Jim, The Old Bastard

Here’s a story about a guy named Jim. Jim don’t give a shit. He don’t give a shit about your kids, your wife, your job, and most of all, he don’t give a shit about you. Probably because Jim is eighty-seven years old and can’t give a shit even if he wanted to. It’s physically impossible for Jim to give a shit. Just ask his wife of sixty-nine years. Or ask his other wife of ninety-six years. Maybe even his third wife, that cute nurse he picked up (or tried to and broke his hip) of thirty-four; that single mother who couldn’t catch a break.

Jim likes to go for a walk each day. Right around noonish, about the time he wakes up from his late-morning nap. Jim once worked his ass off for fifty years so he can sit on his ass for another twenty-three. It has been a thrilling experience for Jim to sit on his boney ass after standing in factory lines, and before a factory boss, and before a factory owner. Then they told Jim to get the fuck out of there and find a real job.

Because Jim wasn’t a factory worker. Jim was a runner. He ran and he ran and he ran some more. He ran until he was sixty five, when he met his eighth wife, Mona, who hit him with her tractor. That bitch. That hot, slutty, twenty-something bitch. She felt so bad about hitting this old man, who was such a charmer, that she couldn’t stand to see him in agony. Her tractor hit Jim about an inch from his crotch. Wow, that would’ve been the end of retirement. One thing led to another, and a typical romance scene ensued (about as much romance as people forty years apart could make), and she had a ring around her finger. Jim also had a ring around his finger, or two fingers for that matter, but it was really something else.

You see, Jim was a sleaze most of his life. Not only did he cheat on his first wife three weeks into their marriage, he never told her about it. The scumbag! At least give her a chance for revenge. But poor old Betty passed around just four years before Jim retired. She caught some disease, or something, because she’s not really a part of this tale so it doesn’t matter. This is a story about Jim, the Old Bastard.

On the day this tale takes place, Jim walked across the street. One his way from one side of the high traffic road to the other, many cars swerving as he passed, he stooped down and picked up a penny. Not a shiny penny. A crappy old dusty penny, with that blue rust that appears all over the copper – you know, when pennies were made of real copper. Jim thought he was rich for a moment, then realized that the penny reminded him how worthless his savings were.
After eighty-seven years, Jim had been married for fifteen times. Some of them never found out, and some of them still don’t know.

Now that Jim was on the other side of the street, he stopped as soon as he heard that annoying as shit blerp-blop-bleep crap that cops make with their cars. That shit that scares everyone around thinking, “Fuck, did I do something wrong,” or, “Something crazy’s about to go down.” Just another passing thought.

And Jim’s passing thought this time was, “Fuck you cop, I don’t have time for your stupid shit.” So Jim turned around from some young punk rookie who thinks life is all about busting people – for anything, and being a total prick about it, too.

“Sir,” called out this dumb fuck kid in a badge. “Sir, may I speak to you please?”

“No, you may not, ya little shit,” thought Jim. He ignored the little pissant who probably smeared his nose up the chief’s ass all day. Instead, Jim attempted to open a glass door to a nearby cafe, but it opened itself. “God damned things. I have arms, ya know. This is why punks like that cop are so weak.”

Jim, still not giving a shit about the young man playing dress-up, sat in a booth and grabbed a newspaper off someone else’s table, while they weren’t looking.

“What can I get ya?” asked a beautiful voice.

Jim lowered the left edge of the newspaper, which he couldn’t read anyway because he left his reading glasses at home. He saw before him a gum-smacking, ditzy brunette with her hair all tied up in a bun. Black eyes, some parts of her skin tanned, some parts pale where she clearly didn’t know how to sunbathe nude (coincidentally what Jim was thinking of when he saw her).

“Hey, toots, get me a cup of black coffee, with cream, hold the sugar, and give me your number.”

“Okay, one, wait what?”

Before Jim could schmooze another young gal into giving him a sponge bath, the crackling, monotonous voice over a radio chirped him. “Oh, fuck, this little punk. Doesn’t he have anything important to do,” Jim muttered.

The multicolored waitress turned away to get Jim’s coffee, or maybe not; who cares; either way, it was just as that young jerk cop came up to Jim’s booth.

“Sir, may I speak to you outside?”

“No. You may not,” was Jim’s reply.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come outside with me.”

“First you ask my permission, then you turn and tell me that you’re going to ask me again? God, fucking parents these days. Can’t teach a child how to speak anymore.”

“Sir, step outside with me.”

Jim lowered the corner of his newspaper again and look up at the dumb cop. “Oh, fuck, one of these idiots,” he thought. Jim folded his newspaper and turned toward the lawchild. “Don’t you know you look like a dumbass with your sunglasses on inside? For fuck’s sake, kid, didn’t your mother ever teach you to take your hat off, too?”

“All right, sir, you’re coming with me,” was all the cop had to say to get Jim’s nerves in a knot. This young punk cop grabbed the innocent old man’s arm, pulled him from the table.

“Let me go you son of a whore!” Jim shouted. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Calm, down, sir,” said the idiot man-handling a defenseless old man.

The officer dragged Jim out of the cafe, by the arm, through that damn automatic door. He embarrassed the shit out of Jim, but frankly, in Jim’s opinion, he embarrassed the shit out of his father.

“I bet your dad was fuckin’ pussy whipped, wasn’t he?”

“Sir, you need to calm down,” repeated the young asshole. He brandished from his belt a stun gun.

“Oh, you’re really shocking now, ya fucking pansy. Why can’t you fight me with your fists, huh!?”

Jim rolled his fists in circles back and forth, taunting the young cop. But the young cop was too much of a machine controlled bastard child who couldn’t think with reality. He pointed his stun gun right at Jim’s chest; the sharp prongs shot into the old man’s pectorals, drove into his chest, killing the old man instantly.

Poor old Jim. He would womanize, then talk about children as if they were demons. A bunch of young whippersnappers. And here, on this day, perhaps it was Father’s day, maybe it was Mother’s day, or maybe, just maybe, it was Mother Teresa’s beatification day. We don’t know for sure, but we know one thing:

Some assholes are put on this earth to kill innocent old men for jay walking.

Trapped Inside, a horror short.

You’d think two people couldn’t live in this hallowed home. The barren walls, crusted, and filled with essential oils of man-sweat. Minds, bodies, and souls, may exercise at any time of their choosing, except for that one brief hour of the day.

Nonsense, ramblings, trifling, and musings were expected, and encouraged, to ward off the evil demons that haunt night and day, any time the residents are awake. And, even then, thrust in their lucid dreams, the demons taunt their every thought and fantasy.

Once in a blue moon, which cannot be seen from within this tiny cooperative coop, friends emerge to greet one another. Now is not one of those times. No, this time, the clandestine lives of the souls who inhabit this dwelling of bonding, or bondage, however one views it, are but half complete; one without the other. The emptiness seems to fill the visions, and sounds of the water nearby, dripping as it does, rusting away the only release of this maddening abode, contort the mind to a place only the devil himself could comprehend.

Buford was laying on his bed, reading a book, as the door slid open. He saw Frank walk in, and said to him, “Hi.”
“Where were you?”
And thus the door closed on prison cell 23.