[ Noelle Rivers ] Fucking Hostile
May 24, 2021 19:40:04 GMT -5
☠ VooDoo ☠, Paul Montuori, and 1 more like this
Post by Noelle Rivers on May 24, 2021 19:40:04 GMT -5
Pamela Just-Call-Me-Pam Dawson has been a fixture in my life over this last year though I like her no more today than I did the first time I met her. She’s got these fucking beady little eyes like a ferret which is apropos considering most often or not she smells like one, too. I haven’t decided if that’s a personal preference or if maybe her sense of smell is as bad as her choice of fashion and that she just doesn’t realize that every time she recrosses her legs in the opposite direction there is a definite fuckin’ wafting scent that penetrates into the cheap mid-grade fabric of her office furniture. That’s one rankass hotdog hallway.
We do this song and dance a lot, myself and Pam. Her staring a hole into my forehead in some fucking misguided attempt to scare me into compliance and me trying not to retch my breakfast over the floor when she does her Sharon Stone routine. I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice in the matter but unfortunately for both me and Pam’s rancid two month old thanksgiving turkey twat, the court didn’t give me a choice. That’s another story.
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
We can do this all day, Noelle. As long as it takes.
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
Alright, but can we try to wrap it up by three, at least? I hate to miss The Young and the Restless, Opal’s in a coma this week.
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
Cut the cutesy routine, chickadee. I’ve spent my entire career dealing with people who do it much better than you do and I’m not impressed.
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
Great, I guess next you’ll tell me that you don’t want to go for Dollaritas at Applebee’s tonight. You know, you keep mistreating me like this and I’m going to stop calling.
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
Tell me about the bar, Noelle.
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
Woah, slow down there Pammy Pie. I don’t like to bar hop until the third date.
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
The man at the bar. Tell me what happened with you and the man at the bar.
The pulsating vein in her forehead would indicate that Pamela was Muy Frustrada. Geez, some people are just wound so fucking tightly that any old thing sets them off. The man that she’s referencing was one of those wound too tightly kind of people, I could tell that without the six or seven drinks sloshing around in the acids of his pudgy little stomach that he would have never had the courage to approach me in the way that he did that night. No, this was a man who lived and died by his fucking anal retentive routine and being exactly the right measurements to fit perfectly in the little box of his life. I could tell the first time I laid eyes on him that he was the type to spend hours on YouTube learning the technical way to fold a fitted sheet rather than just balling it up and throwing it in a cabinet like the rest of the world does before he whacks off into a special sock and cries himself to sleep cause his mom flashed into his mind at the critical moment. Who knows what had gone so wrong for him that he ended up in the Cess Pit that night – an aside, that’s not only a euphemism but also the actual name of the bar that I’d found myself in on the night of our chance encounter.
The bar itself isn’t anything to write home about. It’s small, sticky and overly crowded on a good night, the drinks always taste like the liquid left at the bottom of your trashcan after you pull it back up from the curb on pickup day. The smell of the one room bar was another thing entirely and could only be described as onions in three-day old tube socks, with or without the aforementioned jizz. Magical, innit? My idiot sister Roxanne frequents this place for some unintelligible reason I’ve yet to code crack but if I had to take a wild guess it’s somewhere around ass, grass and fast cash depending on the chain of events she’s got planned. Don’t get it twisted, she isn’t a working girl. She isn’t smart enough to charge for it. Roxy is the kind of girl that men find to be... disarming. Which is actually pretty fucking fitting considering sometimes she disarms them of their wallets. On this particular night Roxy had disarmed the wrong guy and was hiding out in the ladies' room waiting for him to either get bored and leave or distracted by something much more interesting than the $276 my sister had relieved him of. That’s where I came in, I was the getaway diversion and rightful owner of at least half the nights take.
