diary of a professional antagonist
Then he told me to get a life and go fuck myself
Well I didn’t know what to think. Thirteen years in the business and this roach, this slack-jawed, jack-assed looking, pelican-faced fuck decides he’s gonna let me have it. How in the Christ was I supposed to see that coming? If I was packing a colostomy I’d have filled and burst it off his face with a swift kick. To hell with the excrement running down my ankle into my good shoe, it’d have been worth it for the look. Instead I took a step back and handed over my valet tag and played the waiting game. The first scratch of three, the one that ends in a slight ‘dunge’ over the left rear I heard from a distance; I figure it for an out-of-control fishtail by the park fence. The one on the hood, just over the shattered indicator I suppose I’m somewhat responsible for; I did after all slip out of the way before it rammed into the faux Roman-pillar-decor instead of my leg. “Not used to driving a stick” was his excuse as he climbed over the door. I lit up a smoke stick and asked “are all the doors automatic where you’re from, too?” He didn’t get it at first but I was already in the car by the time sparks fizzed and that single neuron caught sight of the activity. I could tell he didn’t like my idea of a joke because a blood vessel had popped in his right eyeball, although that could have been from the strain of the cranial workout. I decided it best not to find out. Situation diffusion was already in play and a flicker of folded green from between my most elegant two fingers served as distraction enough. He swiped it and grunted some sweet nothing as he fumbled to open the parcel and seek either satisfaction, which would spark motor function and a walk away, or outrage, again sparking motor function resulting in his knuckles either wrapped around my throat, or knocking my teeth down it. Fortunately, thirteen years in the game had served me well. Every scenario I dreamt up for those silly stories I write, every fantasy of revenge and tale of comeuppance designed to please the masses finally paid off. Scratch three is on the driver’s door, accompanied by a significant ‘dunge’. What can I say – I never had that great an imagination.