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by J. McDougald
The old house creaked again as the windstorm relentlessly continued it’s attack while Arnold Sutton stood fuming in the center of the living room amid the cheap 70’s furniture. The short man rubbed his portly stomach as if he felt ill, shook his balding head in angry disbelief.
“Let’s go out to the parents place Arny,” his wife had said, “it’ll be great! Show the kids what life was like on the prairie when I was their age!” Pam had looked up at him with those big stupid cow eyes of hers. “Let’s get ’em out of the city for a while, what do ya say?”
And where were the three of them now? In the goddamn city, that’s where. Staying at a Best Western with an indoor swimming pool, hot tub, sauna, even a water-slide that stuck out the side of the fucking building.
And where was he while they were out having a grand old time? He was by himself, trapped at her parents old house because Pam had taken the car when she took off with the kids. Fucking bullshit! He was stuck out here with the mouse shit, the dust, the uglier-than-shit furniture, and the wind that screamed like a freight train across the two trillion square miles of bald-ass prairie that surrounded the old farmstead. The grit it hurled at the windows on the west side of the house hit with such ferocity it sounded more like a hail storm than just a wind storm. Jesus wept! Pam and her sister had been born, and her parents had even died in this fucking dump. There wasn’t even a toilet in the godforsaken shack!
“You fuckin’ rubes! All these years and you couldn’t bother putting a bathroom in the fuckin’ house!” he yelled into the creaking-groaning-popping depths of the old two story home. “What a bunch of losers!”
His wife was probably in the hotel hot tub right now.
Maybe he shouldn’t have hit Pam as hard as he did but hell, it wasn’t like it was the first time she fucked up bad enough to deserve a smack and she’d never dragged the kids off before. This was her goddamn vacation, her goddamn idea, her goddamn parents house.
“You hear me? Bullshit! I’m gonna burn this fucking dump down before we leave! Mark my words!”
The pressure returned. Whether or not Arny wanted to move his bowels didn’t much matter to his colon.
He was tempted to just take a shit right there on that incredibly ugly orange plaid couch, but that was the hide-a-bed he’d be sleeping on tonight. With smoldering eyes he contemplated defecating on the painfully bright green couch that sat against the wall perpendicular to the orange monstrosity. He had stared at that long green beast in amazement when they’d first arrived. How could a couch be such a bright and noxious green without light bulbs inside? It was like the couch had been painted with nuclear waste. He’d half expected to see it glowing in the dark when he turned off the living room light.
Good thing they put a sheet over it while the house was empty, would’ve been a shame for the color to fade.
As much as he would have liked to void himself on that couch he didn’t want to have to smell it all night long either.
He shook his head in disgust, then kicked the small brown Naugahyde foot-rest in front of him. It flew cross the room and hit the toxic green couch, bounced once then landed neatly right-side-up in front perfectly placed for an occupant to put up their feet. Arny’s eyes narrowed to angry slits and glared at the impudent object. If not for the pressure in his bowel he would have continued his attack on the small piece of furniture just as the howling wind continued it’s attack on the old farmhouse. Instead the man turned and left the living room heading for the back door. He would be back, and when he returned he’d smash this worthless old junk into a billion pieces.
It’s a farm, there’s gotta be an axe somewhere…