February Sucks Are You Better Pt 03

Author's note: For whatever reason, the title won't let me list this out. Furthermore, I've heard your criticisms and I will answer: I do short punches, because I write what's on my brain when I finally come back.

For those expecting a happy ending? I don't even know if this will be an ending, or how long it will be.

On with the show

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We were sitting in my car, racing toward my house in the suburbs. The red headed woman had my hand in hers, and she gave it a squeeze.

"I dated him."

I gave her a nod. "Marc?"

She nodded. "Yes. I was a cheerleader for a bit. Me and him dated, until one day, he told me he was tired of me. Suddenly, there was questions about my performance." She seemed to be dealing with her life, so I gave her the moment, and merely acknowledged her with another nod.

"I saw the writing on the wall, and I decided to change my circumstances. I got into modeling, and a bit of... work... on the side." She paused, and looked over to me, her hand squeezing mine again. "I'm... pretty close to having enough invested that I could retire."

I finally looked over to her, and I nodded. "Well, this might seem more Milk Money than Pretty Woman, situationally. But, I can accept that."

Her face tightened a bit at my words, and she looked away, but she held onto my hand.

"Wasn't trying to be a dick. Far from it." I paused, looking back to the road ahead of us. We had about 15 minutes until Home.

"I've dated a girl or two with similar lines of work as yours. I've understood them. I accepted it. I'm willing to do the same with and for you... if all of this pans out like a movie." I took a breath, and pressed on. "However, the likelihood of that is slim to none. Even if we last longer than tonight, the likelihood of us establishing something serious is slim to none." I squeezed her hand as I felt her grip loosen.

"It wouldn't be on my part. It's just how people work sometimes. You'd have to be extra dedicated to it. Are you?" I glanced over at her, and saw the lack of a definitive answer in her eyes.

"It's alot..." she said, still holding my hand. I nodded. "It's alot to suddenly be in this head space. Marc is a major douche canoe, and your wife is a willing slut... but me and you?" She pointed back and forth between us. "Me and you, we hardly know each other."

"I agree, Ellen. So, I'll say this." I once again glanced over to her, before smirking and looking back ahead. "Quel che sera, sera."

She studied a moment, then spoke, unsure of herself. "That's..." she trailed off.

"The correct way it is supposed to be presented." I finished. "It is wrong at the same time, as it is not the popularized form of Doris Day's song." I shrugged. "Who's to say pop culture isn't more relevant than history? Pop culture applies more to today than some shit found buried in a dusty old text book."

I pulled onto my street, and I really wished I could say that the hedges were so tall they blocked my view of Marc's car in my driveway. Or the fact that him and the slut were in the car. Or that he was obviously putting the moves on her. I really want to say that I didn't ram his panty dropping phallic symbol, on purpose.

However, I'd be lying on both accounts, and my mother didn't raise me to be a liar.

I saw it, and I felt something in me spark. I didn't care that he was fucking with her, but he was doing it at MY House. MY Home. It wasn't even 2 hours gone since we'd last seen each other, and she was fucking around with him in my driveway? Fuck that.

So, I lined up the nose of my truck with the rear half of his car, right at the part where the roof comes off the trunk with that support beam -- as skinny as it was on the Lamborari -- I don't know! They all look the same to me! They aren't a Viper!

Anyway, I didn't punch the gas. That's how you lose momentum by getting sideways in a pickup. I just pressed it, and we were over the curb, flying through the air... until we weren't. And we weren't, because the back half of his car had not only gone sideways, but it had smashed into the row of shrubs, and a stone retaining wall. So there was nowhere for any of us to go with that rear engine monstrosity being in the way.

I looked over at Ellen, while I rubbed my head, and shook her shoulder. "You alright?"

She was breathing, and groaning, and she looked at me. "Wha..."

"Are you alright? Does anything feel broken?"

Ellen shook her head, though she still seemed a bit discombobulated. "N-noooo..."

I nodded, and glanced back out of the spot where my windshield would be, if it hadn't cracked and partially come apart. Marc was climbing out of his sports car, a bit unsteady, and he was looking at his car. I reached over to the glove box, and popped it open, hitting Ellen in the knees with the door.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" I heard the footballer rage as I pulled the Desert Eagle Mark VII.50 AE from it's case. I popped my door open, and got out. The fact that Ellen was distracted by the pain in her knees was lost on me at this point.

The Asshole spun around, and screamed:

"THAT'S A TEMERARIO, YOU CUCK! I'LL KILL YOU!"

He did this while advancing on me. I am sure he didn't hear me say

"Thanks..." in a low voice. The low voice you use instead of a whisper, so that you blend in to background noise. I'm sure it didn't register when I brought my gun up, two handed, and rested it on the window sill of my door for a stable platform.

I am sure, though, that the last thing that went through his mind? Was a.50 Caliber bullet entering through his eye socket, from the gun my step dad gave me on my 18th birthday.

After the red mist cleared, both women were still screaming. I was surprised I could hear it over the ringing in my ears.

"Son of a bitch." I shoved my pinky into my ear, and wiggled it around. This was going to suck, big time. I pulled my cell phone out, and dialed 911.

"Yes! I'd like to report a shooting." I could barely make out what the woman was saying. "It was self defense, he threatened to kill me. I feared for my life." There was more garbled speech -- damn this ringing and the shrieking!

"Yeah, 742 Evergreen Terrace. I think he's dead." I moved toward the curb, and set the gun down. I spend quite a few minutes in la la land, until the rollers and meat wagon showed up. When they all approached me with their hands on their guns, I slowly raised my hands to show them I was unarmed. I didn't resist when they lunged at me and pressed me to the ground. I'm a bit crazy. Not Stupid.

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Epilogue:

I'm walking out of court, a free man. I was fortunate enough to have a GoPro in my truck recording everything. While I have to pay a fine, and get therapy for my "issues" -- which I have been doing since I got back -- I was found not guilty due to temporary insanity stemming from emotional distress due to abandonment, which triggered a pre-existing psychological condition.

The case was a shit show. People were screaming on the steps every day I walked into the courthouse. It was a media circus. I don't know how many times my supporters got into fights with Marc's Fans.

Linda and I talked, and she swears she didn't do anything with him. She said she made him drive her home, rather than to his place. I don't care. I don't believe her. She could have sucked his cock.

I told her about Ellen. What I did. She didn't care, and just wanted to save the marriage. I told her to go fuck a rolling donut over that little bit of sentiment. She didn't choose me all the time, every time, so she couldn't have me any of the time.

Ellen? She got a bit cut up from the windshield exploding, and banged up from the wreck. She's definitely no call girl. She has stuck by me, regardless of everything else. She admitted to being a bit unhinged herself. Something to do with her childhood. Sees us as Joker and Harley, whatever the fuck that counts for. All I know is that I enjoy railing her, and she enjoys being railed, while we spew loads of filthy smut verbally at each other.

The Kids? Well, that's a different chapter of the same story. I'm seen as an unfit father, due to my condition. Linda? Well, my lawyer had her deemed an unfit mother. So, the kids are shuttled back and forth between their grandparents houses. We each have supervised visitation. Whenever my mother allows me to take us all out for ice cream, she just stares at me.

I got tired of it one day, and asked her.

"Got a staring problem?"

She shook her head and gave that chuckle she does when she can't believe her ears.

"No, James. But I never thought that you'd be able to get away with Murder scot free."

All I said was:

"I have no Idea what you're talking about mom. Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, or Chocolate Flavored Frozen Toothpaste?"