This week held a great deal of potential.
Today is the Friday of mid-winter break, so I've had a week away from school in which I could read and spend time with select friends--mostly be an introvert. And it began exceptionally well: I took a weekend to do some homework and shut out the world around me almost entirely.
Of course, then Monday came around and I thought it best to contact the few friends without whom I would most likely wither into nothingness. Unfortunately, one of them is disgustingly popular with people and had no space for communication. The Asian was making visits to some colleges (and came home with a pretentious bookshelf) which, topped with homework, left little room for contact with the outside world. A third friend, however, had Tuesday open. Thus began the epic adventure of someone else coming to my a house--and a male, at that.
My family members were considerably shocked, astounded, et cetera.
The day progressed (during which I beat him soundly at Scrabble and he played exceedingly well during some Euchre games despite not understanding what was going on). Earlier that day I had taken my sister to the mall for adventures and driven the expressway for the second time in my life.
Wednesday fell upon us and my eldest sister and I grew angry and Barnes & Noble. A few days ago we had ordered books from its website, but it had yet to either ship them or charge her. (They still have yet to do either.)
Sister and I went out and about again. (This time to a different mall.) We got books and mancala and such. (The power had gone out and we remembered mancala. We felt we should get a set and play it.)
Today sister and I again went to the mall. (She needed camisoles and agreed to get me even more books.) It was a nice escape from a cursing brother and father who always seem to get dangerously angry when building things. We also couldn't resist buying some absolutely fantastic socks for the Asian. (Who seems very ungrateful, despite the one-sidedness of our gift-giving relationship.)
Then, at four the Asian and I attended a meeting with fellow Rochester area nerdfighters. (On the way I had to drop sister off at work. I took the expressway back, using it for the third time in my life.) The meeting was a spectacular blend of awkward and awesome. We will likely be doing it again: such fantastic things should never be done only once.
Alas, then came the ride home from a coffee shop at the edge of the city. This part of the week did not go well. We tried following directions to the express way and failed. Then tried reversing the way we first reached the coffee shop. This led us to an unfamiliar street--which, ironically, would have taken us very close to home had we followed it. Alas, I was driving and did not trust it. I saw a street with which I was more familiar--a street that can actually lead to dangerous places. Panicking, I had the Asian call my sister, who instructed us to go on 480 West. (Luckily, we were just pulling up to an on-ramp.) From there we proceeded to take three-exits--returning to the expressway twice because we didn't know where to go from the off-ramps.) So, really, I've been on the expressway six times now. Gah.
Ultimately, we missed the ramp that would have taken us to the one street on which we couldn't get lost and got off at Chili Ave. Then we proceeded to take the wrong turn and re-enter the city. (Taking us back to the same area in which we first got incredibly nervous.) We turned around, getting incredibly excited when we found Wal-Mart. With the help of it's parking lot, we turned onto a familiar path.
Now all that was left was to drop the Asian off at the safety of her house and face a father that was likely to be incredibly angry. The ride was silent, nervous, and worrisome. The ride without her even consisted of tears. Surprisingly, however, there was no yelling.
I wonder when I'll ever want to drive again.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 21, 2011
Pedant
I suppose everyone has advice to give: mine is to never fall into routine. Once you do others form expectations of you, which will lead to either assuming you will be doing something and and ultimately forcing you to, or assuming you won't be doing anything.
Once you're in a routine, there is no way out. You're stuck, either constantly humoring people, or gone from their schedules entirely.
Also, I finished that scene:
Her thigh was alight with the buzzing, luminescent screen. One new message, she sighed. She knew who it was from. She turned away, only for it to begin vibrating again, spinning down the slope of her knee to the soft cushion of grass. She did not have to respond.
She ripped at the vibrant, green life before her instead. Stems of a peanut plant, seeding sprigs of grass, and butter-yellow dandelions all crumbled at her hand. She reached forward again and saw herself trying to grasp a knife, to pry it free of the binding grasp that held it. She yanked, uprooting a flowering strawberry plant. It evaded her. She cried out, clenching her fist around all in reach, slicing her palm on the blade.
