CONTENT WARNING: Sex, gross humour, ageism, mild racism — this story has it all. If you’re cool with that, then you’ll love it.
I fucking hate Monopoly.
I used to love it. Growing up, we’d always play it around the holidays — Mom, Dad, my brother, my cousins. All sat round the big table, Christmas tree twinkling with tacky lights, Bing Crosby crooning from the stereo. The grown-ups would be half-drunk, smiling as they blew smoke right into their kids’ faces, that acrid scent filling our poor little lungs. It was way past our bedtime, but who cares? School was next year’s problem.
Those games would go on for hours. Sometimes, if we ran out of money in the bank, the grown-ups would use real money that they let us keep! It was just a few dollars, but still. I’m not saying I always won, but I held my own. The important thing was that I always beat my brother. Watching the tears stream down his rosy cheeks while I counted his money, I tell you, it’s one of my fondest memories from being a kid. You see, Grandma was a sly old dog, and she taught me how to play. More importantly though, she taught me how to win.
She’s the only old person I’ve ever enjoyed playing this fucking cursed game with.
“Lorraine,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s your turn.”
Lorraine is off her game today. Not with Monopoly — she’s always fucking useless at that. No, I’m talking about her hard candies. Usually she’s got one in each hand, unwrapping like a pro, without even looking. Always makes me think of Jon Malkovich from In The Line of Fire, you know when he’s assembling the home-made gun under the table? But today, her shaky old hands have been fumbling at the same wrapper for an age. She always sticks her tongue out when she’s concentrating. I wish she’d concentrate on the fucking game though. “Lorraine!”
With a jump, she looks up at me. The dumb bitch doesn’t notice as a candy drops from her mouth, bouncing off her cardigan before falling under the table. “Yes, dear?”
Do I have to say it again? “It’s your turn!” I shout to be heard over the TV, which is blaring even though no one is watching it (except Marge, but it’s against her will). My head is bouncing. Honestly, if Jon Malkovich could just walk in and put two in the back of my head, I’d be forever grateful.
It’s been a rough week, to be honest. I haven’t had any weed, and have only taken a sleeping pill every other night, when I really need it. Thankfully, I’ve had no more visits from Mrs. Birch, but my nerves are running a little thin. I feel like I have a scream stuck in my lungs, just dying to get out. And if one more person so much as utters my name today, I won’t be responsible for my actions. How anyone could do this job without the aid of some sort of narcotic, I’ll never know.
These old bastards aren’t helping either. You have Lorraine, who has the attention span of a goldfish, and, on her last turn, tried to buy the jail with a Chance card. Then there’s Henry, and you better believe he’s paying attention. Every cent is accounted for, and he’s building hotels like he’s Mr. Holiday Inn, pumping his fist and cheering whenever I land on one of his properties. And I’m positive he swiped a few notes from the bank when I wasn’t looking. I’ve got to hand it to him though, he’s playing to win. Grandma would’ve liked him.
Finally, Lorraine rolls the dice. “Four?”
“That’s a five, Lorraine.”
“Oh… if you say so.” She reaches for the top hat, which is my fucking piece.
“No — you’re the purple one, Lorraine.”
“Eh?”
“The fucking purple one.” She’s using Professor Plum from the Clue set. There’s not a board game in here with all the right pieces, or that isn’t damaged in some way. Every box looks like it’s been chewed by a rat. Even the Monopoly board is torn down the middle.
“Oh, right. Yes.” She moves Professor Plum five squares… in the wrong direction.
Please, Jon Malkovich. End my suffering.
“That’s the wrong—”
“Yes!” Henry pumps his fist. “I’ve got a hotel there.”
“No… wait. She’s moved in the wrong—”
“You owe me a thousand dollars.”
“No, she doesn’t. She’s went…” With Henry’s help, Lorraine is already counting out the money. “Never mind. Okay, my turn now. Hand me the dice.”
I snatch the dice from Lorraine, and throw it a little harder than I intended. It hits the corner of the table and lands on the floor.
Lorraine bends over. “I’ll get it for you.”
A second later, she reappears, holding out her fist and dropping the dice into the palm of my hand.
No, wait. Not the dice. Something else.
Something… sticky.
I already know the horrific truth before I look. It’s the hard candy she dropped earlier.
Still warm, glistening wet, and looking like it’s been tossed in a vat of pubes.
“Oh my fucking… FUCK!”
Lorraine jumps again, bewildered as I fly out of my chair and hold the little abomination right under her nose. “Does this look like a fucking dice to you!”
She gawks at me like I’m speaking Chinese. “W—what?”
“This thing. In my hand. Does it look like a dice to you?” I should make her fucking eat it.
Lorraine leans in, inspecting the pube-covered ball. “Oh… I think that’s a candy.”
“You fucking think!?”