If I was more like my younger sister I guess I could have distracted him with tits or wits while she slunk through the smoke-filled room and to the nearest exit with all her teeth and all his credit cards. My idiot sister had texted her dilemma while she hid in one of the battered stalls of the ladies' room, likely the one where Veronica Sims had written some very unflattering things about Roxy after she blew her boyfriend outback in the alley during the Anal Seepage show last fall. It was no small miracle that tonight she’d actually wore something with a pocket to shove her phone into, usually the neon-colored band aids she passes off as clothing aren’t designed with practicality in mind and there had been a few times she’d left her phone in the apartment in favor of an outfit and had ended up paying for it. I’d stepped up to the bar to scan the room for the mark, my elbow sticking to the surface where it rested and my teeth chattering with the reverb from the stack of amps situated across from the bar on what they tried to pass off as a stage.
Maybe he’d been sitting there all night just waiting to work up the courage to shoot his shot with whatever moist hole that happened to be nearest to him. Or maybe that day he just ate a brain tumor for breakfast. Don’t know, don’t care. For whatever reason while I was looking for Mr. Light-In-The-Pants this desperate dolt was looking at me calculating the odds. I didn’t know it then but Travis’ bad day was about to set in motion my bad year. At first Trevor or Troy, or whatever his name was, tried for your typical fare of “let me buy you a drink little lady”. Valuable tip about me, I don’t like to be called Little Lady. Maybe it’s that stereotypical short person aggression people like to talk about, I don’t know, I just know that my height doesn’t preclude me from pulling your pancreas out of your ear canal and shoving it up your dickhole. I just might need a step stool to do it.
Simultaneously two very important things happened. First, I spotted Roxy emerging from the bathrooms and a very red faced fat fuck moving forward through the crowd in her direction, no doubt Mr. $276. Secondly, Tom decided with my attention split between him and the bloke making a beeline for my sister that this was the opportune time to use his slimy crab claws to cop a feel of my left ass cheek. Something else to know about me, I don’t like to be fucking touched. As they say, necessity is the mother of all invention. The court official version is that the one of the crowd bumped into me, knocking me into his glass of rum and spilling it down the front of him. Of course, I felt so contrite about this that I went to grab something to help clean him off, accidentally hitting into the arm of the man beside us who just so happened to be lighting a cigarette at that very moment which unfortunately set Thaddeus aflame. Though for some reason some of the witnesses concocted this crazy fucking untrue lie that I dumped his drink and lit him up on purpose. As if I’m the kind of girl who goes around setting people on fire on a Tuesday night.
Either way, it turned out lighting a man on fire is a great distraction in a bar full of people. It also turns out the law seems to frown on it. It’s even more so frowned upon if this is the third or fourth time you’ve ended up in front of the same judge for freak accidents that leave those around you in various states of poor health. Go figure. That’s where Pamela-Call-Me-Pam comes into the story, she’s court appointed. The judge said something about anger issues though I don’t know what he was on about with all that. I feel like I handle my anger in perfectly acceptable and rational methods, they just sometimes involve a crowbar.
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
I’ve been authorized by the courts to remind you that this is your last strike, Noelle. If you land on Judge White’s docket one more time he’s going to send you to county and it’s not the cakewalk juvie was. We’re talking real time in a real prison this time.
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
So what, no spa?
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
You’re not a child anymore. It might have been cute back then but you’re to an age now where there are real consequences for your actions. Think of your grandmother, think of all that she’s done for you after the situation with your parents. Is this any way to repay her for taking you and your sister in?
❝ Noelle Rivers ❞
Well, gee whiz Ms. Dawson, I guess I never looked at it like that before. You know what! You’re right! It’s time for me to grow up and pull up my boot straps, really make something of myself, ya know? Gosh darnit, you’ve turned my life around, how can I ever repay you?
❝ Pamela Dawson ❞
Get out of my office, Noelle. I expect you back here next week, same time. Don’t make me come find you.
I love it when she plays hardball, it makes me all hot. By this point the proximity to her moustache was making me feel queasy so I was glad to take my leave of her and all this prison talk. It was totally killing my vibe. Look, I’m not a total degenerate. While most of the world isn’t anything but a flaming bag of watery doggy shit the one good thing in it has been my Grams. I’m not trying to give her grief and make have one of those Life Alert moments, it’s just sometimes people irritate me. Little did I know that I was about to meet the Mechagodzilla of irritation.
