Andre's Bad Day

"I was sitting on my front porch the other day, completely minding my own business, when all of a sudden a German Shepard came out of nowhere and tried to eat my jugular. I used my rippling muscles to catch it in mid-lunge. I forced it back with my forearm and used my free hand to apply approximately 100lbs of torque to the beast's neck and heard a crack. After I killed it I took to the butcher and he smoked it up real nice. Anyway I'm sorry about killing your dog, and here's some of his jerky to prove how sorry I am."

The Smiths looked at Andre with disgust. They refused to believe their vicious German Shepard would have ever attempted to take an innocent life. And to offer the remains of their precious Fifi as jerky was despicable.

You'll hear from our lawyer, and we'll make sure your stay in juvi will be long and painful. You show absolutely no remorse for your actions.

So you're not going to eat the jerky? I mean, it's really good. Andre really couldn't help finding the whole situation rather amusing. The Smiths had been total dicks to him ever since they moved into the neighborhood 6 years ago. They were dicks to his little brother to, any time a Frisbee went into their yard they would challenge them to come get it with the dog standing guard over the lost toy like a growling Cerberus. In fact, Andre was pretty sure the Smiths were vampires or were-wolves or something, cause it was inhuman to be such a flaming group of assholes.

You are a monster! The door slammed in Andre's face. Andre began the short walk next-door to his house. He waited to see if they would realize that it was beef jerky in that box. He'd call his friend Jim who had impounded Fifi. What an unfitting name for that monster. He was glad to teach the Smiths a lesson about letting their dog out without even supervising it. That dog had really scarred up his back and chest pretty bad before he knocked it out with a well placed patio furniture strike. As soon as Andre walked in the door to his house the phone rang.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!!! The digital bell pierced through Andre's eardrums as if was trying to spear his brain.

Hello, Mendel residence this is Andre speaking.

Dude, are you a freaking secretary or something? It was Jim. Andre knew immediately when the voice cracked twice over the course of that 8-word sentence.

Bro, I was just about to call you. I think we better pick the dog up soon, I think the Smiths are gonna press charges. Andre walked into the kitchen and sat down at the dinging room table.

What do you mean pick up the dog? Jim clearly had information that was going to make Andre's life a little more difficult.

What do you mean what do you mean? Andre stood up and began pacing across the white tile.

I thought you wanted me to have them put the dog to sleep. Jim gave no vocal cue that he was guilty of any form of dogicide.

What the hell do you mean you twit, I said impound it! Andre kicked his little brother's Lego castle that obstructed his path through the kitchen. The castle slammed against a cabinet but remarkably broke into only three chunks.

But you also said that somebody 'should put that hell hound to sleep,' remember?

THAT DIDNT MEAN US!!! Andre clenched his free hand into so tight a fist that crimson streaks began dripping down his hand.

Well, maybe you should be more specific next time. Either way it cost like sixty bucks, so I mean, you owe me like at least thirty. Jim was guilty of one count of first-degree criminal stupidity.

You better make sure they don't go through with it. Andre shook his finger towards where he imagined Jim to be.

Dude, it's done. I videotaped it for you 'cause I thought you'd wanna see it. So how'd the jerky trick go?

Don't you understand that the whole point of the thing was to teach them a lesson without killing the dog, the Smith's lawyer is going to eat us alive. Andre slouched onto the couch as the weight of the situation began to pull down on him.

What do you mean us? The Smiths don't know who I am, so I think you mean you're screwed. In fact, I don't think I know you sir, why are you calling me, good-bye.

The phone clicked. Andre buried his head into his hands. He was going down, and the person who he thought was his best friend in the world abandoned him like a leper, a leper with violent body odor.

While Andre was drowning in self-pity, a knock summoned him to the door. He dragged his feet across the floor as he went to answer the door. He opened the door and a man with a black suit was there. He had dark sunglasses, and Andre couldn't make out any specific features. He did look like a grade-A bad ass.

Are you Andre Mendel? The man had a very low voice, it sounded like it hit two octaves below middle C.

Uh, yeah. Andre shied away from the door, and slouched to hide himself from the eyes behind the glasses.

The Smiths wanted me to give you this. The man pulled a sawed-off shotgun from his trench coat. He *censored*ed it once and blew Andre's spleen through the small of his back. It's nothing personal, just business. Andre lay with his vitality staining the carpet, and tried to reach the phone. As the world faded around him, Andre thought of the events that led to his demise. Damn his neighbors were dicks.

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