It was roughly 7 am when I realized my "fully furnished" room came without curtains or blinds, and I staggered still drunk to the toilet and emptied myself, the fresh wound in my bicep burning like the knife was still there. I love waking up in an unfamiliar place. It gives me brief optimism that maybe I got laid last night and was in some anonymous woman's apartment. But no such luck. As I walked into the bedroom I focused my attention on Vanessa's purse, curious about what else was in there other than the money I already plundered. I dumped the whole bag of shit on the bed and wondered at the piles of candies, breath mints, tubes of lipstick, scraps of paper, and assorted jewelry that I didn't remember ever seeing her wear. She even had a pair of panties in there, I shit you not.

But after separating the jewelry from the garbage I noticed a thick envelope that had fallen to the ground, and recognized it as the letter that she had to sign for the other night. Normally I would never violate a person's privacy by opening their mail, but fuck it. The bitch stabbed me. So I tore it open. My eyes lit up when I saw the stack of 100 dollar bills tucked inside a one page letter. This must be it, the source of Vanessa's never-ending wads of cash!


 

My dearest Vanessa,

I suppose you will be wondering why I am including only two thousand in this month's letter. The short answer is that I don't trust that you went through with it this time. I sent Bartley over to your home and discovered that you no longer lived there, and it took some time and effort to find you in this new apartment. I give you more than enough money to afford a place in a much nicer neighborhood, so I can only assume you are "shacked up" with another hopeless vagrant.
I have no intention of rubbing salt in a sensitive wound, but must I remind you of our arrangement? You are living well on no small amount of my money, and I ask only for your discretion in return. I understand the physical and emotional toll that you are subjected to whenever you visit Dr. Paige, but that is why I have been sending an extra thousand for the last two months despite not hearing a word from you. And God help us both if you didn't go through with it this time.
Please drop by Bartley's offices to clear this matter up, and I assure you I will pay the extra thousand once he assures me you have been keeping up your end of the bargain.

P.S. I know you don't want to hear this, but I still love you.

Dad

"Jesus fucking Christ" I whispered as I read the last line. I may be an uneducated and drunken degenerate, but I could read between these lines. Vanessa wasn't a mother. She wasn't a formerly successful business woman. She wasn't even a fallen socialite widow. She was a three-time abortion patient with an incestuous past. Well, I guess this explained why she never showed me pictures of her kids...

I drove myself to the emergency room and they gave me the second set of stitches I had received in two months. Luckily they already had me on the books as indigent, so there was little argument about the bill. I told them I was stabbed by a mugger in the street, and they started to call the cops. I assured them I wanted nothing to do with filing a police report and checked myself out without incident. After the blood was cleaned off it didn't look so bad, and the bandages fit out of sight under my shirt. They said I was lucky the knife didn't sever any arteries or tendons, but I wasn't feeling very lucky as I left the hospital.

With my newfound freedom I immediately drove two towns over, found the most dangerous and offensive-looking ghetto, and checked into the first motel with weekly rates that featured a bar on the same block. The Burgess Motel was the kind of place that had seen more than a few bodies stashed in its walls, and judging by the crowd that seemed to perpetually play dice and dominoes next to the staircase it would see many more. They tried to set me up in a place on the second floor but I argued until they relented and offered me something on the ground floor. When they opened the door it was filled with garbage and dirty clothes, and clearly hadn't been touched since they booted out whatever deadbeat didn't pay the bill. I wasn't in a rush so I agreed to give them a few hours to clear it out. I could tell the guy was happy to clear a vacancy but pissed that he had to clean it up.


I left the car parked in front of my new place and walked over to the black guys that stared at me while playing three man on the concrete. "Can I leave my car here?" I asked. "Free country, man." The one with the biggest afro said. Maybe the size of your hair had something to do with your alpha status with these guys. "You know what I mean. Will I have problems?" I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and dropped it into the pile of ones he had collected in front of him. He grinned, showing off his gold tooth and said "Naw, man. You alright. Welcome to the Burgess!"


