He bought a length of pristine, green, nylon rope.
He hadn’t tied this type of knot before. He hadn’t tied any complex knots beyond securing the tarp over the back of the ute. It took a couple of goes before it looked just right and slipped well tight.
The pristine green nylon rope was still stiff with lack of use but it would be used today. Oh shit yeah! He’d get right on up ‘er for her insolence. He’d ‘pay her out good and proper’ for her constant hounding and complaining. He’d teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. This would hit it’s mark!
Clearly he’d missed his mark when he hit her cheekbone with his knuckle-dusting Irish mitts. But this little trick, this little 'beaudy', tucked beneath his flannelette clad arm, would definitely connect. He’d show her and her apron-clinging brats who has the upper hand. His grip tightened, he let out a blow and gritted his teeth.
He was a working man, a simple man. Not the sharpest tool in the shed but he’d provided well. He’d kept them clothed and fed and a roof over their heads. He’d given her a few bucks each week. He’d not been too demanding other than wanting to watch the Crows play on Sundays and have control over the remote. If push came to shove, he could swipe the Victor over the front lawn. Shit, he even let her have the window side of the bed the stupid cow, because she liked the way the light played on the wall in the early mornings. Sentimental bitch, he’d wipe that look right off her face and in a heartbeat, now that he has his pristine green nylon rope.
She hated the company he kept but a man needs his mates and a coldie after a hard day’s yakka! The local drew him in more often than it should. What could be more Aussie than a beer with your mates? The barmaid wasn’t half easy on the eye to boot!
He liked the barmaid. He'd daydream and gaze into the amber draught and drift off, unaware of surrounding conversations about big donks and shithouse foremen. “If only the ‘little woman’ showed a bit of tit and arse.” He’d bet anyone who could pull a beer as well as her would be good in bed. Oh yeah, she’d be a wriggler, a screamer. He sipped away at the froth of his schooner imagining what he’d do to a pretty thing like her, or better still what that pink and pouty perfect mouth could to for him . . how that tongue would lash and curl, how those polished nails would feel gliding along his hersuit spine . . Someone yells “Your shout arsehole!” and his fantasy pops before he does.
All he’s left with is her, the cow, the ball and chain, the trouble and strife and the memory of her underneath him like a dead fish waiting for the filleting knife while he satiated his needs and grunted his relief. Yeh, that sheila was crap between the sheets.
It was all her fault they weren’t together. The bitch had done the dirty. She'd picked up sticks and left him. Scarpered with that trumped up tosser without so much as a note . . . he'd give her a fuckin' note!
He reached upward and pulled tight, the pristine green nylon rope threaded easily through the exposed aluminium rafters. His grip softened slightly as the hint of a tear welled momentarily teetering on the brink of his bloodshot eyes but not quite taking the plunge down his cheek. He took in a deep and raspy breath, collected himself and reminded himself of his ghastly purpose . . . he slipped the makeshift noose around his neck and kicked the stool from beneath.
The letter fell from his unclenched, swollen, fingers and floated feathery to the oil-stained garage floor.
It would be over a week before his son found it, and its vitriolic contents. Its accusatory verbage blaming his mother and his sister and him for all the woes that caused their father grief. It spat the venom of a cut snake and pointed the bone at them all.
They’d never flaunt their happiness in his embittered face again. Yeh, that skank would pay!
He'd shown her a thing or two. . . he and his tight pristine green nylon rope.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Pristine Green Nylon Rope
I'm still really battling writer's block so have decided once again to participate in Tenth Daughter of Memory a cute little vehicle for writers hacks and in my case, those who have nothing to post! This week we're being 'Hounded':