The Stench of Defeat.
Do you ever get that feeling, right after you've lied to someone, where your nether region sort of tenses up as if they're going to look you straight in the eye and call you on your bullshit once and for all?
Don't go thinking that this sensation has to come as you're laying in each other's arms whispering lovelies after bumping los que no estan guapos, either. Someone at work asks you a question, and you answer it unflinchingly, yet all of a sudden you're conscious of unseen eyes on your back. Sweat beads on your forehead, drips down your face in torrential pools of stress. You begin to think that an early grave might be the better option. A quick intake of breath next to you makes you think your coworkers might speak up, for the first time ever, to correct you, and so you lock eyes with your interrogator, silently imploring them to leave with their ill-gotten gains - an answer, at the price of your innocence. You wish you'd never stuttered out that fateful answer, "Pens don't need to be sharpened."
Considering the following: You are at a convenience store, and you pay by bank card. The store owner informs you that there is a surcharge of 15 cents unless you buy another item and bring your total up to at least $5. You grimace inwardly, but decide to take the hit even though your hand shakes as you hand the card over. You half-wonder if it will go through. The light are now too bright, and there's some sort of television behind the counter whispering the world's ills to you in Chinese soap opera format. Breath comes short and fast and your knees are weak. You need to get out. You gesture away the owner's question - of course you don't want a receipt - and sweep your purchases off the counter. Turning around, you almost run into an older gentleman in an expensive overcoat, expertly coiffed and leather-gloved. You sidestep him and mumble an apology before getting out. He ignores you.
In fact, he ignores the store. He ignores the world around him as he steps forward, and almost seems unaware of the slight sneer marring perfect teeth and piercing eyes that have served him well in financially gutting his opposition before eating them in a modern cannibalistic ritual which transfers their financial acumen to him. He picks something almost at random from the store - cigarettes or a lighter or an overpriced bottle of water or a newspaper. Something serious. None of these fruit juices or candy bars for this man. Only the types of food that have to be imported free-range from the great free-range expanses of Mongolia. If it's not something so arduous to ship that it defeats the purpose of growing it ethically or in an environmentally friendly manner, it's beneath notice. He looks straight through the man at the counter, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing as the man slaps down a hundred as if it's a dirty tissue he's handing to a hobo.
On your way out, you fart silently, knowing he'll have to walk through it on the way back to his chauffeur.
Last edited by T-6005; 12-28-2010 at 10:03 PM.
You realise the man's limosine is parked at the pump behind your car, facing the other direction. You're even happier now, as you get to see his expression when he leaves. Proudly, and with a spring in your step walk up to your 94 Buick. Actually, your Aunts 94 Buick. "Wider is better"...their old slogan comes to mind. "Wider is better, my ass" you think, looking at your outdated transportation that is becoming an anacronous eyesore. Man, you smell that fart. It must have wafted all the way to the pump. The play on words about wider ass hits you, you smirk, and turning around lock eyes with the chauffer.
A woman. Hardly the stereotype you've expected. Certainly he was going to be a white, nondescript, shaven man in his 30's or 40's wearing that one hat they always have. No, she's my age...and kind of cute...and smiling back. "Janie" her nametag says. Still feeling light and happy about your convenience store success, you take a shot in the dark. "Hey Janie"...her face lights up a little. You pick up the gas pump and start pumping in your $3.80 of gas. Just like every old gas pump, this one is as slow as it is smelly. The vapors of gasoline overpower your nose.
Janie starts to talk to you before you can say anything. She's actually really cute in her funny chauffer hat. You wish you had a hat like that you think, then you express so in the conversation. She laughs, too much. She's smiling too much, and making eyes. Up close you realise she's almost out of your league, if you believed in that. Either way, she's horny, and making this conversation easy. You leave the pump in the car and walk around to your trunk, leaning against it the way she's leaning against her's. You speak back and forth for a minute or two. Confidence has worked so far. You boldly and abbruptly ask her out.
With a cute little hop and a skip she walks to her car. You walk around to the pump, put in the last dollar of gas, and hang up the pump. You turn around, there's Janie, with a phone in her hand, and two buttons taken down that weren't before. Exposing her clevage, she must have just done when she bent over to grab her phone from the center console. What a day, and apparently it's only beginning. She walks up to you, smiling, and asks for your number. You start belting out digits, but right after the area code she scowls. You're standing face to face with a woman who looks like she just saw that infamous online video for the first time...you know the one, with the man and the horse.
She gets your number. "Call me real quick, so I have yours" you say. "Yeah, uh, it's gotta charge so I'll text you later"....she abruptly gets in the car. No sexy walk this time, she damn near bolted just to wait in the drivers seat, now out of view behind tinted windows. "what the fuck was that about?" you wonder. What is there something wrong with that area code? I mean I get saying I live in the ghetto but what can you have against a whole area? The old man's takin forever, it's be awkward to wait. You walk around to your drivers seat. It still smells like that fart away from the pump...did she smell that?
You sit down, and feel a dreaded squish. That wasn't just a fart back there. You just shit yourself.
Last edited by Al Coholic; 01-03-2011 at 12:01 AM.
Originally Posted by Little_Miss_1565
Originally Posted by nancyoff
Nameless protagonists hate comeuppance!
You're walking to the town's most famous but far placed department store with lonely steps. The road you're walking on is not ideal for pedestrians - it connects many districts, even provinces. The cars going utmost 70 km/h, but it's not inconvenient for walking. Buying some beverages that are not available on markets near your home is on your mind. You're thinking that maybe you'll encounter some maniacs like you. As you never seen them before, you don't see them again. Wind, car noise, truck noise and then you arrive to the store.
You put red navel orange and cherry juices in your trolley, then shredded kashkaval cheeses catches your eye. You take them too, they'll probably spice up your breakfast sessions. Ehmm.. there stand the beers. No, you can't get drunk while there's no one around for decent conversation. This is one of your personal principles. The principle that reminds you your loneliness that is waiting eagerly for you in the evening time. You say "Fuck this. Like there were many to get drunk with and I dismissed them." Then you notice the ice-creams. Strange, because at this time of season even the biggest stores remove the ice-creams as well they put other things into ice-cream refrigerants. You say maybe a creamy ice-cream would be a nice company for tonight. You're appealing to ice-cream that you didn't eat for months, that you became cold with as the time passed, that you ate less every other year. But there's no creamy one. There's
sourcherry and karamela flavored ones. Your hand reaches to sourcherry flavored. Meanwhile a nine or ten year old girl that sees nothing but the pink colored cover of the ice-cream that you're holding appears with her father. "Daddy, I wanna eat ice-cream too!! Please!" Her dad tell her that she can't eat ice-cream at this time of year and she would get ill if she does so, as he should. You think of your own childhood - an ice-cream really could cheer things up. But now you aren't sure that you would enjoy
this little ice-cream subterfuge. Yet again you take the other and last sourcherry flavored ice-cream in order to prevent other kids to see and grieve about it. There's not much you can do about karamela ones, anyways many children don't like them - you didn't like either.
As you move towards to checkout you're looking for most available cashier. The cashiers - the important part of the presentable, polite, affectionate young women of society. Some kinky thoughts come to your mind out of nowhere. Like would she get wet if you touch her hand while you pass her the card? There's a brief moment that you disgust from yourself and then you come to life, pack your stuff and don't touch anyone's hand.
On the way home there's an industrial estate that having its finest hour with strained workers. It crosses your mind: "I won't sit on couch before a decent shower."