The same side of the coin

The same side of the coin

O boy! There she sits on the bench, friggin Prima Donna! Who does she think she is! Sitting there like that, likes she owns it! Look at that prissy little smirk on her mouth…and that magazine! How do you like that? Probably don’t understand no word’s printed in it. Just for the show, I bet. For the show! O yeah, everything revolves around prissy little missy. See what’s she’s wearin’, see what’s she’s readin’! Everyone wants a role model except her. She reckons she’s the role model. For all! Yeah, for all. My ass for all! She’s gotten that dress on again. That friggen dress that shows her legs, almost all of it right up to rims of her stockings…and oh those stockings…what a site they must look at all day. I bet they are just SICK of it at the end of the day! Friggen SICK I tell you. Yeah. Then that wimp of a boyfriend takes over I reckon. Once the stockings are relieved of their sickening duty…starin’ up at THAT! That smuck! He with his big black Beemer and all that shines’n shakes. Makin’ up for a small you-know-what, I tell ya. A small you-know-what! An’ what does a clapped-out tramp of the likes of her does with a small you-know-what I ask ya? Nothin! Nothin, I tell ya. She pretends to like it for the sakif’da Beemer and the diamonds an then she shakes it off some’ere else, I tell you. Some’ere wherr’it’s at! Some’ere where it’s really at! Those lips like cherry bombs’ll prob’ly do ya some good, if you’re into that sort of thing. You know what I mean, hey? Now pass me a match, man. A bloke’s dyin’ for a smoke here. Match please sir? No? what’cher lookin at! Friggin faggot. Light ma’am? Up your’s bitch. Howzit sonny, spare a poor man a match! There a good lad! Thanks a million! God bless you in heaven! …and all that crap that goes with it….What a poor man does not have to do fera light, I ask you! Goddamn near’ve to kiss their damn crappy shoes, I tell ya. Splat! Spit on’em…spit on everyone of’em, the bastards. There was this one the other day…I tell ya. If it wasn’t for ma bad foot, I’dve buried my green sneaker up her wobbly ol’ ass. I asks her fer a few pennies, jus’ta make up fer half-a-bread, you know, and ya know what she’s says to me? Go get a friggin job, sonny, ther’s nuthin’ wrong with ya! Now I asks you very nicely, who’d take a Joe like me? Would you hey? Would ya? Naw, didn’t think so….bein’ white an’ all that. What with my busted foot and all that, I mean, you can see how my foot is busted up, can’t ya? Look at that big toe. Ever seen one that that? Ingrown toenail for thirty years. Never been able to put a shoe on it, I tell ya. You could go look in my cupboard if I’d had one. You’d see one busted shoe and one new shoe. Every pair of’em, I tell ya. Every pair of’em. Left’un never worn. Could open a shoe store for left-footed people! Har-har, what you say? Chip in a few bucks fer cap’tal an’ I’ll make yer’a partner….har-har. I luv a joke ev’ry now’n’again. But honest, a few bucks could do me nicely today. No jokes. A man’s life is not a joke. Not one anyways that mus’ suffer the consequences of others like I hav’ta. Jes’ you look at that bitch on the park bench now, an’ you’ll know what’s I’m talking about. Two perfect feet. Not a blemish, I tell ya. Jus’ cas’ yer pearlies t’wards them black leather boots. A woman with no calluses on her hands, has no business wearin’ boots, I tell ya. My moma was a smart one. Smartest in the whole damn family and she wore boots. But she had the calluses to go with it. ‘Onest ‘ard-workin’ woman with not a damn lazy bone in her body. Wash’d ‘n iron’d till the day she was dead. Not just for us youn’uns and my daddy, God rest ‘is poor drunken soul, she wash’d ‘n iron’d for everyone! Rich ‘n poor! Anyone who coulda pay’d ‘er. Not like that bitch-sister of mine who could do nuthin’ but screw fer free. That’s if ya don’ count the beemer and th’ diamonds then, wuld’ya. There she sits on the bench, friggin Prima Donna.

The End


02 May 2019


Short Stories