***ABOUT THIS ONE: Yayness! This is the first full fledged short story to go up on this blog after like a week of it being up! A coworker gave me the idea for this one yesterday at work and i wrote it last night. One extra note is I would like to put out there is that I, myself, happen to overuse the phrase in question like, a LOT. and have no problem with it, though I do think it’s funnier when used totally out of context than in the more traditional way. Anyway, Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!***
“One Time Too Freakin’ Many.”
Mark was a fuckin’ douchefag! Just one of those people, you know? One of those people, as soon as you meet ‘em, there’s just somethin’ about ‘em you don’t fuckin’ like. Like you just know the first thing they say is gonna piss you off an then BAM! sure enough, they say some shit like, “What’s up, lil’ guy?” Well, at least that’s what this douche said. Can you believe that shit? Like we was old fuckin’ drinkin’ buddies or some shit. Sonofabitch just rollin’ up, talkin’ to me like he fuckin’ knows me! Clappin’ his fuckin’ dirty-ass hand on my shoulder like he’s just my bestest fuckin’ pal ever.
Right then, right when he first touched me, I could feel this gross, violated feeling just crawlin’ all through me like a cold-chill. I wanted to just beat his ass right then. Smug-ass bastard.
Took everything I had in me to keep from feedin’ that asshole his goddamn teeth right then and there in the office. Right in front of Jennifer from accounting and Joey from advertising. I probably should have. Shit, I would definitely be a lot better off now if I had just kicked his ass way back then.
I close my eyes and lean my head down on my steering-wheel and I can see it going down. “What’s up, lil’ guy?” and the fucker pats me on my shoulder and then I just tackle his ass to the damn ground. I can see the surprised look on his stupid fucking face as he goes down to the carpet. I can hear Jennifer from accounting scream and run out of the office and down the hall to get Hal, the security guy to pull me off him. I can feel the paperwork that Joey was going to make copies of flutter against my right pant-leg as they fall from his hands and he just stands there by the copy machine in shocked silence. I can taste the motherfuckers sweat and then his blood as i wail on his dumb-lookin’ face until I’m drenched in it.
The sound of my own chuckling wakes me from this beautiful daydream and I raise my head from the wheel and wipe the tears from my eyes. As good as my dream-scenario is and as good as it makes me feel, these are not tears of joy. There is no solice in imagining that I can change what happened. The cold reality is that, yes, I should have just beat his ass right then, but i didn’t. I didn’t trust my instincts enough, and now, an ass-whipping can’t fix this.
Last Wednesday was when I got the last phonecall from him but I can still hear his smug-ass voice ringin’ in my head, buzzin’ around like a swarm of fuckin’ hornets just stingin’ my brains and wearin’ on the only nerve I got left. Yeah, sonofabitch’s nasally fuckin’ voice is drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts. Well, considerin’ I been parked outside his house with a half finished bottle of jim beam and this ginsu for the better part of an hour now, contemplatin’ this shit, or more like just workin’ up my nerve, whatever you want to call it, I guess “drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts” is an understatement. I been nuts for months, now I guess I’m gonna be a killer too. Fuck it though. If it means I’ll be rid of this bastard fuckin’ up my life, I’ll be that.
Light up in his bedroom just clicked off. I’ll give it a couple more hours. Damn, this sonofabitch stays up late. 3;27am. I guess there’s no rest for the wicked. That or he’s been up there beatin’ his meat and thinkin’ about how he’s fuckin’ everybody over. Whatever. I can wait, waited this long. Too fuckin’ long. Shit!
One more hour to wait now. Gonna make damn sure that sick fuck is sound the fuck asleep. He doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to see it commin’. Last phonecall from him was the last straw. He’s said it countless times afterword and before but, that particular time, man i think i just felt somethin’ inside me just fuckin’ die and i been walkin’ around ever since just feelin’, I don’t know, like hollow inside, you know, just like empty. Fuck it. Anyway, I thought I was actually gonna get to hang up before he did it, but no. Fuck no.
I’m all like “Nah, sorry Mark, just can’t make it out tonight.” Just tryin’ to let him down easy, you know, ’cause no matter how much a guy gets on your nerves and under your skin, you don’t wanna just say, “No, Mark, I would actually much rather just shove my own ding-dong in a meat-grinder, yeah Mark, a meat-grinder, you know one of the old-school ones, uh-huh, yeah those, the kind with crank on the side, and just start crankin’ away on that sonofabitch until the old Johnson is nothin’ more than fuckin’ pudding.” It’s just not fuckin’ done. But he keeps on pressin’ on and so instead, I’m all like, “Look Mark, I just can’t come.” and I’m gettin’ ready to hang up when for the eleven-billionth time, he says it. That dreaded fuckin’ phrase.
I’ll tell ya right now, if I ever find out who got people started sayin’ that shit, I’d fuckin’ rope his ass to two Ford Raptors and have then accelerate away from each other to see who which one could make the most of him. Get it?
But anyway, he said it. And it’s still fuckin’ echoin’ in my damn head.
“That’s what she said.” He said, and he just laughed his fuckin’ ass off, same as he did the million times he said it before and the million times he said it afterward. And me? I just fuckin’ sat there, paralyzed with my own rage. Shit man, I couldn’t even hang up the phone. I just fuckin’ sat there silent, even after he hung up, I just sat there until I realized I was listenin’ to the dial-tone and the operator sayin’,”If you’ld like to make a call, please hang up and dial again…” Fuck!
“That’s what she said.”
“That’s what she fuckin’ said.”
After tonight, bitch ain’t never gonna be sayin’ shit ever the hell again!
-Randy J. Woodard.