With some time to kill I decided to introduce myself to the bartender down the street. The bar door had a bell tied to it that rang when I entered, giving everyone inside a chance to look up from the horse races on tv to see who the intruder was. I had never been there before, but it was a familiar place. Lost souls and rust bucket poets lined the bar, and stale smoke filled the air. I ordered a well whiskey and drank it quickly out of a dirty glass. I gestured to the barman and told him my name. "Can I start a tab?" I asked. "A tab?" He laughed. "Mister, I never even fuckkin' SEEN you before! And you want a tab after your first drink?" I pulled a fifty dollar bill out of the roll I had gathered from Vanessa's purse and handed it to him. "I'm gonna be here a lot. This will cover tonight, but I'd be a damn fool to walk this street with enough cash to quench my thirst every night. Give me another." He knew better than to argue a cash deal with an obvious alcoholic and nodded while he opened a weathered bar book and scratched down my name.


After drinking myself into partial blindness I decided I had enough, and staggered back to the motel. My car was untouched and I nodded my thanks to the guys by the stairs before turning the key and entering my new home. I guess the owner's idea of "clean" had less to do with brooms and mops and more to do with shovels and garbage bags. But I didn't mind. After all, it saved me the time of trashing the place myself.

I hated being in places like the parody club. I was uncomfortable in my smoking jacket and couldn't properly enjoy the drinking because all I kept thinking about was the forty goddamn minutes drive back to my apartment in a few hours. And everyone was so friendly... I guess they had to be since they had nothing worth talking about. I was the opposite. I am entirely unlikable to everyone except those who hadn't grown the balls to live their lives with passion. To a fistfighting drunkard I was a common nuisance, but to an accountant I was exciting. A dangerous animal to poke and prod that was a thrill to encounter without the safety of the circus cage, but would be left chained up in his wild paradise tomorrow, far from the civil world of the office life. So I got along fine. I told my stories and the clean-shaven stiffs bought the drinks. Vanessa loved this kind of shit. She tried desperately to blend in with the snobbish ladies, and would almost fit in if it weren't for her excessive cleavage and weary eyes. We played different games, me being the foul mouthed beast and her pretending not to be the kind of lady that would be sucking the cock of a bastard like me later this evening.

We danced a little, Vanessa drank too much wine and champagne, and at the end of the night I was left with cleanup duty. I dragged her down to the beat up chevy which was a pain in the ass since Vanessa insisted we park three blocks away to avoid the shame of driving it, and I hit the road. "They loved me in there" she kept saying. "Those were my people, I belong with them. You don't appreciate being with a real lady, you just use me up whenever the booze runs dry and you can get hard again." I didn't disagree with her. She was better than me, and any stranger on the street could tell just by watching us walk around together.


"I didn't ask for you." I said. "You crawled on top of me, remember? I tried to get rid of you. Remember that." The words cut deep and she began her sloppy sobbing, probably because it was the truth. We sat in silence for the rest of the ride since the radio was broken, and when I got home I went up to the apartment without her.


It took her twenty minutes to make it up the stairs, and she barged in with mascara running down her face and her heels in her hands. She was an unsteady drunk, both mentally and physically. I had the advantage now. I had sturdy sea legs from all the regular whiskey. She marched past me and slammed the bedroom door behind her, so I kicked my shoes off with indifference and stretched out on the couch.


I must have drifted off because a bit later I awoke with a sharp pain in my left arm. It was dark as hell and I felt a great weight on my chest. I was certain I was having a heart attack until I heard her voice. "You fucking son of a bitch! You don't care about me! You don't even appreciate what I do for you!" Vanessa thought she had me pinned down like I did to her when I was fucking her but I bucked her off onto the floor with ease. I was disoriented and still drunk as I marched into the kitchen to turn on the light, and once it was on I started laughing.


