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Simple Sadist

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“Ahoy simple sadist, is this where the tide rolls in?” The moonlight was thin and I had already secluded myself from public interference under the shelf corner of a bar, hoping my wife was knocked under from pressure.
“No, but it doesn’t pull in my direction.” Sadist was in the middle of the room smoking a cigar, menacing it was for the person who would often considered the rapist in the community to be smoking high dollar hash through his chapped lips. Sadist was a word I used in order to get the idea that another person was drinking in this box, torturing the other people with his black leather boots, top hat, and cane modifying his image as the person who never lived in this building collection but in upper class. I was erected with fear, fear for myself mostly seeing another come in with menace inked across his forehead. Needed the jolt to see a face of another unlike myself, the life as a desk junkie made the thief in the corner get the erection of excitement, picking on the man who so clearly wanted to ride into my house, seeing my wife gone overboard on the ale she had popped after the horrendous work at the hospital.
Helping the others in time of crisis made sense for the tall glass of sugar she pored into her flesh, knowing there was more to come with the same case of betrayal or dismay.
“Need a ride friend?” said the sadist.
“I have a car and no place to go, need to leave with someone who knows the streets more than the one traveling through the motions of the pavement wave.”
“I need a ride to my house” I said to him.
He accorded me access to his vehicle seeing my condition, navigating through the city on pure scent from my clothes; but the overall punishment for accepting a ride from the sadist was to go home knowing my wife would have the brain condition of a fried yolk.
I ignored the nature of the fellow, seeing his cane spattered in the red dye on the tip. My mind creating the idea of the night of impure spirit getting into my body while I reached for the dime in my pocket. Anywhere but the stone cave where my soon –to- be- ex spouse and I loitered. Simple sadist maneuvered through the streets going at maximum speed in a lightning motor, sketching the final target in the night howls of young mothers.
How did he know where I resided? Did I give him the location of my hovel? Was I way too many kinds of drunk? “Farwell” said the driver, and skidded away like premature drunk. He left me predisposed in front of my house, but I was wrong in judging the man through the image of a pirate conjured up from myths made about the black plague society (open for all those who delight pleasure from cracked skulls).
The stranger enjoyed torment, but not the physical kind. Allowing the presence of the pain already in my mirror rather than created form made by a piece of blunt wood or cleavers. The inside of my house reeked of fumes from the liquor bottles; I was already full of the poison, but the perceived smell of the gasoline base was making me want to huff more. She was on the sofa lying sideways with a wad of drool stretching from her mouth and dropping onto the hardwood floor. “Touché, Sadist, I am already halfway weeping.”





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