[Note: This is a piece of fiction. Sometimes, a writer needs to challenge the readers' sensibilities (challenge, not offend). Otherwise he's a spineless writer. If you don't like pieces which aren't 'goody-goody', please skip this post. My next one's going to be tamer. Thank you, people.]
Beatrice isn’t one for Sunday dresses. She’d always show up for her uncle’s masses in a black spaghetti-strap blouse which showed off her pierced navel, and a skirt three-fourths of a ruler above the knee. It made her mom furious, and her dad slightly amused.
This Sunday, in an unlit confessional box, she rips open a package given earlier by a parish acolyte. Armed with a few slivers of light, she finds a card inside, and a black thong with an imprinted bunny symbol. The card reads: â€œHugs and kisses to my favorite niece this special day. Enjoy!â€
â€œYour baby crashed because of Linux.â€
Roger couldnâ€™t believe what he had just heard. He wanted to look the damn PC technician in the eye, but couldnâ€™t. The fool was staring at the monitor, chewing an (imaginary) piece of gum, pretending to make sense out of the Linux boot screen when it was obvious this git was a Windows-only git.
â€œYou donâ€™t tell me things like that. Linux wonâ€™t cause this kind of problem,â€ Roger said, grating his teeth.
The technician nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. Chew. â€œYou seem to know it â€”â€ chew â€œâ€”so why go to me?â€ Chew, chew, chew.
Roger wanted to shout something cool and polite that was still shoutable, such as â€œIâ€™m paying you to fix my machine, not teach me a lesson!â€, but settled on punching the PC tower. The thing protested, sounding off a shrill beeeep, then promptly died.
The technician stopped chewing his (imaginary) gum. â€œWhat the hell are you doinâ€™?!â€
In response Roger seized the PC, walked to the cliff and hurled it down the staircase. The technicianâ€™s loud barnyard expletive wasnâ€™t able to mask the crashing sound the PC made.
Roger turned and shouted in his face, â€œF*ck you!â€
Finally, something cool and polite and shoutable.
They called him the proverbial black sheep of the family, a Satanist, a bastard, and sometimes even by his birth name, Damian. They never called him D-Maks, which was bad, because heâ€™d forgive them if only they gave him that littlest and greatest of respects.
After all, being called by the name which lent him street cred is being called king.
Turning his head to face his mom to the pace of a funeral song was already second nature to D-Maks. He gave her a blank, almost funerary stare to match.
â€œWhat time is it?! Why do you always come home when the sunâ€™s starting to rise? Youâ€™ve been head banging again with your friends, havenâ€™t you?â€
â€œWell, you should be thankful I still came home, shouldnâ€™t you?â€ Never mind that rappers didnâ€™t do rock. Heâ€™d tried explaining that to her too many times.
â€œYou rude bastard! And whatâ€™s that wound on your forehead? You got into a fight, you damn kid! You got into a fight again!â€
D-Maksâ€™ ears had enough, and he made his way upstairs to his room. A screeching ululation followed him with every step: Dontyouturn yourbackonmeohidontbelievethisyoubastardyousonofab*tchyou â€”
He closed the door. He sneered at the thought that she had actually cursed herself.
But then he saw the altar, and the sneer vanished. D-Maks hastily proceeded to prostrate himself in front of the table, bow his head, clasp his hands together. He took a deep breath, then banged his head on the altar.
The crucifix shook. The pain of the previous nightâ€™s confession resurrected on D-Maksâ€™ forehead.
â€œFather, forgive me.â€ He banged his head again, the crucifix shook again. â€œForgive me for my sins, save me from the fires of hell.â€ Bang, shake. â€œForgive me for I do not know what I do.â€ Bang, blood, shake. â€œForgive meâ€¦â€