Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Chapter 24 Part 2 and Chapter 25 (42,025 words out of 50,000)

At 27 years old, on a Saturday, I should be out. Saturday is the number one night for going out, Thursday coming in second although Tuesday is nipping at its fucking heels. On a Saturday night, I should be out on the town, drinking high-class drinks and getting head in the back of a taxi. I shouldn’t be sitting at home, playing fucking Boggle with my mom.

“I don’t think piebald is a word.”

Playing boggle with me apparently illiterate mom, I should say.

“It’s a word – it means something’s put together by a hodge-podge of parts. A Puerto Rican’s car is a piebald.” Even Agatha went out, she says I’ve been staying in too much and I need to start living again. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I got my mom moping around the house all day – she’s such a negative fucking influence. She’s just so goddamn depressed, she’s always crying about how her life is falling apart and how she can’t lose the weight she’s supposed to lose and how that’s why my father kicked her out. He kicked her out because he had an out, me – he knew I’d take her in. And when she almost died he likely felt cheated, like he was so close to the fucking freedom that he’s been wanting and then it was just snatched away from him. Has nothing to do with her being a fat-ass - if that was the case he would kicked her out years ago – and has everything to do with the fact that most women on this earth likely fuck better than her.

“That’s not nice.” Agatha’s kind of pissed off, she’s fine with me putting my mom up for the time being but not too happy about how “intrusive” it’s become. Fuck her – I was paying for the Orlando trip. But that’s regardless, I have my heart set on ending this in Orlando and I’m a smart enough dude to realize that I’m stubborn sometimes – we’ll go next month. Or in February, even. Besides, it would be interesting to see what this bitch gets me for Christmas – I have my money on something ridiculously generic like silk pajamas and boxer shorts – fucking slippers or some shit.

“But it’s true. Pie.” I think I’m going to fuck with her some more – she seems to really dig living out the iconic relationship – keep that up, give her what she wants – if she’s happy she’s really good in bed, too. I misjudged her for some time, she has a supreme chivalry complex, knight in shining armor shit, probably comes from having an idyllic father – he died when she was eight so she never go to see him for the alcoholic let-down he probably was.

“I got that.”

“Drag.” Girls and their fathers – ninety percent of all female complexes can be traced back to that relationship. I don’t know if that’s documented or anything but it makes sense to me. Everyone always chimes on the mother. Overbearing or overly aggressive – only capable of showing love through physical trinkets – shit like that. All these chicks I meet – all the ones that want me to choke them with a belt or put a cigarette to their tits – all these chicks had some serious fucking father issues.


“Who is it?” I don’t think I can enumerate the amount of things that annoy me about having my mom live with me but, if I could, I can only imagine number one being her fucking need to ask “who is that” every time someone calls.

“Agatha – hold on.” I normally would let it got to voice mail but she hates that – she’s been getting on about it lately and I need to keep her happy, need to keep her in the mindset that this is all innocent fun and that there are no hidden intentions – especially with recent delays in the master plan. “Hey honey. No, no – it’s going fine.” It fucking kills me to have to act this out sometimes, it’s all so mechanical – it’s the same fucking conversation every “couple” in the world is having at this exact goddamn moment – I’m just contributing to the noise. “Yeah, Boggle. I am.” As if my mom could even come close to my score in any board game – this bitch never even beat me in Chute & Ladders as a kid. “Actually – yeah, I’ll meet you there. That sounds good.” She always picks the lamest joints to meet up – her and her annoying fucking friends who I need to put up with way too often are going to T.G.I.Fridays – it’s fucking insulting to have to be there on a Saturday night. My mom’s giving me a look like I just ripped out her heart and replaced it with a steaming pile of shit. “Sure – like twenty minutes.” What the fuck does she want from me? I give her food, a place to fucking stay – played goddamn boggle with her – what the fuck more can I possibly do? Agatha’s the play here, my mom’s just getting in the fucking way. “See ya then. Bye. Love you too.”

