Previously on Passions:
October 26, 2012
from: Filbert B. Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Enough. This has to stop. You wanted to hurt me. You did. It’s over. You won. Please, have some compassion.
The phone was vibrating. It was his mother again. 13 missed calls. Astrid had done something. He couldn’t call his mother back until he had figured out what it was, and could get ahead of it. Maybe not even then. Maybe he would just let the relationship with his mother go.
His gun was in his lap. A Smith & Wesson 40 caliber. Of course it was a Smith & Wesson®. Of course it was A BMW® M™ series, of course he was lounging in the house in Nike® swimming sandals, Calvin Klein® Men’s Boxer Briefs, medium, black. He bought it because it was the same gun the LAPD used, and because he liked the two tone. Guys with guns are the biggest bunch of little girls in the world. The ammo box had a bald eagle rampant with flaming talons raised, ready to tear out the heart of your home invader.
He had spent the night fucking Astrid with the gun in her mouth. It cost him three hundred dollars. He made that before 10AM. She really needed the money. Everyone really needed the money, except him. He told her there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber but there was. He needed it to cum. Twenty years ago it barely took a stiff breeze.
Why the fuck did he have to say something. Why couldn’t he just let it go. You love somebody, they leave you, you pay them money to fuck you while eating your god damn handgun, you have won. There is no need to rub it in with a poorly thought out text message from a stoplight. If he had sent that text before ejaculating he would have forgiven himself, but if your balls are empty you have no excuse for anything.
When she was ten one of her foster parents had locked her in an attic full of bees. She had said something irreligious. There are a few good apples in the foster care system, but ninety nine per cent is men getting paid to rape kids, or women getting paid to beat kids for not talking the right way about Jesus. She had heard about Jesus every way imaginable. Usually a Gunnery Sgt. Hartman type speech right at the get go but occasionally they’d be a little more Socratic about it. I see you’re very passionate about that Strawberry Shortcake. Well, I’m passionate about something too. I see you like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. What if I told you about another hero who could save you, not from a cyborg rhinoceros but from an eternity of suffering in flames. What if I told you that Hell is real but that God loves you so much that he made it so He would not have to torture you forever, if you just said one very simple thing: I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of god our lord and savior. She did not believe that Jesus Christ was the son of God or our lord and savior but she’d said it many times. Not with this woman though, who resembled Mama Harper and had neglected to call the exterminator for several months while the bees built their winter nest up in the insulation. Astrid was in a mood. She wouldn’t say it. There were eight other foster kids in the house and they all did; they got a cookie. But Cool Hand Luke over here said if God can do anything, can He make a rock that He can’t lift.
The correct answer is: He could, but He could also change His own abilities so He would then be able to lift the rock. This did not occur to the foster parent licensed by Indiana’s rigorous child protective services program. Instead her answer was: bees. Astrid spent the afternoon up there, hugging her knees against the door, as far from the humming crawling bees as possible as though flying an extra foot would have made the difference for them. They mostly didn’t bother her. A couple stings only. But the point was made. By the way, some little girl in the sticks is probably locked in a room full of fucking bees right at this moment; elsewhere someone’s pug is getting a Thanksgiving-themed bow tied around its neck after a pedicure.
They ran out of foster parents and she went to a group home. Let’s throw a bunch of these kids together under one roof and see what happens. She had fucked a hundred people by the time she was twelve. She would fuck the boys because she thought it would make them love her. And the teachers. And the guy who brought the bottled water. No man says no to pussy, ever. Of course, most of them never get the chance. You have to work for the state. Get paid to rape kids. Some of them were violent and weird but it was only gross when they got emotional about it. When they said they cared about her.
What sucks about human beings is, experiencing pain only makes you more vulnerable to pain. It should be like: getting raped as a kid makes you Ivan Drago. Unbreakable. Instead every old pain just makes every new pain more vivid. Seeing the pattern only makes it worse. She was still, at 30, boy crazy. She still thought if she sucked their dicks they would love her. And they loved her…. sucking their dick. And it only got weird when they got emotional. When her make them love me plan worked. Suddenly they would look like spineless jellyfish. Their slumpy backs and mottled cellulite like fat old women. Their smelly gray dicks that only looked right in white underwear with skid marks. You can only love people who don’t love you. God is evil.
