"Oh that's right, you fuck off down the pub and I'll take care of mum!"
Why is she having a go at me?
I can see her standing in the doorway, my wife, Ann Wilson and I still don't know what it is I'm supposed to have done.
"Do you want to start again?" I asked, probably a stupid question but fuck it, I ain't got anything to lose.
Ann doesn't look too happy, clinging onto the bedroom door like she's superglued to it,
"Oh I bet you'd say that. Typical of you. Moan, whinge, fucking moan! That's all I ever fucking hear from you these days!" She said.
Now I hate to correct her, but what she's just said is completely fucking wrong. We hardly talk at all, so where is she getting all this shit from? I don't drink so why would I fuck off down the pub?
Why would she let me look after her mum? I tried to kill her last week, so that's not a good idea at all.
Ann lets the door go, I can't understand what she's having a go at me about. But it's clear that she hasn't finished because she's walking towards me and I suddenly feel afraid.
"You Mr. Brian Wilson are a fucking pain in my arse!"
I like the way she talks, so pleasant and comforting.
"What have I done?" I moan back, I figure I have to say something at least.
"Look at you! You fucking spineless worm!"
Well at least she got that one right. I don't tell her she's right, I don't want to ruin this. Nor do I want to die.
"Everyday the same shit!" Ann shouted at me, "I do all the stuff around here! And what do you do? Well come on, what do you do?"
She has a point there. I have to tread carfefully, if I say the wrong thing or make a joke of it, she will seperate my head from my shoulders.
"Ah, now Ann, you know how busy I've been and well, you know how it is."
Did I just say that?
If that was me, then what the fuck happened?
That's the worst thing I could have said.
Ann has a look on her face like she's gonna explode,
"Is that it? Is that the best you can do? You can't even fuck me properly!"
She gets so loud, I'm sure she can be heard several miles away.
As for the fucking part, I do quite well thank you. I mean, I get what I want...
"The last time I let you do me, it took you eight seconds."
How the fuck did she time that?
"That, my dear Brian was from start to a very lousy finish."
I shrug. What can I say?
I was quite happy. I got mine.
I tell myself, please don't say anything. Just let her fire all this crap out at me and she might let me escape without too much pain.
I say nothing. I'm clever, me.
My wife with the oh so fucking high IQ just stares at me.
Ann steps so close to me I'm feeling dizzy. I hope she's calmed down, she grabs hold of my arm.
My panic alarm goes off. She's gonna hurt me!
I can breathe again.
She drags me kicking and screaming to our bedroom.
She throws me on the bed.
I don't like where this is going. I don't mind it a bit rough, but fucking hold on a minute!
"Now, what we're going to..." Ann said and then paused, looking at me and I'm wondering where she keeps the sharp knives, "Sorry, that's wrong." She finished.
She sat next to me on our bed and took my hand.
Ann smiles and that's pretty fucking gruesome, even in the hours of daylight.
"Brian," She said softly, caressing my hand, "I would like you to fuck me and this time do it properly!"
So is that what all this shit has been about?
I get home from work and I get this?
She can forget it. I'm not doing it!
But she squeezes me between my legs and her smile is so fucking evil,
"I bought marshmallows," She said, "I'll let you have the pink ones."
Well, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?
The last time we did it, it was what, eight seconds? How fast does she want to go?
(From 'An Ordinary Day in Extraordinary Ways, part 3. Written by Jim Hewitt).