy that I came home on time for once-"
"You don't have to."
"Huh?" Sena stared up at him, eyebrows raising in question. "Don't pay me back, shorty. I don't need the money."
"Eh!? But-that was a week's worth of groceries-I'm not sure I would have spent that much alone-"
"Just let it go already, dumbass! I wanted to do it and I did it. If you pay me back, I'll kick your ass."
Sena gulped and nodded.(less)
"Hiruma? I made it."
Sena slowly pulls himself through the window, relaxing at the sight of the blonde demon sitting at the edge of the roof. "Couldn't we have met to talk about whatever this is in the club room? It's a-well, it's a lot safer, and-"
"Sit dow(more)n, shitty."
Sena sits beside Hiruma after a minute, still not sure what this is about. There could be a number of things-why he had to stay after class for an hour the other day, whether or not he's still training after practice in the afternoons is done-
"Where are you going when you graduate, shorty?"
He wasn't expecting THIS, though.
"Huh? You mean, in a few years-"
"Of fucking course I mean in a few years," Hiruma mutters, though his tone holds no bite, which is unusual in itself. "Are you going to keep playing football?"
Sena looks up at the stars as he tries to think of an answer. From the roof, they look a lot brighter.
"I think so," he decides at last. "If I ever come out as Eyeshield 21, then I'd like to."
Hiruma huffs, nodding. "Why not get it over with next year?" he says at last.
Hiruma nods. "When /I/ graduate, I have shit idea where I'm going. Or what I'm doing, or-fuck, or anything, actually. But that doesn't mean you should let me fucking hold you up."
"You're not holding me up." Hiruma's ear twitches at that and he glances over to where Sena smiles to try and show Hiruma he's being honest.
"I'll do what I feel like /when/ I feel like it. You don't need to worry about me, Hiruma."
The blonde scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I don't know why I bothered."
Sena smiles at him, though he doesn't say why.(less)
The boy climbed the ladder slowly, stopping between rungs to steady his nerves. With one hand he gripped the ladder and clutched a folded up beach umbrella in the other. He intended to jump from the roof using the umbrella to float to the ground. He had heard of other people doing(more) such things and curiosity demanded that he try it, too. He waited for a time in the afternoon when both his parents were gone. The umbrella, with panels of red, white, and blue, was the biggest one in the house.
After reaching the top, he dismounted the ladder, then climbed the steep side of the roof on his hands and knees. When he reached the peak, he clenched the sides of the roof between his legs. Forty five feet tall, his father had said when he'd asked him how high, but it seemed more than that now as he stared down at the lawn of mottled green.
He unfurled the umbrella and felt suddenly reassured in the shade of its canopy. He weighed forty-eight pounds, light enough for an umbrella this big to support, or so he figured. Watching an episode of "debunkers" that had addressed this very problem had compelled him to cut a small hole in the center so the umbrella wouldn't sway as it fell and he also reinforced the ribs with metal rods and duct tape so it couldn't flip inside out. On the show, the test dummy had died on impact. He was lighter than the dummy and his umbrella bigger. As seconds passed, he thought of the long and secret preparation leading up to this moment and his fingers trembled as he tied his free hand to the umbrella's handle.
Hanamaki doesn't say a word as the boys push and shove at him, knocking him into the hand dryer and the wall until he's sure that tomorrow, parts of his spine will be bruised purple. He only grunts in pain when one of the boys kicks hi(more)m in the leg, only flinches ONCE when another threatens to bring his fist smashing into his nose. He still hasn't said a word.
"Hanamaki doesn't like to roughhouse, does he?" Oikawa points out on morning, waiting for the pink-headed teenager with his two other friends.
"What?" Iwaizumi asks, only vaguely paying attention.
"When someone pushes him, he stops talking."
At THAT, Iwaizumi looks up, sensing that this is a little more than general Oikawa cheekiness. It's his seeing skill, the all-knowing eyes that he possesses helping him in more ways than one.
"Ever noticed?" Oikawa asks. Both boys shake their heads. Hanamaki arrives on the roof, grinning and throwing out an apology as he sits beside Mattsun and lets their knees touch.
None of them say anything about it to him.
"Don't-I'm sorry," he says quickly, shying away from Matsukawa despite his apology. "I just-got startled."
"No," Oikawa says suddenly from the other couch. "You look terrified, Makki."