I normally throw up in my fucking mouth when I tell this cunt that I love her but right now the immediate problem at hand is my mom’s depressing fucking face. “It’s late, anyway, you should go to bed. You gotta go to see your trainer tomorrow.” I signed her up for a personal trainer at the gym – you had to see this dude’s face when he met her for the assessment. Usually these guys weigh you first, take body fat measurements – the guy didn’t even bother. For weight he probably wrote “fat”, for body fat he probable wrote “all of it”. He sitting there and telling her all of the exercises they were going to do to help her lose weight and somewhere in the back of his head he fucking realizes that this bitch is so fat all she needs to do is move a little bit and she’ll shed fifty pounds. But he’s apparently going to get her doing some free weights (because the machines likely can’t support her) and get her on the treadmill (because they’re cheaper to replace than the elliptical machines). It’s going to be a fucking horror show. Especially in the locker room. I honestly doubt my mom would step foot in one but can you fucking believe it if she did? Could you imagine being in the shower and this four-hundred plus pound woman come in there and starts cleaning her enormous fucking snatch? Lifting her tits above her head so that she can clean her underarms? I’d tear my fucking eyes out – bludgeon them out with a bar of fucking soap. “Don’t look at me like that, mom. I hung out with you all day.”

“I know – you’re so good to me. Go and have fun.” She goes through all of the motions, the fucking clenched throat and the sobs and the teary eyes – I’m honestly fucking sick of it all.

“Look, not tonight, all right – I’m going out.”

She just puts her head down and looks at her list of Boggle words that she never got to scratch off her fucking list.


David’s been harassing me to go to a strip club with him for the past fucking month – I don’t mind doing it on business – that’s work and I tend to have a good time – but I’ve been weary about doing it at home – I don’t like the idea of coming home smelling like a goddamn whore and having Agatha smell it on me, have her instantly know where I’ve been and what I’ doing. I don’t need to ruin everything I’ve worked for just for some skanky stripper fun – if it was a high-class bitch than that would be a different story, but David doesn’t go to the high-class places. “You see the Sox signed Beckett – I thought he was going to go to the Yanks for sure.”

David looks at me more with annoyance than disbelief – he’s had a few too many and I’d imagine he’s a bit volatile. “Dude – we’re in a fucking strip club.”

He turns back to the woman on stage that’s currently working overtime for David’s fucking dollar. She keeps moving for it but he keeps teasing it away from her – making her do one move, making her pay attention to him for one more second. I taught him that move, it’s a basic strip-club play. The thing is, these girls come to you for a dollar. A fucking dollar. They come to you and they shake their hips and they show their tits and they wrap their legs around your neck for a fucking dollar. Whereas that’s low, doing it for free is exponentially worse. So you tease them with the dollar. They already invested their dignity, there’s no rule saying you have to tip them, so the only thing they can do is prolong the hang-time, give you a little more show. The method doesn’t hurt your chances of getting the lap-dance and the eventual blowjob, either – you’re talking about a bitch that will lean over you wearing no shirt and kiss your cheek for a dollar – throw her a twenty and it’s a fucking party.

She takes the dollar and scurries away before he can take out another one but a new girl comes over. David just looks back at me and shoots me a dirty look, sighs and shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I don’t know what the fuck happened to you.”

It almost hurts getting insulted by a forty-year-old man with wife and kids – I’m just lucky I’m in control, I always know what I’m doing.

“It’s rough, dude, I don’t want to go home smelling like hookers. No offense.” I can’t believe that look she just gave me. As if she’s not a hooker. That’s right, she’s an “exotic dancer”. At least hookers start their pricing at twenty bucks for the low-rent ones, hundreds for the nicer ones. Fucking strippers – no matter the venue – start out at a fucking dollar. They usually hook for a Jackson. And they get insulted when you call them hookers – as if they’re above a common street hooker. Street hookers get to set their own hours – they maybe have five guys groping them a night instead of forty. But yeah, they’re above the street trash because they stand on a stage and shove dollar bills in their panties. Because they grind you for ten or twenty bucks while inviting you in the VIP room. Where for some extra money they fuck you rotten. And that’s at the classier joints. A place like this you can skip the lap dance and go straight to getting blowjob in the alleyway if the price is right. But they’re not hookers.