Sticking out of my left bicep like a teenager's hardon was a steak knife, pouring blood on my kitchen floor in the same spot that Vanessa's blood stained the tiles months ago. The crazy cunt had stabbed me, but clearly didn't have the heart to do the job correctly since she didn't go for my stomach or neck. I pulled the knife out quickly and immediately regretted it as my blood spilled like a faucet now, so I grabbed a used napkin off the table and shoved it into the wound with my fingers.


Vanessa was screaming bloody murder now, either frightened at the sight of blood or by the impending consequence. "Get the fuck out of my apartment!" She yelled. "Get out and never come back!" I didn't hit her. I didn't even consider it. This was my opportunity. She was right, you know. It was her place now, she was paying the rent.


I grabbed an armful of clothes from the hamper and checked my pockets for keys and wallet. Check. I snagged the half drunk bottle of whiskey from the table and practically ran out the door. As I was getting into the car I could hear her calling from the window. "Where the hell are you going?! Come back, you son of a bitch! I love you!!" I started the car and screeched the tires on the way out of the lot, sparks spitting up behind me as I bottomed out on the gutter.


I decided that I needed some capable medical attention now that the blood running down my arm cooled and made it's presence known, but I had some unexpected luck. Vanessa's purse lay discarded in the foot well of the passenger street, and it was sure to be brimming with cash. I guess if good guys always finished last, then assholes always win.

I was growing to be convinced that Vanessa is a cruel, morbid bitch, keeping me drunk to satisfy her curiosity and watch a sore loser die. I felt less like she was my lover and more like she was simply funding a sick social experiment. There could be no other explanation. Whenever I thought I ran the bottles dry in the apartment she appeared with fresh whiskey, and although I deeply needed the drink it was getting suspicious.

So I watched her clean the apartment through untrusting eyes day after day, wondering why she didn't just plunge a knife deep in my belly while I slept. But there was nothing I could do about it. If I instigated a fight she just deflected the attacks, and whatever I wanted she gave without complaint. Come to think of it, it was unclear which of us was living with the monster.


I also started stealing money from her. I'm not sure why, because she gave it away like a miser dying of cancer and trying to buy his way into heaven. I think I just wanted to find the end of her seemingly infinite pocketbook. Where did the money come from? I assumed it must be some inheritance, since she never mentioned ever having a job in her life and didn't seem to have the mind for business. I knew she had kids, but never so much as saw a picture of them, let alone heard their names mentioned. For a man with so much miserable history behind him I sure found a gal that was even more mysterious than me.


I always jumped when there was a knock at the door, probably because I had no friends to bring pleasant news, and many enemies eager to settle unremembered scores from drunken antics. It was the mailman, weary from walking up the steps to my apartment. He had a letter that he needed a signature for, something too important to leave in the mailbox downstairs, and when I offered to sign he pulled away. The letter was for Vanessa. She took the man's pen, showed her ID and wrote her name for him. When the door closed she was looking very pale and started her pathetic sobbing. She was passionate as hell, and could unleash hell when she was in the mood, but could turn on the waterworks just as suddenly. And when she read the header on the envelope she immediately folded it in half and stashed it in her purse. I knew better than to pry, but goddamn, I wanted to read that letter. If not to gain an understanding of this stranger I was living with, then to gain some leverage over her. As it was all the power was on her side, and I dangled like a drunken marionette from the strings tied to her fingers.


"Let's go out" she said. "I want to go drinking and dancing tonight, down at the parody club!" The thought lit her up and she went into the bedroom to gather up all her dresses, holding them up to her chest in the mirror one by one. I didn't argue. A night out would do me some good, and I hadn't gotten drunk in public since I was arrested.


Vanessa was stripped down to her underwear, trying on a series of dresses and asking my opinion. I always told her she looked great, and caught myself staring at her ass while she looked in the mirror. I wan't lying, you know. She always looked fantastic, even when she had that freshly fucked look on her early in the morning. I excused myself and went to the kitchen to pour a drink and start the night off. While I was sipping my drink I looked over at her purse, the unguarded envelope peeking out of the top. It was bothering me... how did they get this address?