That's all it takes, the three other boys realize, as all of a sudden, Hanamaki begins to cry.
Matsukawa pushes at Hanamaki, but he's quick to let his fingers curl around his sweater and drag him back for a quick kiss on his forehead.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and Hanamaki relaxes at that.
"No fighting at the table!" Oikawa calls out, and from the kitchen Iwaizumi growls at him to come finish helping. Matsukawa stares evenly at Hanamaki, expression serene.
For once, Hanamaki feels the same as he pushes him back.(less)
I want to stake a claim on you. I want everyone to know that you're mine. Not there's. You're mine. I want you to stake a claim on me. I want you to want everyone to know that I'm yours. Not their's. Yours. But I don't want you to(more) own me. And I don't want to own you. I don't want to be your property. And I don't want you to be my property. I just want you to be mine. At the end of the day I want to know that I'm the only person you're thinking about. And I want everyone to know that too. So stake a claim on me. And let me stake a claim on you.(less)
"You okay, Will?" said the assistant detective."You know, you really should drink more water..."
"That's your miracle cure for everything, isn't it?" The head detective shot back, "Tired? 'Drink more water'. Nervous? 'Drink more water'. Wife fucking around on you? 'Drin(more)k more water'..."
"I'm just saying that..."
"I've heard enough about drinking fucking water, okay?" Will pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt and held the pose, exhausted.
Perry stammered a little then spoke. "Look... I'm just....----- You look beat is all..." He yanked at his tie.
"Perry, we're both stretched thin over this thing. I don't need.... Just lay off the mothering, okay, it's fucking annoying."
"Got it, chief." Perry turned and took a short walk to the window. The full moon shone down on a skyline punched through with thousands of lights. Their man was out there somewhere, perhaps committing another unspeakable act on another innocent family and all the while, the two detectives could only wait by the phone and try not to bite each other's heads off at the windpipe.
Will took a seat at his desk and reviewed the crime scene photos once again, clicking through them in rapid succession, hoping to conjure a breakthrough from some dark part of his mind.
"This guy, his calling card if you will, is twofold: he's a stabber, and a stealer. He stabs them in the heart, then, once they're good and bled out, he slices off one of their ears and takes it with him."
Perry, returning to his boss's side, chimed in, "A memento, a sort of trophy. Like they said some of our guys did in Afghanistan."
"Never proven. But likely true. Every war has its tender moments."
Perry smiled ruefully. "And he covers his tracks with a liberal sprinkling of bleach."
Rubber band snaps back like karma at the end of a hedonistic life or a fiery soul unjustly slighted. Like most ideas and proposals, there is a limit to how much far a rubber band can stretch. It would be prudent to learn the elasticity of your situation lest(more) you feel the sting borne out of the limits of human intervention.(less)
"Am I allowed to like my best friend?" Oikawa asked one day, having a laptop balanced on his left knee and a plate of toast on his right.
Of course, he was alone.
"Well, Tooru," he began in a high falsetto voice, letting his eyelids flutter closed. "What wou(more)ld make you say such a stupid thing?"
"Obviously Iwa-chan would," Oikawa snapped back at himself, rolling his eyes as if the other Oikawa was the stupid one. (less)
"So you already knew about our little plan, did you?" The man in grey said, scoffing and waving a pistol. "I'll bet you and the agency never prepared for this!" He squeezed the trigger and shot a bullet at the rib cage of special agent Hanson.
(more) Hanson grunted and fell to the ground. The man in grey stepped closer, pausing to examine the writhing form, then kicked Hanson hard in the kidney. Hanson let out a strangled cry. As the man in grey leveled his pistol at him once more, the stricken agent's hand shot upward and grabbed the testicles of his foe in a desperate clench. Within a second or two, Hanson had crushed the man's gonads into pulp, causing the man in grey to drop his pistol and fall backwards onto the floor. He lay gasping within an incoherent pain.
Hanson stood up, wincing, and moved his fingers across his shirt to feel for the bullethole. There, above his right nipple, he found the bullet flattened against his armored vest like a coin. He pointed the man's gun at him and spoke, "Monkey grabs the peach. You couldn't have set me up any better for pulling off that maneuver, you know, thank you."
The man in grey sobbed and gave no signs of hearing.
"Two years of surveillance and interrogations. Six months of fieldwork. Untold hours spent undercover..." Hanson squinted down the sights.
