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Prose FILTH (OC)

BK38

Bluelighter
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Apr 2, 2009
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Where the light trips fantastic
FILTH

“I enjoy my short stay women and I see nothing wrong with that…” said Mark as he trailed off, his eyes occasionally meandering over the breast of women as they dipped down to serve his tea and Chivas. “You disgust me.” His wife of some ten years needn’t say more. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, patches of sweat forming on the back of his slovenly body. He disgusted himself for Christ’s sake. Gone were the days of braving new frontiers and exploration; of intrepid tales of night in far off and exotic locations. His wife offered a sneer across the table and picked up her phone.

Slouching, breathing heavy, he wondered what the pretty Asian waitress serving him was wearing beneath her apron. Would it be the standard white? Maybe something lacy? After all, they do have a petite frame in this region of the world. “Where’s my allowance? Why don’t you even see your kids anymore Mark?” she spat at him. He was beyond jaded, his mind wandering to the past and a time when his wife at least tried to mask her contempt. He had wound up as an import-export dealer for exotic meats. At least that was his title; in reality he sold sub-standard chicken feet from America to the burgeoning Chinese market. He reached over to touch her hand and she lurched away immediately, glaring, offended that he would even consider their relationship to be good enough for casual touch. “You are nothing; you’re not even a man. Why don’t you ever see the kids Mark?” He wondered when she had started calling him “Mark” instead of “Baby.”

Oil popped and crackled in Woks and steam from buns cooking in the hot oven below welled up; mingling with his sweat and sticking to him and enveloping him – suffocating him. She pressed “I said why you don’t ever see the kids anymore Mark?” She had been a goddess in her time, a beautiful white pearl of the orient, a carefree girl who wasn’t wise to the ways of the Western world. Have I turned her into this beast – this materialistic and harsh woman? Did I train her to become the very thing I was trying to avoid in the West?

He stared at the waitress a little, yearning, begging for her to stoop over just a little more, just a peek, that’s all he wanted. “Would you stop looking at that fucking bitch waitress for 5 minutes and give me an answer?” He sputtered “I, I, I – how am I, I…” He added coward to his list of attributes as he slid the envelope full of paper to her. “How much is this Mark? You call this fucking money? I call this a fucking insult! You’re Pathetic! Pa-the-tic” She enunciated each word, lacing them with added venom. He knew the anti-venom, he knew where that money might be better spent and her words sunk into his fat, into his mind; congealing and festering away like a tumor.


 
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