Seven hours into my incarceration I started sobering up, which was unfortunate. Just about the worst place in the world was in jail and sober, where the bars obstruct enough of your view for the eyes that are always watching to remain unseen but not enough to hide from them. At least I had drowned out a brief visit to the emergency room where I received a few dozen stitches and some bandages to tidy up my severed wrist from when the off duty cop tackled me onto my whiskey glass. I wanted to tear off my bandages and chew through the sutures like a freshly neutered dog. Laying next to me on the bench was a snoring drunk, one of those old men that have been in here enough times to feel comfortable enough to sleep. I envied him for his persistence, mostly because I planned to be long dead before counted as many miles as him.

The cops told me the man I hit was an off duty officer taking his daughter out for a drink on her day off from university. I guess young girls these days all dress like whores, but I wasn't sure I believed them. Cops always cover for each other. But regardless I was looking at a handful of serious charges that would probably grow by the time I saw a judge. They gave me a chance to make a phone call and I thought about giving Vanessa a ring, but I just told them to fuck off. Maybe she would assume I was screwing around on her and leave me.


I wasn't even able to finish my thought before the taller cop was opening the loud gate, causing the sleeping drunk to wake abruptly and grab my leg for balance. The cop gestured for me and I rose, expecting their unseen eyes had noticed the pinkness on my bandages and were getting me fresh dressings. It doesn't look good if a guy bleeds out in a jail cell. Too much paperwork. They didn't say a word as they cuffed me, led me through two doors, then unexpectedly took the cuffs off before turning around and leaving the room. Vanessa was there.


She drove me home in my own fucking car, crying the whole damn way. She told me she called the hospital and confirmed I was admitted to the emergency room, and threw a fit when they didn't buy her lie about being my wife and refused to give her details about me without ID. She assumed I was in jail. Lucky guess, I suppose. I asked how she got me released but she didn't give a clear answer, just assured me I didn't ever have to go back, that it was all a misunderstanding and there would be no trial. I didn't argue.


When we got home to my apartment there was a fresh bottle waiting for me, and I appreciated it. After pouring and emptying a glass I got up and turned the radio on for her. Vanessa cried and I held her in my arms until I was too drunk to feel her there.

Having another person in your bed every morning is a change for the average promiscuous bachelor, and was disturbing my sleep habits. I was sleeping three or four hours a night despite drinking six hours a day, and often woke up in that delirious state between inebriation and coherence, crowded in the corner of a bed that was once my personal pasture. But things were getting more tolerable with Vanessa backing off my less desirable habits and not hassling me about my lack of employment ambitions. The money still poured freely from her pockets and showed no sign of slowing, so I had every opportunity to channel my drunken thoughts into writing.

I wrote about the homeless, the hopeless, and the disenfranchised, stories about loss, lust, and violence. All things close to my heart. But my apartment felt as confined as my bed did now, so I started spending more time at the bar. I was in the middle of writing a paragraph that afternoon that featured a teenage runaway being raped by her former schoolteacher when I abruptly stopped and marched out the door, looking for a bar stool to warm up. I went two blocks west, across the empty lot near the pawn shop to the nameless bar that was known only by the neon white pony out front.


The place was as familiar with me as I was with it now, although not a single soul knew my name. They had the good sense not to ask around here. It was the kind of bar that was popular with anonymous strangers that wanted to stay that way, a windowless refuge with few patrons and fewer lights, where the flash of a cigarette lighter gave birth to long shadows that briefly populated the lonely corners. A great place to do some serious mid-day drinking.


The door squealed it's alarm and unwelcome light flooded in as I was finishing another whiskey and in walked a bald old man with a young whore in tow. It was only when the sunlight came in that you realized how thick the smoke was and it was revolting to me. I had almost every bad habit imaginable but I never understood cigarettes, even thought I tried hard to get hooked on them when I was a kid. The pair sat at a table behind me and loudly ordered a beer and a soda, then discussed how much nicer the bar would be if they added some more lamps and a jukebox. I was physically biting my tongue to avoid regurgitating obscenities all over them. So I decided to distract my mind with an ambitious amount of hard drink.


