[Psyche Scenage - Dec. 2002]: Blowing Smoke, pt. 2
"Who the fuck are you and when are you fucking paying for my fucking window?"
So Pretty gives me some shit about how he was fuckin waitin for me, but he can’t fuckin be bothered to answer cause he’s watching the god damn Showcase Showdown. And close the door, cause I’m letting out the fuckin AC. He put a fucking hole in my goddamn window who knows how fuckin long ago, and he’s fuckin worried about the AC. Where do I fuckin find all these cocktastic assholes?
Anyway, I ask him again who the fuck he is. Got an answer out of him that fucking makes me wanna blow the goddamn bag of Cheetos out of his hand - and that’s a cute fuckin picture, Mr. Pretty with cheeto jizz all over his face: fuckin Twilight. Then he starts takin the mickey cause I’m not fuckin waitin till a fuckin commercial, and I mean you gotta be fucking kiddin me! This is my goddamed house and this fucker’s pullin - holy fucking Christ’s balls. It hits me. He ain’t fuckin lying. Only a cocksucker goodfella wannabe pal of Twilight’s would be actin like he owns my fuckin apartment.
Fuck. I really cannot afford to get angry. Better to ask questions, right? So I cut right through his fucking Showdown one more time, which finally seems to get his head outta his ass. Pretty turns the TV down and offers me one of the Cheetos I almost shot out of his hand, which is kinda fucked up, since there’s a fucking bagel in my off-hand. Sharp, this one. Maybe he’ll get it when I point my piece at his nutsack. Three cheers for testosterone, he fuckin does. Course, testosterone being what it is, he tries to get all fuckin cocky and jimmies my gun, which is exactly why there’s a switchblade in my sleeve. Down goes the fuckin bagel, out come the knife. I don’t know why tossing blades around makes me smile, but it does, even when I put holes in my carpet. I’m only tryin to make a fuckin point, ya know? I just as easy coulda gone for a toe (or his nuts), but I was feeling fuckin generous.
But here’s Pretty, still tryin to play off like shit’s all cool, and he’s still actin like he fuckin lives here, and he’s talking about discussing shit like peaceable folk like any cocksucker who parks a piece of shit car on your lawn and puts a hole through your fuckin window so that he can sit on your fuckin couch and watch a shitty game show and eat Cheetos insteada waiting till a bitch got home and knocking on the fucking door like a normal fuckin person is fuckin peaceable, whatever the fuck that shit’s supposed to mean, and Jesus fucking Christ if he isn’t just pissing me off more. If I didn’t want him to just fucking tell me what the fuck was going on, I’d have just fucking clocked him already. Sos I ask him what the hell is goin on, again.
Well no wonder the asshole can’t rub two dicks together in his pretty head. He’s fucking hittin the hay. Goddamn it, T.
Anyway, Pretty gets up to gimme my blade and I get a fuckin eyeful cause his goddamned pants are hangin open like he’s fuckin Al Bundy. Yeah, I really fuckin needed that shit right now. Yippie skippy, he asks to keep my knife, so there’s something else to think about. And he’s finally starting to pay some fuckin attention, sos all I gotta do is ask my fuckin questions one more time. I fuckin hope.
Sometimes, I wish I could learn to keep my big fuckin mouth shut, ya know? Cause there are times when you just don’t wanna fuckin know the answer, even though ya fucking coulda swore ya did. Pretty tells me that Twilight said I needed protecting, and Pretty’s here to make sure my ass stays tight like a virgin cunt. That’s a fuckin quote, boyo, he really said that shit. And it took me a second to fucking get what he meant. It’s true. I was taking the knife back, real careful not to touch him, before it sunk in what he’d said. Protect me? What the fuck from? And what the fuck does Turbo know about a virgin cunt, anyways? Turns out Pretty didn’t know (prolly about either thing), which don’t come as a fuckin shock since it don’t look like he’s the type to ask any fuckin questions.
So Mr. Legend wants to saddle me with a bodyguard. Protect his 'investment' from who knows what he thinks is out there to get me, like I can’t take care of myself. Or keep me from hooking up with someone else - in which case, he prolly shouldn’ta sent Pretty here. Now, despite the fact that I cuss like a dock worker and drive like Jeff Gordon in a Honda, I am actually very much a chick. And there are a couple of things a woman can do when staring down the barrel of an over-protective and now ex-boyfriend. First, I gotta try the simple route - ask Pretty if there’s any way I can send him packin (himself back inna that crappy ride of his, I mean, not the guns he’s prolly already got on him). Who knows - maybe he’ll ask me for a couple of blowjobs and a steak and call it even.
