FanPost

A Literary Reimagining of, "don’t you no I would fucking destroy you are you fucking retarded? you little bitch"

Caution: this is satire. If you do not immediately recognize the meme from which the title is taken, please scroll to the bottom of this post and read the original quote in context.

Times are hard; the grind leaves me weary.

It has been fifteen years hence that I have laboured in this place - dark, and dreary, and cold. The incessant racket of machines tortures my ears like death bells, every clank the morose reminder of memories best forgotten. This factory consumes me, and I it. Most days I feel I will die here; some days I feel I want to.

My tired hands run themselves over levers and bolts of their own accord, and my idle mind slips into dream - I'm on an island, green, lush, alone. I close my eyes and a breeze hits my face; the wind carries the aroma of the earth, and notes of freedom play a symphony on my nostrils. The sand welcomes my feet, warm and inviting - the ocean calls for me, today.

As I embrace the rumbling waves over my bare feet, I open my eyes to the bludgeon of reality. It's Teddy, and his voice bellows for me, "Marchand, you sly son' bitch! Get your dick out of the dog for a 'sec, it's grub time baby!"

Teddy and I make our way to the cafeteria. He is flouncing, and obnoxious; his exaggerated limbs whip about seemingly in spite of him, and the ruckus he creates moves our eyes from his balding head and bulging belly. I know this place has broken me because I call Teddy my friend - only here, in this wretched mess, could the tenuous bonds of parallel servitude masquerade as friendship.

I lurch beside Teddy as we enter the line, nodding here and there. "You like ketchup?", Teddy wheezes, pausing his assault on whatever management has labelled food just long enough to press my eyes for a begrudging response. I struggle to push the conversation."Ketchup? I mean, I gue...." Teddy interrupts, and I breathe relief. "I. Fucking. Love it. L-O-V-E. Love it! Think about it: ketchup is the duct tape of condiments. I mean really, it's like the sort of chunky, but sort of pretty girl at the bar, you know? She ain't classy, and she sure as shit ain't refined next to her friend Honey Dijon, but she comes out easy and goes on everything. Right, Marchand? Yeah, you know buddy - you know!"

Teddy drones on about ketchup, unabated. His mouth gnashes and gnaws, and I stare blankly. I think about how I would hate Teddy, somewhere else; how the alcohol that saturates his breath would repulse me, and how quickly I would tire of these banalities. But here, his breath, and his idiocy, his ever-bumping gums serve as the nagging, trivial reminders of my humanity. I push him on, "Why ketchup?"

Before Teddy has the chance to draw breath into his lungs, a shrill, flat noise cuts through the air. "Ketchup is disgusting and garbage." Before I even turn to see Tellmark, I can feel him. I imagine the scales of his tongue piercing the crease of his lips; the words crawling, scraping to escape his mouth at any cost. I hate Jason Tellmark. He is serpentine, and emaciated; he is a wicked, cruel little man, and his scarcely five feet stand like a broken and crooked tree, dying in the wind. He embodies everything foul about this place.

"Thanks for your opinion, " I say through ground teeth, "but this was a closed conversation." Insecurity weakens his voice, but Teddy knows to break the tension. He laughs nervously and says, "Yeah, scram Smellmark, nobody gives a fuck here."

I stare at Tellmark, tracking his beady, contemptuous little eyes as they flicker back and forth between Teddy and I - hoping desperately to find courage in the ceiling's maze of cracks. "You think you're funny, funny like a clown?," he cackles.

His voice is sharper than his words; it cuts into me, bare and raw. I am angry. I feel my hands quiver, furious - I clench my fists in restraint, and the scars on my knuckles stretch like the skin of a battle drum, beating the tunes of war these hands have endured. My frame is large, and tense; I feel every muscle screaming for revenge. I imagine hurting Tellmark - crushing him with the power in my hand blessed to break faces. I delight in this, before the image of my wife gleans into view. I think of her; of my children. I have struggled for so many years to rewrite the story that my broken and calloused skin tells, penning it with the embraces of my wife and children. I release. I mutter under my breath, "Not today, Tellmark," and shuffle away with Teddy.

Tellmark sneers, but I see dread and fear in his eyes. He knows that one day I will come for him.

_______________________________________________________________________________

The rage of lunch whimpers into the monotony of work; the relentless indifference of machinery presses hard. I begin to slip away, remembering the sweetness of my earlier dream: its textures, its aromas; the blended colours of the sun, beaming on me. I find comfort in its vividity, and give way to it once more - and once more, I am interrupted.

I turn to face the patter of hurried footsteps, expecting to see Teddy's face flush and waiting to regale me with his own ledger of today's events. Instead I find Jory, flummoxed and out of breath. Jory is young, maybe 20, and too naive to understand the crushing weight of failure. He often tells me of the plans he harbours for him and his wife, young like him. I am too much of a coward to rupture the picture he's built for himself.

"Marchand," Jory asks, "Is it true?" I shake the urge to brush Jory off. I know, in some twisted way, he looks to me as a mentor. "Is what true?," I intone, just barely. "Jason, he's...he's telling everyone that...," Jory hesitates. "What Jory, tell me." He continues, "Well, he's telling everyone that you're a bitch, Marchand. A lowly bitch. He said that he told you where to go and...and that...that you're a clown, and you did nothing! Is that true?"

Thoughts scream through my head like freight trains, "That kid, that putrid, petulant little child Tellmark, he is a little bitch. He is laughable at best." "Move, Jory. Tellmark must be found." I hear the words, but I am unsure whether they are spoken or thought. I don't care.