What I couldn’t have anticipated was the fact that Gram’s friend with a “path” for someone like me ended up being busybody Beulah from down the road. Beulah’s kid the wrestler was a walking talking canker sore on the taint of humanity and her boyfriend was more like a pet psychopath. First, they shove me in some dump motel and make me tag along on all their stupid little adventures then one day with no warning the big scary one shows up and tells me he’s taking me to my new home which turns out to be some weird sweatshop they’ve somehow managed to manipulate three other misfit morons into moving into under the guise of “training”. Like seriously, who the hell would look at those two freaks of nature and think to themselves oh yeah, these people look like they know what they’re doing? Supposedly, the sixty-year-old goth guy is part of some heap big wrestling family that’s like super srs. From what I’ve picked up he was boinking the circus clown and left his wife for her, which has to make you wonder how bad the wife was that the skitzy trailer trash seemed the better option. The bar is on the floor.
So now here I am, stuck in this acid trip penitentiary with the three other inmates just biding my time until they get tired of me and send me back, as people in my life tend to do. My castmates in this fucked up rerun of The Real World are a smarmy British fuck and two orphans. The big orphan is like the world's biggest flesh puppy, always yapping at your heels looking to get his belly rubbed and his ears scratched. He’s also a fuckin’ Dorito Loco Creep Supreme, always looking at me when he thinks I don’t see him or trying to sneak a peek into my room as he walks by. That’s another fucked up thing: they took the fuckin’ doors. My guess is 60+ Hot Topic guy wants to watch the little British fuck changing in and out of his panties but needed a cover story. Maybe that’s why his marriage failed and he threw his life away for someone that makes meth heads look put together. The Flesh Puppy Creepomatic 2000 comes complete with sidekick; one of Santa’s elves that didn’t make toy quota and got sent wherever unwanted little elves go. She wanted to show off so she went out and got herself signed to some other pro tickle fight company which thankfully means she’s out of my fucking hair half the time. Rounding out the band of merry miscreants is the one who spends half his time lifting stuff from anyone dumb enough not to clock him and the other half trying to guess the cut of my cunt hair. I call him Trash Bag on account of that’s where I hope his body ends up.
For the last couple of months it’s been easy coasting aside from having to deal with the cast of fuckin clowns they’ve recruited. They’ve spent most of their time focused on the Creep and the Crook and not nary a moment to worry about little old me. But this week the clock had struck twelve and doomsday awaited, at least I fuckin’ hoped so. See, I’m not a wrestler. I don’t give a fuck about wrestling. I have no desire to win matches and get my red rocket rubbed like the Puppydog and the Pixie. But Trash Bag thought it would be funny to have the bookers put me on the card against someone so bland I still can’t even remember what the fuckin’ guys name is. But what the Trash Bag didn’t realize is that this is exactly the moment I’ve been waiting for, the fork in the road that will take me to the end of this whole ordeal.
Let’s talk about loss. Have you ever lost anyone? Stupid fucking question, of course you have. Everyone has lost someone and if they say they haven’t they’re a goddamn liar. On the totally buck crazy bizzaro off chance they aren’t lying who really wants to hang out with some asshole who hasn’t ever experienced the crushing weight of having their heart ripped out of their chest and squared danced on by a couple of cow fucking redneck bubbas. Suffices to say I don’t fuck with happy well adjusted people.
That’s besides the point though. Me? I got loss in spades, baby. I learned early on that people are all just disappointments waiting to check out early and leave you with a weird mattress stain and a mini bar bill that could rival the likes of Randy Quaid. Hello, goodbye, fuck you very much. You name it, I’ve lost it. My junkie mother split the scene pretty early on, my Dad couldn’t hack it raising two kids on his own so he fell into a bottle, had a heart attack and died. Typical, right? My best friend ate the barrel of a gun a few years back so he won’t require turn down service in the morning either. The only two people that have ever stuck around in my life are my Grandmother and my sister, Roxy.