I hate stickiness, I fucking hate it. And I hate Lorraine. And I hate this fucking place, and every motherfucker in it, including yours truly. I throw the candy back onto the floor. Or at least, I try to, but it’s stuck to my hand, making my fucking skin crawl. “Somebody get me a fucking tissue!”
“What’s all the commotion over here?” Valerie appears with immaculate timing, her pearly white smile defusing the situation. “Ooh, Monopoly! Can I play?”
“Sure,” I say, handing her the ‘dice’. “You can take my place.”
Valerie’s smile cracks. She stares at me like I’ve just given her gonorrhea, but I’m already fleeing the scene.
That’s it — I give up. I need weed, and I need it right fucking now. I always thought of myself as a casual smoker. Maybe I was before I got this job. But it’s been five days of hell. I mean, it would have been hell anyway, but without a smoke to take the edge off, it’s been… what’s worse than hell? Oh yeah — working in this dump.
And there he is, just the man I need. Juan, my big Mexican bull, is at the other end of the corridor. God, look at him, all muscle and moustache and manliness. I’d love to build a wall, but not to keep him out — to keep him in… my vagina, that is. Sadly, my plans to seduce him haven’t made much progress. It’s not my fault though. I only see him in work, and he’s always so busy. Like just now, he looks like he’s walking in my direction, but then makes an abrupt, almost violent, turn into a supply closet.
I get a little butterfly of excitement as I follow him in. “¡Aloha!” Shit, wait — that’s not right, is it? God, he must think I’m in idiot. I can’t help it though, it’s his fault for being so fucking caliente. Maybe I should stop with the whole Spanish thing, and focus on the language of love. That’s the only one we both—
“What is it, Tracy?”
Oh, shit. He looks annoyed. Must be having one of those days. You and me both, big guy. “Can you hook me up?”
He sighs and pulls a little plastic bag from his pocket. “Here — this is all I have on me right now.”
“Thanks, you’re a star. Can I pay you next week?” I could pay him just now, but my purse is all the way in the staff room, and I only have twenty dollars in there, which I was thinking about using to treat myself to some greasy takeout later. And, after I annihilate this weed, I’ll definitely need it.
Juan doesn’t seem to mind. “Sure,” he says, shrugging.
“Unless there’s another way I can pay?”
I gasp. What the fuck did I just say?
Juan raises his eyebrows.
My stomach falls out of my asshole. My face burns like it’s just eaten a ghost pepper. I shrink to the size of a tortilla chip as the whole of Mexico laughs at me. What the almighty fuck was I thinking?
“Actually… yeah, there is.”
Wait… what?
“Really?” My eyes are unblinking. My cheeks ache from how hard I’m smiling.
Juan takes a step closer and licks his lips, his cheap cologne wafting over me. “Yeah… really.”
Oh my god. The butterfly I felt a moment ago has flown to somewhere more intimate, and his naughty little wings are fluttering. This is it, isn’t it? chorizo time!
Am I wearing clean underwear? No. Do I give a fuck? Hello, no!
I can barely hold it together, but the words come stuttering out. “L—like what?”
He reaches round me with a big hulking arm, like he’s going to pull me closer.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he grabs a big pack of toilet paper from a shelf. “Could you cover my shift next Thursday?”
Fuck. “Oh.”
“It’s just, I really need the night off. I’ve got a date.”
“A date.” I’m still smiling, but I’ve no idea why. “That’s… fucking fantastic.” Bet she’s dirty, rotten skank.
“Yeah. First date. I’m pretty excited.”
Well, this really fucking sucks balls. I’m supposed to be the love of his life, not helping him find her. Still, I could use the money. “Sure. I’ll cover for you. But if it goes well, you owe me another bag.”
Juan laughs. The first time he’s ever done that in front of me. “Here’s hoping!”
He gives my arm a playful slap, the type you’d give to your brother (no, not your stepbrother). “Thanks, Tracy. You’re the best.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Juan walks out with enough toilet paper to wipe every ass in here. I’m left alone with… whatever the female equivalent of blue balls is. Blue waffle, maybe? No, that’s something else. Either way, my vagina is pissed.
Oh well. At least I scored some free weed.
Author’s Note:
Yes, I know the singular of dice is die, but no one says that!
Tracy was never going to last very long without weed, especially with the residents testing her patience. I’m hoping you feel her frustrations, while still being able to laugh at them.
Her scenes with Juan are pretty much writing themselves at this point. She has the hots for him, he finds her irritating. Throw in some bad Spanish and a few offensive references to Mexico, and voila!
Now Tracy is back on the weed, and probably making up for her lack of pill-popping, how will that affect her work? And will Mrs. Birch show her creepy face again? Tune in next week to find out.
"chorizo time!" 🤣🤣
This chapter had so many fantastic lines. I really need to remember not to read your work while I'm taking a sip of coffee.
I almost choked on my popcorn