My roommate is a fucking travesty. He’s laid out on the couch on his stomach, staring down at his phone screen, doing absolutely nothing even though he’s supposed to be cooking dinner. He’s wearing nothing but a black thong, a Batman crop-top (which has a cowl by the way, with little bat ears) and one pink with orange polkadots calf-length sock pulled all the way up. (Yes, the Batman cowl is pulled up. Ass is out, head is covered — as though that makes any kind of fucking sense.) His right hand dangles off the edge, fingers unconsciously tracing up and down the glass Coke bottle resting on the ground beside him to leave tracks in the condensation. He has the most springy blond curls you have ever seen. He’s skinny but muscular and stronger than he looks. He has big pouty pink lips. His eyes are both green and blue, depending on the light. He has lots of freckles but not the type that make some people look awkward. No, his look like all the fairies in the world fell in love with him and swarmed to give him kisses. Yup. He’s beautiful and he’s lazy and he’s the twinkiest looking person in this whole eight-story apartment complex. He is a fucking travesty.
I’m sitting on the rug a few feet away, knitting a new sweater for our hairless cat, FuckFace. (Yes, our cat’s name is FuckFace. It suits him.) I’m wearing an oversized purple t-shirt, so big that looks like it was made for an actual whale, and no pants. (If he doesn’t, why should I have to?) My long black hair spills onto the fluffy pink rug. It’s starting to get in the way so I take a spare knitting-needle out of my sewing box and use it to tuck up my hair in a big fat bun. Unlike my roommate, I am as pale as a ghost. No freckles, no tan. I hate the sunlight.
I’m in a silent battle with my roommate, hoping he’ll get up and start cooking soon before I have to nag him about it. (Or before I have to take a stew pot off the counter and start beating the shit out of him with it.) I know he hates cooking, but I hate cooking too, and it’s his fucking turn. Fucking lazy-ass travesty.
Half the time, I don’t know whether I want to kick him out of our apartment, beat the shit out of him, or make-out with him just to beat the boredom of it all. With jobs like ours, nothing really ever beats the boredom.
FuckFace comes into the living room then. He leaps up onto the couch and starts rubbing his hairless face against my roommate’s ass. Pervert cat.
All of a sudden, a silver-booted foot slams straight through our front door with a loud crash, and a man in an absolute rage begins shouting incoherently at my roommate, literally tearing down our door with his hands and feet, forcing his way inside. The noise startles me a bit, and I almost mess-up my knitting. FuckFace bolts away at the first signs of commotion.
From our splintered mess of a used-to-be-door steps a tall man wearing big, statement glasses, and I recognize him as Jamal, an acquaintance we made at a house party a few weekends ago.
My roommate sits up on the couch and backs away quickly. He doesn’t look surprised, however.
“Which one did you fuck this time?” I ask, not looking up from my knitting, “The angry man or his girlfriend?”
“RO-RO! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD, RO-RO!” Jamal roars from the doorway.
“The girlfriend, then,” I half-chuckle into my knitting. Fucking classic.
“Easy now, Jamal,” Ro-Ro’s voice is calming, but I detect a hint of amusement, “We can talk this out, ok?” Cheeky bastard.
Jamal reaches into his boot and pulls out a full-on machete. Christ on a stick! This was getting interesting.
Ro-Ro runs into the kitchen. He half slips on the tile in his single pink sock. Ro-Ro grabs a chair and chucks it at Jamal, hard and fast, showing absolutely no remorse. The chair whooshes over my head and crashes into the wall, leaving a massive dent. I told you he’s stronger than he looks. If that chair had hit Jamal (or me, fuck), it would have knocked him out for good.
Jamal begins slashing wildly with his machete.
Maybe Ro-Ro fucked someone more important than a girlfriend? I’m trying to think back to when we had met Jamal, trying to remember if he had been wearing any type of wedding ring.
“Esmerelda! A little help here? Please?”
Without looking up, I throw him the bird. It’s time he learns to clean up his own fucking messes.
The machete decapitates a Cookie Monster shaped cookie jar just inches away from carving deep into Ro-Ro’s shoulder. Like an idiot, he grabs a banana and chucks it at Jamal. It hits him right on the nose, but he doesn’t even flinch. He just growls and lunges for Ro-Ro again.