I had turned slightly on my stool to keep an eye on them, but couldn't hear a word they were saying now that they acclimated their volume to the silence around them. All I heard was whispers and the clinking of ice cubes from the girl's straw as she playfully swirled it around the glass. I wondered how young she was. She looked like a kid, and he was old enough to be her father. Or her schoolteacher.


They dominated my thoughts for the better part of an hour as I grew drunker, dwelling on his grinning face and her reciprocal half-hearted smile as this asshole made incoherent small talk. Before I knew it I was standing over him, looking down on his bald crown. I'm not sure what I said, but they both looked startled until the guy stood up and defensively put his open hands out between us. He was over six feet tall, not quite my height but tall enough that we would look like an even match if we ended up explaining ourselves to the police.


The already quiet room became noticeably more silent until the bartender grabbed me by the shoulders and said something that sounded to me like he was speaking underwater, and I momentarily lost my balance before regaining my full height. Then I hit the guy, sending him falling across the table in a symphony of crashing glasses punctuated by the wailing of his younger companion. I looked down and saw that I miraculously still had my drink in my hand, unspilled, and took a sip while I watched the young whore go to his aid. It was a good clean hit but I hadn't expected such a chaotic result, and was surprised when he started to get back up. But before he got upright he lunged into my hips and I crashed to the ground, a flash crossing my vision as the back of my head bounced off the wet concrete. Before I regained my composure I realized I was in handcuffs, and my attacker was pulling a long shard of glass out of my wrist from the whiskey glass I had been holding. And he was reading me my rights.

It hadn't even been two full weeks since Vanessa moved in and already I was trying to lose her.  She had cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, starting with the mess she left me in the kitchen and only ending after every trace of my existence was scrubbed from the yellowed wallpaper.  I felt a sense of loss like I had been robbed of my filth.

So I sat alone in the living room and drank up all her money, speaking only when I needed something from her, sex or money.  Her bounds were being tested and she reacted as if she knew this game, like an old boxer that doesn't flinch the feint anymore.  She made my meals, restocked my liquor supply, and even sent off my bills for me without asking.  I became dependent on her for my daily life and I suspected that was how she wanted it all along.

Vanessa loved my music.  At first I played it loudly to drown her out of my life, but now I forced her to sit with me in silence out of spite.  I told her I had headaches and it felt good to regurgitate the lie I heard so often from other women looking to weasel out of fucking.  I needed distance so I told her I was going to look for a job, something I had abandoned as soon as she walked into my life, and filled my wallet with her money.  She offered to drive me because I was drunk but I got angry and tried to start a fight over the issue, but she gave up so easily that it frustrated me.

So to the bar I went, already drunk, and bought a round for the lonesome strangers that were propped on the stools next to me.  It was easy to throw around money when it wasn't yours, and I wanted nothing more than to find the bottom of Vanessa's pocketbook.  After a couple hard drinks I was approached by two lovely ladies that turned out to be one rather tired looking broad named 'Destiny' once my vision straightened, and after some discussion we found out that we shared some common interests, mainly Vanessa's money and fornication, which we decided to spend the rest of the evening enjoying together.  I'm not sure when it happened, but I emerged from my stupor with a second wind and ended up dragging this inebriated bitch around like a peg leg until I found my car parked out in the street.

On the way home I wondered silently how this would play out, fully aware that Vanessa was laying on my bed worrying that I was dead in a ditch or in jail, but I wanted to bring this whole bullshit situation to a head.  Either she was going to accept me despite my foulness or she would leave, and I wasn't sure which I preferred.  Destiny was trying hard to make with the sexy talk but she was terrible about it.  She said she liked it rough but struck me as the type to cry uncle just when you had a fistful of her hair, so I told her to shut the fuck up and kept driving home in silence.

