PoetrySexLife

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The Others

The plan involved Phil and his girlfriend. The poor guy had run up a three hundred dollar phone bill his first month there, talking to her about her stupid high school life, trying to explain what college was like to her, both of them speaking totally different languages from totally different countries. It turned out that the nights she wasn’t home talking to him (every other one), she was out with the starting senior quarterback, giving the guy blowjobs in the backseat of his Cavalier after every Friday night football game. Phil heard from one of his good friends who still went to school there and he was crushed. Mark still had Snowplow’s key fob and we were going to put it to use.

We talked Phil into going back to Columbus for his high school’s Homecoming weekend. On the ride there, Mark and I got high and Phil ran through his collection of Metallica CDs. Mark stayed busy cleaning his potato gun and fashioning a new pipe weapon out of a steel bar he had pulled from a campus dumpster. The strapping tape was wound, the music was cranked and we were all feeling good. The late night phone calls had stopped.

We sat in the stands of the Homecoming game where Phil’s girlfriend wiggled her little cheerleading ass and her quarterback boy toy threw for eighty yards. Phil hadn’t told her he was coming and we sat on the visitor’s side so as not to attract any attention. With one minute left on the game clock, we headed out to the player’s parking lot, stopping off at the truck for the potato gun, the wrapped pipe, a flashlight, and Phil’s Polaroid instant camera.

There was a dense growth of trees that we hid in until about an hour after game time when, sure as shit, here comes Phil’s girlfriend and the master jock. The guy’s walk telegraphed that it was his sole responsibility for the team’s win that night, a prideful ambulation that began from and ended at his penis. We waited until they had been in the car for about ten minutes, seeing her head occasionally bobbing up, Kurt Cobain belting out My girl, my girl; don’t lie to me through the cracked back window. Mark readied the potato gun and after the calibration was complete, he passed the gun to Phil. He said aim at the back window and when you’re ready, push the button on the butane torch. Phil nodded, those ten minutes had been damn hard on him.

Mark and I snuck up to the car; it was the only one in the lot by that time.  We were ducked down and waiting.  We waited for about two minutes that felt like twenty and finally the itch got the better of Phil.  The window exploded, startling me and moving Mark into action.  From inside the car came a masculine, What the fuck? The girl opened the door and ran toward the school, gone with the wind.

Mark opened the back door of the car, pulled the grunting meat head out by his hair, jerked his head up to his mouth and said Hello, motherfucker. The kid struggled as well as he could, even managed a decent shot to Mark’s neck. But Mark, built like a panzer, wasn’t fazed. The pipe went up, down, up, then down. The white strapping tape was muted red by the third descent. Phil’s girlfriend was screaming from the school, making a hell of a racket. We needed to speed things up and I looked over and saw Phil, still hidden in the bushes like we told him to. I told Mark to get the flashlight.

Mark pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it on the kid’s face.  I picked up the Polaroid from the grass by the back tire of the Cavalier. I pointed the camera at the bloody dumbass, knocked out cold on the grass, and fired off a picture—proof.  I looked to the bushes again and said come on dude! Vengeance had once again been served and we all headed back to the truck.

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