You Get What You Give
by Michael Marrotti
I knew this one coffee shop girl who refused to let me fuck her, but still engaged in senseless dialogue which consisted of her disdain for humanity. Her goal in life was to become a veterinarian so she wouldn’t have to deal with people, like people aren’t the owners of animals, or the people helping these poor little house pets aren’t human beings.
Fortune would have it, that one day with a little persuasion through the benevolence of chemistry, she became mine. Now we’re a chemically induced couple.
Speaking of morons who are full of shit, my phone had finally gone off. At the time I was sitting in a roach infested bar for an hour with my girlfriend waiting to hear from Randy, the guy who sold me some bunk shit the other day. He had a ridiculous excuse that made no sense. Meanwhile, I had a calculator to solve this equation.
My girlfriend and I took a walk outside, towards the back of the bar. Randy was lurking in the shadows by the garbage bin.
I approached the shady little shit with a friendly smile and said, “So what do you have for me tonight, bro?”
He was scratching his neck in a chemically induced bliss when he said, “Perk thirties, man.”
“Cool, lemme see one,” I told him. “I wanna verify the authenticity.”
Reluctantly he reached into his pocket and handed me one.
I held it in my sweaty palm for a second, looked up at him with a smile on my face, and tossed the pill into my mouth.
My girlfriend was pointing, laughing profusely, saying, “That’s what you get for ripping us off, motherfucker!”
I reached back and hit him with everything in me. He collapsed onto the pavement, but before I could finish the coward off, he rose to his feet with uncanny speed and took off toward the hills of Beechview. I couldn’t have caught that bastard had I been fortified on adderall.
“Way to go, asshole,” said my girlfriend. “Now you get to scratch yourself to sleep as I watch reruns of American Idol and dream of euphoria! What fucking good are you?”
“Stop your shit already,” I said. “Don’t blow my high with your bi-polar behavior. All you did was point your fucking finger!”
“Fuck you, asshole. You’re not getting laid for a week now!”
“Big deal. Your pussy is only moist at the beginning of the month anyways. Believe me, bitch, I can wait.”
“You fucking scumbag!”
The crazy bitch started throwing punches at my face. I was ducking and weaving, blocking each one, hoping for it to be over within seconds. After all, these pills kick in with haste.
Finally, I smacked her upside the head. I had no choice. A high is a terrible thing to waste. She took off after that screaming profanities. The last thing I heard clearly was, “It’s over!”
My entire life turned to shit in under five minutes. I decided to go back into the bar for a Jack an’ Coke. I was a few pills short of killing the pain. Bourbon was the only viable alternative.
The bartender kept the drinks coming until I was spent. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It felt like I was drinking amongst the living dead. Nothing but stone cold drunks, miserably sipping their beers, not saying a word. My spirits at the time were low enough. This wasn’t helping my already dismal situation.
I left the same way I came, and as I did, some coward sucker punched me in the temple. I staggered a few steps away around the side of the establishment, only to sustain another hit. At this point I was disoriented, but also full of rage. I started throwing punches left an right. My fists were meeting new acquaintances.
Someone screamed out in agony. It was Randy, the little weasel, holding his bloody face. The fun wasn’t over yet. He brought a friend for back up who I had to brutally destroy before I could handle my conquest. All it took was a solid punch to the jaw. His friend collapsed like the three rivers stadium.
Randy started running away again, but this time I caught up to him. I tackled the little shit, then got on top of him, holding his arms down with my knees.
He began to scream out, “Mario, please don’t do this! Take the pills, take it all, just don’t hurt me!”
I replied, “It’s too late for that now, you fucking weasel. My sexual life is obsolete because of you!”
I reached back and let him have it. Punch after punch was followed by wads of saliva directly in his face. His head was smacking off the concrete in unison with each hit of my bloody fist. The rhythm of the attack was uncanny. After five hits he was unconscious.
I reached in his pockets with my bloody hands, and grabbed his stash of pills. Rejoice! Victory was mine!
After chewing up a few of my treats I called up my dimwitted girlfriend to explain the situation. All of a sudden we were lover’s again. Never underestimate the power of chemistry.
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Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his blog: www.
KJ Hannah Greenberg new book, Friends and Rabid Hedgehogs, just launched. This collection of short fiction includes a work initially published in Flash Fiction Press; “A Line Producer’s Beneficent Notes”. It is available at Amazon in Kindle and print.