Let go, she thought. Let go. The knife slipped back into the darkness of a foggy memory, pulled by that unyielding fist. Her hand smarted with pain. What are you doing? she remembered asking. She dug her fingers into the Earth--the soft, pliable dirt. She couldn't stop it. She had tried, but nobody listened. She made a fist beneath the grass. She pushed, driving her hand, knuckles first, deeper and deeper into the ground.
She saw the laughing mouth, the eyes that called blindly for attention. She hissed in anger. Stop it. The ground built resistance. Only half of her fist was buried within the dirt. She pushed harder and her knuckles cracked. The laughing mouth ducked down, back into the darkness. Her fist met air. She frowned and pulled her fist back: dark soil clung between her knuckles and beneath her nails.
The screen lit up again and she dug her fingers back into the ground. She felt it vibrate against the side of her leg. She saw a knife swing dangerously close to her jean-clad thigh. She shuddered, flinging her arms defensively. It vibrated again.
She glared at the sky; at the fiery sun and vacant blue. How dare the sun brighten another day? Where were the clouds heavy with rain? Who had the gall to orchestrate such beauty?
Her phone called for attention again and again, barely providing a break in its alerts: one, two, three new messages; four, five, six texts; seven, eight missed calls. What do you want? She grimaced at the phone. Its metal frame gleamed in the sun like the blade of a knife. You can have nothing to say. She saw the twinkling eyes and she turned away. She stretched her arms above her head and straightened her wrinkled dress. She jumped onto the patio and switched on some music.
Her phone spun mutely in the grass.
Once you're in a routine, there is no way out. You're stuck, either constantly humoring people, or gone from their schedules entirely.
Also, I finished that scene:
Her thigh was alight with the buzzing, luminescent screen. One new message, she sighed. She knew who it was from. She turned away, only for it to begin vibrating again, spinning down the slope of her knee to the soft cushion of grass. She did not have to respond.
She ripped at the vibrant, green life before her instead. Stems of a peanut plant, seeding sprigs of grass, and butter-yellow dandelions all crumbled at her hand. She reached forward again and saw herself trying to grasp a knife, to pry it free of the binding grasp that held it. She yanked, uprooting a flowering strawberry plant. It evaded her. She cried out, clenching her fist around all in reach, slicing her palm on the blade.
Let go, she thought. Let go. The knife slipped back into the darkness of a foggy memory, pulled by that unyielding fist. Her hand smarted with pain. What are you doing? she remembered asking. She dug her fingers into the Earth--the soft, pliable dirt. She couldn't stop it. She had tried, but nobody listened. She made a fist beneath the grass. She pushed, driving her hand, knuckles first, deeper and deeper into the ground.
She saw the laughing mouth, the eyes that called blindly for attention. She hissed in anger. Stop it. The ground built resistance. Only half of her fist was buried within the dirt. She pushed harder and her knuckles cracked. The laughing mouth ducked down, back into the darkness. Her fist met air. She frowned and pulled her fist back: dark soil clung between her knuckles and beneath her nails.
The screen lit up again and she dug her fingers back into the ground. She felt it vibrate against the side of her leg. She saw a knife swing dangerously close to her jean-clad thigh. She shuddered, flinging her arms defensively. It vibrated again.
She glared at the sky; at the fiery sun and vacant blue. How dare the sun brighten another day? Where were the clouds heavy with rain? Who had the gall to orchestrate such beauty?
Her phone called for attention again and again, barely providing a break in its alerts: one, two, three new messages; four, five, six texts; seven, eight missed calls. What do you want? She grimaced at the phone. Its metal frame gleamed in the sun like the blade of a knife. You can have nothing to say. She saw the twinkling eyes and she turned away. She stretched her arms above her head and straightened her wrinkled dress. She jumped onto the patio and switched on some music.
Her phone spun mutely in the grass.
Feb 18, 2011
Spirit?
So today is the culmination of senior week. (A week filled with various attempts by the school to make seniors show school spirit and pretend they actually like each other, as well as the school that sucks away their youth.)
