Fall in May

~45~ War Stories with Aces

"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people."― Carl Gustav Jung

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After the battle rattles finally subside, I rise up out of her lovely darkness into the current, ready to war once more. But with all the excitement and stress of "stupid boy" moment May is clearly spent. So we opt out actually even pretending to do anything constructive for the rest of study buddies.

Instead, she just folds herself up against me, and we just hang out in our small little corner carrel. Killing off time while we wait for Someone's Sister to finish getting all cheered up. Wasting our time talking through the various possibilities of how all this went suddenly sideways. The one thing we both pretty much agree on at this point is that this thing, whatever it is? It's not over by a long shot, it's just getting started.

So after seeing May off into her sinister sister's aegis, I take the slow skate back down the hill from Hell to the House of the Blazing Raisins. Turns out that the Irish Antichrist is at something called her Monthly Majjong meeting with her minions. So it's just me and ole Aces for manly dinner in front of the sports only TV. After dinner, when I am finishing up doing the dishes, the house phone rings and round two of the fun begins.

Aces starts to rock up from the Barcalounger TV throne to go after the phone. As we've both learned over the summer, he might as well get up and answer the phone because no one really calls for me on the home anyways. Anyone I know who wants to get a hold of me calls or texts my cell, or uses the internet like a normal person.

"Hello, Dean house." Aces listens for a heartbeat, before rolling his eyes up to the sky. "Sure hold on for a second."

"It's for you." Aces hands over the phone with a shrug. "Some guy?"

I take the phone and am immediately suspicious, cause no one good ever calls for me on the Raisins home number. I have to wonder if it is "The Call?" The one phone call that I have been dreading for years of fears. To let me know that Donna Momma has finally succumbed to the sadness madness that plagues her bad Insanistani blood. That she has finally taken the easy way out of her War on Sobriety.

"Zup, this is..." I intone in irritation.

"Hello sir, may I speak to Darren please?" The overly polite voice on the other end of the line sounds vaguely familiarish, and almost too cool for the pool.

"Yeah? Who's this?" I snap back suddenly suspicious.

"Hey Darren, it's Brad." Followed by a long sigh. So now I'm sure it's Brad Weston, lifeguard-at-large.

"Yeah, what do you want Brad?" As if I don't already know why Brad is suddenly calling me at the old folks home.

"I heard there was some trouble today with my brother Bobby and Corky?" I hear the deep gravitas in his voice. Long gone is the cool pool Brad, because now it's a personal problem ...just like I wanted it.

"Okay, so what the hell do you want Brad? You calling cause want a piece of me, too? Cause if that's the case? Bring it on bro! You know where I stay, and you know where I'll be tomorrow and the next day. Oh, and tell your little pedo pal Chad I said ... 'shits on now Cap't'. And ain't nothing more needs to be said till one of us is dead and the other is in jail." I hang up before Brad can even start his "Why can't we all get along?" singsong bullshit.

As soon as I am off the phone, I can immediately sense Aces is not pleased with this introduction to Conversational Hate 101. The ancient Irish art of pissing your opponent off so bad they make the first fatal mistake without thinking things through. While we have an understanding about the "rough language" issue around the house. But with Irish out of the house for the night, I am thinking it's time to get real with the old warmonger.