Lots of fucking swearing in this one
This is not taking This Story Has a Robot!'s place in any way. I just wanted to write something foul.
Don doesn't like my room.
"Why in the hell are the fans in this place buzzin' like fuckin' MumbleBlees, Walt?"
"Because the weather's taken a hard turn down Satan's anus alley, Don, and I don't like waking up in a fuckin' sweat cocoon with my face lying on my dog's ass while he tries to devour the cold air like the retarded old fuck he is."
It was hot out, sure, and maybe the pair of fans and 50% duct-tape air conditioner was a little bit of overkill, and sure, I didn't need the legion of ice packs hammered to the walls, but you have to understand that with a half-dead dog farting his way to sleep, a picky friend mulling over his complaints like a bitchy-robot and my smattering of heat retaining knick-knacks cluttering the floor and hanging from the light fixture, it was a special kind of hot. Kids who scraped their legs had to endure a momentary friction-induced bacteria-smothered cauterization process that made them cry that much harder. Insect Hives belched smoke when the sun was on them too long. Trees seemed to shout at you when hit with a gust of wind.
All of this, and Don saw fit to come over and spew insults at me like the great fat bastard he is.
I was kind of sick of it, to be honest.
"Close your fuckin' drawers, Walt, fuckin' bugs'll fuckin' crittle their way in there and fuckin' do shit." He spat a little as he spoke.
"Don, y'wanna go somewhere else for awhile?" I tried not to be rude, of course.
"Nah." He grunted.
"Well, you great sweaty fucker, if you don't sit up off of my bed and put down my book--which you aren't even reading, because you're an illiterate fucktard--I'm going to pour candlewax over you, make a mold, tear your fuckin' head off and put the model on just to see if your mom sees the difference. Get out of my fucking room." I spewed the words elegantly, caressing each hard consonant like some kind of grenade-baby. Don, sweat seeming to pool in the creases of his face as his mouth moved, stared at me dully.
"What the fuc-" I hit him. With one of the fans, even. I was sick of his attitude. I hit him again. Goddamn why doesn't he ever shut up. Again. Christ, he's such a fucking wuss, I almost feel bad. I stand up, his flabby arm in my grasp, and wrench open my door. He's cursing. Making vague threats. I throw the fan back and hit him in the face. He shuts up with a string of random swearing and his shirt catches on the floor as we leave carpet. Little pinpricks of pain seem to flood his face as his hairs are undoubtedly torn off of his back. I bash the front door open, drag him down the steps and roll him over onto the pavement. I shove him forward into the sun, stopping just short so I can remain in the shade. His face is bruised, but somehow not bloody. Fans are kind of poor in that respect. He sunburns quickly. I stomp on his balls and go inside.
"Goddamnit I left the door open." I mutter. My halfwayzombified dog creeks over the floor to me with a grin and some bad breath. I pick him up, plop him in front of the air conditioner, and push him over. It's like a really fat, stupid tree falling to the ground as he slowly teeters over with that grin.
"My fuck is it hot out there." I scream at him. I think he falls asleep halfway turning around to see me. The fucker.
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I see you jockin' me.
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