Violence

“Life doesn’t fucking care, does it,” Tyrone thought to himself, as he carried another load of dirty laundry down the stairs to the utility room. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain which lanced through his left heel, into his ankle, each time he put his left foot down. “The laundry has to get done, so fucking suck it up, cupcake.”

His stomach growled, as he poured detergent in the washing machine. “Yeah, I know. Hungry.” For all he cared right then, he could starve. He remembered what happened when he ate breakfast that morning, the sudden, desperate rush to the toilet. How his guts came out his ass. “If I’m gonna fucking die every time I fucking eat,” he looked at his stomach, “You can fucking starve.”

He carefully placed the whites in the machine, balancing the load equally in a circle around the agitator. “You know you have to do this right, or the damn machine will go crazy when it gets to the spin cycle. Ka-whacka! Ka-whacka! Ka-whacka! And it’ll move all over the fucking room.” He checked to balance on the load, making certain he had it evenly balanced. “No mistakes, stupid. No mistakes.”

Once the washer was running, he limped up the stairs and made a stop in the bathroom. He sat on the toilet again, “Just to be safe.”

While the load was washing, Tyrone found his MP3 music player, stuffed its earplugs in his ears, and used its menu system to select his housework playlist, which started with “Violence Fetish” by Disturbed. “It’s time to bring the violence to the fucking dishes!”

It was his day off. Sunday. He didn’t work Sundays. At least, not officially. Sundays, he had to take care of all the things he couldn’t get done during the week. Dishes. Laundry. Housework. Mowing the lawn. All that shit.

He dropped the glass he was rinsing. It fell into the stainless steel sink causing a hell of a racket. Luckily, nothing broke. “Butterfingers!” he silently screamed at himself. “Be careful, idiot!” He picked the glass up, making certain he had a firm grip on it, and finished rinsing it, then put it in the rack in the dishwasher. He felt the familiar sharp twinge in his right wrist from his damaged ligaments and bones. He grimaced, and wrapped his left hand around his wrist. In a couple of seconds the pain faded. “Enough.” He resumed washing the dishes.

He finished clearing the sinks, and filling the dishwasher. He turned the washer on, found a glass, poured some root beer out of a 2 liter bottle, and took a chug. “Back to the laundry.”

“Move this load to the drier, then start the pants.” He opened the drier, then the washer, and started moving the wet whites into the drier. Leaning to the side to throw stuff into the drier caused his head to hurt. By the time he’d finished the transfer, he knew he had a headache forming, “I don’t have time for that.” He tossed a dryer sheet in, slammed the door, and turned the dryer on.

He forced himself to keep moving, getting the load of pants in the washer, and getting that started. Then, he took his glass of root beer to the medicine cabinet, where he pulled out the bottle of naproxen tablet. He took 2. “No time for a headache today.”

He pushed himself to the Family Room, where he cleared the floor. Then he ran the vacuüm across the carpet. To make certain he’d vacuumed up everything, he emptied the vacuüm, then did the carpet a second time. “Fucking cat hair!” He looked at the half filled canister on the vacuüm. “I can’t win.”

The Living Room, Dining Room, and hallway all fell to the vacuüm. “There. That’s that.” At which point, the dryer’s buzzer called to him. “Time to fold the whites!”

It was his day off. His Sunday. Like all his Sundays. When he didn’t work. When he spent the day doing laundry, and dishes, and housework. “Life sucks, but no one said it wouldn’t. Suck it up, buttercup. You’ve got work to do.”

Tyrone didn’t stop until he’d folded the last load of laundry. That night, he sat on the sofa, in front of the TV, watching whatever was on. He didn’t really care what was on, he had a TV, and by God, he was going to watch something. Anything.

He knew the next hurdle. Bed. “I don’t want to turn out the lights.”

He wondered if there was anything inside him. Or if he was a machine, going through the motions day after day. “Bring the violence,” he whispered. “Bring the violence.” Soon, it would be time for him to go to bed, and get ready for work the next day.

“That’s what it takes to survive.” He knew the truth of his life. Of everyone’s life. “Without the violence, nothing happens.”

Before he went to bed, he played his favorite Disturbed song once again.

“So tell me what am I supposed to be
Another god damn drone
Tell me what am I supposed to be
Should I leave it on the inside
Should I get ready to play”

He turned out the light, and started his nightly battle for sleep.


It’s April 26th, the 22th day of the A to Z Challenge 2015. This is the 22nd of 26 pieces I’m writing in April for the challenge. This one’s for the letter V. Tomorrow brings the letter W. I wonder what I’ll write for that.

#ThursThreads Week 112 : Just Like You

It was Sunday morning. Time to go to church.

I staggered out of bed. “Work, legs! Work!” I staggered into the bathroom, stripped, turned on the shower, and staggered in. The water was fucking cold! “Jesus!” I turned the hot all the way up. “Fuck!” as I felt my skin boiling away. I stepped out of the water, and stuck a hand under it while I adjusted it.

