“It’s baked ziti, not ambrosia. Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered before settling back onto my beanbag chair to start flipping through the channels.
Chapter 4
The Transition
Later that evening
Ipulled the last corner of the fitted sheet snugly over the mattress before shoving my face into the warm, freshly laundered bedding. The overpowering floral scent of fabric softener might have been too much for my sensitive nose, but it was a welcome improvement over Roscoe’s stink. Tonight, I’d put my foot down about the bed and bathing situation, and to make my point, I set up an inflatable mattress on the floor near the television.
I stopped by the bar to give everyone the bad news, with Rob being especially upset. He offered me more money on top of my last paycheck, but I nervously refused. Even though I could have used it, I wasn’t the only one struggling, and my problemsshouldn’t fall on anyone else’s shoulders. Legally, he couldn’t continue employing me anyway, so thus ended my somewhat steady stream of income.
Being jobless wasn’t all bad, and I got some grocery shopping done for Roscoe’s ‘better than sex’ baked ziti while also getting a head start on packing. Rent was coming due soon, and it wouldn’t be long before the eviction letters followed. Even though I was worried to the point of breaking, there wasn’t anything I could do but let it happen.
The locked doorknob rattled moments before Roscoe rapped out a playful rhythm.
“Little piggy, let me in,” he called out, his voice muffled.
“Oh. what plague have you brought upon me now,” I muttered under my breath while twisting the deadbolt lock. When the door opened, Roscoe greeted me from inside of an old mattress with holes cut out for his legs and arms. He’d hidden his claws inside a pair of mismatched flannel oven mitts while black, heavy duty trash bags covered his feet. To add to the chaos, a grease-covered towel turban wrapped around a partially deflated volleyball, which was attached to the top of the mattress by what looked like Velcro. “God damn it.”
“What?” He turned sideways and hobbled through the door. I glanced both ways to see if he’d drawn any attention to himself before shutting it.
“What the hell is this?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” he asked, letting the oven mitts fall to the floor before struggling to point up at the turban. “I’m the Sultan of Serta.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip and stared at him for a few moments, my vision turning red again.
“Get this nasty shit out of the apartment.”
“It ain’t that bad.” Though I couldn’t see his face, I could hear him inhale through his nose. “Smells a little like when Iwas helping one of my friends shoot a porno. We had an old mattress like this on the floor.” He struggled a little, pulling both arms inside so he could unzip the bottom. Enough of the innards had been removed so he could fit while somehow keeping just enough stuffing to maintain its shape. Like a dog in an oversized E-collar, he struggled to slip out of the mattress, getting stuck halfway. “Uh… gonna need some help.”
With a groan, I grabbed the top, which was slightly damp, and gave it a yank. “This is so disgusting.” With one final pull, he slipped free—and then farted.
“Ahh, much better,” he said, fanning the air behind him.
“You’re a pig,” I said, pointing to the back door leading to the balcony. “Put all this crap out there. It smells worse than you, if you can believe it.”
He let out a laugh before dragging the nasty, mostly empty mattress to the door, shoving it outside. He rubbed his hands together, nudging me aside while sliding his dirty feet across the clean kitchen floor toward the fridge.
“I was thinking… maybe we should wait to do the piercings until next week. It’s not a good time right now,” I said, spraying air freshener around the living room.
“I told you, my buddy said we gotta get them in before you start healing too fast.” The air mattress finally caught his eye. “You gonna sleep on that now?”
“No.”
Roscoe cracked open a beer and let out a whine. “Aw, come on, Cody!”
“You’re my roommate, not my boyfriend.” I grabbed a bottle of werewolf shampoo sitting on the counter. “See this? Use it. You smell like Waffle House dumpster juice.”
He snatched the bottle away and scowled. “You don’t deserve my baked ziti.” Roscoe gave me one more disgruntled growl before disappearing into the bathroom.
“Then I’ll make it myself.”
Roscoe popped his head out from around the corner, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s not like it’s that hard. Any idiot can dump noodles into sauce and bake it.”
He slowly backed out of the bathroom, his expression growing concerned. “You really don’t know how to cook, do you?”
