Jack of Hearts
11-04-2010, 11:57 PM
NB: The author expresses his gratitude at your interest in this notedly half-formed piece; it is strictly presented for the analytical mind that engages itself in esoterica, veritably looking underneath the hood of a short story that operates almost entirely on a few literary dynamics. No seal of quality. -- J
Untitled Composition 12
John, the banker, married father of two and proud owner of a brand new Lexus, pulled into his driveway after work where the pastey grinding of rubber agrainst concrete whetted his apetite for relaxation. Though he hated to depart from heavenly leather interior and a shiny black paint job, his waning gaze pierced through the window, the reflection, and onto the front yard of his charming villa estate. Someone or something had left the sprinklers on and the flooding purged the earth. John, the wet banker, marired father of two and proud owner of a brand new Lexus, squished toward the ornate front door that, besides a porch and an entryway, was the only thing that separated him from putting his feet up.
Tucked away underneath the awning was a half-worn loveseat that tempted a pleasant night, but he soon found himself distracted. As he approached, he realized that there was a letter tucked in between the door and the frame and came to the conclusion that someone had missed the opportunity to sign for a piece of certified mail. He checked the sender's address. John, the soggy banker and married father of two, tucked the slip into his back pocket with all the indifference he could muster.
His hand reached for his side and he felt his keys as knives. He wranged them free of his slacks and shortly afterward heard a fatal thump against good wood. Near his feet and on the porch lay a ring of keys that had dropped, that did not belong to his house, keys he knew he hadn't used that day.
"****."
John, the moist, married father of two, bent over and retrieved the damn things and then opened the door. When he entered, he unphasedly crossed the living room to the kitchen where he threw the keys down on the counter. Something was vibrating intensely. Near the stove rested a forgotten and forgiving cell-phone that, much like a needy pet or his horny wife, demanded to be touched. Three new messages.
"Three new messages?"
Ok ******* I'm taking the kids and you better believe I'm getting my half pre-nup or no custody and the house welcome to California baby and I'm staying at my sister's so you know where to drop off my stuff but Carl's here so don't try anything stupid ok, at least it's not another man Hey there Maddog it's Jimbo and are we still doing poker on Friday I hate to be a dick about it but could really use the cash you owe me from last time I know you're good for it ****, I forgot bye.
Maddog, the unmarried father of two, immediately reached for his checkbook and wrote out a check for Jimmy Wilson for approximately half of what was left in his checking account. One more message though, he nearly forgot.
By the way I'm ****ing another man you know a real man a real role model for your children you pathetic bastard.
Maddog, the destitute bachelor, shrugged as he hung up. He could bear no more and so he marched himself down a long, empty hallway to his master bedroom where he could do nothing but sit on the bed and cradle his head in his hand. Mostly he missed his wife. He missed the smell of her, his understanding of her. Thrown against the mirror that hung against the walk-in closet was a nighty he bought her but she couldn't stand to wear because the seam bothered her crotch. That didn't make sense to him becacuse there was no crotch per se, but he picked it up and sniffed it anyways. It still smelled of her, and anyhting to be nearer to her...
Maddog, the financially unsound, cross-dressing bachelor, laid back on the bed and exhaled deeply. His right arm flooped over and onto the nightstand. His journal. Well, his journal now. It had stated off as his daughter's 'Hello Kitty Heart' diary, but he had usurped it when the pressure had become just too much and he needed to vent. That's right, he was writing in a little girl's pink 'Hello Kitty Heart' diary. Maddog, the financialy unsound, femininely dressing single person, opened the diary, lamented his existence and read the following:
"I didn't take out the garbage today. **** it."
And I didn't take it out the day before either, I scorned as I closed the diary and reached for the television remote. I flipped on the history channel. It was the ususal garbage about Nazi's, Hitler and morbid hearsay. It was hard to think that the Holocaust was really so bad in my present condition.
I am Maddog, the financially unsound, femininely-dressing, neo-Nazi sympathizer; I am single and ready to mingle.
Untitled Composition 12
John, the banker, married father of two and proud owner of a brand new Lexus, pulled into his driveway after work where the pastey grinding of rubber agrainst concrete whetted his apetite for relaxation. Though he hated to depart from heavenly leather interior and a shiny black paint job, his waning gaze pierced through the window, the reflection, and onto the front yard of his charming villa estate. Someone or something had left the sprinklers on and the flooding purged the earth. John, the wet banker, marired father of two and proud owner of a brand new Lexus, squished toward the ornate front door that, besides a porch and an entryway, was the only thing that separated him from putting his feet up.
Tucked away underneath the awning was a half-worn loveseat that tempted a pleasant night, but he soon found himself distracted. As he approached, he realized that there was a letter tucked in between the door and the frame and came to the conclusion that someone had missed the opportunity to sign for a piece of certified mail. He checked the sender's address. John, the soggy banker and married father of two, tucked the slip into his back pocket with all the indifference he could muster.
His hand reached for his side and he felt his keys as knives. He wranged them free of his slacks and shortly afterward heard a fatal thump against good wood. Near his feet and on the porch lay a ring of keys that had dropped, that did not belong to his house, keys he knew he hadn't used that day.
"****."
John, the moist, married father of two, bent over and retrieved the damn things and then opened the door. When he entered, he unphasedly crossed the living room to the kitchen where he threw the keys down on the counter. Something was vibrating intensely. Near the stove rested a forgotten and forgiving cell-phone that, much like a needy pet or his horny wife, demanded to be touched. Three new messages.
"Three new messages?"
Ok ******* I'm taking the kids and you better believe I'm getting my half pre-nup or no custody and the house welcome to California baby and I'm staying at my sister's so you know where to drop off my stuff but Carl's here so don't try anything stupid ok, at least it's not another man Hey there Maddog it's Jimbo and are we still doing poker on Friday I hate to be a dick about it but could really use the cash you owe me from last time I know you're good for it ****, I forgot bye.
Maddog, the unmarried father of two, immediately reached for his checkbook and wrote out a check for Jimmy Wilson for approximately half of what was left in his checking account. One more message though, he nearly forgot.
By the way I'm ****ing another man you know a real man a real role model for your children you pathetic bastard.
Maddog, the destitute bachelor, shrugged as he hung up. He could bear no more and so he marched himself down a long, empty hallway to his master bedroom where he could do nothing but sit on the bed and cradle his head in his hand. Mostly he missed his wife. He missed the smell of her, his understanding of her. Thrown against the mirror that hung against the walk-in closet was a nighty he bought her but she couldn't stand to wear because the seam bothered her crotch. That didn't make sense to him becacuse there was no crotch per se, but he picked it up and sniffed it anyways. It still smelled of her, and anyhting to be nearer to her...
Maddog, the financially unsound, cross-dressing bachelor, laid back on the bed and exhaled deeply. His right arm flooped over and onto the nightstand. His journal. Well, his journal now. It had stated off as his daughter's 'Hello Kitty Heart' diary, but he had usurped it when the pressure had become just too much and he needed to vent. That's right, he was writing in a little girl's pink 'Hello Kitty Heart' diary. Maddog, the financialy unsound, femininely dressing single person, opened the diary, lamented his existence and read the following:
"I didn't take out the garbage today. **** it."
And I didn't take it out the day before either, I scorned as I closed the diary and reached for the television remote. I flipped on the history channel. It was the ususal garbage about Nazi's, Hitler and morbid hearsay. It was hard to think that the Holocaust was really so bad in my present condition.
I am Maddog, the financially unsound, femininely-dressing, neo-Nazi sympathizer; I am single and ready to mingle.