My eyes dart wildly from side to side, searching, piercing the room to find Tellmark. I was dead before, certainly dead inside - but I am alive at this moment. In a way I am thankful. I let the pure rage wash over me like the water over my toes, and at that very moment, it comes. "You call me a little bitch, Marchand?" Like before, my entire body feels the air pollute and sicken before I see Tellmark's severe, twisted frame. I turn to face him; rage becomes me.

Anger is trivial - it comes and goes, fleeting. What embodies me here is deeper, more sinister: anger is but a match flickering in the wind, and I am the flaming sun. But a hulking savage now, I tear the clothes from my flesh with such a velocity that I feel the burn of fabric. I stand in front of Tellmark, face drawn in fury, eyes primitive and desperate; my muscles swell and contort themselves in poses I have never seen - the herculean manifestation of anger, unchecked. I feel my fists clench, and with white knuckles I scream, "Don't you know i would fucking destroy you? Are you fucking retarded, you little bitch?"

Like vultures settling on a carcass, weak and unresistant, my hands choose their places on Tellmark's face - they are raised, ready to curdle the ears of these bystanders with the only violent, gruesome language I have ever spoken. As I ready myself for the kill, I feel a strange sensation, weak at first. It grows, and I recognize the unmistakable numb of pacification. The fight is being stopped; my monster must rest once again.

________________________________________________________________________________

I hate Cooper Burch. He is the rod to Tellmark's staff, subterranean and scheming. I sniff the disgusting air, thick with the competition between his smugness and cheap cologne, battling for supremacy around him like sickly lions. "So," the words dredge from his lips, almost faltering, weighted by condescension, "mind telling me what happened here, Marchand?" I picture Cooper on the floor; him retracting in fear, and self-preservation, and humiliation, me over him, dominant and proud. I picture every time Cooper has held the idea of my family hostage, threatening my job, and demanding the highest price of all for ransom - my dignity.

No more pictures. No more daydreams. I can feel the beach, now - it's present. It's with me. Cooper asks again, forcefully, "Marchand, what happened here? I've suspended James, and I am this close to..." I stop him, pounding my first on the table. "Shut the fuck up, Cooper."

I am finished with this place - and as the pride yearns and presses to make space in my voice, I speak again. "A bitch is someone who acts tough or treats people poorly, when they are in a place of protection - using the fact that I can lose my job, or have trouble with the police. If you, or he were a real man, you would wait until after work to endanger my safety - not hide with witnesses so I have no choice but to defend myself. If you really have beef, and want to prove something like you're tough, that takes balls."

I can already feel it - the ceaseless, endless pressure of this place releasing its boney grip on my neck. The smell of steam, and metal, and shame no longer suffocates my nostrils; the sting of failure no longer coarses in my veins. Cooper gathers himself to mutter, but I already know he is broken. "If you t-t-try anything after work, Marchand, I'll...I'll c-c-call the police on you," Cooper proclaims meekly.

The kid still doesn't get, but I do. Letting my rage, my story surface was my liberation - as if Tellmark was the shattered and broken pieces of me that kept me here, locked. Conquering Tellmark was conquering myself.

I am free.

http://www.bloodyelbow.com/2011/9/14/2424797/nick-diaz-georges-st-pierre-ufc-137#77319947

Nick is the true meaning of coward. Before you get offended let me explain with a story. One day Im a work talking to a buddy about ketchup and this little 135 -140 pound kid thats standing close to us in the lunch room says" ketchup is disgusting and garbage" we kind of laugh and say "thanks for your opinion but this was an a b conversation then laughed ignored him, he then says " you think your funny ? Funny like a clown then he laughs. Now im 200 5’10 hit the gym regularly, i’m no0 mma fighter but have been gifted with the type of power in both hads that breaks faces and am a natural wrestler that never was taught, im also 35 , a father of three boys , have a wife, and trying to be a christian and be a good person. Ive come from some bad places. So I blow it off those are fighting words but hes no threat so whatever. After lunch this guy come up to me saying" Jasons says your a bitch says he mouth you off said you where a clown or something said you did nothing" I work in factory 170 employee im pretty furious this will go around shop make me look bad, I say to the guy" that kid is the little bitch I ever met i think he is laughable at best it was a joke to me" Now i go back to work like 3 minintes later this kid is coming up to me in my unit area I dont want to make this any longer so in short he come up in my space and says"you call me a bitch" etc. this goes on for a bit I look at people around me I say to them "you see he is in my space and wont leave right they say yup all witnesses I then rip off my shirt and do like a hulk scream and pose and then say to the kid " don’t you no I would fucking destroy you are you fucking retarded? you little bitch" my coworker grabbed me and he left at that point. We get call up to management shortly after, I almost lost my job for doing nothing, kid got suspended from work for 2 weeks. Kid In management offices asked me why hes a bitch said he lipped me of got in my face, I said "a bitch is someone who acts tough to or treats people poorly when there in a place of protection using the fact that I cant lose my job or have police trouble etc. If you where a real man you would wait till after work endanger my safty with witnesses so I have no choice but to defend myself, if you really have beef and want to prove something like your tough that takes balls" kid says after that " if you try anything after work ill call the police on you" kid still doesn’t get it. Nick is the kid in this story talking shit now hes in a place of protection again not fighting gsp and he will never learn. Gsp is me thinking this guy must be mentally delusional or something and don’t even see him a threat more of an annoyance.

\The FanPosts are solely the subjective opinions of Bloody Elbow readers and do not necessarily reflect the views of Bloody Elbow editors or staff.

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