Vulgar words in Eastern Standard Tribe (Page 2)
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My fucking, pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex.
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My fucking ex, who wants to have the Talk, even though it's been months and months.
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What do you want to know about my fucking ex?"
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"No, let's talk about my fucking ex, by all means."
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He never fucking shuts up about what's wrong with this or that.
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"I don't care, Linda, Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass if you want to chat with your ex.
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"Damn, that's cool."
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You can't fuck a crazy girl sane, son.'"
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I have a feeling I'm going to be in pretty deep shit.
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"You son of a bitch -- that was you?"
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"That was *my fucking car*!"
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"Oh, shit," he says.
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Damn!
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That was my fucking ex again.
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He *knew* that Linda had been talking to Fede that morning, and not her fucking ex (God, he was thinking of the poor schmuck that way already, "fucking ex").
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Fede had gone into bullshit mode, and all Art was thinking of was why Linda would talk to Fede and then book a flight to LA.
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Now, armed with Linda's fucking ex's name, Art went to work.
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My last lawyer was a dickhead.
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"All right, Art," my jackass lawyer said, giving me a prod.
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It was another bit of goofy West Coast Vulcan Mind Control, courtesy of Linda's fucking ex.
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Not some bullshit about your girlfriend?
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He'd take two deep breaths, think about how he was yup, calming down, pretty good, especially since he was going to London to confront Fede about the fact that his friend had screwed him stabbed him in the back using his girlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in Los Angeles sleeping with her fucking ex who was going to steal his idea and sell it as his own that fucking prick boning his girl right then almost certainly laughing about poor old Art, dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fede was going to pay, that's right, he was -- and then he'd be huffing down his nose, hyperventilating, really losing his shit right there.
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Can you believe the bastards actually expect me at the office today?"
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Piss and moan about the office until he gets bored and lets him go.
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Shit.
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The door caromed back into his heel and nearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum into a jog through the halls to his miniature office -- the last three times he'd spoken to Fede, the bastard had been working out of his office -- stealing his papers, no doubt, though that hadn't occurred to Art until his plane was somewhere over Ireland.
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Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?"
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"Is that the best fucking name you could come up with?
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"I honestly have no idea --" "*Bullshit!
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"I've had enough bullshit, Fede!"
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"You dumb sack of shit," he hissed.
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We knew you wouldn't go for it, but we were still going to cut you in -- you think that was your little whore's idea?
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Jesus, I gave you this fucking job!
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Fuck-off heaps of money!
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Enjoy your deportation hearing, you dumb Canuck boy-scout."
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"Damn it," he said, as Art rolled onto his side and retched.
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"Still a clever bastard.
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"I beat the piss out of my coworker, Lester.
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Bribery, corruption, patent disputes -- I'd been gratified to discover that my name had been removed from the patent applications, sparing me the nightly hounding Fede and Linda and her fucking ex had been subjected to on my comm as the legal net tightened around them.
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"You belong in a loony bin, you know that?" she says, punching me in the thigh harder than is strictly necessary.