Standing outside of my brand-new Land Rover with clenched fists, I wonder how hard I could punch him in the neck without actually killing him. One thing’s for sure—this is officially the end of his little Fuck with Omar campaign because I might just rip his arms from his body and beat him with them.
I did exactly what Parker suggested—a couple of weeks ago, I threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and showed up at the gym everyone goes to. I even did jumping jacks.
Jumping jacks, for fuck’s sake.
He was so distracted, he ran into the old guy everyone is afraid of. Almost flattened him, and then the old guy yelled at him to watch where he was going and to stop looking at my dick.
Which was actually pretty funny.
I woke up the next morning with my toothbrush in the freezer and a “Fuck the Police” bumper sticker on my car.
That was a fun traffic stop.Not.
The following week I went back, at Parker’s insistence, still in the gray sweatpants. He nearly dropped a barbell on his toe. When he later walked into the communal showers and saw me in all my glory, he almost ate it right then and there. I caught him, and thinking I was smart, gave him another wink.
The bumper sticker the next day was “Premature Ejaculator,” and I still haven’t found my espresso machine.
What seems to really grind his gears is that at no point do I acknowledge any of the things that are happening. This amuses me to no end.
But today? Today he might finally get the reaction he’s been looking for.
It’s hot for a winter day in Austin, nearly ninety degrees, and all the Christmas decorations seem like a bad joke. Annoying, but not the worst thing in the world. That is, unless some blonde himbo puts a tub of fisting lube called Elbow Grease in your front seat and leaves it to sit all day long. By the way, lube liquifies and expands when hot. A lot.
In addition to the small lake of anal lube pooling in my driver’s seat, there’s about a million gay escort flyers scattered on the passenger side, along with a gift basket of condoms, roses, candles, and a bottle of poppers in the guise of room freshener.
There’s also a new bumper sticker on the back: “Fist Me, Daddy.”
I even parked in the front, knowing he prefers to park in the back, foolishly thinking I’d have some chance of him not fucking with me today. That went out the window the minute I walked into the ops meeting, where he’d spent most of the afternoon irritating me. The cherry on top of this shit sundae is the lake house of horrors we took down this evening.
I hate the ops that involve kids, but I’ll never stop working them because I’ll be hanged if I let those people get away with it. All of which is to say that I was already in a murderous mood when we got back.
He’s never actually ruined anything of mine before, and today was the wrong fucking day to start.
Growling to myself, I sweep the flyers and the basket to the floor, grab the overflowing tub of lubricant, slam the door, and stomp back into the shop. My head is screaming at me to be cool, to lock that shit down, but I storm my way through the waiting area and tattoo room out to the dark back alley, where he and Everett are joking about something, probably the number of octaves our asshole-of-the-week sang out before he finally died.
“Oy,akroot!This lube you put in my car melted all over my front seat. You’re going to pay to have it fixed,” I say, throwing the tub at him.Jerk.
“Hey!” Everett yells at the same time the tub of lube explodes all over Anders’ chest and face.
Anders’ stunned incredulity is deeply satisfying, especially with the large globs of lube dripping from his face and body. I’d lay even odds that man has never been speechless a day in his goddamn life.
Everett pulls me to the side. “You could’ve really hurt him, man.”
Now, I like Everett a lot. He’s done right by my brother-in-law, but he has no fucking clue what this joker has been up to.
“He set a gallon of fisting lube on my front seat on one of the hottest days we’ve had in months. My entire driver’s side seat and floorboard are drenched in it.”
That catches Everett’s attention because he’s a major car guy. “He put that bucket of lube in your car?”
“Yeah, and it oozed out all over everything. That’s not even to say anything about his little gift basket with the bottle ofroom freshenerand flyers with some guy’s dick hanging out.” Pointing at the menace, I make a solemn promise. “Enough. It’s been weeks of this. If you fucking touch my condo or my car again, I’m going to acquaint your face with my fist.”
The corner of his mouth hooks up in a victorious smile that I’d like to wipe off with violence. “Do you not know what poppers are? Oh my god,so innocent.”
Everett interjects. “They’re a huffing agent, and, uh…smooth muscle relaxers. To, you know, make back door action a little easier.”
I let out a loud, annoyed breath. “Of course I know what poppers are.” Pushing my finger into Anders’ chest, I let him have it. “You know I have a green card,right? Do you know how easy it is to get on the wrong side of immigration? I break one law and they put me on a plane the next day. Do you haveany ideawhat happens to me if they ship me back to Iraq? Any clue at all?”
He winces and steps back. “Dude, you kill people for a living. If they ship you back to Iraq, it’s going to be for that. And poppers aren’t illegal when sold as room freshener.”
