To the guy who messed up my morning commute:

Never mind that you caused freeway traffic to come to a complete standstill. Never mind that hundreds of people, myself included, lost precious hours of our lives in a frustrating, road-rage inducing traffic jam. That’s life in the big city. We’ll get over the lost time.

Forget the dozens of civil servants summoned to clean up all your nasty little bits and body parts off the highway. They get paid to deal with scumbags like you. But before you jumped off of that freeway overpass, did you stop and consider the emotional wreck you would create when you landed on that poor woman’s windshield as she was cruising down the highway at 65 miles per hour?

The lady in question was minding her own business, trying to get to work, and didn’t deserve to have her car mangled up by your nasty little body. Not only will she most likely suffer from post-traumatic stress, she’s going to have to pay the deductible on her auto insurance to get her car fixed.

Why? Because you decided you couldn’t handle life and decided to tell the world "Fuck you" one last time before checking out? You must have been one selfish, self-absorbed prick in life. I’m glad to have never made your acquaintance.

–The Kimchihead

Tags: death · freeway · suicide · traffic jam

She was 17, dating some punk of the same age. The punk had a short rap sheet of petty crimes and criminal acts of idiocy. Typical adolescent bad boy attraction. Rebellion against an inattentive father. Her story: they argued. He punched her three times in the face and kicked her in the gut. She ran away and got in another guy’s car.

The other guy was a 21-year-old “friend.” A chump who always saved the damsel in distress, but never got rewarded for his efforts. A sap with a tear-stained shoulder and a box of never used, never will be used condoms. Captain Save-A-Ho.

Captain Save-A-Ho drove Jail Bait off into the horizon. On the other side of the horizon was my club. They came seeking sanctuary. Save-A-Ho was a regular. I’d never seen Jail Bait around. I inspected her face and her midsection, which was exposed thanks to a skimpy tube top. No bruises. No swelling. No footprint on her gut. Not a fucking scratch. I pulled Save-A-Ho to the side: “I can’t have this jail bait in my joint. Take her to her parents.”

Save-A-Ho tried to explain to me why it would be better to stash the broad in my club. I half listened, watched the broad text messaging non-stop. She took a phone call. Jail Bait covered her mouth while speaking, kept her voice low. I heard: “Is he with her right now?” followed by, “Fucking bastard.”

Moments later, Jail Bait got off the phone, then demurely asked Save-A-Ho, “Can you drive me to the police station?” She wanted to make a report of domestic battery. Put a case on the punk.

They thanked, waved, drove away. I chuckled.

Poor Save-A-Ho. The sap was blind, unable to connect the dots: Jail Bait and Punk were on the outs. Punk found himself a new broad. Jail Bait got jealous, confronted Punk. An argument ensued. Jail Bait stormed away. Later, upon hearing that Punk was with the new chick, Jail Bait decided that revenge would be a false police report.

Facts undigested by Save-A-Ho: the hole in his back window and the lack of injuries on Jail Bait indicated that Punk, while guilty of vandalism, was innocent of battery. Save-A-Ho was an unwitting accessory to Jail Bait’s connivance. He wasn’t a hero. He was a tool.

Tags: domestic violence · nightclub · relationships

Jack’s rap sheet was a resume of stupidity: a few petty thefts, several residential burglaries, and the occasional trespass. Highlighting his stupidity was a conviction for punching a cop while being arrested for jerking off in public. Why little Jill married a bona fide shitbird was a mystery to most, but the reason was blatantly obvious to me–she wanted to be the one dame to tame a wild bad boy.

Three years and two babies seemed to mellow Jack. But family life didn’t tame his inner punk. Jack grew resentful of the two needy children and the damage they did to Jill’s figure. He unleashed his frustrations by slapping Jill around. A black eye, several contusions and a laceration later, Jill divorced Jack.

Soon enough, Jack went back to committing petty crimes. Participated in the weekly bar brawl. Lived the life of your typical, run-of-the-mill punk.

A year passed. Jack started making veiled threats, sent cryptic messages. Told Jill in a roundabout way that he was going to kidnap the kids and take them to a non-extradition country. One night, Jack circled Jill’s place in his car, drunk dialing from various pay phones.