Monday was actually fairly decent: Twin day. My friend and I pretended to be one with the rest of the student population that day and didn't wear pants. Unless leggings count as pants? (Oh, I hope not.) Nor did we wear a dress. (Unless a knitted shirt that just barely covers the ass can be deemed a dress.) We were, for us at least, incredibly whoreish. Alas, the socks were awesome, and thus worthy of this picture of my friend.
Tuesday we were meant to wear college apparel. Alas, I don't have any. And, even if I did, I would be unlikely to wear it because it would be either my sister's or my brother's and advertise a community college that I would never allow myself to enter. (Really, the requirements are so low that it may as well be an addition to high school.)
Wednesday was be a super-hero-day. The friend with whom I was a twin was Knives (sound familiar?) with two of my other friends who became Scott Pilgrim and Ramona. On Halloween I had been a hipster and able to pretend to be an evil ex and beat up Scott Pilgrim. (Yes, his outfit was a repeat.) Wednesday, I was elated to realize that I have red hair (a bit weird to realize that at the age of seventeen, but nonetheless. . .) and that I could be Kim and still beat up Scott Pilgrim. Mostly verbal bashing this time, though.
After school Knives, Scott, our Great Leader and I failed miserably at senior-faculty bowling with our former Biology teacher. I'll admit, it was fun. And full of poopy-ca-ca.
Yesterday was toga day. Which I refused to participate in because that's just weird. I chose to recite, with my friend, that females did not actually wear togas in ancient Greece and ignore the friends that scolded me. Also, I had to take a picture for a superlative. (A really pointless award that seniors vote on, but still rather entertaining. I got one for writing.)
Today are senior-faculty basketball games. (In which teams of seniors compete against teams of the faculty.) This I boycott because I refuse to put my head through such torture. (I'm an introvert and get migraines--attending could not turn out well.) However, I did attend the breakfast with ny friends and saw my best friend win a silly superlative (which for some reason is different than a regular superlative) and get a sash that says "perfectionist".
I was also incredibly happy to see my English teacher from last year with her twin boys who do actually exist.
Due to the fights last week, however, security is still a bit tighter than normal, and thus it is difficult to find a place to hide. Luckily, I'm close with my former AP Chem. teacher and he allowed me to hide in his room. (Of course, we're pretending I'm n
ot here. I've even left the lights off.) He's fantastic.
ot here. I've even left the lights off.) He's fantastic.And, I brought a lot of things today: books and my moleskine and what not. Alas, I'm on the Internet. x.x
I am, however, going to have my father pick me up shortly so that the rest of my day is less troublesome.
Hope you enjoy your week as much as I (surprisingly) have,
M. D. Koch
Feb 15, 2011
Prose
For the first time in longer than I can remember I'm able to write poetry and flash fiction at the same time. (Well, not unanimously, but the writing of one style does not impose a block on the other.) I still fail at longer fiction, but this makes me happy enough.
This still needs finishing:
Her thigh was alight with the buzzing, luminescent screen. One new message, she sighed. She knew who it was from. She turned away, only for it to begin vibrating again, spinning down the slope of her knee to the soft cushion of grass. She did not have to respond.
She ripped at the vibrant, green life before her instead. Stems of a peanut plant, seeding sprigs of grass, and butter-yellow dandelions all crumbled at her hand. She reached forward again and saw herself trying to grasp a knife, to pry it free of the binding grasp that held it. She yanked, uprooting a flowering strawberry plant. It evaded her. She cried out, clenching her fist around all in reach, slicing her palm on the blade.
Let go, she thought. Let go. The knife slipped back into the darkness of a foggy memory, pulled by that unyielding fist. Her hand smarted with pain. What are you doing? she remembered asking. She dug her fingers into the Earth--the soft, pliable dirt. She couldn't stop it. She had tried, but nobody listened. She made a fist beneath the grass. She pushed, driving her hand, knuckles first, deeper and deeper into the ground.
She saw the laughing mouth, the eyes that called blindly for attention. She hissed in anger. Stop it.
