Thursday, January 3, 2008
Death Becomes Her?
It wouldn't be a typical evening on West 23rd Street without the SheBeast clomping around up there. In recent days she's been at it all over again, making noise at odd hours, but I'm almost used to it now. I can almost tune it out if I use earplugs and take a shot of NyQuil before I go to bed.
The other night, she made several trips to the bathroom at 1:00 in the morning. The trips were frantic, but not much worse than her usual, earth-shattering, ceiling cracking pace.
In updating Guy on Five, who hates these two fucktards just as much as I do, he surmised, "Maybe she's pregnant?"
"I think she's sick. I hope it's fatal," I replied, without a trace of humor.
Tonight, as Larry and I watched TV, we hit the mute button and listened. I heard her voice. I couldn't make out what it was, but it didn't sound good.
"Is she crying?" I said, laughing. "Cry, bitch, cry!" I added, smiling at the ceiling.
"We're so bad," said Larry.
"I hope she suffers. I want her to suffer."
"I'm moving out!" said Larry, in a mock-woman's voice.
"That would be so nice."
Suddenly, a single loud thud boomed through the floor.
"Maybe he killed her?"
"I hope so." In my head, I visualized Jackass snapping and bludgeoning her to death with a baseball bat. "I'll help him shove her body into the trash compactor chute."
Larry watched for blood to start bleeding through the ceiling. "I have a primer that will cover that right up," he said.
Just your typical night in Chelsea.