Advertise With Us||Links||
Submission Guidelines||Subscribe to Feed||Contact
revenge is sweet and so are you
by Turtle Jones
Tonight is just a night where we just wanted to fuck around. We really had no motive behind this. I would like to say that this was inspired by another story that came in to us. Actually by two stories. See, when you guys send us stuff, it inspires us to do different things. Some work. Some don't. Meh. We try. So tonight is just us fucking around and trying to make ourselves smile. As you'll see, we ended up with a common theme. We hope you enjoy.
He didn't have much in his life. Not a whole lot. A truck and some cans with a mortgage due on a broken down house in the middle of Nowhere, USA. He didn't mind it at all. In fact it was always nice to wake up with the smell of paint and rotting wood surrounding him. His house was old and dead. He lived for only one thing. And that one thing he held close to his heart.
He painted houses day in and day out. Sweated on the grass. Climbed ladders and pushed away bees. Ate bad food from Roach Coaches and and felt like he was doing what god wanted hin to do. This was his calling. Through the pain he would push. He was your holy painter.
The seams of his pants rubbed in his skin everyday as he kept painting. Had to paint and had to go on. He had no name. Like the janitor at a local high school, just a man to be looked at and feel sorry for. He ran his brush up and down the side of a house he had never seen before just for his paycheck. Something to get booze so he could get creative again for Vanilla White #5 house paint. Something to make the night to go away til he could get back to his true passion of house painting. He shined when he painted. He could paint like the best of them. Make the paint even and make everything look like new. Spackle here and paint there. The house looked like new.
Sometimes he cried after he looked at his work. He loved this feeling. Drunk on the fumes of the paint and on adrenaline he would perfectly mach the colors while telling the family dog how he was an artist.
This was his pride. This was his love. This was his profession.
One day he was painting in the blistering sun. Sweat running down everywhere as he gasped for air. He still kept painting, I was his love after all, so he had to give his all.
He sweated and sweated til he couldn't breathe anymore. The house was done. The paint was drying. He asked the owner of the house in his exhausted breath for a beer.
She said she didn't give beer to the help.
He looked at her as she walked away and scowled. He looked at his work and scowled. All he ever wanted was to paint a house. To smell the turpintine and get a buzz as he painted for the rest of his days. For his art. For his glory. For the house. But now a simple request was denied and his art form was turned into something cheap. Something easy. .
All he wanted was a beer. All she wanted was a painted house.
She wanted a house that was painted?
Oh, she will get one. -T
Revenge of the Woman of Kleenex
The lady says to her:
“I’ll try to get in touch with him and give him your fact sheet. You can take it from there.”
Anna’s phone rings two days later.
“Hello, is this Single Girl looking for Superhero?”
5pm. Right on time. Anna sees him standing in front of the candy shop. His cape is black, lined with purple silk. He sword is hidden under the cape, but she knows it’s there. His hair is slicked back in that obnoxious, macho way. She looks for the scar above his eyebrow, just to make sure. It’s there, bright and ugly. She gets a flash of anger when she sees the scar and remembers how he got away the last time. She will not disappoint her crew again.
Cape guy stands there. Waiting. Expecting a beautiful single woman who will fall madly in love with him upon first sight. He doesn’t even give a thought to explaining to a mere mortal why he lives underground and why he can crush a two ton SUV with his bare hands. He just wants a warm body in bed next to him when he comes home from a hard day trying to save the world.
Anna approaches him, her finger steady on the laser gun in the deep pocket of her fur coat. She can tell by the smarmy look on Captain Crusher’s face that he is still the shallow, egocentric man she once worked for. Still the guy who thinks he can get by on just his looks. And his bone-crushing abilities.
She gets within two feet of Crusher, slips her hand out of her pocket and aims the laser gun at him.
In an instant it’s over. The invisible laser has struck Crusher in his crotch. The one place he doesn’t shield with laser-resistant lead. He always had this fear that the lead would make him impotent. Some super beings have an Achille’s heel. Crusher had an Achille’s dick.
As the rush-hour crowd hovers over Crusher, assuming that the crazy guy with the cape had some sort of stroke, Anna makes her way back down the stairs, into the deep of Penn Station.
Her crew will be pleased, indeed. But not as pleased as she.
So that's what we did this night. Just totally let things go and somehow we both worked our way back to revenge. It's what happens. I told you we think alike. One day I'll wake up with a horse's head in bed next to me or she will be cover in blood at her high school prom reunion. We work like that. No. Not really. I really hate horses and she wants to become a zombie so I think those methods of revenge will be more like Anniversary gifts. We work like that. These are our revenge stories. What are yours?