Not another one.
“This fucking guy.”
The room is still as I close my email for the last time.
“How the fuck does he know?”
If he’s seriously about to show up here and fight me over $180,000 then he has no clue what he’s getting himself into.
As I walked to the room to where my gavel resides, I hesitate, breathe deeply, and retrieve the nail as well.
Never again.
“If I have to waste another fucking robe…”
I pull on my spandex trunks, lace up my boots, and let my hair down for the last time as the doorbell rings.
How polite.
The distance to the doorway disappears as I contemplate for too long which hand he expects me to use.
“Seriously, again with the fucking doorbell?”
Polite, but impatient.
As I resolve to use both, I learn I was wrong about this Joker nigga all along. While I never see the tongue I’ve dreamt of slicing off his living body, Kermit D. Frog manages to reveal himself in black leather.
“Joyce.”
Please tell me that isn’t Also Sprach Zarathustra playing from…. Where?
Before I can find the answer, I instead find that Kermit is or is not trained in the art of Canadian Russian leg sweeps.
Fuck…
I drop both gavel and nail.
“If you think I’m going to give you a lobotomy right now,
you’re dead fucking wrong. Boston Crab, nigga”
It used to be called a Backbreaker.
A maneuver I’d trained for years to reverse. Wait. Is he delaying?
You have got to be kidding me.
From his dark pants emerges a disposable dreidel, the packaging too quickly disposed of.
“Joyce, have you ever received electroshock treatment before?”
No fucking way, clown.
”Just wanted to let you know, that if I could choose,
I would electroshock you until your dead
rather than ever giving you the favor of a lobotomy, but –“
There’s always a “but” with these clowns, if he only knew.
“Since I’m against the use of electroshock altogether,
it just wouldn’t be good politics, Joyce.”
All my training came back in an instant, and I retorted with physicality, overthrowing the naive clown’s leg hold, yet –
“Looking for these?”
With my nail and gavel now in his possession, it appears the arrogant clown believes he still has the upper hand.
“Go for it, nigga!”
What – the – fuck?
A clown car sounds its horn.
How many?
Again, I’m down in an instant, distractable despite my power.
“Better than a lobotomy or electroshock, Joyce.”
“Call it a cow-girl cross-legged crab for all we care, just please finish this bitch off!”
A Reverse Sharpshooter.
“Can I get a count?”
What the fuck?
With my legs crossed, ankles resting on his opposite shoulders, he grabs me by the jaw using both his hands and pulls while he rocks backwards, inverting me toward the heavens as he comes to rest on his back.
“ONE!”
Is he pinning himse-
I had forgotten about the dreidel.
“TWO!”
“Fucking hysterical, isn’t it, Joyce?”