Walking up the stairwell I could hear the radio playing, Vanessa getting a fill of music before I brought my sad silence back into her life, and calmly walked through the door dragging Destiny behind me.  It all happened so fast.  Vanessa rushed at me and beat a closed fist against my face like she was stabbing me with an invisible knife.  I took three or four licks until she focused her anger on Destiny, who had already turned to open the door, fumbling clumsily with the knob like an ape with a rubik's cube.

I didn't watch as the two fought savagely behind me, but both of them were audibly crying as I poured a fresh whiskey and drank deep.  I could tell, however, that Vanessa cried from fury and Destiny from pain.  Soon I heard the door slam and a muffled whimpering fade down the hallway as the victor gave the intruder a merciful escape.  I turned around expecting to face another beating to find Vanessa bleeding mascara tears, her broken fingernails tangled with long blond hair, and I never wanted a woman so badly.  Without speaking a word we attacked each other's tongues and shuffled into the bedroom where we fucked for hours.  It was fantastic.

The next six days were touch and go. I figured I would never see Vanessa again, and I was probably unemployable. So I sat in my apartment and drank. I had 18 days left of rent and I was making the worst of them. She made a fucking mess of my place but I pushed the shards of broken dishes under the cupboard and walked along clean pathways through the kitchen, never giving a shit about the state of the place. But I eventually ran low on booze.

Frank was a good guy. He had loaned me $20 about six weeks ago and I never paid him back. He was either too big of a pussy to hassle me about it or he would never speak to me again. The only way to find out was by knocking on his door. He answered politely and let me in, we spoke about current events and the state of the economy for a few minutes, but he never mentioned owing him cash. I was able to convince him that I needed his money more than he did and he relented, so I walked out of his home thirty bucks richer. Just enough for a couple day's worth of booze. I converted his cash immediately into whiskey and didn't even bother hiding it when I got home and passed him in the stair well.


But when I got to my door I saw a message. "I have nowhere to go. I was afraid you rejected me but now I understand you just need distance. I respect that, I really do. If you can forgive me I will prove to you that I can be trusted. Really, I am ashamed at how I reacted when you have been nothing but good to me since I met you. I have a lot to make up to you but I am ready to prove myself if you can find it in your heart to let me back in. Please. Love, Vanessa"


I decided it would be better to get evicted and get on public assistance than to let that bitch back in my life, so I threw the note away. About two hours into my stupor on the couch the door started banging like a fucking madman. The landlady was on the prowl, already hunting for her rent even though it wasn't due for two weeks. She knew I was out of work and waiting for the inevitable, but fuck her anyway. We argued in the hallway until I slammed the door in her face, but not five minutes later she was pounding at door again. I opened it fast, ready to fist fight if I needed to, but It wasn't her. It was Vanessa.


"I'm sorry" She said. "I heard you yelling, and I spoke to your landlady and paid your rent. Cash. If you never want to see me again, I understand. But please, just please." She was more than a convenience fuck at this point, she was a resource. So I let her in..

When I woke up I decided to gather all my shitty clothes and bloody sheets and take them to the wash. The place was full of mexicans so I had to stay the whole three hours while the machines ran, and I was glad I did after watching a woman with three kids go through half the discarded baskets and take her pick. On another day I might have kicked the shit out of her, but I was too damn tired to care. So I just watched while the dryer ran.

When I got home I called the phone number and left Vanessa a message and awkwardly told her that drinking alone made me feel like a goddamn drunk, which was a total lie. She clearly was attracted to me because I was so fucking broken, and feeding the fire would draw her in. When she finally knocked on the door I was sort of embarrassed because I was cooking a can of spaghetti that was shaped like characters from an animated tv show, but let her in anyway. She kissed and hugged me, and had the good sense to bring more liquor.