"Now it comes to this." He pulled the trigger and a bullet lashed into the body of the fallen man. Then came another, another, and another. Blood begin to spurt from the man's wounds and his back arched involuntarily.
"You didn't count on me striking out on my own, did you old man? As of now, I'm officially off the agency payroll."
You already knew what you were going to do before you started it. If I asked anyone "What is she going to do about this?" they would all have the same answer. It is the same response you have every time. And yet when I asked you about it,(more) your face wrinkled with sharp edges of concern and you told me "I don't know."
There's no need to be so dramatic. Humans are creatures of habit, and you never step out of your comfort zone. You prefer to never leave the tidy front porch of your small town home, seeing the same faces at the same hour on the same days. You pretend your life is spiced with variety, but it is as seasoned as a pot of mashed potatoes without butter or salt.
You were going to let the problem pass you by as slowly as it would like. Time heals all wounds if you have your head in the sand. If you can't see the cuts, they must be all in your imagination.
You already knew what you were going to do before you did it. You were going to do nothing.
I come in the door, 2am, leave my shoes on, don't take off my coat although I am sweating. I always hurry home from shift, but for what? To get a head start on a long empty night, to get the jump on doing nothing? I walk in the(more) door, and I open the fridge. I need comfort. I have a hole in me. I don't care about myself. I don't.
I take out the cold pasta from supper the night before, I dig in with my fingers and chew a cold mouthful to tide me over until the rest of the noodles heat and beep in the microwave. Butter and salt, lots of salt. I eat standing, blocking out the details of my day. I eat slow enough so I don't choke. I don't want to be the fucker found choked with a throat of congealed noodles. In my job, I see this sort of thing.
I don't know what hole this shit is intended to fill. What am I looking for? My days are blood and engines, roads and sirens. And silence. Blocks of silence.
This is me. It's why I am 250 pounds - 6 feet tall sure, but also the guy who (despite his size) looks soft at the edges - like he will cry at the drop of a dime. And I will, too. I am 45, no dates in 5 years. I like Pixar movies. I fear my habit of paying for hooker blowjobs (folded up emergency $20-bill in my wallet) will be something any potential real date can smell. Meanwhile I am trying not to get the shadowy-eyes and tense look of the isolated man (masturbator!) who squints at a computer screen in a city where streetlights and ambulance lights outshine the stars.(less)
Some where in the field over there is a twenty dollar bill.
A bill that has been buried for forty years. Buried in the dusty dirt in the field on the corner of Rio Linda Boulevard and M street.
Directly across from Archway Frosty is a fie(more)ld that holds a hidden treasure and proof of my thievery so many years ago.
Perhaps it was uncovered by another who had no idea it was a secret. I wonder what someone would have thought if they uncovered a buried twenty. They would have to know it was put there because of guilt. What other reason would one have to bury a twenty. I wasn't leaving a treasure for someone to find. I was burying my sin.
I have always feared that the evidence would expose itself. That someone would know it was me and come to point their accusing finger. "Shame on you for stealing from your own mother's underwear drawer!"
I couldn't put a twenty dollar bill back in my mother's drawer. After all, it wasn't originally a twenty dollar bill. It was a fifty.
It's amazing what a fifty could buy in the 70's at the Archway Frosty. (less)
I polish my teeth. Readying myself for the fake smile I must put on again. I practice the deep throat sounds through my clutched teeth - like ivory piano keys propped inside open lips that are spread from ear to ear.
Good enough, I tell myself.
That resembles a smile. That sounds close to laughter.
Once again, I will pull off being alive inside after you have - once again killed me, my Love.
I give it three more days.
I can't breath while it is here. I can't hold down food. Everything tastes like pennies. Bitter.
Sadness. It has a mind of it's own. It takes a person over like a parasite - feeding on everything inside.
Sadness. You give this venom every time you come around. I exposed my weakness - my love for you - you strike like a black mouthed mamba.
Why do I fall for your empty promises? They slither into my heart - I saw it coming - Yet I opened my arms to it - I held it and cradled it - knowing full well at any second it would strike. It did - Piercing my heart with evil sharp fangs. And like the hundreds of times before - I console my venomous Darling...until you slither away.
I'll give it three more days.
Kill it before it kills me.
Months will pass - you will come again - I'll open wide like a starving baby bird - feed me sadness, my lying Dear One. Inject your lies.