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Peace Offering
Topic Started: Apr 6 2010, 06:17 AM (60 Views)
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Presiding Douchehammer
She shook the handle again.

"Fuck."

There was no doubt about it. She was locked out. She turned and put her back to the door, and heaved a long, annoyed sigh. The sun was massive, overhead, and causing her a great deal of undue, compound stress. It wasn't as though she couldn't break in, if she had to. It would be a simple matter to put her fist through the door. But when the silent alarm went off and the police, backed by a long-standing order from the President himself to show up with all due haste and force, made their appearance, she would hardly be able to justify that by saying she'd misplaced her keys.

Well, misplaced her keys, and made a mortal enemy out of her charge. Andrew and her weren't on speaking terms. She almost laughed at the thought. Rather, Andrew and her weren't on listening terms, with one another. She'd been pretending not to notice his comings and goings over the past week, and he'd pretended quite convincingly to be deaf, as well as mute. Which, up until now, she guessed, had been fine, for both of them.

It had all started, really, with the little breakfast fiasco, that had resulted in scalding hot coffee across her legs. That had really pissed her off, but granted, that was just a little thing, an innocent accident, compared to some of the back and forth shit that had gone on over the past few weeks. She'd gotten revenge for that, by filling his backpack with her underwear, and some trashy romance novels Linda Beasley, the lady who lived across the street had given her. He'd come home from school looking pretty harassed after that, to her satisfaction.

Of course, he'd then proceeded to dump the bag and all of it's contents into the trash-burner out back, and set it on fire while she was at work, so maybe that was not such a grand scheme after all, given that she was still struggling to get used to wearing his briefs for the time being. A fact that she'd made sure to inform him of.

Then came the first major strike. The vandalizing of her beloved Rocket III, had pushed her over the edge, admittedly. The combination greased first step and tumble down wooden flight of stairs into conveniently placed box of legos had been a bit much, even she was ready to admit, but still, it had been an act of passion. She still wasn't sure how to get the bright-red “BITCH” written in model-paint off of her bike without hurting the finish, and she could feel her knuckles turning white whenever she thought too much about it.

His retaliation at first was seemingly simple. This morning he'd walked downstairs, and slapped her keys off of the kitchen counter, and into the garbage disposal, right in front of her, no less, and then walked just as calmly out the door. With no time left to screw around trying to dig them out, she'd just left the back door unlocked, before heading to work.

Evidently, the sneaky little fuck had come home for lunch and made sure every door and window was bolted up tight, for her return home. She could text him on his cellphone and make a few threats, but it would just result in a bunch of taunting now and a whole lot of searching for him later.

"Motherfuck.”

So now, what were her options? She could call a locksmith, she guessed, but that was going to annoy the fuck out of her, since she didn't have her wallet with her either, and there wasn't going to be much lock-smithing going on, if she couldn't prove who she was, or, for that matter, pay.

So what was there to do, really? Sit here and wait murderously in the bushes until he came home, was the first thing that came to mind, of course, but it was hardly practical. School didn't let out for another three hours or so, and even though she was certainly spiteful enough to do that, she just didn't have the patience. She wanted inside, and out of this punishing heat.

So what options did that leave? She could go have a chat with Ms. Beasleyy, she guessed, but that was kindof self-defeating, given that Linda was one of those Children of theDivisionn types who never spent a dime they didn't have to, and only turned on the air-conditioner just to make sure it was still working. That and Beasleyyy was a lonely middle-age widow, with noone to talk to, so that put her down for at LEAST four hours of inane mentionings, and so-have-you-heards. She was nice enough, but a miserable gossip, if she'd ever heard one.

There were about five others in the neighborhood that she knew; The Gardener family, which was six black boys, one enormous black woman, and one skinny, white dad who was only about three years or so older than the eldest son. They seemed nice, if socially awkward; The gay couple Adam and Gary who lived down on the corner. Much talked about, but generally outgoing. Totally boring, though, from all she could tell; Fat Tony and his son, Little Tony. They weren't mafia, like everyone seemed to think. Tony was just fat. And his son was just small. Old man Price who lived catty-corner to them. War-veteran and sortof a shut-in, but he always showed up at those neighborhood rallies, and stuff.

Then there was their next-door neighbor. Total pill-head, honestly, but he was definitely the sort of person you could respect, even if you hated. They guy had demonstrated that he was an asshole, and a hypocrite since they'd moved in, sure, but she'd read his book. She was actually one of the few people who knew he'd wrote it. The book didn't disprove anything, really. They guy was pretty much an asshole and a hypocrite all the way through it, but, it told her a very important thing, that she would've been unable to find anywhere else, but from the horse's mouth:

The guy was trustworthy.

[[UNFINISHED]]
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