All characters are over 18. This is a work of fiction. I'm just having fun with writing, so enjoy. I'm thinking of making this into a continuing story.
If you have feedback, feel free to leave an email address so I can ask questions for anything I need clarification on.
---------
All 8 fingers broken! 8! Fucking drunks!
Let me explain. I was working for a local contractor named Fred. There were 3 of us, Fred, Myself, and fucking Melvin. We would do small jobs for people around the county, put up screen rooms, build decks and patios, that sort of thing.
The big problem was Melvin. He was a fucking drunk. Actually he was a continually recovering alcoholic who never managed to get to 30 days sober for his token from AA. Seriously, he spent more time off the wagon than on.
I had told Fred he needed to get rid of Melvin the third time he came to work drunk, but Fred always deflected.
"Melvin works hard. He does good work. He works for minimum wage, and nobody else will work for that cheap. Including you. Now, if you wanna take a pay cut so I can hire someone else..." He said.
I sighed, "First of all, you know we have to go back and redo sixty percent of his work. Second, you know I can't take a pay cut, Fred. Rent's going up everywhere in the county since they started putting up new subdivisions in every patch of woods within 20 miles of the interstate!"
So there I was, trying to get the placement right on a wheelchair ramp connecting to a deck on the side of this nice old lady's mobile home. We were doing this pro bono for a charity group that helps veterans, as her husband was a disabled Vietnam vet.
I liked the work. I'm a vet, my dad's also a Vietnam vet, so I was all about getting this done right for them. I was within 1/2 an inch of getting this placement perfect, when I noticed Melvin's drunk ass flying through the air towards the ramp, feet first.
I started to jerk my hands out when the fucker landed, driving the edge of the ramp right down onto my fingers. The fucking drunk broke all god damned 8 of my fingers right above the palm.
Before Fred could get there, Melvin's beer sodden breath blew in my face as he walked up to me. Then his smile turned to fear when he saw my fingers limp or bent in the wrong directions, and the look on my face.
Before the pain had a chance to set in, I backhanded Melvin, which I felt IMMEDIATELY. I cursed enough to scald the white off rice as I started kicking him once he'd fallen to the ground, my vision gone red in pain and rage.
I'm 6'2, 195 lbs of muscle from working with my hands all day every day. My Blond hair is so dark it's almost brown, clipped short so I don't have a sweaty mop hitting me in the face while I'm working. I'm stronger than I look, which is saying something, so when I kicked that drunk fucker, he knew he'd been kissed by my boot.
Fred got me off Melvin, with some difficulty, then took me to the ER once I got it through his thick cheap skull that YOU CAN'T WALK OFF 8 BROKEN FINGERS!
So I was having some anger issues when, after too many hours without painkillers, the docs at the ER finally took care of me. Some dumbass had only put me down on the charts as "broken finger", not "all 8 broken, bruised and possibly not recoverable."
Eventually, the docs determined that I would not have to have any amputated, thank God. I didn't wanna look like Fred, who only had a forefinger and 3 nubs going up the first knuckle in addition to his thumb on his right hand.
So, after kicking Fred out, since he was the cheapskate asshole who refused to fire the drunk that caused my injuries, I asked one of the cuter nurses to call my friend for me, and ask her to please come get me.
The pain meds were starting to kick in, and she WAS a cutie, a thin redhead about 5'6, with stout C cups and a firm apple shaped ass hugged tightly by her scrubs. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it looked like it might stretch down almost to her ass if she let it down.
The Little General, as I call him, also seemed to approve, as he started to make his presence known through my carpenter pants. She saw the lump and gasped, and after looking around, reached down and gave him a little squeeze in salute. She gave an excited little squeak when she felt my girth.
When she put my discharge papers in my lap, she told me she had put her private number down, and if I needed any help, to call her straight away. She gave the General one more salute with her fingertips, then left me to tend to other, much less fortunate patients.
Becca had made the 25 minute drive in 10 minutes. The woman I usually tease about being a granny driver for never driving 1 mph over the speed limit. Her friend was hurt, so she made an allowance.
By then, the pain meds had kicked in, and when she got to my ER bed, I giggled and waved my bandaged hands at her. I was in la la land.
Becca stands one foot shorter than me at 5'2. She weighs about 110. I wish I could convince her she was pretty, with her deliciously firm DD chest, delectably chubby derriere, and pretty hazel eyes, but she always seemed to think she was chubby and undesirable. Some would call her pear shaped, or a PAWG, but I called her perfect.
Her jet black hair is in a ponytail hanging over her right shoulder and seems to point at her nipple, and I start giggling. Hey, those were some good meds, ok?