“I hate fucking Sundays!” I soaped up and rinsed, then washed my balding head. Then I turned the water off. “You’re fucking out of time!”

I got out, dried off, then shaved as I stood in front of the mirror. Standing there, starkers, I wondered about those guys that shave their nuts. The thought of even using an electric razor down there terrified me. “Maybe the use Nair or something?”

I got dressed. Even put on a tie. Had to tie that bitch three times. I got it tied, looked in the mirror, “Fuck!” and started over.

I hopped in the car and floored it, stopping at Hardee’s for a giant Coke, and a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit. I ate as I flew down the highway, screaming, “Fucking idiot!” every time I had to change lanes to get around some slow ass bastard.

Of course I got there on time. And once there, everything was perfect. And after the service, all the old bitches said to me, “I wish my boy was just like you.”

Fuck yeah!

246 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 112. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.

#MidWeekBluesBuster : Week 8 – Living Room

Cherie was one of those women guys just go stupid around. Big, blue eyes, dark red, almost brunette hair, breasts that were just the right size, and an ass that you just had to watch as she walked away. She was my greatest mistake. I’ll never forget her. And I’ll never blame her for the way she was, the things she did. She was a work of art, a goddess to behold, to hold, to kiss, to sleep with. And she was absolutely heartless.

I learned she had each of us scheduled into her life. Nick on Monday, Tom on Tuesday, Frank on Wednesday, Robert, Steve and Jim on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I was her Sunday plaything.

I met her on a Sunday morning, at church of all places. She came in that first Sunday, and sat next to me. “I’m looking for a church home,” she explained.

“You are always welcome here,” With all the empty spaces on the other pews, I should have known something was wrong when she singled me out to sit next to.

Sunday after Sunday she showed up, and she sat next to me. After a month people began to talk about her, and about how she was corrupting me. “Do you see the way she dresses? That hussy!” I didn’t care. I relished having a pretty girl sit next to me. And Cherie was gorgeous. Everything she wore exhibited her curves, and they were the best curves I’d ever seen.

After two months, she asked me to lunch. Of course I said yes, why would I have said anything else? Lunch after Church, with a hot chick? It was a dream come true. And the rumors at church took off, expanding, “They’re having an affair! She’s sleeping with him now!”

After the third month, she asked me to come watch the football game at her house, in her Living Room, on her big screen TV. “I don’t want to watch the game alone,” she declared, as she took my hands in hers, lacing her fingers through mine.

When we got to her house, we sat down in her Living Room, and she turned on the game. But, I never saw a single play. She got naked, and then got me naked, and then the sex started. Sundays became filled with sex. In the morning, before church, in the afternoon, watching a game, or a race, or whatever she put on the TV, then well into the night. “I just want to be loved,” she explained. “I need to feel loved. To know you love me. I need to feel alive. Make me feel alive.”

Hell, she gave me everything I wanted. Right there in her Living Room. Me, with a fantasy women like the ones you stare at in magazines, and on-line, and pray no one sees you staring. And there I was, every Sunday, having sex with a fantasy woman.

Until she grew tired of me, and replaced me with Harry. That’s when I realized how much I’d spent on her. Buying her anything she asked for.

When it was my turn to be thrown away, I wandered into a bar a few blocks from her house. That’s where I met Nick and Steve. They were there, drinking and telling stories of Cherie, waiting to see if another of her victims wandered in. And I did.

Now we’re a group of ten. Any day we should grow to eleven. Cherie’s still out there, collecting men, then throwing them away. We sit here once a week, at a set of tables, and we laugh about how stupid we were.

It’s like Tim Allen said once, “Breasts make men stupid.” Yep. No doubt about that. And if you add a good ass and blue eyes to the breasts, we don’t have a chance. Trust me on that. The ten of us are proof.

666 Words
@LurchMunster


Trying Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge again, and finding I had to cut oceans of words out of this one to get it under 700. Please, go read the other entries in the challenge.

#SVWFlash Week 7

Picnic_in_a_wooded_areaFlashWInnerSQMomma wanted a family picnic every Sunday after church. Even though Daddy hated them. He always stood off to the side at them. But every Sunday after church, Daddy drove us someplace different in the countryside. Momma sat with us and we gossiped about who was dating whom, who was going to marry whom and who slept with whom.

Poor Daddy endured it all. We and Momma knew he loved us and would do everything he could to make us happy, but we all knew the one thing he’d asked for that God hadn’t given him.

A son.


This is my winning entry into Week 7 of the Shenandoah Valley Writers Flash! Friday challenge. Please, go visit the site, and read all the great entries in Week 7 of the challenge. They were all good.

SVWriters Flash! Friday Week 7