Sammy Potts took another long, lustful look at the five beautiful numbers in his palm. He had finally fucking done it, after what seemed like an eternity of playing the lottery. He ran his free hand over his three-day stubble, creating a light burning sensation on his face; anything to clear his head momentarily. He let out a grotesque, guttural belch
that even the most uncouth animal would not have the ability to replicate, as he stumbled down the rotting stairs outside of his apartment door. He was now a proud card-carrying member of the I don’t give a flying fuck about anything or anyone club. Why, you ask? Well, the goddamned numbers on his lottery ticket gave him every right to be.
Mr. Kedwin, the middle-aged, miserly neighbor, was just exiting his car as Sammy came ramming through the hallway door.
“Hey, liberal, I got a good one for you,” Sammy yelled to him, a thick aroma of scotch and cheap beer floating up to his nostrils. “I’m going to express myself as a person. Let me show you!”
He unzipped his fly, grabbed his pecker and sent a vibrant, golden stream of piss in Mr. Kedwin’s direction, before turning his attention on the front bumper of his car. Mr. Kedwin stood there, his face holding an expression of pure disbelief.
Sammy didn’t stick around to see what happened next and instead ran back up the stairs to his apartment and began rifling through drawers, looking for his college diploma. Every fucking asshole under the sun had forever preached the infinite value of a college education, for as long as he could remember.
They can take it and wipe their mother’s ass with it, he mused to himself as his frantic hands tossed random, household items in all directions. One by one he emptied the drawers, discarding them to the unforgiving floor in his desperate search for the high-fucking-almighty college diploma. He needed something to instill in him an extra boost of motivation. He turned away from his diploma investigation and eyeballed the stereo across the room. The piece of shit was falling apart, but it would do. He purposely stomped his way across the room toward it, hoping that the downstairs neighbors would be woken up and annoyed by his adolescent antics. He tossed in a Zeppelin CD (In Through The Out Door, thank you very much) and notched it up to max volume.
He resumed his unrelenting attack on the remaining drawers, finally locating his folded, wrinkled college diploma, a broken, dollar-store e-cig nestled on top of it. He grabbed it, turned it over and began scrawling his letter of resignation on the back of it. He would be taking his lucky ass to work one last time in the morning to pass it on to Mr. Fields. As far as he was concerned, Mr. Fields’ pudgy ass could stock the shelves and work the register. Sammy Boy was done with it all.
After several minutes of putting his heartfelt thoughts on paper, he re-read the last sentence to himself, just one more time for emphasis.
“Fuck you all right now, tomorrow, next week and, with any luck, next year as well. Have a blessed day.”
He smiled widely as he set his diploma aside and fumbled a cigarette out from the nearly empty pack on the coffee table. Fool In The Rain came on the stereo as he took a long, deep, gracious drag, blowing the smoke out in a thin, transparent stream. He could hear muffled yelling coming from below him, in addition to angry, determined footsteps coming up the hallway stairs.
Yes, life was good at the moment.