Chapter 2: - "Ralph"

Before I go any further with this little tale, let me tell you more about myself. My name is Bruce Farrell.

In appearance, I'm what you could describe as being 'nondescript. In other words I'm so average the only way I'd stand out in a crowd is if everyone else were lying down. I'm 5'9" tall, have brown hair, brown eyes, weigh about 200 pounds, have a goatee, and wear bifocals. I'm also fifty years young.

One last thing about me before I continue on, like a lot of men, I'm not hung like a porn star. No revelation there right? Clara told me that my dick isn't as small as breakfast link nor as big as a polish sausage. I guess that was her way of saying that I was average down there too. For those of you who are interested, she also said my family jewels are bigger than toy marbles but smaller than tennis balls. Clara once compared my 'package' to a 6 inch bratwurst and a couple of furry golf ball sized flesh covered meat balls. She had a flair for culinary references.

That's enough about me. Now, I'll tell you some more about Teresa.

Teresa, to be more specific Teresa Angelica Gentry, is in my humble opinion one of the two most attractive women I know. She's forty-five years old, 5'8" tall, has auburn hair, green eyes, and a wonderfully curvy figure. The only other woman I know who even comes close to holding a candle to her is Cheryl Sloan. Yes, that's the same Cheryl she was talking about earlier.

Since anything else I could say about either of them wouldn't be relevant, I'll get back to my story now...

As I said, that Saturday I started my vacation and was really looking forward to the rest and relaxation that comes with it.

Hoping to see Teresa before the party, I tried to call her. Her phone service had been disconnected. It was the only number she'd given me so, given the circumstances; all I could do was wait for her to contact me. When two days later I still hadn't heard from her, I decided that despite what she'd said that night; Teresa didn't want to see me.

For the life of me though, I couldn't figure out why?

To my delight, two days later I received an email from her. It was short. All it said was when the party was and what time she'd be by to pick me up.

The rest of the week seemed to pass by with the speed of molasses after that. I guess it was because I had something to look forward to. Eventually though, the day of the party finally did arrive.

The forecast for Columbus Georgia, which is where I live, was for clear skies and high heat. It was not to be the best day for yard-work, but wasn't going to be the worst either. Having overslept, I didn't get started until almost 11:00. As the weatherman had predicted, there wasn't a cloud in the sky above me and the heat was raising fast. Two hours later, I was sweating like an Eskimo in a desert. An hour after that my tee-shirt was soaked; my underpants were drenched; and my socks were so wet that they made a 'squishing' sound every time I took a step. What I didn't know at the time was that my shorts had dark sweat stains in some of the most embarrassing places you can imagine.

Hoping to be finished by 5:00, I skipped lunch and kept working.

As I had planned, by 4:00 pm the lawn was cut, the sidewalk had been edged, and the hedges were trimmed. I was almost finished, which was a good thing because I was tired as hell. I had one thing left to do ... take care of 'Ralph', the bush, immediately outside my office window. I'd saved the worst for last.

The house I own is a three bedroom ranch-style home located in one of the city's better middle income sub-divisions. It was a spoil of war left over from my divorce and one of the few things I had to show for four years of marriage. I had been lucky in that, at the time of my divorce eight years earlier, there wasn't much equity in the place and the payments were too high for my ex-wife to afford. She let me have it and along with it custody of 'Ralph'

What was supposed to be the front bedroom, and is now my office has a fantastic bay window facing the front of the house. The window usually provides me a relatively unobstructed view of both the walkway to my front door, and most of the driveway leading to my double-wide garage. I say relatively because 'Ralph', who is actually an unusually healthy wintergreen boxwood bush, lives right outside the window and was once again blocking my view. If it's any interest to you, I named him after the asshole contractor who built my sub-division.

'Ralph', the asshole contractor, left for me a host of architectural defects resulting from the cheap labor and shoddy materials used during construction of my house. Not content with simply taking his money and running, 'Ralph' the contractor left 'Ralph' the bush for me to deal with. I took it as a parting 'FUCK YOU' gift for me ... so began the game.

Every year 'Ralph', the bush, and I had this little game the two of us would play. It's called who can piss the other off the most and it goes like this...

While I was busy working my ass off making sure 'Ralph the Bush' would have a place to stay, he would work just as hard growing so I'd be forced to use part of my precious free time, (in this case my vacation) knocking him back down to size. Unfortunately, after twelve years, the score was 'Ralph the Bush' 12, me 0.

That day, I had wasted yet another half hour of my life trying to take him down a peg (or rather to a peg) when I looked down at him and was overcome by a horrible feeling of déjà vu. Something in me must have snapped because I turned suddenly herbicidal and out came the weed and grass killer. I keep it for those times when I'm too busy working weekends and can't find anyone to cut the grass.

Hoping to drown him in a puddle of poisonous pesticide, I systematically saturated him with an entire gallon of the lethal liquid.

With a look of sadistic glee on my face, I looked down at 'Ralph' as if expecting to hear him cry out in agony. He didn't! Instead, of begging for mercy or screaming from pain he just sat there in mocking silence. To say I became angry would have been the understatement of the century.

I had murder in my eyes. I went into my garage and began looking for something ... anything ... with which to send 'Ralph' to whatever afterlife it is that dead plants go so he could meet the proverbial 'Burning Bush' personally.

Five minutes later, I came back carrying a trash-bag containing everything that was even remotely toxic in my garage; and then, one at a time, I maliciously emptied the contents of every container in the bag onto 'Ralph'. The last thing I remember pouring on him was a bottle of white shoe polish. Don't ask me how it had ended up in my garage, I have no idea! Anyway, by the time the last bottle was emptied, 'Ralph' was covered with enough rat-poison, snake killer, motor oil, transmission fluid, bug spray, window cleaner, hand cleaner, tire cleaner, bleach and yes, shoe polish, to kill a small city.

"Scream you bastard!" I said yelled furiously.

Nothing! Defiant to the end, he didn't even groan!

I fetched my garden-hose, turned on the water, and from five feet away, threw a match on 'Ralph'. First there was a loud puffing sound. That was followed by a kind of crackling snapping noise. Next, flames, accompanied by thick black smoke, suddenly rose six feet up into the air.