I hated being in places like the parody club. I was uncomfortable in my smoking jacket and couldn't properly enjoy the drinking because all I kept thinking about was the forty goddamn minutes drive back to my apartment in a few hours. And everyone was so friendly... I guess they had to be since they had nothing worth talking about. I was the opposite. I am entirely unlikable to everyone except those who hadn't grown the balls to live their lives with passion. To a fistfighting drunkard I was a common nuisance, but to an accountant I was exciting. A dangerous animal to poke and prod that was a thrill to encounter without the safety of the circus cage, but would be left chained up in his wild paradise tomorrow, far from the civil world of the office life. So I got along fine. I told my stories and the clean-shaven stiffs bought the drinks. Vanessa loved this kind of shit. She tried desperately to blend in with the snobbish ladies, and would almost fit in if it weren't for her excessive cleavage and weary eyes. We played different games, me being the foul mouthed beast and her pretending not to be the kind of lady that would be sucking the cock of a bastard like me later this evening.
We danced a little, Vanessa drank too much wine and champagne, and at the end of the night I was left with cleanup duty. I dragged her down to the beat up chevy which was a pain in the ass since Vanessa insisted we park three blocks away to avoid the shame of driving it, and I hit the road. "They loved me in there" she kept saying. "Those were my people, I belong with them. You don't appreciate being with a real lady, you just use me up whenever the booze runs dry and you can get hard again." I didn't disagree with her. She was better than me, and any stranger on the street could tell just by watching us walk around together.
"I didn't ask for you." I said. "You crawled on top of me, remember? I tried to get rid of you. Remember that." The words cut deep and she began her sloppy sobbing, probably because it was the truth. We sat in silence for the rest of the ride since the radio was broken, and when I got home I went up to the apartment without her.
It took her twenty minutes to make it up the stairs, and she barged in with mascara running down her face and her heels in her hands. She was an unsteady drunk, both mentally and physically. I had the advantage now. I had sturdy sea legs from all the regular whiskey. She marched past me and slammed the bedroom door behind her, so I kicked my shoes off with indifference and stretched out on the couch.
I must have drifted off because a bit later I awoke with a sharp pain in my left arm. It was dark as hell and I felt a great weight on my chest. I was certain I was having a heart attack until I heard her voice. "You fucking son of a bitch! You don't care about me! You don't even appreciate what I do for you!" Vanessa thought she had me pinned down like I did to her when I was fucking her but I bucked her off onto the floor with ease. I was disoriented and still drunk as I marched into the kitchen to turn on the light, and once it was on I started laughing.
Sticking out of my left bicep like a teenager's hardon was a steak knife, pouring blood on my kitchen floor in the same spot that Vanessa's blood stained the tiles months ago. The crazy cunt had stabbed me, but clearly didn't have the heart to do the job correctly since she didn't go for my stomach or neck. I pulled the knife out quickly and immediately regretted it as my blood spilled like a faucet now, so I grabbed a used napkin off the table and shoved it into the wound with my fingers.
Vanessa was screaming bloody murder now, either frightened at the sight of blood or by the impending consequence. "Get the fuck out of my apartment!" She yelled. "Get out and never come back!" I didn't hit her. I didn't even consider it. This was my opportunity. She was right, you know. It was her place now, she was paying the rent.
I grabbed an armful of clothes from the hamper and checked my pockets for keys and wallet. Check. I snagged the half drunk bottle of whiskey from the table and practically ran out the door. As I was getting into the car I could hear her calling from the window. "Where the hell are you going?! Come back, you son of a bitch! I love you!!" I started the car and screeched the tires on the way out of the lot, sparks spitting up behind me as I bottomed out on the gutter.
I decided that I needed some capable medical attention now that the blood running down my arm cooled and made it's presence known, but I had some unexpected luck. Vanessa's purse lay discarded in the foot well of the passenger street, and it was sure to be brimming with cash. I guess if good guys always finished last, then assholes always win.
.