“Emmy! Please! Help!”
I wonder how his thong is holding up as it works to keep his penis from shaking about during the fight. (If you could even call it a proper fight at this point.) I don’t even bother to give him the bird this time.
Ro-Ro grabs the sink nozzle and yanks the extendable water cord out to its full potential. As Jamal crashes into the sink where Ro-Ro was just moments before, Ro-Ro quickly wraps the cord around Jamal’s neck and tries to strangle him with it.
Jamal slices the cord off with his machete fiercely. Ro-Ro leaps out of the way just in time to avoid becoming diced.
“Emmy! This isn’t funny anymore!” pouty tears gather at the corner of Ro-Ro’s blue-green eyes. He cries easily, especially when he’s frustrated. He’s one of those few people who looks really cute when doing so, and he knows it. He also knows that the sadist in me loves to see his tears. Hmm…
Ro-Ro doesn’t ever cry about any real stuff, though. And I’m glad he doesn’t. I think that that would be too hard to watch.
FuckFace comes back into the room (stupidly) to see if the brawl is over, despite all the noise that it is still causing. It’s obviously not, so he darts back out. Hair isn’t the only thing that cat lacks.
I glance at the clock. Well, we do have to be at work in a couple of hours, and I’m hungry. If I have to miss dinner because this little interruption takes too long, I am going to be pissed.
I jump to my feet, tits bouncing everywhere. (I’m not going to wear a bra in my own apartment.) I walk briskly into the kitchen, crossing from carpet to tile with cold bare feet and grab a circular coaster off the kitchen table. It’s painted with a dopey cartoon walrus. (We probably got it for free.) I stare down at it. Under my gaze, the coaster gets thinner and thinner, sharper and sharper.
Across the room, Ro-Ro is desperately blocking Jamal’s machete with a cabbage head that got left on the table, the machete shredding it perfect for coleslaw (if it wasn’t all falling on the floor. Fuck.)
My eyes glow. One eye violet, the other eye gold. With my power, I shoot the coaster across the room, it zips to hover right up against Jamal’s throat.
“Don’t move,” I say. He freezes.
“Jamal, I know Ro-Ro must have done something to you that hurt your feelings. Forgive him, ok? He’s a sex-addict with a penchant for trouble. He’s just a stupid sixteen-year-old kid. You are going to need to calm down and let it go.”
Jamal is still trembling with fury.
Geez, Ro-Ro, how kinky did you get? Usually, when I tell one of Ro-Ro’s casualties that he’s underage, the poor person will just give up and go.
I sigh. “What did he do?” I ask. I look pointedly at Ro-Ro.
“It was all consensual!” He waves his arms at me defensively.
“You can’t even legally give consent in most states,” I say dismissively.
“What are you?” Jamal chokes out. He has just realized that he is being threatened with a fucking floating walrus coaster.
“Get out my apartment,” I say instead of answering. And he does, trembling now with fear instead of rage.
Using my power, I shift the used-to-be door back into a door, fix the hole in the wall, re-secure the sink nozzle and return Cookie Monster’s head to his body.
Ro-Ro lets out a big sigh.
“Thanks,” he says. Then, he makes a face as though he’s just remembered something. He reaches up to the top of the fridge and pulls down a box of cereal. Proudly, he plops it down on the kitchen table.
“Dinner is served,” he says with a dramatic flourish, straightening out his Batman cowl before pouring himself a bowl and heading off into the living room with it.
At this point, I’m too tired to argue.
I grab my own bowl. Ro-Ro is eating his cereal dry with his hands. Disgusting.
I reach into the fridge to pour some milk. There isn’t any. Fuck. I reach into the silverware drawer to get a spoon. There aren’t any. Fuck. I grab a fork and sit down on the couch next to Ro-Ro and start eating my cereal. ’S not so bad, actually.
“So, what’d you do? Who could you have possibly fucked to get him that mad?”
He sighs, “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”
“I was hoping you’d actually take your turn to cook a fucking proper dinner.”