Twilight and his dirty paper. He must have this cracker hardwired into his account.
So. I don’t even get a good bone outta this crap. Now I gotta use good ole Southie hospitality. Offer him a drink since he passed up the sex, try to ignore the fact that he’s trashed (and will continue to trash) my afternoon ritual just by being there, and get some more time to think things through. Pretty asks for the hardest liquor I got. Sweet Jesus, who is this tawny wop bastard? Does he think he’s John Gotti or something? I bring him the bottle of Everclear, cause that’s the hardest I got at the moment, and I sit down with my Jack. Huh. Wonder if I can mess with alcohol content without changin the taste...Nah. That’d be a little too close to Hubris, just to screw with a wiseguy.
Anyway, Pretty sits back and starts pounding down the Everclear. He’s prolly just happy I’m letting him watch his stupid Price is Right and not asking him more questions. But I am, see, just in my head. Same answer, though. Get this Don Corleone hash feind outta my house, or make Legend pay. By the time I’m done thinking I’ve calmed down some, but this crazy fuck’s gone through half the bottle of grain and starts talking shit about Bob Barker and a couple of bitches.
The fuck is this dumb wop talkin ‘bout? And I’m gonna have to put up with this shit until fucking Twilight decides it's time for his pretty boy cunt-sitter to go? Is this foul mouthed, lazy ass fuck gonna shadow me everywhere I go? Whats he think he's coming in a fucking nursing home to chat up some old bitches with me? Goddamnit, that ugly monkey-faced thug-ass wannabe nigger cockucking dickwad is going to pay for this. I’m gonna kill him myself. I’m so aggro, even ask how much he’s fucking payin Pretty, cause I was gonna fuckin double it. Bra pulls out a knife and notches his belt, talking ‘bout how every time I say that shit, he gets a fuckin bonus.
Score. He won't be the only one keepin a fuckin tally.
And not only that, but sounds like T’s gonna be covering Pretty’s whole entire fuckin stay. I’m making a fuckin list. Day One: One window, one bagel, the hole in my fuckin carpet, a .45 clip, a bottle of Everclear, two goddamned hours of the Price Is fuckin Right, and my fucking sanity.
That's when I remembered I'd left my fuckin keys in the goddamn door.
Smoke's side
So Pretty gives me some shit about how he was fuckin waitin for me, but he can’t fuckin be bothered to answer cause he’s watching the god damn Showcase Showdown. And close the door, cause I’m letting out the fuckin AC. He put a fucking hole in my goddamn window who knows how fuckin long ago, and he’s fuckin worried about the AC. Where do I fuckin find all these cocktastic assholes?
Anyway, I ask him again who the fuck he is. Got an answer out of him that fucking makes me wanna blow the goddamn bag of Cheetos out of his hand - and that’s a cute fuckin picture, Mr. Pretty with cheeto jizz all over his face: fuckin Twilight. Then he starts takin the mickey cause I’m not fuckin waitin till a fuckin commercial, and I mean you gotta be fucking kiddin me! This is my goddamed house and this fucker’s pullin - holy fucking Christ’s balls. It hits me. He ain’t fuckin lying. Only a cocksucker goodfella wannabe pal of Twilight’s would be actin like he owns my fuckin apartment.
Fuck. I really cannot afford to get angry. Better to ask questions, right? So I cut right through his fucking Showdown one more time, which finally seems to get his head outta his ass. Pretty turns the TV down and offers me one of the Cheetos I almost shot out of his hand, which is kinda fucked up, since there’s a fucking bagel in my off-hand. Sharp, this one. Maybe he’ll get it when I point my piece at his nutsack. Three cheers for testosterone, he fuckin does. Course, testosterone being what it is, he tries to get all fuckin cocky and jimmies my gun, which is exactly why there’s a switchblade in my sleeve. Down goes the fuckin bagel, out come the knife. I don’t know why tossing blades around makes me smile, but it does, even when I put holes in my carpet. I’m only tryin to make a fuckin point, ya know? I just as easy coulda gone for a toe (or his nuts), but I was feeling fuckin generous.
But here’s Pretty, still tryin to play off like shit’s all cool, and he’s still actin like he fuckin lives here, and he’s talking about discussing shit like peaceable folk like any cocksucker who parks a piece of shit car on your lawn and puts a hole through your fuckin window so that he can sit on your fuckin couch and watch a shitty game show and eat Cheetos insteada waiting till a bitch got home and knocking on the fucking door like a normal fuckin person is fuckin peaceable, whatever the fuck that shit’s supposed to mean, and Jesus fucking Christ if he isn’t just pissing me off more. If I didn’t want him to just fucking tell me what the fuck was going on, I’d have just fucking clocked him already. Sos I ask him what the hell is goin on, again.
