The love triangle...er square... pentagon, whatever (Part Two)

Now, Thinks-with-prick owns two big-ass Cadillacs. One is from the mid seventies, the other from the mid nineties. They are his babies. He keeps them cleaned and tuned and running right. The only catch: he can’t drive them. I’m not sure what the situation is, but he hasn’t been allowed to drive since I’ve been in the picture. I know this kills him, but he finds ways to get by. He’ll start one of the cars up from time to time and just sit there listening to the radio. He’ll have other people drive it to and fro, with him as the passenger. He’ll even drive it to the end of the complex and back every once in a while.

I’m an excellent driver.

So, on this particular day, Skinny-hoe is the driver and Thinks-with-prick is the passenger. Just as they are driving away, Bug-eyes is coming down for a visit. She sees them leave. She is still sitting on the stoop when they get back. The impending, inevitable confrontation ensues.

“Wacha doin’ wit my man?!”

“Who you think yo talkin’ to? He ain’t yo man or my man. I ain’t wit nobody around here. You betta get up out o’ my face!”

“You need ta stay away from him!”

“You need to be stayin’ away from me!”

blah, blah, blah

This goes on for a surprisingly short amount of time. It is capped with Skinny-hoe coming in to my office to inform me that “the crazy lady” is outside giving her a hard time.

“I don’t know what that lady is talkin’, I ain’t wit’ him. I just braid his son’s hair and stuff.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

Later that evening, Bug-eyes decides that the best method is to drown her sorrows in some form of narcotic. We know this because at around 11pm she is out in the parking lot, wearing very little, and propositioning the maintenance guy as he comes home from shopping. She is workin’ it pretty hard with her best high-smoothness. Something to the extent of a Joey “how YOU doin’” escapes her mouth at various intervals. Then, when she realizes that the maintenance guy is sitting in his vehicle with his girlfriend, she changes it to “Oh, how you BOTH doin’.” Oh yeah, ménage-ghetto anyone?

Now apparently she hadn’t wanted to get high alone. So, she chose the neighbor who lives below her for company… the married neighbor below her. He emerges from his apartment looking just as high. He is followed by his wife, now home from work.

The wife starts in (or most likely continues on):
“So that is what you want, some hoe-ass-trick? Fine then, go be with her. Go on, stay your stupid ass out of my apartment. Better yet, maybe I’ll just run your ass over.”

The wife, keys still in hand, proceeds to hop in her car. She pulls out, makes a relatively lazy effort to run him over (he is, after all, at this point a lanky, wobbling, high, easy target), and continues on out of the driveway only slightly through the grass.

Later still, Bug-eyes, down off of her high and remembering the troubles of life, decides to go and key one of Thinks-with-prick’s Caddies (translates to scratching the side of the car with a key). I know this because he is in my office the next day to tell me.

“That crazy bitch scratched up my car! You’d think she would wait until a day when she didn’t just go off so it would be less obvious. But no, she gots to go an’ do this. Now I know it was her. She did this before too, and I got mad at her then. She’d betta watch herself, or I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Apparently what he’ll do is leave a threatening note on her door. Into the office enters Bug-eyes:

“Somebody left this note on my door and I don’t know who it was, but I don’t like it,” she says waiving the note.

“You don’t know who it was, eh? Well, I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count,” I say as sarcastically as I can. She gives me a blank bug-eyed stare.

“Call the cops if you think that is the best way to go,” I follow-up, tiring of the situation rapidly. She mutters incoherently and walks out of the office. I make sure the door hits her in the ass on the way out.

See, I told you it was a long story. Hopefully it was worth the gap.