He shoves a few more handfuls of cereal into his mouth to stall. When he finally finishes chewing, Ro-Ro says, “I had a threesome with his older sister and her husband.”
“What? How much older? Jamal himself must be twenty!”
“Ew, don’t be like that. His sister is only twenty-two.”
“That’s still six years older than you,” I point out, “you have a fucking problem.”
“Literally,” he says.
“You’re a fucking travesty,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says.
But I let him fall asleep with his curly blond head in my lap for the last hour before we have to get to work anyway.
FuckFace is the miracle who wakes us both up in time. He’s standing on Ro-Ro’s face and nuzzling his head into my tits. I know for a fact that this cat is a pervert.
Ro-Ro wrinkles his nose. He wakes up slowly.
We both glance at the time. Shit.
It’s a massive scramble.
“Where are my thigh-high boots?!” Ro-Ro panics. He can never find anything in his messy room. I chuck the pair of stunning red and black shiny platforms at his head. He catches them deftly, and I scowl a bit. Sometimes I just want Ro-Ro to get hit upside the head. For entertainment.
Ro-Ro yanks on a fishnet skin-tight crop-top and tugs on a long shiny pleather trench coat over it. He runs a hand through his hair, which is his way of brushing it.
I grab a floor-length purple and black silk dress with a hug slit up the side which entirely exposes my left leg and a black lace-up corset style back and pull it on. It swishes my tits together for mega-cleavage. Woohoo.
I force Ro-Ro to help me lace-up the back. His fingers expertly handle the laces, having been forced to be my style assistant many, many times.
“Pants! Ro-Ro you need pants!”
“Shit! I always forget!”
He runs to the other side of the room and starts chucking things out of drawers. A baby blue calf-length sock hits me in the face. Ro-Ro has a thing for calf-length socks — even if he’s just wearing one at a time. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen his right foot. I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. Fucking travesty.
Ro-Ro tugs on a pair of black ripped denim booty shorts which admittedly covers his dick but leaves half his ass exposed behind his trench coat. Apparently the definition of pants has changed.
Ro-Ro turns to me and his expression switches to panicked.
“Em!” he yells, “Your hair!”
I glance at the mirror and see the knitting needle still poking out of the top of my bun.
“Fuck!” I glance at the time.
“You’re going to have to use your magic!” Ro-Ro urges.
I sigh. I hate using it for things that are not important. Save my roommate from a machete wielding maniac? Somewhat important. My hair? Ok, yeah, you know what, actually yeah that’s important.
I yank the knitting needle out of my mega-long hair and will the tangles out, then will it into an elaborate braid that trails down my back. In the background, Ro-Ro is still thumping around, trying to find another sock. He picks up the baby blue one that had smacked me in the face earlier and yanks it on as if it doesn’t clash with his pink with orange polkadots one.
FuckFace starts yowling from the doorway.
“Oh, shit! Ro-Ro, did you feed the cat?”
“I need to put my boots on!” Ro-Ro’s thigh-high boots are the type you have to lace up properly in order to get them to fit right. “No time! Feed FuckFace now, you can put them on in the car.”
We run out of our apartment in a flurry of spilled cat food, Ro-Ro carrying his thigh-high boots in one hand, his socks padding and my heels clicking down the hallway towards the elevator.
We could park in the garage. But you’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to pay to park in a garage when there’s a perfectly good Walmart parking lot right across the street from our apartment complex. Ro-Ro stops right before I can bolt out of the complex’s glass doors.
“Wait! I can’t go out there! These are the only socks I grabbed, and I have to dance all night. My feet will bleed if I have to dance in these shoes with wet socks!”
I look out across the street. The ground is a mess of puddles, light from the building reflecting off the wet pavement in the darkness from where it poured down rained earlier today. I look at Ro-Ro’s spiky thigh-high platform boots. The take-forever-to-lace-up kind. Fuck.
“Don’t worry — I don’t have a foot fetish. You can take your socks off around me,” I say.
He looks at me, horrified, “What if I cut myself on broken glass or something? I can’t just heal myself with magic like some people!”
I can’t heal myself with magic either (as far as I know), but we are running too late for me to waste anymore time arguing with him.
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