"Hi, Becca! Wanna take this soldier home?" I giggled.
This was NOT the norm. Becca has been a friend since 3rd grade. Sure, I maybe had had a crush on her since about 4 minutes after we first met, and had secretly been in love with her since about a half an hour after that, but I always managed to crush those feelings down into the depths of my being. I had always valued her friendship and never wanted to endanger that.
Becca was the one constant in my life, always there for me. First heartbreak? Becca baked me cookies and hugged me (hey, it was 5th grade). Dog died? Becca helped me dig the grave, and went and picked flowers for him. First when Mom died when I was 13, then when Dad died when I was 16? Becca helped me pick up the pieces and stay (mostly) sane.
By that time, we were 16, so I was able to stay with her and her mom without having to worry about foster care. Money was tight, since Mom's insurance had gone to Dad. Dad had remarried, and when he passed, his insurance and other money went to his bitch of a new wife, who was just gone one day when I got home from school. I got home and strangers were moving into my house. She had sold it and left with nary a word to me.
I'd worked small jobs to give money to Becca's mom to help with bills or groceries, even though she tried every time to give the money back. It was never a lot, but in those times, every bit helped.
Becca became like a best friend combined with sister to me. Sure, I was madly in love with her, but so what? What could she see in me? A loser orphan with no money and only the clothes on his back is not exactly a glowing prospect for romance or, god forbid, marriage.
At 18, I signed up for the Army. Spent 4 years going places I never could have otherwise. I hate sand, now, and that's about all I'm gonna tell you about that. I had a decent amount in savings by the end, and I've been picking up work in our small town wherever it could be found to avoid tapping into savings, but pickings were slim if you weren't an auto mechanic. My training was in "make things go boom at a distance", not "make engine work."
"Zack!" Becca demanded, "what the fuck happened to your hands?"
My mind, such as it was at the time, snapped back to the present.
"FUCKING MEEEEELVIIIIN!" I caroled out at the top of my lungs, "he was drunk at work again, and he broke. My. Fucking. Fingers."
Now, while Becca cusses like a sailor, my Mom and hers, both, had me trained not to talk like that to a lady, so she was taken aback for a moment by my speech.
"I'm sorry, Becca. I'm not supposed to use that language around you. Could I go home now? I need a pizza! Did you know, most of the world's problems nowadays are because nobody makes a good pizza anymore?" I lectured.
"Yeah, you are NOT going to be able to handle your place alone in that condition. You'll stay with me for a while," she stated.
"Yaaaaaaaay!" I caroled. Painkillers make me an incredibly chatterbrained dufus. I'm not big into anything other than beer.
We stopped on the way to her house for cold drinks, since it was hotter than hell and muggier than the Devil's taint. She got me the biggest fountain drink they had, and got herself one of those root beers in the glass bottle. She always got those when driving and always held it like a guy between her legs. Sometimes it seemed she would wedge it pretty deep, and her legs would move an aweful lot around it.
Once we got to her place, and she set me up in her guest room, she went to go take a nap before fixing us dinner. Hot dogs and Mac n cheese. She used to cook real dinners when we lived with her mom, but not any more, I dunno why.
She got fidgety while cooking and took off to her room for a few minutes, which led to over boiled hot dogs and burnt Mac and cheese. I had her get my card out of my wallet and order us some pizza, and consoled her that it'd be alright.
My hands hurt unbelievably. And I was unable to handle my self care needs below the belt, either pleasure or necessity (I'm sure I don't need to go into detail, use your imagination). Hell, I had problems handling self care needs ABOVE the belt, for that matter.
Luckily, Becca's bathroom had a bidet. I used to not be too sure about those. I had the testosterone based doubt most southern manly men have about them, but that kept Becca from having to help me wipe my...you get the idea. And it kept her from seeing what made me a freak.
Becca was there for me whenever I needed her. I insisted I wear swim trunks when she helped me bathe, which she giggled at, but I told her I had my reasons, to which she sighed and rolled her eyes. The bidet was helping, and I found that, while painful, I could somewhat scrub down there with a soapy washcloth and use the bidet to rinse. Ish.
See, I have...rather large testicles. I have to wear loose boxers and carpenter pants, usually. One ex girlfriend said I had the balls of an ox on growth hormones. I mean, they hang low and heavy at the best of times, almost to the end of my tool. Each one is about the size of a plum. I usually handled things on my own at least 5 times a day to release enough steam for them to not hurt. Hell I always had to be careful to make sure I didn't sit on them. My Little General is about 6 1/2 inches long, but it's girth is only slightly less than a beer bottle. The bottom, not the long neck, for any of you smartasses.
