Bad Day

I throw open the door and send the doorknob smashing into the white plastic wall-shield currently covering the doorknob sized hole that appeared in the wall the last time I needed to make a violently dramatic entrance.  A quick assessment shows that my histrionics went completely and utterly ignored. Mollycoddle Jim is in the kitchen wearing a vaguely familiar and suspiciously rectangular shirt, and the fluid movements of his greasy hippie Tai Chi exercises are completely uninterrupted. Diego Delgado De Gato is on the couch watching cartoons in his underwear. It must be Friday.

Without breaking eye contact with the television, Diego asks: "Damn Byron, someone piss in your inkwell?" I am wearing a filmy white poet's shirt. It was an experiment in fashion and it failed miserably. I was going for pirate, honestly.

I will my jaw to unclench before I crush my teeth under the strain. I manage to spit out, "The bank just took my entire paycheck in insufficient funds fees. The entire goddamned thing. Gone. A fucking weeks pay. Just gone. And Byron was a fop."

Diego grunts and continues his staring contest with the television. Without interrupting his movements Mollycoddle Jim helpfully suggests, "Dude, maybe you should head down to the bank and talk it out with them." I'm still trying to place where I've seen his shirt before. It's made from a delicate cream colored fabric, and it's a fine weave. The extreme squareness around the shoulders and the fact that the head and arm holes are mere slits profess a previous heritage in the sack family. It reminds me of one of Hulk Hogan's muscle shirts from the late eighties if Hulk Hogan was a hobo.

"Already tried that. It didn't end well. I was escorted out of the building and the sentence 'Have you ever had your teeth kicked-in by a man wearing a queer puffy shirt?!' may or may not have been allegedly uttered by someone." I pause for a moment. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

"I made it out of a pillow case."

I suddenly recognize the 'shirt'. "That's my fucking pillowcase you filthy tree-fucking jackass!"

In slow motion I feel my left fist moving for a backhand across the zygomatic arch and my right fist coiling for what I know will be a full-bore punch into the floating ribs. And then out of nowhere, right before contact, Diego hands me a mango screwdriver. Some quick mental assessments bear out that, while it would be extraordinarily cool, the likelihood of kicking ass without spilling the drink is infinitesimal. The choice between violence and booze is simple.

"Take a load off, Wordsworth." Diego is back on the couch, if he ever left it, leaving me with the vague impression I was just served by Heisenberg's bartender.

I slide down into the couch next to Diego with my drink in hand. Jim sits down in the overstuffed armchair. "Dude, don't worry about it. Be the teapot." He's still wearing my pillowcase.

"I am the motherfucking teapot." I take a large sip.

"You are clearly not the teapot. Not yet at any rate. Besides, you wouldn't believe the shit I went through today..."

We let the story hang and sit in silence for a few hours watching cartoons instead.

Then the door slams open and the doorknob smashes into the white plastic wall-shield. A bit of drywall skitters across the floor. I turn and see Stabby making a bee-line for the apocalypse closet. He rifles through it for a few moments, grabs Diego's chintzy 'ring of fire' TEC-9 knockoff and heads for the door.

I'm apparently the only one paying attention. "Hey. Where the fuck you headed, Travis Bickle?"

"You know what, Lord Byron, you can just fuck off."

At that moment I made a mental note never to wear the poet's shirt again. "We already did Byron earlier. You gonna fuck something up, Chief?"

"Motherfucking goddamned cocksucking right." Stabby is red in the face. It's not a good hue for him.

Diego shifts from the couch and heads over to the apocalypse closet. "Not with that gun. Fucking mousegun." He rummages around a bit and comes up with the TT-33 and its holster. "There we go. You're going to do this man-style."

"Good call." I rattle the ice in my glass to show approval. And, with a pat on the back from Diego, Stabby bewilderedly heads out the door.

Mollycoddle Jim is sitting on the chair Indian style. "He's a good kid."

I take a sip from my drink. "How long do you think it will take him to realize he doesn't have ammo?"

Diego Delgado De Gato is back in the couch. "Meh, he'll milksop under before then, Shelley."

"Goddamnit. I was going for pirate."