Good news, bad news.

I always go to Foster’s Market when the family goes on vacation. I don’t know why.

But I have good news and bad news.

The good news: I asked for bacon on the side, but they put bacon IN the breakfast burrito AND brought bacon on the side.

I grudgingly accepted their apology.

Now the bad news.

Two women waiting in line ahead of me, over-perfumed, chatty as you like, taking forever to figure out their order…and one of them calls herself a “foodie”.

Calls herself a “foodie”.  A “foodie”.

I dutifully (for me) finished my sloppy amalgam of carbs, tomaters and sweet, sweet fruit. I sort of hurried through it. Knowing all of the sudden why I was brought to this place, at this time.  A singular, seminal moment in man’s fight against man.

With white-knuckled fury, I saddled up behind her with a metallic chair, small but heavy enough to do real damage. We’d see. And I leaned in slowly but with unmistakable intent, and, catching her in mid-prattle, hissed , “Hey….Foodie…”

Before she could turn her blueberry head toward me, the first blow knocked the glasses off her face. She cascaded off her wooden perch and onto the floor, more stunned than hurt. Oh, but that would change. Yes. It would. Through clenched teeth, and amid the strikes and (despite myself) kicks—I was in flip-flops, but my nails were sharpened like daggers. Little daggers— I mocked her. The evil, desperate voice that escaped my pursing gullet I did not recognize as my own. “Foodie? Foodie? I’ll give you foodie. I’LL GIVE YOU FOODIE!!!!! Oh GODDDDDDDD!!!!!!”  And as her little head bounced against the concrete floor that had so recently facilitated, nay, amplified her voice…that voice…slapping around the room, to the painted ceiling and back, a strand of blood connected her thin lips to the shiny grey beneath her, as if it was the one thing holding her to the earth before I shunted off her mortal coil and cast it to the heavens. Or the hells. Hells?

The twisted remnants of a cheap diner chair spotted with the blood of someone who just didn’t deserve to live. My clothes, my feet, under my toenails, caked with the pussy remnants of a yelping harpie, blood and bone, the throbbing veins in her mannequin head exposed, her bewilderment and fear my prize. Was my body’s reaction so primal, the rising passion so…basic…as to enrich both of us with a deeper understanding of how a caveman might have brought down and dressed a mammoth? Why was it that I felt as a live as I ever had? I tell you, as I live and breathe, fatherhood made me happy, but this…this was a feeling of serenity and love that you just cannot fathom until and unless you smash someone in the skull repeatedly with a chair. And then kick them good with your pointy foot-daggers.

Her companion sat stunned. About 42, mousy, silent. She had, deep inside and in spite of her friendly visage, been hoping for this for so long. Could she dream that this portly stranger could make her fantasy become real in front of her squinty eyes? And as those grey, lifeless eyes met mine, as we exchanged a meaningful, visceral gaze over the twitching countenance of her convenient breakfast companion, we spoke the secret language of desire. As the paramedics shunted in their giant wheeled cot, and took in the strange scene before them, we ran, hand in hand, disrobing along the path, and yes, we made love in the kitchen. Shunting aside pots and pans, the silver cookware, to the amused faces of illegal immigrants making endless vats of fresh salsa, I took her there. I peppered that ass, pounding her slight frame into the chopped cilantro, taking her for a moment, forever. Nothing would be the same. No, now the stakes were higher. The scent of baked goods would forever cause a stir in her withered, vanquished loins. And she walks funny now.

I slipped out the back door, tucking in my shirt, even though there was no need, as I was wearing a t-shirt and cargo shorts. Still, I felt a little like Don Draper’s retarded cousin.



3 thoughts on “Good news, bad news.

  1. Rick Angle says:

    It seems in your passionate haste you forgot to wrap that rascal. There was blood. Blood and bodily fluids. You are Wallenda living large, traveling up the old dirt road. This is not love. This is power. The power only a man can feeling whilst distending some trollop’s railway tunnel for a vagina then invading her balloon knot. I’m inspired for the day.

  2. Jeesh, “Rick”. You took it too far.

    Still, I am now inspired as well.

  3. Having said that, it must be mentioned here that if my dream lover posts an alternate version of my truth, if she starts talking about how I wasn’t passing the “stench test”, let it be known that my lover’s flippy-floppy bosom was a formless, amoebic distraction to our otherwise taut lovemaking. Blessing/curse. Spanx are a quickie deterrent until we, as men, develop the technology and technique to disassemble same in a more efficient fashion. Neither of us were ready, it seemed. But who can be ready for the pain-sex apocalypse?

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