There you are.
I'm going to fucking kill you.
You took my favorite spot again. This is the third time in a row, buttnuts. Or maybe it's the fourth time? Whatever. Doesn't matter. You're doing this on purpose, you rectally dysfunctional garbage cunt. It's about time this siren set you straight, even if we all know you only get your jollies from inanimate digital fuzzballs. Or some other basement virgin shit. Whatever. You suck eggs.
Just where do you get off thinking you can get off? Is this some sort of goddamn fucking sport to you? This city courtyard has plenty of ledges to park your shitstained pants on. Why choose the spot that means the most to me? You know pretty damn well that that concrete outcropping is the best vantage point for hollering and spitting at all the middle school punks slouching home from the school across the park. Scaring the snot out of them gives me life, but there you go—dragging grim reaper taint all over my most beloved pasttime. Well, mess with the seahorse, you get drowned in spunk. I'm going to show the whole world that you absolutely can carve a bent dick into a stone terrace using nothing but a lousy shut-in's thick skull.
“Hey! Farty McDickcheese!” I growl as I take bootstep after thunderous bootstep towards your loitering ass. I'm dressed to kill, and not in the sexy way. You're about to find the ins and outs of how I'll carve you inside out pretty dayum soon. “You've got five seconds to swan dive back into the slimy cooch you crawled out of before I sew your mom shut and make you homeless!”
“Hey Ari~” you damnably drone in that damnably low voice with damnably suave aplomb... dammit... lee.
“Nobody calls me 'Ari,' you Leaning Tower of Penis Chunks!” I say, fist shaking.
“Let me guess.” You yawn. You're not even looking up at my approach. Your eyes are locked onto your damned phone. “Only 'your friends' get to call you that?”
“I don't have friends!” I snarl, standing on the descending steps beside the ledge you've chosen to trespass on. I fold my arms and glare daggers at every pore in your putrid skull. “There are just those who I'll kill today and those whom I'll murder tomorrow!”
“And just where do I lie in that calender?” you gargle without the slightest hint of fuck-giving.
“Yesterday!” I crack my knuckles—one fist after another—and prepare to bull tackle you into oblivion. “Your ass is just experiencing quantum jet lag. Now sit still while I unload one hundred and twenty pounds of flux capacitor mudhole stomping on your lame ass!”
“There's a concert coming up soon,” you suddenly say, flicking your thumb across the phone. “Countess Coloratura. She's going through an emo alt rock phase. I wanna stand in the front row and laugh at her as she covers Tori Amos on acoustic guitar.”
My heart is not skipping a beat. Allah fucking dammit my heart is not skipping a beat!
“Anon, I don't think you're getting it.” I gnash my teeth, leaning threateningly towards you like a living lance drawn at the ready... or some other stupid phallic metaphor. I dunno. You've got a tiny dick and I hate you. “You're in my spot and you're going to taste my fist on the back of your teeth after I punch my way up your puckering based bussy!”
“You're spending an awful long time just announcing all of your violent intentions,” you murmur, and I start to wonder just how accurate I was about the 'based' part. “If I didn't know better, I'd say bitching at me is the only way you get exercise in the presence of a man.”
“Hah!” I smirk, grinning a crescent moon. “I get waaaaay more exercise in a week than you'll ever even hope to achieve in an entire lifetime, magicuck!”
“Implying,” you imply.
And—just like that—I want to run towards the nearest apartment building and defenestrate myself back out at the speed of death just so I can drop kick you into the next TF2 patch.
“You have no goddamn idea what you're talking about, Anon!”
I scream into your ear, totally not cracking my vocal cords in the process. I'm shaking, and it's not because you're some stupidly immovable mountain that's perceivably badass from an outside perspective for being this rock stolid stubborn and Chad-like. Again, only an outside perspective would see things so twisted. Y'know... schizophrenics. Or redditors. Maybe both.
“I have more sexual energy in my left pinkie finger than you do in your entire package!”
“Just because you use that thing to diddle your sad self every night doesn't mean it's Venus' gift to Lifetime rejects,” you say. “At best, it's just the Steam key to old maid open beta.” You swipe at your phone yet again. “Also, no woman in her right mind casually refers to a man's groin as a 'package' unless they want it delivered to their front door.” You yawn. You yawn and—for the life of me—I cannot castrate you before you say: “Or back door.”
“Rrrrrrrrgh!” I angrily punch the ledge beneath where you're sitting. Whap! “My immortality for a fucking box cutter right now!”
“Calm your tits,” you saw, and only now do I realize your yawn is finishing. “You're making a scene.”
“Fuck you, I am!”
“Please. We haven't even gone on a first date. What is this—a living Really Gonna Rut 'Em thread?”
You still haven't looked at me directly since this holocaustal slice of life scene began and it makes me want to forcibly drown the sun in the ocean—that way nobody will have to humor those deep green eyes and... for fuck's sake, why am I getting so worked up about your stupid lousy eyes? Or looking at me? There's nothing special about you looking at me. It would mean absolutely nothing if you just looked at me. Why won't you fucking look at me?!?
“The Hell are you even doing on your phone, anyways?” I say, craning my neck.
“Pokemon Go.”
“You are not fucking playing fucking Pokemon Go.”
“Maybe I fucking am, gigawhore.”