See, I took our shared life experiences and used them to educate myself, to make sure I never found myself in the same position again. My sister went the opposite direction by becoming the words most gullible airhead that trusts bottom feeding slimy human algae too easy and can’t see the fucking train barreling down the tracks headed straight for her stupid little heart. She’s usually found somewhere off St. Mary’s strip in some dingy little bar watching bands that can’t even fucking tune their instruments little less produce actual music. She’s always surrounded by the greasy haired fast fingered losers who spend their nights on the strip and their days working the sandwich line at a Subway on the south side. We’re talkin real fuckin’ combo loco winners. But thankfully, she has me to keep her ass on the strip and not shoved into the back of some rusted out van headed towards Hell Paso for a little light sex trafficking. But does she ever thank me? No, of course not. It’s always “Noelle, you’re no fun!” or “Noelle, you need to get laid!”. Yeah, right, having some dipshit named Chad spit his Hot Cheeto drool on my shaved beef mailbox and ram his off colored half stiff Mr. Rogers into me for a whopping minute and a half until he erupts curdled cottage dick cheese and collapses his gelatinous carcass on top of me is surely just the type of shit I need to turn my life around, right? I pass on that harder than one of these fucknuggets dicks could ever hope to get.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Randy Quaid. Some people may chalk their life experiences up to “bad luck”, like my sister Roxy. I’m not that idiotic though, there is no such thing as luck whether it’s bad or otherwise. You get what you fucking get and it’s up to you to figure out how to keep your ass above the quicksand and Chad’s tongue out of your mouth long enough to survive this fucked up magical mystery tour called life. The Trash Bag and The Puppy have been unlucky the past few weeks, getting sacrificed over and over to a man who is to wrestling what a bag of processed nacho cheese is to a gas station, not the thing anyone goes there for and sure to leave you shitting your brains out if you made the fucking mistake of paying it any attention. Far as I can tell, homeboy is mad that in all his long illustrious career he’s never been main event status champenis or some shit. Which, I don’t know shit about fuck but maybe if you’ve never found yourself top guy the issue isn’t that everyone else has been working against you to keep your ass down, it’s just that you’re a steaming pile of shit and the only use you have is leaving a stain on the carpet that’ll be washed away and forgotten as quickly as it appeared. The one pleasure I’ve had since I’ve gotten here is watching this guy and his compatriots rip the asshole out of the sad sacks I live with so I guess he ain’t all bad. The funny thing is, this guys whole fuckin schtick is that he wants to be the world champion, yet he never actually mentions the other sixty year old goth guy that actually is world champion. Instead he’s writing in his diary everyday about the sex pest brother of my current guardian who was like a fuckin premature ejaculation when it comes to being worth a fuck in this joke of a business. Lost to everything to a dude who cosplays as a fuckin pigeon every week. Embarrassing as fuck all. So, far as I can tell, shit king must care more about getting some attention from the tattooed pretty boy than he does about actually getting his dick wet in the main event scene. Not that he’d hack it there anyway given that the chernobyl test tube babies I call roommates were able to give him and his boy a run for their money last time they faced off. Not a great look.
None of this matters much to me though. I don’t give a rolling rim job or a shooting finger bang about winning this match or any others. See, it all goes back to loss. I’ve spent so much time losing I lose better than the semen street fuckmuppet does running his mouth about shit that happened twenty years ago in places no one here gives a fuck about. All that stands between me and emancipation from this fucked up Partridge Family is letting the oil massaged hemorrhoid roll his brokedown useless body on top of me for the old one, two, three. It’ll be quicker than most times I’ve laid down for some dickhead who thinks he’s more important than he really is. Then I’m fucking footloose and fancy free on my way out of this dumpster.
❝ Vhodka Marie ❞
Get your shit and let’s go.
My mother killed someone.