A fabulous entry by an incredibly talented writer called Christian Groff- who takes pleasure in writing about his life with often times (if not all the time) a predominant use of hyperbole.
Today in the life and times of a cat lover, I again try my hand at the humble heritage of story telling. Yay me. Hold your butt cheeks together cause I’m coming for ya. Also you’re welcome.
I’m running. Loose bricks and cracked pavement catch in my shoes as I stumble to the door. Crack. Crack crack. An eruption of dust and masonry. Keys, where the FUCK are my keys. I punch the door. Neighbors feign slumber. Lights turn off. Windows close. So much for human empathy. The sound of leather soles rapidly approach. Crack. Another shot. Glass cascades around me. Perfect. They missed their target, but hit mine. I’ll have to call the landlord. I reach through jagged spines and unlock the door. Ripping it open I sprint up the flight of stairs. First landing. Second landing. Third landing. Fuck I should quit smoking. Fourth landing. Fifth landing. Home. Ok. Calm down. Just get the emergency key. I should really get copies made. Shouting from below, followed by the thundering of boots on landings. The railing rings with released bullets. Crack zing. Where is that bugger. Got it! I thrust the key in the lock and here the welcoming click. Crack crack zing crack. One foot on the wall, I yank on the door. Shoddy craftsmanship I swear. Slammed shut, I barricade what little furniture remains against it. I always did hate this dresser. CRASH! The door shivers with impact. More shouting. CRASH! Silence. I hit the floor as more ammo is released from their casings. Crack crack. A roach scurries over my leg. Hey buddy. Looks like it’s just you and me. I’ll hold em off while you get the rifle. Pacho had other plans. K cool. Bye. Crash. A chair collapses to the ground, splintered and defeated. Cheap IKEA shit. Crack crack. Smoke wafts from the threshold. The pungent tinge of sulfur and metal stain the air. Slivers of orange street light catch its trails. CRASH! Fuck. Crash. Shit. Crack crack. Fuck shit motherfucker. My refuge now evinces the trappings of a cage. Nothing but four walls and fifty foot drops to alleys filled with rubbish. Crash! I put my phone to my ear, breathing the dust and grim of the floor. CRASH! Yes ma’am, there seems to be some men trying to eviscerate my organs. Yes. Yes. Four of them. Crash. Mmhhmm. Yes. I want to say guns. Crash. Yes maam. Corner of 3rd and Broad. Thank you. CRASH! Fingers pry through the enlarging gap. A solitary eye leers past through the haze of orange smoke. CRACK! Listen bitch I just bought that. With limited options, I scurry to the bathroom. Weapons. Weapons. Let’s see. I have a plunger. And some blush. No. Unless this was a whore’s plumber. Crash. More shouting, mixed with lurid insults in mocking tones. Rude. A shower curtain. A tension rod. Crash. A broken mirror. Toothpaste. Floss. Fuck. Wait! CRASH! I tear the curtain to the floor, and rip out the tension rod. I topple the medicine cabinet and extract shards of glittering glass. Alas a makeshift spear! And they said a degree in anthropology meant nothing. HA! Silence…………………………. The deafening anxiety of waiting to die. I tie the final knot and crouch in the claw-foot. Creak………..Yes terrible wood flooring. Do mama proud. Whispers… Should I be praying right now? Yo Jesus. So heres the thing. The sound of sirens cut me off. Whoa. You do quick work. Hurried foot steps crash back over the ramshackle heap of wood and upholstery. Shouting diminishes down the stairwell. Fuckers. That’s right. Standing, I rest my hand on the tiled wall and sigh. Stepping over the rim I reach for the bi-fold. Slam! Standing 6′ 2 in opulent white privilege, a man of prestige, clean shaved and perfumed, looms overhead, A silver pistol aimed at my sternum. Damnit Jesus I thought we were cool. His lips part to issue a final proclamation as my shaft pierces his heart. A shot rang, ripping through my leg, painting the tile red. Twisting up and pulling hard, I disembowel the Daniel Craig knockoff, watching as his body slumps to the floor, sputtering blood across my shoes. These were new shoes. I stab his neck, blood spraying, pumping, and finally oozing. I sit on the toilet, lit cigarette dangling from my lips. And these were my favorite jeans.
TADA. You can go about your day now. Kiss kiss. Hug. HUG!
Posted 9th May by Christian Groff
To see more of his work feel free to visit his blog: Christian Groff: The Life and Times of a Cat Lover
Contributor: Christian Groff
Copyright © 2015 Christian Groff. All Rights Reserved.