Porter-Rigby Collaboration Story - 1
Title: How the Bastard was Beaten
By Dr. H.R.P.
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As I stood there in my sunglasses and looked out over the little suburb, somewhere in western Sweden, I had nothing to my name except two bottles of cheap rum, a cellphone, the clothes on my back and an adress; all of these in a tattered old suitcase, stolen from the Salvation Army. The bus had just dropped me off and I was looking for peace of mind as well as justice and little did I know that I would find a soulmate; not in the good way though.
A small meadow is just around the corner and in a drunken haze I stumble on it, lay down and take out one bottle of rum. A quick swig gives me the strength to dial the right number but no one answers. "God damn these housewives" are the words I mutter. Another swig, then another and a third. I can feel the rum working, I've been slugging away on the bus.
Then it starts to vibrate, the grounds itself. No, just the cell phone, somewhere in all that green stuff. I answer it and some cityslick seller tries to sell me electricity or something. I scream at the phone, profanities and hatred, before I throw away the phone, far, far away. I went here for Peace of Mind, not harassment.
Suddenly I sense that I need to puke, vomit that is, and I wonder why. Loudly. Then I get the picture. She's standing there and kicking my ribs violently. God, it doesn't hurt as much as it makes me disorientated. How can someone, a woman, kick the living shit out of a stringer like myself without any valid reason? Strike that last part, she has every reason in the world. I shouldn't have written that article, no siree.
"Get up, you foulmouthed bastard!" I comply but only after another swig. I get up, brush of the grass and look at her. Hell, it's Heleanore Rigby. Ye gods, why? I offer her the bottle and she accepts it, puts it to her lips and takes a long swig, making me proud. She wipes off her mouth on my rumpled shirt and smiles at me. Then she spits at me, just because that the local Nazi custom around here. I accept it and I make a mock-rush at her before I stumble and somehow manage to take her down with me. The kicking continues as soon as she gets up and I scream, scared that the cheap rum will be squandered.
She stops kicking and I get up. None of the rum managed to escape so I smile at Rigby. I look her in the eyes and with a gentle and coarse voice I say; "now when we greeted each other we can continue the drinking, ey?" She gives me a steely look before she punches me in the ribs and then laughs and takes another swig. Those were the days; swimming, summer and rum.
By Dr. H.R.P.
---
As I stood there in my sunglasses and looked out over the little suburb, somewhere in western Sweden, I had nothing to my name except two bottles of cheap rum, a cellphone, the clothes on my back and an adress; all of these in a tattered old suitcase, stolen from the Salvation Army. The bus had just dropped me off and I was looking for peace of mind as well as justice and little did I know that I would find a soulmate; not in the good way though.
A small meadow is just around the corner and in a drunken haze I stumble on it, lay down and take out one bottle of rum. A quick swig gives me the strength to dial the right number but no one answers. "God damn these housewives" are the words I mutter. Another swig, then another and a third. I can feel the rum working, I've been slugging away on the bus.
Then it starts to vibrate, the grounds itself. No, just the cell phone, somewhere in all that green stuff. I answer it and some cityslick seller tries to sell me electricity or something. I scream at the phone, profanities and hatred, before I throw away the phone, far, far away. I went here for Peace of Mind, not harassment.
Suddenly I sense that I need to puke, vomit that is, and I wonder why. Loudly. Then I get the picture. She's standing there and kicking my ribs violently. God, it doesn't hurt as much as it makes me disorientated. How can someone, a woman, kick the living shit out of a stringer like myself without any valid reason? Strike that last part, she has every reason in the world. I shouldn't have written that article, no siree.
"Get up, you foulmouthed bastard!" I comply but only after another swig. I get up, brush of the grass and look at her. Hell, it's Heleanore Rigby. Ye gods, why? I offer her the bottle and she accepts it, puts it to her lips and takes a long swig, making me proud. She wipes off her mouth on my rumpled shirt and smiles at me. Then she spits at me, just because that the local Nazi custom around here. I accept it and I make a mock-rush at her before I stumble and somehow manage to take her down with me. The kicking continues as soon as she gets up and I scream, scared that the cheap rum will be squandered.
She stops kicking and I get up. None of the rum managed to escape so I smile at Rigby. I look her in the eyes and with a gentle and coarse voice I say; "now when we greeted each other we can continue the drinking, ey?" She gives me a steely look before she punches me in the ribs and then laughs and takes another swig. Those were the days; swimming, summer and rum.
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Postat av: Rigby
HAHAHAHA! Du er steeerd!
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