Okay, amici ... a Charlie Stella short story I was gonna submit to some contest until I saw there was a fee. Listen to me: it’s tough enough getting paid to write, I’m gonna pay to write? Not in this life, MF'ers. Well, not anymore.
So, without further ado ...
Ass Sex and Liver
“Look at this shit,” he said. “Now this team sucks. What the fuck?”
“Yeah, what the fuck?” she said.
He’d been watching ESPN for NHL scores when the Rangers game appeared on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. She’d been petting their dog on her lap.
“The Bills, Mets, Knicks, and now the fuckin’ Rangers. I say I like butterflies, they’ll turn to shit, too. Guran-fuckin’-teed.”
“Yeah, butterflies’ll turn to shit. Guran-fuckin’-teed.”
He looked at her. She was smiling. He said, “You’re mocking me. That’s funny.”
“Yeah, it’s funny,” she said.
He shook his head. She laughed.
He turned his attention back to the television, then looked at her and said, “Seriously, what the fuck already? What am I, the kiss of death?”
“You always said you were going to pay for past sins.”
“Yeah? And what about your past sins?”
“I have you.”
He stared at her, his eyes squinting this time.
She laughed. “What?” she said.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he said.
“Yeah, you’re lucky I love you,” she said.
He rolled his eyes, then used the remote to change channels. He watched the Patriots-Saints game.
“Now these cocksuckers’ll win and complete the sweep,” he said.
“Yeah, now these cocksuckers’ll win,” she said.
“At least I like the new band I’m playing with,” he said. “That was something good today. We sounded good, and nobody seemed too crazy.”
“What songs did you play?”
“Some blues, some rock. It was fun.”
“You like the drum kit they had?”
“It sucked, but it was good enough. I brought my snare—Oh, look at this bullshit! Another Brady call. I swear Kraft must pay the refs off with blowjobs and ten thousand dollar bills.”
“Yeah, he must pay them off,” she said.
He glared at her. She laughed again.
He said, “I hit you in the head with a pipe, you won’t laugh.”
She said, “Yeah, I hit you in the head with a pipe, you won’t laugh.”
He waved her off. “What’s for dinner?”
“What are you making?”
“Very funny.”
He watched a few more plays, and then it was fourth down.
“Now,” he said, “stop them one more down and the game is over. Fuck the Patriots.”
“Yeah, fuck the Patriots,” she said.
Brady threw an incomplete pass and the Patriots had to punt.
“No flags?” he said, ripping with sarcasm. “Refs aren’t giving them another first down? It’s a fuckin’ miracle.”
“Yeah, it’s a fuckin’ miracle.”
He turned to her. “Keep it up, you fuckin’ parrot.”
She laughed again.
“Look at this asshole,” he said. “Rob Ryan is celebrating and there’s still two and change left in the game. Jerkoff must’ve never played against Brady before.”
“Yeah, the jerkoff.”
He smiled. “Seriously,” he said, “I didn’t love you, I might kill you.”
“It’s good you love me,” she said. “I might kill you anyway.”
He rolled his eyes again, then watched the game in silence until the Patriots last possession. Brady completed a few passes and put the Patriots in position to win the game.
“Where’s Rob Ryan now?” he said. “The ass hat.”
“Yeah, the ass hat,” she said.
He turned to her. “I’m serious, what’s for dinner?”
“You said you wanted liver, right?”
“Yeah, you make it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate the smell. Get it at the diner.”
Brady threw the winning touchdown. “Motherfuck me!” he yelled.
“Yeah, motherfuck you,” she said.
“It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“What?”
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“I hate that team.”
“Yeah, you hate them.”
“They did it again. He did it again. Brady. Goddamn Brady. Fuckin’ guy is great.”
“Yeah, he’s great.”
He shook his head as he turned to her. “Don’t you have something else to do besides break my balls?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Go get the liver.”
“You go get the liver.”
“Come on, I’m starving.”
“Yeah, you look like you’re starving.”
He laughed, then tried to look hurt. “Stop, I mean it.”
She mocked his pouting. “Oh, poor baby.”
“This bullshit diet blows.”
“And I don’t think it’s working.”
“I lost a few pounds,” he said. “At least a couple.”
“Yeah, you lost a few ounces. At least a couple. Maybe.”*
He bit his lip again.
“What?” she said.
“What about the laundry?” he said.
“What about it?”
“Don’t you have some to do.”
“I was leaving it for you.”
“You can leave it in the garbage.”
“Yeah, I’ll leave it in the garbage.”
“I’m being serious here,” he said. “I need whites for work, and I’d like something to eat tonight. Liver’d be nice.”
“How’s this,” she said, “I’ll do the laundry and you cook the liver.”
“Fuck it, I’ll order pizza.”
“Nice diet.”
“It’s your fault.”
“Because you’re a lazy ass.”
“Because it’s Sunday and I don’t do dick on Sunday. I play drums or read or write or watch Law and Order in the morning, and then I watch football until Boardwalk Empire.”
“It’s good to be you.”
He pleaded. “Come on, please? Make the fuckin’ liver. You can break my balls while I’m eating it, you want.”
“I can break them easier like this.”
He grabbed the remote again, started flipping through channels, then stopped when he could feel her staring at him.
“What?” he said. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Why are you staring?”
She shrugged.
“Why are you staring and not cooking? Why aren’t you doing the laundry? Why aren’t you doing something besides breaking my balls?”
She smiled.
He switched to ESPN and watched the ticker on the bottom of the screen again. He mumbled the scores to himself until the 49’ers-Cardinals game.
“Motherfuck me,” he said. “Thirty-two to twenty.”
“Yeah, motherfuck you,” she said.
“The Cards, they were getting eleven and a half and lost by twelve.”
“Yeah, motherfuck you.”
“I had them on the ticket.”
“Yeah, you lost again.”
He turned to her. “Honestly, if I had a pipe on me, I’d cave your head in about now.”
“Yeah?” she said. “And I’ll shove a pipe up your ass.”
“Half a fuckin’ point.”
“Yeah, you lost again.”
“Fuck me in the ass.”
“Ass sex and liver.”
He was stunned. “What?” he said.
“Ass sex and liver,” she said.
His stunned look turned to a smile. “I like that,” he said. “It’s a great title. Ass sex and liver. I have to write about that.”
—Knucks
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* As turns out, I dropped 8 ounces last week. The poor WW's lady tried to sound so encouraging, bless her heart. "Wow, you're down!" she said. "That's great. And you thought you gained? You're down eight ounces."
8 friggin' ounces ... had to be the 10 slices of pizza last night ... had to be.
It's like I swallowed an anvil ...