This still needs finishing:
Her thigh was alight with the buzzing, luminescent screen. One new message, she sighed. She knew who it was from. She turned away, only for it to begin vibrating again, spinning down the slope of her knee to the soft cushion of grass. She did not have to respond.
She ripped at the vibrant, green life before her instead. Stems of a peanut plant, seeding sprigs of grass, and butter-yellow dandelions all crumbled at her hand. She reached forward again and saw herself trying to grasp a knife, to pry it free of the binding grasp that held it. She yanked, uprooting a flowering strawberry plant. It evaded her. She cried out, clenching her fist around all in reach, slicing her palm on the blade.
Let go, she thought. Let go. The knife slipped back into the darkness of a foggy memory, pulled by that unyielding fist. Her hand smarted with pain. What are you doing? she remembered asking. She dug her fingers into the Earth--the soft, pliable dirt. She couldn't stop it. She had tried, but nobody listened. She made a fist beneath the grass. She pushed, driving her hand, knuckles first, deeper and deeper into the ground.
She saw the laughing mouth, the eyes that called blindly for attention. She hissed in anger. Stop it.
Feb 12, 2011
The Continuing Adventures of Meliffany
We are superheroes.
We are Guy Fawkes and Knives. (And, yes, vigilantes and creepy religious school attendees are superheroes.)
Yesterday, Knives was abducted for a dinner of culture shock and the entertainment of finding a human made incredibly uncomfortable by books, foreign languages, and intelligence. Knives and Guy Fawkes then combined forces and scoured unassuming stores for a matching outfit--they succeeded in finding awesome socks.
Guy Fawkes, pretentious cretin that he/she is, gloated over the superior car that Knives could not drive as they creeped on a half-naked friend. They were proud of their stalker habits, but disappointed that said friend ignored them for a long span of minutes as she dressed herself.
The day ended shortly, however, with the fetching of Guy Fawkes' sister from work.
Today the pair tried again for success, pillaging villages and raping women, like the vikings from which all superheroes are descended, throughout the mall. (Where they also stopped to hide nerdfighter notes.) And, indeed, they were triumphant! Thus, they celebrated over Knives beloved (as any half-sane person would agree) mother and her egg rolls.
We are Guy Fawkes and Knives. (And, yes, vigilantes and creepy religious school attendees are superheroes.)
Yesterday, Knives was abducted for a dinner of culture shock and the entertainment of finding a human made incredibly uncomfortable by books, foreign languages, and intelligence. Knives and Guy Fawkes then combined forces and scoured unassuming stores for a matching outfit--they succeeded in finding awesome socks.
Guy Fawkes, pretentious cretin that he/she is, gloated over the superior car that Knives could not drive as they creeped on a half-naked friend. They were proud of their stalker habits, but disappointed that said friend ignored them for a long span of minutes as she dressed herself.
The day ended shortly, however, with the fetching of Guy Fawkes' sister from work.
Today the pair tried again for success, pillaging villages and raping women, like the vikings from which all superheroes are descended, throughout the mall. (Where they also stopped to hide nerdfighter notes.) And, indeed, they were triumphant! Thus, they celebrated over Knives beloved (as any half-sane person would agree) mother and her egg rolls.
Feb 11, 2011
Odysseus Has Fallen
Today I dredged about, squandering time and composing lists of why it is questionable various teachers actually received their degrees and aren't working inconspicuously beneath the law.
Then I got excited!
You may remember (I did only mention this yesterday, so if not I suggest you go to the nearest clinic and ask those on hand for the signs of Alzheimer's) that I recently set off my teacher by stating that I detest Odysseus.
Unfortunately, my teacher has a terrible memory. (As well as a terrible habit of only teaching his opinion and get very angry when someone disagrees with him.) Due to the rest of my class not disagreeing when he suggested that everybody loves Odysseus and men of action (as well as some others saying that, yes, females like "men of action" like Odysseus) he remembered me saying that I would date someone like Odysseus. This had to be remedied. Thus, I disagreed. When he continued to push on with doubt, I stated that I like skinny nerds.
This came as a shock. To my teacher, for this goes against all that he believes. To the rest of the class (sans one or two friends privy to such rarely shared information) there was amazement over first, my disagreement with my teacher, and, second, my admittance to sexual attraction.
