Daily writing exercise, 750words.com
fiction by Jason Edwards
One of those self-satisfied, smug little shits. Always with the half-grin on his face, and looking down as if “oh gosh look what I did.” Like, even when he’s peeling a fuckin satsuma orange. He sits there at his desk and peels it in one go, the whole peel still together, and that smile, and then sort of dangles it over his trash can and lowers it in. I hate that smug little prick
You know what I should do. I should find a hooker, and pay her to shave her pubes, and then put ’em in a baggie, and then go fetch one of those peels out of his trash can. Then I can sew it back together, and stuff it with the hooker’s pubes. Wear gloves so my fingernails don’t get crabs. And then give it back to him.
Here you go, Blaine. You always seem to peel these things in one go, and I was thinking, like you could put one back together, and I was thinking, why not give it a try, and so I did, and well, here you go.
What kind of fucking name is Blaine?
I can see him, he takes the orange, he goes oooookaaaay… like it’s weird or something? Like he’s not sure what to do? Use your fucking imagination you little twat. Pull your head out of Dartport’s ass or Greenport or whatever fuck port town you grew up in you little hipster piece of shit. How do you know I’m not an alcoholic? And sewing up this orange was my way of dealing with a bad night when my sponsor’s phone wasn’t picking up and my wife was four glasses into a seven-glasses-of-Chardonnay night? You want I should be ashamed of the gesture, go back to the sauce, beat Chardonay a few more times.
That’s her name, in my head, Chardonay, my fake wife with the drinking problem. Fucking Blaine’s probably dating a Jessica. I can’t stand Jessicas. We had one here, a few years ago, a Product Manager, or PM as she liked to call herself. Idiot. Program Managers are PMs. Product Managers are just product managers, what the fuck.
So get with the program, Blaine. Or maybe I got a secret crush on you, ya ever think about that? Look at me, I’m five seven, two hundred and forty five pounds, oily skin, hair is disappearing right off the top of my fucking head, I’m supposed to spend my whole life picking up rent boys and getting mugged or AIDS? Like I need some snot nosed prick with a holier-than-thou attitude and a trash can full or rotting orange peels to judge me just because I made a gesture. Suck my dick ya faggot.
Well, lucky for you Mr. Probably Watches Indie Films, I don’t have a crush on you, and I ain’t no alcoholic. I can hold my booze. Where was I last Saturday night, huh? While you were squinting at sub-titles and burping up your shitty shawarma? That’s right, I was at the Hop Cat, making with the small talk with a broad. A real broad, too, not the skinny Jessicas you take back to your place so you can show her the Sitar you bought when you were pulling a Habitats for Humanity gig in Edison New Jersey.
Yeah, so what, turns out she was a pro, and had a dick. Point is, until I knew she was a hooker with a penis, I was doing what men do. Talking to a woman in a bar. Listening to the Eagles. Drinking a White Russian and checking the baseball game over her shoulder ever few minutes. Big broad shoulders, come to think of it. Fuck you, that’s not the point.
The point is, you a smug little self-satisfied prick, if I give you a sewed up satsuma stuffed with a prostitute’s pubic hair, you take it and you thank me for it, god damn it. You put it on your desk and when you’re sending in your reports you hit spell check first and then you let your finger hover over the mouse and you look at that orange before you click send. And you think, what would Gabe do?
Gabe would hit spell check again. Gabe would make note of it. And when Gabe’s boss points out a spelling error in one of his reports, and Gabe says spell check must have missed one, and then chuckles, and his boss says Well I guess you need to read these more closely before sending, and then when he gets to Blaine’s reports, and says No spelling errors here, at least, Blaine better not have one of those smug little self-satisfied half-grins on his face or Gabe’s going to shove that pubic orange down his fucking throat.