We talked for a few hours and ended up arguing about politics, but it was great because I didn't feel the need to lie to her and I knew she wouldn't leave. She told me that she had money and wanted to stay here for a while, which was perfect because she would keep the booze flowing and the rent paid. We fucked and then she asked me to get a bag out of her car downstairs. I brought the pistol but didn't need it.


It was only after I returned that I realized how goddamn hot and humid it was, and how much worse we made it with our sweaty fucking. It was as if the doorway was some kind of portal to a jungle hellhole complete with bands of malaria-infected nymphomaniac gorillas. I wanted a shower but was about four minutes too late, as Vanessa was already at it. I thought about joining her, but my wide shoulders made it a tight fit as it was. "Fuck it" I decided, I couldn't stand it another minute longer. I propped her bag against the chair, borrowed ten bucks from her purse, then headed out to the bar.


I walked down the block to Schmidt's, a familiar joint filled with old timers and depressing drifters, and ordered a several drinks in quick succession. The air conditioning was the only thing welcoming about the place. Even the waitress was bitchy, probably because she looked to be pregnant enough to not fit into her clothes anymore and apparently too poor to buy new ones. I didn't ever smoke but I made a point to buy a pack and blow them into her face when she passed, and jokingly offered to buy her a drink. She didn't have much of a sense of humor, but fuck her anyways. If she wasn't such a whore she wouldn't be knocked up, and if she wasn't such a bitch she would make better tips. I walked home shortly after she started crying.


When I walked through the door I was greeted by the sight of a wrecked kitchen. All my dishes were smashed on the floor along with the half-drunk bottle of whiskey Vanessa brought over. There was even a few holes in the wall. There was a small trail of blood on the floor amid the ceramic fragments, and for a few minutes I thought there might have been a break in. I walked into the bedroom half expecting to find Vanessa there, beaten bloody and raped. But when I saw the word "asshole" scrawled across a broken mirror in lipstick I figured it out. Vanessa was a crazy bitch. I didn't even bother cleaning up, just went to sleep on sheets that were wet from some unknown source, probably her piss. "God damn it" I thought. "I just washed these sheets."

There's blood in the bed again. It has happened before, but never quite so much. Luckily the culprit was quickly identified when I felt my boxers spot-welded to my asshole. Hemorrhoids again. I swear, someday I will literally shit myself to death with these things. I got up and brushed my teeth then sat in the chair by the window to see if my neighbors were fucking. Sometimes I got lucky and caught them shamelessly copulating with the curtains open, but usually they just watched tv and ate themselves into obesity and beyond. After ten minutes I thought about about throwing a bottle across the alleyway to get their attention, maybe make them do something entertaining, but I didn't feel like talking to the cops today.

I decided to grab the cash Vanessa left for me and sneak some booze into a movie theater, just like when I was 13. First I hit the gas station, put exactly four dollars into the tank, then blew twelve bucks on a flask of rum. I always went to romantic comedies and sat all the way in the back where I could watch the girls with their boyfriends. It wasn't entirely sexual, either. Sometimes I just want to watch them laugh and cry in the dark, with only the projector lighting up their faces. I guess I was staring at one girl when I heard some snickering coming from across the aisle. It was some teenage douchebag trying to impress his girl by ridiculing the dirty old man in the back of the theater.


Instead of starting a big scene I just got up, walked over to them, and sat down right next to his girlfriend. I put my feet up on the seat in front of me and took a big pull off the bottle. "What the fuck, bro?" the kid whispered. I could tell he was a little scared. She was probably sixteen years old, blonde and a little overweight, but the kind of babyfat that would turn into curves in a few years. I leaned in and said "I bet he cries after he cums. That's what faggots do before they realize they are gay. He's gonna leave you for his best friend in a few months." She was halfway out of the theater before the shock wore off of her boyfriend and he took off after her. And there I sat alone until the shitty movie was over.


By the time I was driving home I was flying high, slightly drunk from ten or so shots in 90 minutes. I went straight back to my apartment and stared at the scribbled phone number Vanessa left for an hour or so, then went to bed.