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day riding that high.
(Although the constant looks from some and then disapproving shake of the head in the hallway, as though such a thing is truly horrendous, I could live without.)
Then I got excited!
You may remember (I did only mention this yesterday, so if not I suggest you go to the nearest clinic and ask those on hand for the signs of Alzheimer's) that I recently set off my teacher by stating that I detest Odysseus.
Unfortunately, my teacher has a terrible memory. (As well as a terrible habit of only teaching his opinion and get very angry when someone disagrees with him.) Due to the rest of my class not disagreeing when he suggested that everybody loves Odysseus and men of action (as well as some others saying that, yes, females like "men of action" like Odysseus) he remembered me saying that I would date someone like Odysseus. This had to be remedied. Thus, I disagreed. When he continued to push on with doubt, I stated that I like skinny nerds.
This came as a shock. To my teacher, for this goes against all that he believes. To the rest of the class (sans one or two friends privy to such rarely shared information) there was amazement over first, my disagreement with my teacher, and, second, my admittance to sexual attraction.
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day riding that high.
(Although the constant looks from some and then disapproving shake of the head in the hallway, as though such a thing is truly horrendous, I could live without.)
Feb 10, 2011
Excitement
So I've stumbled into some excitement in the past few weeks.
It all began with a snow day. Which, for my school, is like finding one of Disney's classic movies being enacted in full by the poor that flood the scummier parts of New York. The Asian and I decided to take advantage of it and shop for our friend's birthday. (After it was first decided that the Asian must dress nicely and preceding the confirmation that she thinks of me before sleep.) We forced her into nerdfighteria with Paper Towns and bought her a dirty, dirty game. We deemed her a future trophy wife and added a mug to her pile, as well as some horrendous underwear that holds a double-life with the facade of being a headband.
Time was spent at school before I could visit this friend and present her with her share of amazing things. We then destroyed brain cells at a coffee shop doing homework and spent the night playing a dirty, dirty game and watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
Here the excitement died down a bit until yesterday, when it was confirmed that teenagers are becoming more and more resemblent to filthy swine. (Or, in some cases, a simple sack of excrement.) There was a disgusting melee in the center of the school, followed shortly by another brawl in a classroom, the ultimate result being police involvement and a hospital check-up for a teacher.
Thus, sister and I compiled some gifts for some teachers, because we're such fantastic examples of good teenagers and what not. This was appreciated.
Alas, I mourned the loss of harassing someone during lunch, and then was unable to remedy this today as my lunch was usurped by a needy counselor. To make certain that this was not appreciated, I responded only in clipped, scornful sentences and snidely pointed out his grammatical errors. As well as spread threatening and hateful ideas.
This was followed shortly after by a waste of a class, with a teacher that knows absolutely nothing about inspiring creative writing. (I have been writing for the past ten years, thus I can say this with confidence.) She is also, regrettably, particularly ignorant and immature. She spends most of class time gabbing (ew, never using that word again) with certain students. When asked to present us with our assignment for the day, she acted haughty and offended. She blew up a few minutes later, claiming that she's not as oblivious as we might thinks and she saw the expressions preceding the request; that we should just not take the class if we feel such things. And, while I am sure that her class is a waste of time, she could not have assumed a more wrong conclusion. Her childish acts directed at a friend of mine were uncalled for, as she should feel pain for reducing my friend to tears.
Preceding this, I sent a teacher into a frenzy (a rather angry one) for saying that I am not a fan of Odysseus. (Really though, the character's a prick--I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him.) I also found it funny that he was so adamant that a girl/lady would only date a "man of action" when I find skinny nerds attractive. x.x
With such excitement afoot, I felt it fitting to write a short, angry scene about an assassin (with a rather large amount of expletives, but they were necessary):
There was a duck in the road. Just squatting there, commanding the dirt path through which he needed to pass. How ridiculous, it wasn't even doing anything!