“What is this, 2016? Why don't you unfuck your fidget spinner cockrings while you're at it, you libtarded clitorisicle?!”
“I'm not leaving this stoop,” you mutter. “It's a hotspot.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“Fucking Magikarp, bitch.”
“You took my favorite spot for catching fucking Magikarps?!?”
“Yeah. Good thing you showed up to shout at me just now.” You flick the phone. “They need something stupidly wet to survive in.”
“Hah!” I laugh, curling a wrist against my cackling mouth. “Hah hah hah hah!”
“You know as well as I do that that wasn't funny,” you exhale.
“Your face is funny!” I drop my hands into fist. Gnashing my teeth. Frowning at your stupid face. Your stupid square-shaped face. Fuckin'... BJ John Cena Blazkowicz lantern jaw thing goin' on... which couldn't possibly have a monumental second 'head' hiding somewhere to match. Goddess dammit. “I don't even wanna see it.”
“... … …” And like that, your damnably sharp green eyes finally slice their way towards me, and I'm ashamed of the startling impact they have on my pulmonary arteries. And panties. “See what? You're already looking at my face.”
Except—now I'm not. I'm glaring into the floor. My arms are folding. I squeeze my thighs tightly together and... dammit... stop looking at me you arrogant green-eyed inverted fuckwhistle...
“Cat got your tongue, Ari?” you purr. Turning the phone off. Pivoting towards me. Dear sweet gentle Jesus—those shoulders could pivot the whole earth like a Spartan turnstile. “Or do the cat and the tongue both thirst for something right now, hmmm?”
“Knock it off, Anon,” I grumble. I don't like this. I don't like being caught off guard. I don't like a dumb meatbag of a mortal human shaking me to the core. I don't like the tremble that's rising up and down my spine. I don't like the base quivers making my knees weak and my mind weaker as I struggle to avoid the event horizon of your stupid... gigantic... penetrating ego. “Before I knock your block off.”
“Always with the threats. Always with the lip.” You squint. A smolder. Some animated Disney Prince shit and all it would take is one round house kick from yours unruly to spill it all over the surface of this sunny courtyard... but then what would I have left to vibrate these useless vocal cords at? These past few months—miserable and mediocre—except for the few bright spots when I could boil my blood and cock the boomstick in your predictably tanky direction. Then your next breath begins and I feel part of me drift towards it on the next minute's heartbeats. “But never the first move. Look, life is short, Ari. Even yours. So... when are you going to take a swing, already? It a lame-ass world that never changes; someone will be doing someone a favor, that's for damn sure.”
I close my eyes, fuming. Refusing to stance dance out of this abrasive rhythm we've got laid out. A chessboard glazed over with lopsided intentions. What are you, even, Anon? Something swam back into my dreams these past few years. It filled the gash in my meat that was once stuffed with song. A vision, the ghost of a sensation, that after eons of slipping from one polluted pond to another, some net would catch me, and there in that vice grip I might finally rest... knowing something could weather this. Weather me. Epochs of frustration stabbing and stabbing back, but never quite breaking.
It's a dangerous game, what we have here. Actually murdering you—I think—would be safer than what could otherwise transpire. Your shoulders, your swagger—as damnably daring as you carry it—they simply couldn't carry the same that I have. Even if it just meant talking about what happened this week... this century... the graves I've filled on multiple continents... the children I never ever found again. It's a game you can't ever comprehend, and I shudder to allow you. To allow this. Such a stupid play. It needs a safe word, and I know it'd be nothing but sobs. But, somehow I fear that—given the opportunity—you wouldn't murder me back after you heard it. You'd just happily drown in it all. You would, wouldn't you? And then where would we be? Where would I be? What would I have left to shout at?
“Stop try-harding,” you say.
I rub my cheek and grumble sideways. “Fuck you.”
“Do you want to know the real reason why I took your favorite spot?”
“Pffft. Humor me.”
You wave a hand. “To bump this.”
“Bump what?”
“Exactly.”
Silence. I try not to think about what it'd feel like to have another set of arms folded around my chest for a change. I try not to think about what it'd mean to share these thoughts without growling. I try not to think about how far I would drop... how far I would plunge... how deeply I might drown if I just gave into the currents.
You know nothing about me. You're just a dumb, based, casual fucking meatstick. I love to hate you. But it's annoying... and just a little bit frightening... to think that I might not hate to like you. Maybe—just maybe—that's not so bad a stone to sink with.
“So... anyways...” You rub the back of your head with a stretch. “...you wanna go to the concert or not?”
“Mmmm... I hate Coloratura.”
“Uh huh.”
“I hate Tori Amos.”
“Yup.”
“And I hate you.”
“Totally.”
More silence.
I roll my eyes to the heaven, feeling the crest of a groan, a lofty roller coaster into chaos that I'm not ready to admit is exciting and scaring me. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But you don't look like you care. I suppose that makes the two of us.
“So...” It's my turn to rub the back of my neck. “...should I pick you up in my van, or...?”
“Naw. That shit smells like tacos. I'll pick you up.”
“You drive a moped, dipshit.”
“Fuck you. It's eco-friendly.”
“Christ, you absolute cuck.”
“Takes one to know one, bitch.”
“Ass.”
“Cunt.”
“... … ...”
“So, pick you up Friday at six?”
“Right on.”