Tired of So Much Shit Around Here

Man had just hung up the phone, reamed by a nasal-voiced, cigarette smoking bitch from Avco Finance. Man was three months late on his payment. Man had had about a gutful. Man snapped. Walked down the hall from his bedroom, his black cat strolling towards him, purring. Man drop kicked the cat into the hall mirror, shattering it. Man's snaggletoothed, butt-less girlfriend came running down the hall, too, “What was that, hon’?” Man jerked a wad of nosehair from her nostrils, crushed his boot heel on top of her bare foot, then bitch-slapped her in case she didn’t get the point. Man called his mother on the phone. Told her he didn’t love her at all and her breath stunk. Man exited the house, tearing through the unopened garage doors in his new Camaro, financed by, you guessed it, Avco, sideswiping the postman who was due to retire that afternoon and ripped up his mailbox by the roots, scattering, amongst other things, a letter from the IRS to inform him of a pending audit. Man ran the first stop sign he came to, smashed into the side of a elderly woman driving her Mercury Comet to see her husband who was in the hospital for hemorrhoid surgery. Elderly woman was incontinent, didn’t have any insurance, either. Man got out of car, ignoring the woman's expletives hurled his way and walked down the once quiet street to interrupt a pick-up basketball game in progress in a families driveway. Man grabbed the ball from one of the teenage boys, took out his Swiss army knife, ripped a gaping hole in it. Fuzzy white poodle scurried towards him, yapping. Man picked up dog, sodomized it right then and there. Didn’t wipe off. Stuffed the now subdued but enlightened dog into the deflated basketball and flogged a persimmon tree in the front yard with it, snapping all the trees branches. Stole one of the teenagers Suzuki Ninja motorcycle. Drove to a gun shop. Bought a Browning Automatic double barrel 12 gauge and four boxes of shells with a Visa Card whose payment was long overdue, then held up the employee and robbed him of an additional forty-four magnum and two boxes of shells. Casually departed and shot down every signal light he came to. Killed every car in the State Farm Insurance employee parking lot with a single forty-four round through the engine block, too. Threw the now empty shotgun through a health food store window, populated with hairy-legged women, screaming his mantra, “Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu! Namyangoranginkyu!” Stuffed the forty-four in the back of his pants, went into a coffee shop and ordered a large, black coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie. Snarfed it down. Didn’t leave a tip. Took the money from a collection jar by the register for Little Stephanie Sims, recently struck down with leukemia, please help. Man drove to a liquor store. Bought a fifth of Southern Comfort with the leukemia money. Drove to a local AA meeting at the Holiday Inn, walked onto the podium, kicked a whining alcoholic square in the nuts, downed as much of the Southern Comfort as he could. Farted with pride, waved the .44, randomly quoting Bukowski, W. C. Fields, and Winston Churchill. Left with an alcoholic girl who took a shine to his bravado -recently moved from California- in her brand new white Mazda RX-7 with blue leather trim and all the extra features. Made her down a healthy quantity of the southern sour mash and give him head as he drove. Yep, still hadn’t washed off. Sold her to a visiting Saudi dignitary at the local strip joint he frequented. Robbed every one of the dancers at gunpoint. One surgically endowed girl was sad he hadn’t forced himself on her. It had always been her fantasy, besides, it’d been a slow day. Pistol whipped the bouncer who’d thrown him out one night when he’d had too much to drink. Pissed on the front door on his way out. Marked his territory. Drove the wrong way down one way streets to Tower Records. One car, driven by a Valium laden housewife, veered out of his path, lost control, and slammed through a house, bursting through the wall to the TV room mangling a family of five as they watched Americas Funniest Home Videos eating fish sticks with lots of tartar sauce on t.v. trays. ...Methodically put a one-inch crack in every Shostakovich record in the classical section at Tower. Bought the bought Captain and Tennille’s Greatest Hits CD. Got back in the Mazda and played it at full volume on the cars stereo. Muskrat love.