Jill told me her tale at the bar. Not your typical Saturday night conversation, but not unexpected for a nightclub promoter. I was a shrink at times, listening to and advising my dysfunctional club kids. I sipped my scotch, listened to the broad, recalled what she looked like before she married Jack, back when she was one of my regulars. She asked me for advice. “You oughta get a retraining order,” I told her. “He sounds like a real creep.”

“You don’t know him,” Jill replied, defensively. “He’s a good father to the boys. He’s just going through some hard times right now.”

Jill didn’t want advice. She only wanted her delusion validated. As she walked out of the club, I knew that she’d be another item on Jack’s resume of stupidity. Only time would tell whether the line would read, “Domestic Battery,” “Kidnap” or “Murder.”

Tags: divorce · domestic violence · marriage · nightclub · relationships

Jim’s divorce was the best thing that could have happened to him. The only problem was that he still had feelings for The Ex.

Two years after they parted ways, Jim bumped into The Ex at his favorite watering hole. She struck up a conversation. He was receptive. They left the bar together, rekindled an old flame.

About month later, The Ex had news: “I’m pregnant.” Jim was elated.

Seven months passed. The Ex dropped the load. A healthy baby boy with a strong resemblance to The Ex. Everyone was happy. Jim didn’t seem to notice that the timing was a little off. A passing thought: Why doesn’t the baby look anything like me? But babies change fast. Jim dismissed the thought.

Two years later. The Ex never went back to work. Jim got stuck supporting her and the baby. The boy got bigger. Changed every day. Yet no resemblance to Jim. Doubt crept into his head. Only one way to be sure.

The blood test revealed that Jim was not the baby’s father.

Who was baby daddy? Good question. Jim snooped around. Discovered that The Ex had been fooling around with an unemployed ex-con before he hooked up with her again. Abortion was out of the question. She knew that Jim was still into her. And he was gainfully employed. The Ex planned the chance encounter at the bar. Created the illusion that the baby was Jim’s.

Jim confronted The Ex with facts. Told her that he was going to sue her for all the money she’d sucked out of him for the past two years. The Ex filed for bankruptcy. Jim never saw a dime.

Even worse than being bamboozled for his money was the fact that the baby’s first word was “daddy.”

Tags: divorce · love · marriage · parenting · relationships

Mary’s studio apartment. Quarter to three. Diagonal shadows from venetian blinds pinned us to her bed. She lay next to me. Tense. Frigid. She was expecting something. Or someone.

A silhouette of a man broke the striped pattern covering us. Someone outside. I asked, “Expecting company?” She slowly, silently, shook her head. A lie.

Knuckles tapped glass. Brief silence. The shadow knocked again, impatient. It was the other guy. No, I was the other guy. Did Mary double book? No time for dumb questions. I got dressed, chamber checked my gun, made sure there was one in the pipe.

Mary got up, opened the door slightly. There was shouting from outside the door. A lover’s quarrel in Vietnamese. No subtitles. I was unable to get the gist. The punk barged in, broke the door chain.

No way to sneak out. I stood my ground. I kept my pistol in hand, inside my jacket pocket. Put my finger on the trigger. No other way to play this.

The punk looked at me, shouted at Mary. She yelled back. There was a .44 Magnum tucked away in the punk’s rear waistband. His heater was bigger than him. The punk cocked his arm back, slapped Mary’s face.

“I hate to interrupt,” I interjected, keeping my voice even. “Your lover’s quarrel doesn’t concern me.” I leveled my piece at the punk. I had the drop on him. He had no idea.

Slowly, the fool reached for his rear waistband. I carefully took out the slack in my gun’s trigger. The punk put his hands back down. “I don’t want any trouble with you, either,” he said. He spit on Mary’s face, stormed out.

Mary looked over at me in disbelief. “Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“Why would I play the sap for you, kid? Waste a bullet and go to jail? Why?” I took my finger off the trigger, took the heater out of my pocket, holstered up. “You set it up so the two of us guys would end up over here about the same time. You wanted us to fight each other over you–maybe shoot each other. But you ain’t worth fighting over. You ain’t worth going to jail for. And you ain’t worth dying for.”

I took some cash out of my wallet, put it on Mary’s nightstand. “Here’s some dough,” I told her. “Go find yourself a shrink and lose my number.” She sat in a corner of her room, sobbing.

It was a little after three. I walked out of Mary’s apartment, put a cigarette in my mouth. Stopped for a moment to light up, but never looked back.

Tags: domestic violence · relationships