Ugh. So disgusting. I’d have more respect for someone eating my ass. If I ever make you do this, rest assured, you have fallen as far as you can in my eyes.
But then, it’s always a race to the bottom for you little shits, isn’t it?
Yessir, it’s a good thing you called when you did. After my inspection, I’m sorry to confirm that you do indeed have a chick problem. No one likes to hear it, I know; the cleanup from any infemmestation is damned difficult, but let me put your mind at ease, my sister’s kid Skeeter and I’re perfessionals. We’ll need to tent the place and put down traps for your critter, acquire her, and then process the living space for her spoor… but when we’re through, you’ll be free.
…
Oh, absolutely. Pardon my vulgarity, but getting rid of a girl’s crap is the hardest part of getting rid of the girl! You’d be amazed where we find their waste products: stuffed into the backs of nightstand drawers, wedged into medicine cabinets, and nowadays, clogging up iTunes libaries. If they touched it, they’s probably done left some shit in it, is what I’m sayin’; all a part of their nestin’ process, I reckon.
…
Nah, don’t you worry about them little vermin, sir! Oh sure, I been bit. Lotsa times. You cain’t be in this business and not get bit once in a while. Most of the time, a good, hard smack on the nose‘ll put ‘em on their backs with their legs twitchin’… they don’t bite twice, let’s put it that way.
But mostly, they’re harmless as long as— um, you ain’t got no chocolate in the house, do ya, sir? They’s drawn to cocoa and shiny stuff, like candy bars and earrings. And they *do* tend to get a bit more difficult at the peak of their twenty-eight day reperductive cycle; I’ve seen two of ‘em fight near to death over a pair of old sweat pants and some raw cookie dough.
…
That’s a great question. I think about that a lot. About playing God with all these scurryin’ little lives.
My friend Dickie —he worked for my old man, taught me damn near everthing about pest control— he used to say, “Nature ain’t always purty, but she always get her way.” I think that’s why I stay in this business… ‘cause I think Dickie got that one thing wrong. Nature ain’t in charge of shit. I say “fuck nature.” Fuck her in the ass, and pardon my language. ‘Cause y’know, God give man dominion of the Earth, and way I see it, if we want to make nature purty and put her in her place, then why the fuck not? Right? You betcha I’m right.
I’ve put up with a lot. The drinking, the drugs… the men. You’re an addict, and I try not to expect too much from you. Your weakness defines you, and I knew that going in. It’s no one’s fault but my own that I set out on a quest to fix you, so I’ve never blamed you, no matter how much you’ve deserved it.
But when you had the temerity to say that word… “divorce” to me? Think again, whore.
So now we’re taking a little trip to my uncle’s old hunting cabin, and you’re going to pay for that nasty little word, along with every wrong you’ve ever done me. I’m going to make you feel every one of my pains and humiliations in your flesh… in your cunt.
Don’t give me that nonsense. I can already tell you’re trying to make this my fault.
But make no mistake: you’re in the trunk of the car because the trunk is where you belong. Can’t you tell, just by the way people look at you? Don’t you see that they’ve judged you, and found you wanting? Surely you’ve noticed that delicate mixture of pity and contempt in their eyes, or the strained smiles they reserve just for you and all the other well-meaning fuck-ups and social defectives that litter their lives? They didn’t want this for you, of course; they were simply comfortable letting it happen.
Do you know how many times your friends and family could have stopped me from taking you? If your boyfriend had bothered to fix the lock on your bedroom window —you know, like you asked at least ten times— I might have never made it inside. If your dad had given you a little help with your rent —instead of, say, blowing his savings on an upgrade to your stepmom’s pathetic tits— you could have lived in a nicer neighborhood, and it would have been some other girl coming home to a bare cupboard, an empty bed, and a closet full of me. If your mother had taken the slightest pride in you —if she’d bothered to note what an obvious slut you were becoming— you might have developed a little dignity, and I would have never noticed you at all.
Really, when you think about it, I’m just providing a service by hauling off the clutter they couldn’t bring themselves to throw away.