“Fuck that – by the time you get home Agatha will be passed the fuck out.”

That’s one thing about Agatha – if she doesn’t go out she’s in bed by eleven at the latest. I never understood that shit – I don’t think my body is physically capable of sleeping at eleven. She even starts work at noon – which is about when I start work – but you’d think she’d stay up later since she doesn’t have to get up ass-early. Instead she gets up ass-early and goes to the gym. That’s what fucking lunchtime is for. Everyone should have my schedule. I get up a ten or eleven, shower. Get dressed, do the hair – all that shit. Get to work at around twelve and go to lunch. Go to the gym, workout, shower, get dressed, do my hair, etc. Get back to work at around two, stay until three. Find something to do, go get some dinner, party all fucking night. That’s the way to live.

“It’s not like that. It’s my mom, man – it’s rough having her stay with you. She knows everything and she’s always judging.” He just turns back to the strippers, points at me and laughs. It almost hurts having a forty-year-old man miming “can you believe this guy” to a used-up stripper. Almost, luckily I’m in control – top of my fucking game.

“The mom excuse is getting old.” This coming from the twelve-year-old tit sucker – I’m sure he uses his dead mom as an excuse for everything. Every time he can’t get it up or pay the bills e finds a way to swing it around to his fucking mom.

“She’s working it out with my father, she should be out soon.” At least that’s what she tells me and I try to believe. Honestly, whereas I like helping her out and I like fucking with my father, enough is indeed e-fucking-nough. I’m sick of the crying and the guilt-trips, the broken chairs and the Ding Dong wrappers left on the kitchen table.

“I hope so, man – we’re getting kind of tired of you being such a fucking pussy.” Not a pussy, David. For once why don’t you say what you really want to say. Without me, you are nothing. Without me completely on my game, taking you out and getting you stoned and fuck, you are nothing but a miserable husband and father. Fuck this.

“Pussy, dude? Come on, David, you’re talking to the guy that gets you fucking laid on a daily basis.” No gratitude in some people, the turn on you in a fucking second. You want to see this human trait in action, go to a goddamn Yankee game. They’ll boo the fuck out of their own players until someone hits a homerun – they’ll cheer him on like her was fucking Jesus with some pine-tar. But the next at bat, if he strikes out – right back to booing. That’s what corporate America is like – that’s what people like David are fucking like.

“Used to.” Son of a bitch. What the fuck, I still do get laid on an almost daily basis. Why is it that when people get married and start having their own shitty sex they always assume you’re having shitty sex as well. These fucking guys put it in for several thrusts, pull out and cum on their wife or girlfriend’s stomach – clog up the belly-button – and assume that everyone else in a relationship, real or fake, is having the same fucked up sex.

“Used to? So, wait, you don’t get some stripper snatch for what – a fucking month – and I’m a goddamn ‘used to’? What the fuck is that?” The stripper gets the fuck out of here, can’t say that I blame her.

“Get the fuck out of here, man, ever since you starting hooking up with Agatha you just haven’t been on your game – we all notice it. Even in Atlanta you weren’t having a good time – we weren’t having a good time – I don’t even think you fucked anyone in Atlanta, did you?”

“Yeah. This one bitch.” I don’t even think I did. I was a little drunk, I might have gotten a hand-job. But I was busy, you know – I was fucking with Ed – that took a good amount of my time. A good amount of concentration – Ed was like the fucking warm-up, the snack before I get to Agatha. Believe me – if I wasn’t having so much fun other wise I would have been fucking all goddamn night.

“This one bitch! It’s fucking Agatha, man – she’s getting to you. She’s fucking with you. You can talk about your mom all you want but I think we both know that’s just a big fucking excuse.”


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