Jesus, where was he, anyhow? In the middle of fucking no where. No where, where ducks take over the roads. Could you even call it a road? It wasn't even paved, barely discernible in the barren landscape. It was just there, as though some monstrous vacuum had ingested all the trees and buildings that may have once towered there and had regurgitated a sandy trail in their place.
This was definitely not Sandusky. This was not his destination, and he didn't have the fucking time to backtrack. Fuck, he was supposed to be there by now! Twelve noon, that was the window. If he was just a minute late he would have missed it, and that man could not make his plane. That was the agreement, he was to be delayed indefinitely. And how was he supposed to do that from here? Fuck!
It was all that fucker's fault! Filth, swine! Who could be so stupid as to give these directions? Foul, fecal man! He must have known, that was the only explanation. But how could he? And what could his connection to this job be? Fuck! He should have seen it coming. He never should have fucking stopped for directions. How the hell was he suppose to get back on track?
He slammed at the dashboard, glaring at that fucking duck. Just the fucking icing on the cake. A fucking duck! What was he suppose to do? Run the fucking thing over? Fuck it all. Snarling, he reached toward the seat beside him in search of a map. "Fuck!" he cursed when the pile of papers in the seat spilled onto the floor and through the window.
Still expelling expletives, he exited the vehicle and spat venomously toward the duck. Just his fucking luck. He stomped and he roared before grabbing angrily for the fallen papers. Why was he even searching for the fucking map? He didn't know where the hell he was--what use would a map be? How the fuck was he suppose to find his position on it? It was fucking garbage.
Fuck! His watch read 12:03. It was too fucking late now, anyway. Too fucking late. Growling, he kicked his tires, eager to cause some damage; to enrage the fucking planet that had conspired against him. And that fucking duck was still there, staring at him! Did it never fucking scare? God, what did he have to do? Crack its fucking wing? Because he fucking would!
Muttering under his breath, he started toward the impertinent creature, careful to kick up as much dirt as possible with his toes. The cloud of dust did not faze the duck. "What the fuck?!" he swore when the cloud dissipated and the duck continued to watch him. A low, guttural sound rose from the back of his throat and the duck shifted its weight, allowing what looked to be an egg to roll out from under its weight. "Are you fucking serious?!" he cried out.
Fucking ridiculous. This was just fucking ridiculous. He turned to punch a half-open window but stopped when something inside the car caught his eye. "Perfect," he grinned, his thoughts suddenly clear of expletives. He reached through the window for a dark object buried between the seat and the door: It would be horrible to waste a present, even if it couldn't be used on his initial target. The prime minister could live to see another day--no big deal, he thought, as he cocked his gun. He would find another job the next day, a higher paying job. But this bullet needed to find a home.
His eyes twinkled manically as he took aim. So long, duck, thanks for the fucking company.
It all began with a snow day. Which, for my school, is like finding one of Disney's classic movies being enacted in full by the poor that flood the scummier parts of New York. The Asian and I decided to take advantage of it and shop for our friend's birthday. (After it was first decided that the Asian must dress nicely and preceding the confirmation that she thinks of me before sleep.) We forced her into nerdfighteria with Paper Towns and bought her a dirty, dirty game. We deemed her a future trophy wife and added a mug to her pile, as well as some horrendous underwear that holds a double-life with the facade of being a headband.
Time was spent at school before I could visit this friend and present her with her share of amazing things. We then destroyed brain cells at a coffee shop doing homework and spent the night playing a dirty, dirty game and watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
Here the excitement died down a bit until yesterday, when it was confirmed that teenagers are becoming more and more resemblent to filthy swine. (Or, in some cases, a simple sack of excrement.) There was a disgusting melee in the center of the school, followed shortly by another brawl in a classroom, the ultimate result being police involvement and a hospital check-up for a teacher.
Thus, sister and I compiled some gifts for some teachers, because we're such fantastic examples of good teenagers and what not. This was appreciated.
Alas, I mourned the loss of harassing someone during lunch, and then was unable to remedy this today as my lunch was usurped by a needy counselor. To make certain that this was not appreciated, I responded only in clipped, scornful sentences and snidely pointed out his grammatical errors. As well as spread threatening and hateful ideas.
