Stinki’s staggered gait came to a screeching halt outside of the half-house. She slid her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Too greasy”, she muttered under her vodka breath as she placed the sunglasses atop her head.
Pulling the drawstrings of her “I Kill Disabled People” hoodie as she entered the hovel, Stinki ducked her head and made a beeline for the staircase. She could wash the taste of Laura’s cunt out of her mouth and Fat would be none the wiser.
“SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Stinki gripped her unhealthy chest. Her breathing becomes choppy and laboured. A gurgling, coughing sound spews from deep within her belly. Phlegm spatters the mirror. She can see blackness pushing in from the sides of her eyes.
“SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Stinki manages to lurch forward and position her bulbous, pustulating arms on top of the sink. Turning the knob for cool water, she ducks her head under the tap, instantly overcome by a wash of sobriety. A rainbow trail of greasy, rancid water circles the drain.
Once more, a shrieking, piercing “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” rips through Stinki’s ear drums. She knows this pattern all too well. He isn’t letting the idiots win again. Only, the idiots are winning. “They always win”, whimpered Stinki as she broke down in tears.
Laying in a pile of unwashed laundry, Stinki once again pulled herself together. She could still taste the musty, sour tang of Laura’s cunt on her lips. Tonight would be the night she would finally tell him. She owes it to herself.
Bursting into the Tweety Room, Stinki saw her husband, Fat, slathered in his pink blanky, barking orders at his phone with his hand fiddling around in the thin remains of a bowl of chips.
Before Fat could shove his phone in her face to show off his newest own, Stinki struck like a smelly cobra.
“Fat, I want a divorce. I am a lesbian. I married you because you have a creepy, cherubish androgyny while at the same time I can tell my family I do not, in fact, like cunt.”
Fat stared at Stinki for what felt like 15 minutes. Stink lines permeated off of her head. Fat’s fish mouth quivered and flitted about. His head turned into a red square.
“No, child. You are not. And no, child. You did not. These are just the delusions you tell yourself. Continuing this conversation constitutes telephone harassment.”
