1
extra ribbing
Liam
This is a joke.
Tell me I’m not listening to fucking mid-eighties Madonna blasting through my walls at seven in the fucking morning. On a Saturday no less.
There’s no way I’m running on three hours of sleep and waking up to this shit.
Throwing off the covers, I stalk naked as the day I was born to grab my phone from the kitchen, where I tossed it when I got home last night.
I’m too old for a bender, but I’m way too old for fucking Madonna, and… Is that Christina Aguilera now? No, I’m way too young for it.
Maybe this is a terrible dream, and my subconscious is playing tricks on me. Horrible, disgusting, repressed-memory-type tricks. This is it. This is how I die—ear-wormed to death by eighties and nineties pop divas until my brain revolts and gives up the ghost.
Here lies Liam Murphy, a once vibrant man who died to death of eyeliner, hairspray overload, and repeated synthesized choruses.
Sliding my phone open, I open the app for the cameras around my property with one hand and scratch my balls with the other. A flick of my thumb too close means I can’t decide whether rubbingone out would make this better. Yes to relief. No to the fucking soundtrack.
Not no—fuck no.
Cameras tell me what I was already dreading… A new neighbor. A next-door neighbor with whom I’ll share a townhouse wall, who obviously has terrible taste in music and wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn.
That’s it. I need to move. I’ll call the realtor today, when it’s actually a decent hour because seven in the morning is fucking not.
I’m about to find some appropriate eighties metal to respond to the ridiculous new neighbor when she pops her head out of the front door to yell to the movers. Fuck me. She’s… Yeah, maybe rubbing one out is a good idea.
She’s short and cute, with sleek black hair, and creamy, unmarred pale skin as far as the eye can see. And her ass? The globes fall out of the back of short shorts, playing peek-a-boo with me.
My cock is certainly interested and considering getting her attention, even if I’m apt to hear Britney Spears or some other shit. I finger the piercing at the tip of my dick and wonder if wholesome, white bread, cute girls are used to thick cocks with extra ribbing. It could be fun as shit to find out. First my cock meets the new neighbor,thenI’ll call the realtor.
Priorities and all.
The music switches, and it doesn’t get better. But at least it’s… Yeah, there’s nobut.
Equally as horrid. Equally as poppy. Equally as bubblegum.
But the front door cam shows Trixie, or whatever her Rainbow Bright name might be, doing a little shimmy from her top step. Now if she’d just bend over?—
It’s the sun reflecting off the blade of a knife that catches my attention. The two men with the moving company gaze left and right before dropping the boxes on the stoop and entering Trixie’s house.
Shit.
I pull on gray cut-off sweats from the laundry room floor as Irun out my front door. Leaping the entry steps, I manage to get inside her house within moments.
Elbow to her throat, knife to her neck, Goon One makes the lethal mistake of looking back to make eye contact with me. Brandishing my own knife, I give him the option. “Step away. Or you lose an eye.”
He looks to Goon Two who makes a mad dash for the door, only to be clotheslined by my waiting arm. One down.
I return my gaze to the guy holding my new neighbor, who’s stupid enough to think I negotiate. “Let me go or I’ll slice her throat.”
“See… That’s not how the game is played.” I kick his foot out from under him. His ass hits the floor with a thump, but Goon Two sees an opening and lunges for me.
Two on one isn’t a fair fight, but they don’t know that yet. It takes more than that with me. And that’s only if they’re trained.
The scream rending through the condo is from Goon Two as he stares at his eyeball in his outstretched palm. That is, before he pisses himself and blacks out.
