Sunday, November 20, 2005

Chapter 22 Part 3 (37,283 words out of 50,000)

He was just sitting there, he look miserable, you know? He has some titties in his face, an ass on his crotch, and he just had this fucking face on. David, Eric and Bon were noticing, too – it was totally killing there evening and in turn making my fucking life harder. Plus, I don’t know – I might have felt kind of bad for the kid. I can only imagine, you know, he comes out of college and gets this type of money – it goes to your head. You’re getting all this shit you can’t afford and if the job falls out from under you you’re fucked. So he’s sitting there and I just fucking know he’s going to get laid off if he keeps acting like this and I think about him getting evicted, selling off all this shit he bought, his girlfriend shacking up with some other dude who can actually hold a job – and yeah, I felt a little bad. I went with the headache angle, gave him a couple of amphetamines (you can get anything in a strip-club, the strippers themselves are walking fucking medicine cabinets – they mark up the price of their shit and it pays for a week’s worth of junk) and told him to take them for his aching fucking head – he has this fucking scowl and tells me he’s fine – I tell him to take them and start acting like he’s having fun or else all this shit he’s been looking forward to is going to go away. He drops them down without even looking, trying to sell his headache to the bosses, chases it down with his goddamn Bass.

Now he’s in the VIP lounge with us, doing coke, smoking dope and I think he was even free-basing at one point. The strippers don’t even want to go near him, they all think he’s going to hurt them. The bosses are laughing, they’re using Ed as an outlet for their fucking dip-shitness – this young guy can’t even party harder than a couple of old fucks, they’re going to like having him around for that reason alone – if this was prison, Ed would be the bosses’ bitch.

He’s cursing, calling every woman a bitch, demanding lap dances, flashing hundred bills and claiming it’s all on the corporate account which it isn’t but the bosses thought it would be a funny joke not to tell him that. He’s already puked once, he punched a wall and tore the skin off of his hands as well. He tripped a couple of times and about five minutes ago he began to spontaneously jump around with his dick hanging out of his zipper – it’s like bringing your retarded cousin along with you.

I still do feel bad, maybe – he’s having fun, though – he’s securing his job by finding his niche. When David, Bob, David and Eric first brought me back on I had no idea what this fucking kid was going to do but he seems to be adapting, finding a place for himself – that’s good for him. But then I sort of remembered I don’t really like the kid and that I wanted him fired. I don’t like his shitty Polo cologne. I don’t like his demeanor. I don’t like his eyes, the way they stare at you and fucking judge you, deem you less than him. I don’t like his wardrobe – his fucking Dockers pants and Old Navy “dress shirt”. I don’t like his walk – it’s almost a strut – like he has some music about him that only he can hear and I can only guess the music is Dave Fucking Mathews with or without his goddamn band. I don’t like his shoes – they’re pretty fucking generic, probably got them at Macy’s at their year-end clearance sale. I don’t like his voice, the way it doesn’t shake, as if he’s confident – as if he’s actually fucking worth something. I don’t like his hair – too much gel, too affected – too Hollywood – he looks like he’s trying to look like some guy that’s trying to look like Brad Pitt – he looks like a copy of a bad copy.

So I take a picture with my phone that’s only available in Japan. I snap one off of Ed giving a stripper’s tits a raspberry, send it to Cynthia – she’s our receptionist.

I take a picture of Ed getting spanked by a stripper – his shirt is unbuttoned and his hair is all messed up – his brow is sweating profusely – I send it to James, he’s our human resources director.

I take a picture of Ed going into the bathroom with this absolutely rank stripper, one of the local girls that try to undercut the lap dances being offered by the actual employees – I send it to Shelly, she works in IT.

I take a picture of Ed grabbing at a stripper as a bouncer pulls him off – he already got some of her blouse and her tit is falling out - I send it to Janet, she’s one of the technical people.

The bouncer wants to kick us out but we already spent well over a grand here and the manager would rather we stay – he calls over some of his girls and tells them to pay attention to us – to have some fun with us – to do what we want. They take us to this stealthy VIP room and we start throwing hundreds around as if they were worthless pieces of paper. Ed is fucking this stripper, right here in front of us – she’s riding him hard and you can tell he’s never fucked a real woman before – goddamn smile like you’ve never seen. I take a picture, I send it to Phil – he works over at Corporate. Ed turns around and gets shit-faced excited, reaches into his pants pocket which is currently resting down by his ankle and pulls out his own piece of shit camera phone he likely got at Best Buy, probably used their credit card to get no interest financing for two years to pay for a phone that costs three-hundred bucks, tops. He throws me the phone and says he wants one too.

His face is enraged, he’s high on speed. His cock is submerged into this stripper’s snatch and he’s slapping her ass. I take a picture with his camera and send it to “Mom”.

He’s pulling her hair back and sucking on her neck, asking her how she likes it – the boredom on her face is priceless. I take a picture with his camera and send it to “Nick”.

He’s ready to cum, you can tell by his lips – he’s doing that hard-breathing thing that kids do before they realize they look like idiots and women find it threatening. I take a picture with his camera and send it to “Nicole”.

He’s shooting his load, he’s screaming like a bad porn star, everyone around his is laughing, you’d think the stripper was ripping his balls off. I take a picture with his camera and send it to “Noel”.

He’s pausing now, flexing his non-existent bicep as the stripper rolls off of his spent cock, he’s smiling like it’s Christmas morning. I take a picture and realize his phone has a “Send All”.


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