Well no wonder the asshole can’t rub two dicks together in his pretty head. He’s fucking hittin the hay. Goddamn it, T.
Anyway, Pretty gets up to gimme my blade and I get a fuckin eyeful cause his goddamned pants are hangin open like he’s fuckin Al Bundy. Yeah, I really fuckin needed that shit right now. Yippie skippy, he asks to keep my knife, so there’s something else to think about. And he’s finally starting to pay some fuckin attention, sos all I gotta do is ask my fuckin questions one more time. I fuckin hope.
Sometimes, I wish I could learn to keep my big fuckin mouth shut, ya know? Cause there are times when you just don’t wanna fuckin know the answer, even though ya fucking coulda swore ya did. Pretty tells me that Twilight said I needed protecting, and Pretty’s here to make sure my ass stays tight like a virgin cunt. That’s a fuckin quote, boyo, he really said that shit. And it took me a second to fucking get what he meant. It’s true. I was taking the knife back, real careful not to touch him, before it sunk in what he’d said. Protect me? What the fuck from? And what the fuck does Turbo know about a virgin cunt, anyways? Turns out Pretty didn’t know (prolly about either thing), which don’t come as a fuckin shock since it don’t look like he’s the type to ask any fuckin questions.
So Mr. Legend wants to saddle me with a bodyguard. Protect his 'investment' from who knows what he thinks is out there to get me, like I can’t take care of myself. Or keep me from hooking up with someone else - in which case, he prolly shouldn’ta sent Pretty here. Now, despite the fact that I cuss like a dock worker and drive like Jeff Gordon in a Honda, I am actually very much a chick. And there are a couple of things a woman can do when staring down the barrel of an over-protective and now ex-boyfriend. First, I gotta try the simple route - ask Pretty if there’s any way I can send him packin (himself back inna that crappy ride of his, I mean, not the guns he’s prolly already got on him). Who knows - maybe he’ll ask me for a couple of blowjobs and a steak and call it even.
Twilight and his dirty paper. He must have this cracker hardwired into his account.
So. I don’t even get a good bone outta this crap. Now I gotta use good ole Southie hospitality. Offer him a drink since he passed up the sex, try to ignore the fact that he’s trashed (and will continue to trash) my afternoon ritual just by being there, and get some more time to think things through. Pretty asks for the hardest liquor I got. Sweet Jesus, who is this tawny wop bastard? Does he think he’s John Gotti or something? I bring him the bottle of Everclear, cause that’s the hardest I got at the moment, and I sit down with my Jack. Huh. Wonder if I can mess with alcohol content without changin the taste...Nah. That’d be a little too close to Hubris, just to screw with a wiseguy.
Anyway, Pretty sits back and starts pounding down the Everclear. He’s prolly just happy I’m letting him watch his stupid Price is Right and not asking him more questions. But I am, see, just in my head. Same answer, though. Get this Don Corleone hash feind outta my house, or make Legend pay. By the time I’m done thinking I’ve calmed down some, but this crazy fuck’s gone through half the bottle of grain and starts talking shit about Bob Barker and a couple of bitches.
The fuck is this dumb wop talkin ‘bout? And I’m gonna have to put up with this shit until fucking Twilight decides it's time for his pretty boy cunt-sitter to go? Is this foul mouthed, lazy ass fuck gonna shadow me everywhere I go? Whats he think he's coming in a fucking nursing home to chat up some old bitches with me? Goddamnit, that ugly monkey-faced thug-ass wannabe nigger cockucking dickwad is going to pay for this. I’m gonna kill him myself. I’m so aggro, even ask how much he’s fucking payin Pretty, cause I was gonna fuckin double it. Bra pulls out a knife and notches his belt, talking ‘bout how every time I say that shit, he gets a fuckin bonus.
Score. He won't be the only one keepin a fuckin tally.
And not only that, but sounds like T’s gonna be covering Pretty’s whole entire fuckin stay. I’m making a fuckin list. Day One: One window, one bagel, the hole in my fuckin carpet, a .45 clip, a bottle of Everclear, two goddamned hours of the Price Is fuckin Right, and my fucking sanity.
That's when I remembered I'd left my fuckin keys in the goddamn door.
Smoke's side