Bad is Good

 Sometimes bad is good, you know what I mean?

Take me for example. What do you see? It’s okay, you can be honest. The best you could say is, I’m a bit of rough. No, don’t worry. I’m honest enough with myself. I mean, look at me. A face a mother would hesitate to kiss. I started off with a face like that, and then life sat on it and farted, metaphorically speaking. A face that tells my life like a book. Every scar a hard-luck story.

But women, they go for that. Not every woman, obviously, but enough. I get my fair share, maybe more than my share. Can you explain that? I can’t. Maybe it’s the poor puppy dog effect. You know how women go for the runt of the litter. Or maybe they fancy a walk on the wild side, eh? Marry the captain of the football team, but take it rough and ready in a back alley with someone like me as a one off. Anyway, whatever it is, it works for me. Nothing regular, nothing to come home to on Christmas Eve, but enough so I know it all still works down there. No, I get the women. Never had to pay for it in my life. Never had to force myself on one either. Well, only in play. Part of the fantasy for them, sometimes. The point is, I’m not a sad perv or a rapist. Guys just don’t get it, but I work it.

Some guys really don’t get it. See this scar, across the top of my head? Big one, isn’t it? He really didn’t get it. He had some proper job, up in town. Not one that had a description you could understand, but one you had to wear a suit for. Worked up in the city, got home late and tired. Well, you can’t treat a pretty wife like that, not if she’s a normal woman. She got lonely, bored. He realised that, I guess. Came home early one day, bunch of flowers, bottle of wine, a hard-on you could hang your coat on. Surprise! And she was surprised all right. Me too.

You don’t hang about for a chat and a cup of tea in those circumstances. She was terrified and guilt-ridden; he was about to blow a gasket. Me, I just made my excuses and left. Just as I reached the door, clothes in one hand, dignity in the other, he lashed out. Just my luck, he was a lefty. If he had been right-handed I’d have been assaulted with a dozen roses. Instead I got pole axed by a bottle of Chianti. Three days in hospital and a scar the rest of my life to remind me not to turn my back on a guy, no matter how good he seems.

Because he was good, see? Nice family, decent job, looked the part in a suit. And he was the wronged party, overcome by a moment of untypical jealous rage. Well, what sort of man wouldn’t swing in those circumstances? That was the story his lawyer sold the judge. And the judge, he looked at him all smart and contrite, and he looked at me, and he gave him community service. Smashing a bottle over a naked guy’s head from behind, and he got a slap on the wrist.

You see, it works both ways. Sometimes good can be bad as well.

See my nose? Broken at least three times by good men. I got a scar under my arm where they had to insert the tube in my ribs to re-inflate my lung. That one brought his mates along, caved in my ribs with their boots. Others had a go but didn’t leave a scar. All this hatred, all this violence, and from good men. Why? Not because their woman’s had a bit on the side. It couldn’t have been that big a surprise. No, it’s because it’s with a bad bit of rough like me, that’s what galls them.

I don’t look at the world like that anymore. If a woman jumps my bones, is she good or bad? I don’t care. She’s horny, and that’s all that matters. If a wronged lover comes at me with his fists or a bottle, is he justified? Who cares? It’s my skin he’s after, and I’ve got enough scars, thanks very much.

So you see, for me, it’s not good or bad, it’s all the same. All’s fair in love and war, right? I don’t love fair and I don’t fight fair, I just aim to come out on top.

So you’ve got a choice. I’m going to let you go in a moment. You can get up, go home, patch it up with her or not, it’s all the same to me. Or you can have another go at me, but be warned. This time I’ll be ready, and I won’t give you a second chance.



About snodlander
Snodlander is the nom de plume of Bob Simms. He is an IT trainer, but it's not as glamourous as it sounds. When he's not enthralling classes with adventures through SQL Server, he writes, draws and drinks his own home-brew. Buy his novel on Amazon Kindle at The Young Demon Keeper, It's 74p, for crying out loud!

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