She had pretty eyes. She was old, too old, but she had pretty eyes. What a fucking joke it was, the life span of a woman. Fifteen years, five of them off limits and four more of them functionally so if you weren’t in college. What a cruel fucking joke. Make a thing live for eighty years and sixty five of them useless. Women are for fucking. They are good to fuck from about thirteen to twenty eight. When butterflies are done fucking, they die. When salmon are done fucking, they feed the bears. But with people, God is like an asshole Steve Jobs making sure the machine for which you paid dearly will be obsolete in a heartbeat and look here’s a new line of brand new better Ipads that you better be able to afford. But there was something about her.
She was funny. She cooked him meals. Can you imagine? A woman who, after you work all day, and she does not, you come home and she has prepared a roast with some relish that she home canned herself and it’s just ready. She has labored, unpaid and unprompted, to give pleasure and sustain life. She has done something just to make you happy. It was literally the first time this had happened in his life. To his ex wife this would have been inconceivable. Pushing hot foods around in a pan and possibly burning her fingers. Getting something ready so when he came home he could enjoy it. She waited for him to come home so he could take her out. The old woman would put something together once in a while but she was such a creature of the old country; it was always fish and garlic, weird sea organisms off the Discovery Channel. She cooked like she was doing it to fuck with him. Astrid made pot roast.
She had pretty eyes and the back of her head smelled nice. Like a woman, not like whatever fifty five gallon drum of hair chemicals his ex put on each night. She laughed at stuff, she said stuff that made him laugh; she was interested in politics and film and music. She didn’t react to the word “cunt” like you’d drawn a cartoon of Muhammed. She thought it was funny. You could tell her you were taking a shit. Four years of marriage, he had only told his wife he was excusing himself to go to the rest room. He couldn’t even pick up a magazine to take with him in front of her. He would have to stare at his towels while shitting, instead of learning about Norwegian offshore drilling in The Economist.
He bought her things. To show her he cared about her. He didn’t give her money, yet. Any other girl he would have but since she was a hooker and he was a john outside their relationship he felt it would be insulting. He bought her an Ipad. Now she had fifteen different ways to look at porn. As you would expect of someone who has been horribly raped many times, the type of porn she like to look at was women being horribly raped. Usually from Russia. The repairman shows up and he’s wearing a ski mask and he repairs you right up the ass while you struggle and scream. She astutely observed that if the girls just acted the way they actually felt while shooting, hollow and dead-eyed instead of histrionically struggling and screaming and fake fighting with stage blows like Rowdy Roddy Piper, the porn would be much more convincing and hot. Like regular porn, rape porn is horrible even though it’s obvious what you’d have to do to make it good. Because all people who make porn are idiots.
Move in with me, he said. They had been seeing each other for two weeks.
October 25, 2012
to: Angela Euna Kim (email@example.com), firstname.lastname@example.org, Byungduck Kim (email@example.com), Rosemary Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org), Vartan Gregorian (email@example.com), Shlomo Ben Ashkenaz (firstname.lastname@example.org)
cc: Filbert B. Kim (email@example.com)
Dear family and colleagues of Filbert,
Below please find a series of emails from your son/ brother/ coworker/ ex husband where he details using cocaine, having unprotected sex with prostitutes in several countries, his fantasies about beating and murdering women, and impregnating an underling at his previous firm while married and then pressuring her to get an abortion. Please note that he sent these to hundreds of people.
I regret having to show you this side of Filbert, whom you probably think is a pretty nice guy. But this isn’t even the worst of it, and if you don’t tell him to stop posting racist messages on my facebook, and threatening to have me arrested and my son taken away by CPS, there will be many more.
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TO BE CONTINUED…