STRIKE ‘TIL IT’S DEAD
I enjoy comedy. But drama is eating me. I’ll strike these keys til I am freed of its influence on me.
DISCLAIMER: This story I am about to write is based on truth and facts. All the names, dates and places shall be lies to hide shit from those I fucking hate. I won’t be editing it, so it’s gonna be a rough read.
My name is Girl Villain. I was born somewhere where I won’t say. I’m sure Russians prefer it that way. I was a product of many broken homes. I grew up in Rhode Island, where I went to high school the few times when I wasn’t busy screwing older men.
Once upon a time, I had a giant need to belong to somebody, so when a much older married illegal alien who sold drugs and did other bad things, enjoyed screwing my underage twat enough to get me pregnant more than once, I jumped at the opportunity to change my name to match his. And even though legally I couldn’t be Mrs. Drug Dealing Illegal Alien, when I became of age I signed everything with his name and I sued him for child support, he didn’t fight it, claimed both kids as his, eventually I got DMV proof I was who I wanted to be.
It’s hard to belong to a drug dealing illegal alien when he’s married to God only knows how many other women, and he has children who are not mine and he spends his time and money on them and not me and the two children we created. Plus, all that time he spends in prison and being deported leaves me totally unsupported. So, I tried to hook up and become Mrs. Woman Beater who ain’t above selling kids for drugs, but that man too went somewhere, I don’t know where, oh look, a drug using dude… Okay so, he’s only a user, he’s about the same age as me and he doesn’t beat women and he doesn’t want to sell my babies. Hm. He’s different, but I just gotta have somebody’s name!
How can I get him to claim me as his? He’s too busy looking for work. Idiot loves to work. But he does need drugs… I too love drugs. We can do them together. Okay, and wait, he’s running from the law, I have a lot of experience with that, and dammit I don’t want to use the ID of Mrs. Drug Dealing Alien anymore because that man may never get a chance to sneak back into this country. I need a change, and so does that Working Man whose real name is Stupid Idiot. All we need is to change our names, move to a tiny town, I know where and I know how we can make it happen. We’ll be together forever, Working man and me, yeah, he can do his work thing while I serve drugs every day. That way, I know he’ll stay.
And he did, until the reality hit that my kids had split. Working Man dropped his alias and told me to get lost. I was left to hide from the state because my mother sued me to support my own children.
Years later, Working Man was caught far and away by the cops. Using his real name, Idiot went to prison and then the drugs left his system. While he was behind bars, I made my mother change the name she sued. No more Mrs. Working Man, but she had to sue Mrs. Idiot.
Idiot stuffed his belongings away, like a pack rat he collected valuable things, but he couldn’t kill any thief who could sell the things and run away, not while he’s in prison, so his old pals and his half brother wanted to know the location if I had any information. They came to me, but how would I know where he keeps his treasure? I’d been asked to keep everyone informed about anything I could learn. I know he trusted nobody, or at least I thought I knew that there couldn’t be one single person on earth who knows where. But my God, they were right, Idiot had lots of expensive stuff he kept out of sight. He didn’t tell me, or them, who’d tell junkies, con artists and even his father didn’t trust the brother. There is a stash of cash, I don’t know how much, but I know for a fact there are Gibsons and other guitars because of all the songs he wrote and a few pictures his pals keep to note, and Harleys and Indians because he loved them, he fixed them and he kept them, and I know of at least one boat because he liked fishing. We the leeches have seen and we know there is stuff, but where?
I lost my kids and my identity. Working Man went straight and he won’t make me Mrs. Idiot. Well, he ain’t going to get away with it! I need an identity!
I’ll just run a few lights in town, “Yes officer my real name is Mrs. Stupid Idiot. I forgot my purse at home where I live with Mr. Idiot, who’s in prison right now, but when he gets out, he’ll be surprised to see the new ID that I forgot again to carry with me. Sure, I’ll try to remember not to speed and do it all while wearing my seat belt. Thank you for releasing me to my sister and friends, and thanks for the tickets, I can’t believe I, Mrs. Idiot, keep forgetting to slow down and buckle up. Of course I’ll show up to court the moment I leave the DMV because I keep losing my ID.”
OMG, now you can replace your lost ID online, change your mailing address… Cool stuff. While Working Man returned to Stupid Idiot and ignores me in prison, I’ll keep busy, take a class and volunteer to help law enforcement with all these criminals in this small town. Plus, I’ll leave messages on internet boards, let people know I am single and I want to belong to somebody, while I wait for Idiot to return to this state, he has to serve time here too, plus, he doesn’t burn bridges so friends we shall remain. I can help him run his company, the company he can do well with if he remains.
Years later, my dear friend, still insisting he is going to remain drug free Idiot, and that we never again shall be Mr. and Mrs. Working Man, he got released and then he went and dated somebody not me. OMG they got married using his real legal name. It’s okay. I can be happy for him, ya know, because we’re friends.
I was happy, but not as happy as I when he got divorced, and needed someone to run his work office, someone who knew how to use a computer, because he got hurt at work. Smashed his hips and broke something in his spine. Crippled men sure do need good friends! And they need new addresses too and credit cards.
I don’t know how his house burnt to the ground, nor how he was able to get out, but hey look, he’s got a safe. Stupid Idiot has a thing about dates. Me and those loonies he calls friends, just know that the combination to this thing is whatever the birth date is of that daughter he always talks about but cannot see, because he keeps and doesn’t trust bad company.
But no worries, his condition worsens while I wait. Boy, he sure is getting addicted pain meds. I tell the nurses I am ex Mrs. Idiot so that he doesn’t have to become a ward of the state. “He’ll live with me and I’ll take good care of him.” Even though all his credit cards show he rented a motel room across the street from the hospital, and I live in an apartment subsidized for low income women who aren’t married to men who own property worth over $600,000. if divided up by the right hands. I won’t have to dream forever about what I could do with his stuff, because crippled and addicted can’t stay alive too long.
Takes forever for some people to meet their fate. OMG that daughter of his is looking for him on Facebook. She keeps messaging me, I’ll tell her that I and her father have been happily married for decades and I’ll promise to message her proof, and I will give her proof if I can find a way to do it. Holy shit, what luck, that girl just told me her birth date!
I don’t confess all things to be used against me. “Officer, officer I just found my husband, even though I don’t know how I was able to find him 100s of miles away from the place I call home, but he’s dead.”
Officer said, “Yeah, he’s dead. He’s got a bullet in his head.”
“OMG, I knew he was upset. Here’s his ID, see how it matches the one on me?”
“Sure, do you want to keep his gun?”
“No, thank you, though. I gotta go.”
I’ll place it on my blog too.
If you didn’t like this story, don’t worry, someday soon, I’ll redo it using me, the author’s POV, and it’s gonna be more than interesting.
Until then, NO MORE DRAMA FOR ME.
I’m back to comedy.