This was followed shortly after by a waste of a class, with a teacher that knows absolutely nothing about inspiring creative writing. (I have been writing for the past ten years, thus I can say this with confidence.) She is also, regrettably, particularly ignorant and immature. She spends most of class time gabbing (ew, never using that word again) with certain students. When asked to present us with our assignment for the day, she acted haughty and offended. She blew up a few minutes later, claiming that she's not as oblivious as we might thinks and she saw the expressions preceding the request; that we should just not take the class if we feel such things. And, while I am sure that her class is a waste of time, she could not have assumed a more wrong conclusion. Her childish acts directed at a friend of mine were uncalled for, as she should feel pain for reducing my friend to tears.
Preceding this, I sent a teacher into a frenzy (a rather angry one) for saying that I am not a fan of Odysseus. (Really though, the character's a prick--I wouldn't want to be anywhere near him.) I also found it funny that he was so adamant that a girl/lady would only date a "man of action" when I find skinny nerds attractive. x.x
With such excitement afoot, I felt it fitting to write a short, angry scene about an assassin (with a rather large amount of expletives, but they were necessary):
There was a duck in the road. Just squatting there, commanding the dirt path through which he needed to pass. How ridiculous, it wasn't even doing anything!
Jesus, where was he, anyhow? In the middle of fucking no where. No where, where ducks take over the roads. Could you even call it a road? It wasn't even paved, barely discernible in the barren landscape. It was just there, as though some monstrous vacuum had ingested all the trees and buildings that may have once towered there and had regurgitated a sandy trail in their place.
This was definitely not Sandusky. This was not his destination, and he didn't have the fucking time to backtrack. Fuck, he was supposed to be there by now! Twelve noon, that was the window. If he was just a minute late he would have missed it, and that man could not make his plane. That was the agreement, he was to be delayed indefinitely. And how was he supposed to do that from here? Fuck!
It was all that fucker's fault! Filth, swine! Who could be so stupid as to give these directions? Foul, fecal man! He must have known, that was the only explanation. But how could he? And what could his connection to this job be? Fuck! He should have seen it coming. He never should have fucking stopped for directions. How the hell was he suppose to get back on track?
He slammed at the dashboard, glaring at that fucking duck. Just the fucking icing on the cake. A fucking duck! What was he suppose to do? Run the fucking thing over? Fuck it all. Snarling, he reached toward the seat beside him in search of a map. "Fuck!" he cursed when the pile of papers in the seat spilled onto the floor and through the window.
Still expelling expletives, he exited the vehicle and spat venomously toward the duck. Just his fucking luck. He stomped and he roared before grabbing angrily for the fallen papers. Why was he even searching for the fucking map? He didn't know where the hell he was--what use would a map be? How the fuck was he suppose to find his position on it? It was fucking garbage.
Fuck! His watch read 12:03. It was too fucking late now, anyway. Too fucking late. Growling, he kicked his tires, eager to cause some damage; to enrage the fucking planet that had conspired against him. And that fucking duck was still there, staring at him! Did it never fucking scare? God, what did he have to do? Crack its fucking wing? Because he fucking would!
Muttering under his breath, he started toward the impertinent creature, careful to kick up as much dirt as possible with his toes. The cloud of dust did not faze the duck. "What the fuck?!" he swore when the cloud dissipated and the duck continued to watch him. A low, guttural sound rose from the back of his throat and the duck shifted its weight, allowing what looked to be an egg to roll out from under its weight. "Are you fucking serious?!" he cried out.
Fucking ridiculous. This was just fucking ridiculous. He turned to punch a half-open window but stopped when something inside the car caught his eye. "Perfect," he grinned, his thoughts suddenly clear of expletives. He reached through the window for a dark object buried between the seat and the door: It would be horrible to waste a present, even if it couldn't be used on his initial target. The prime minister could live to see another day--no big deal, he thought, as he cocked his gun. He would find another job the next day, a higher paying job. But this bullet needed to find a home.
His eyes twinkled manically as he took aim. So long, duck, thanks for the fucking company.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)