Okay. I wrote this short story just because I wanted to swear. Fact. Hahaha. I apologise if it turns out the story has no recognisable plot whatsoever. I sincerely just feel the need to swear. And oh, if you’re the type to be offended, do not – I repeat, do not- go on reading. It’s gonna be full of profanity and sexual references, so I guess it’s up to your judgment if you wanna continue reading it.
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“Fuck it, you know. Just fuck that god-damned son of a bitch, fuck him all the way to hell. And when, not if, he goes to hell, I hope he gets raped by the Devil himself, slowly and painfully, with no lubricant.”
There was no doubt that the person uttering those words was filled with anger. But no one could blame him. That ‘god-damned son of a bitch’ he was talking about, it was Klein.
Everyone knew Klein. And everyone knew Klein was a cunt. And a massive one at that. Put it this way. If he was literally a real physical cunt, he would be so massive that any penetration would be like poking a pencil into the Grand Canyon. But since he was just a metaphorical cunt, you couldn’t guess it just by looking at him.
He was the type to steal everyone’s girlfriend and then dump her after a week because, as he says it, “fuck her. Oh wait, I already did.” And that’s one of life’s conundrums. Girls keep coming to him like a policeman to a double-glazed donut. The policeman knows it’s bad for him, but he’s already hooked, and by the time he’s got over his addiction, has gained seventy pounds, diagnosed as a diabetic, his wife had divorced him two months ago, and his superiors are investigating him over breach of conduct. At least Krispy Kreme has voted him ‘Best Customer’ for the fourth consecutive year.
But then on the pitch, as the football club captain for the local team, he was worshipped as a god amongst men. And as such he was treated like a proper god by the club and its sponsors. The only reason he hadn’t left the club was that other clubs didn’t want to treat him like a booze-drinking, sex-obsessed messiah. Most other clubs already had one anyway, as an unwritten rule. If you didn’t have a self-centred, headline-making player in the team, you wouldn’t be considered a part of the elite. And everyone wanted to be a part of the elite. Even if it meant going to the casinos, gambling thousands and millions on Black Jack and roulette because you were afraid to admit you didn’t know how to play Baccarat, and serving your guests £700 glasses of the finest Dom Perignon wine you could get your hands on when all you could actually afford in the pub last night was two pints of Carling and a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Of course Klein was genuinely rich. Not even filthy rich would justify it. In fact, if filthy described wealth, Klein would have to be swimming in two tonnes of shit from the assholes of two hundred different people, all of whom only ever eat spicy Burritos and cheap hot curry from the crappy fast food restaurant downtown.
Nonetheless, he was still a cunt, albeit an undeservedly fuckingly filthy wealthy one. Self-centred as he was, he sued Calvin Klein for allegedly using his name to gain profit. Ridiculously, he won. Rumours that he managed to bribe (have a brief affair with) the judge, Amy McNaught and two-thirds of the members of the jury, were spread faster than the legs of a horny mistress after watching the sex scene from Original Sin.
“Again, I have to say this, and I don’t think anyone would disagree, Klein was an unbelievable jackass. In fact, the only respect I have is for the fact that he was so committed into being a total and utter jackass, it must have taken him a fucking lifetime to perfect the art of being a motherfucker like him.”
Almost everyone nodded in agreement. The few people who did like him (these were people who knew him only briefly when he was generous with his wealth) stayed quiet in fear of being ostracised.
“May God have mercy on him. For all of us sure fucking don’t.” And with those final words, the priest ended the funeral proceedings, allowing the few people who did bring roses – and they were cheap, supermarket roses – to pay their respects. Most of them were already heading to the after-party for Klein’s funeral held in Klein’s unclaimed house.
As the day grew darker, the world has lost one more metaphorical cunt, and gained some much needed peace. Birds rejoiced and the stars came out to play. It was a beautiful night. And no jackass was gonna ruin it.
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See. So the story’s a bit mean. But it’s not directed at anyone. Klein’s not meant to be someone I know. Honest. I just thought it’d be funny (and well, really sad and admittedly shocking) if something like this really happened. Of course, I couldn’t help myself giggle to some of the jokes. I wish if I was going to be a writer, I would get to write stories much like this one. Hahaha. Ha.
Signing out
Over and out
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