Flash Fiction Friday: Suburban Lawncare
by J.W. Wargo
The Cuntfuck family lived in a cookie-cutter three bedroom house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Who-Gives-A-Shitville. Chester Cuntfuck, master of the household and lord of his papier-mâché castle, worked as a Bread Crumb Gatherer for the Waste Not Want Not Corporation. He was the envy of pigeons everywhere. His lipstick smearing, high heel clicking wife, Cankles Cuntfuck, was a self-employed Couch Potato specializing in Soap Operas. Completing the family was Cocksuck, Mr. and Mrs. Cuntfuck’s son who was halfway across the country studying for his Grunt Worker degree at UDT, the University of Death and Taxes.
It was early afternoon on a Thursday, internationally recognized as the worst day of the week. Mr. Cuntfuck was sent home from work early after a bread crumb surplus had been announced. Sitting in a fetal position upon his favorite armchair, he read the Who-Gives-A-Shitville Post and sucked his thumb.
Mrs. Cuntfuck, her usual schedule disrupted by her husband’s presence, pretended to be busy in the bathroom in order to avoid having to make conversation with him or watch his ever wrinkling skin as it flaked off and landed on the hardwood floors. She loathed the man with all her heart, but deep down inside she knew she needed his weekly paychecks in order to purchase expensive liquor to consume during those very demanding and stressful work hours of hers.
The clock struck 2:43PM. Chester had an unsettling feeling tingle its way up from his left kneecap to his right shoulder.
“Honey,” he called out, using a simple pet term as he had forgotten his wife’s real name years ago. “What day is it today?”
Cankles inched the bathroom door open just enough to peek out her pin head and responded, “The fucking worst day of the week, jackoff. Thanks for reminding me.”
She slammed the door shut. Chester made a gun-hand and put two imaginary bullets in his head.
“Thursdays,” he said. “Nothing ever happens on a Thursday. I go to work, she farts around spending my money, and little Billy comes by at three to mow the lawn.”
Chester leaped from his chair like it was cancer.
“Billy,” he yelled. Unsure of what to yell next he repeated, “Billy!”
Cankles heard his name-screaming and came out of the bathroom shaking her head, “Masturbating to animals on TV is one thing, jackoff, but I will not have you soiling your pants to the mental image of our groundskeeper.”
Chester ran up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and headbutted her face.
“Billy’s supposed to mow our lawn today!”
The severity of the situation hit Cankles hard, harder than Chester’s headbutt, hard enough to get her teary eyed.
“I forgot,” she sobbed, then glared at Chester, “You threw my whole day off, this is your fault.”
“Fuck fault,” the King Cuntfuck responded. “We have to hurry.”
The happily married couple bolted through their house and out to the backyard. Chester took a quick look around. It was as bad as he had imagined. The lawn looked pristine. The grass was a lush green and seductively cooed to be run over repeatedly by a large, metal bladed beast. This grass wanted to get mow-fucked hard and it wanted it now.
“What do we do, what do we do,” Cankles said.
Chester ran out onto the lawn. “Go get some trash, I’ll grab a shovel from the shed.”
Cankles nodded and ran around the side of the house to grab a garbage bag. She returned to find Chester was already digging as many holes as he could all over the lawn. Cankles ripped apart the bag and began spreading trash around. Chester tossed the shovel down and rushed back inside his shed, emerging with a coiled water hose which he snaked through the garden beds.
“What else,” Cankles asked, nervously glancing at her watch. She paced in a little circle and made slight whimpering noises.
Chester watched her a hypnotized moment. He ran inside the house, returning with a box. He launched it at Cankles, knocking her down onto the ground. The box was labeled “Cocksuck – Age 8”. Inside were all of their son’s old toys from childhood.
“Toss those around, I’m gonna see if I can find some glass to shatter and spread around the yard.”
Cankles tossed baseball cards, action figures, and miscellaneous wind-up bullshit across the backyard. She pulled out one of those rubbery farm animals that you squeeze to make brown goopy-goo pop out of its anus and stopped.
“Oh no,” she said.
Chester came back outside holding a glass snow globe. He smashed it against his skull and let the remnants fall between grass blades. He wobbled, dizzy from the blood now leaking out of his head.
“That outta do it.”
Cankles cried. Chester thought she was expressing contempt for their last minute attempt. His heart melted. He felt compassion for her, the first time in a long time.
“It’s okay, baby doll, we did it.”
He grabbed her hand partly out of sympathy, but mostly to maintain his balance.
“We failed,” she cried out, throwing his hand away. “Coco hasn’t left any surprises for Billy.”
Coco Cuntfuck was the family dog. Chester called out for the only member of his family that actually cared about him, but the dog did not come. He refused to take shits anymore after reading an eye-opening article online, complete with excruciatingly detailed photographs, about the several different types of bacteria to be found in fecal matter. In a state of panic, Coco forced his bowels to a concrete stop and hadn’t so much as miffed a fart in three days.
Chester was starting to feel panicked himself. He looked at his watch: 2:59pm. Cankles was hysterical, mumbling to herself that she could hear the pitter-patter of Billy’s feet running down the street that very moment. Chester breathed deep.
“Stand back, dear.”
Mr. Chester C. Cuntfuck, as solemnly as he could, walked out and stood in the center of his backyard. Dropping his pants, he squatted down, gritted his teeth, and let out a “hurk!”, pushing to loosen his magic marker hole.
Cankles was completely enamored. She knew marrying him right out of high school had been the right decision. He would always do what was necessary to keep the family happy, prosperous and, above all, an utter bane to all the yard maintainers of the world. She couldn’t even wait for him to finish squeezing out a small country before she pounced on him in a fit of frenzied horniness.
“I love you, Chester Cuntfuck,” she said, humping his body vigorously.
He didn’t really believe her but had already achieved an erection from smelling the massive deuce he left for Billy and so decided to humor her.
“I love you too, uh, is it Crusty Cuntfuck?”
They commenced in making passionate, kinky, mid-forty’s style love, fucking like hoofless donkeys in the summer mud.
They failed to notice that it was nearly a quarter past three and Billy had yet to show up. Billy wouldn’t be making an appearance at all that day or any other Thursday. On his way over to the Cuntfuck household, Billy met and got into a conversation with a street corner pusherman. He decided to quit his lawn mowing job and do drugs instead. Billy was pretty smart for his age.
J.W. Wargo, Nomadic Bizarro Storyteller, is neither here nor there, but a little bit of everywhere. You can find him on your city’s sidewalks busking for his next meal, or at jwwargo.blogspot.com. His first book, AVOIDING MORTIMER, is now available on Amazon.