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The Swinemaster
Dec 28, 2005

Tyrannosaurus posted:

[i]O Che Vita Capricciosa!
.

Hey, I really enjoyed this! And not just for a forum story - Iíd be happy to read this published in a collection. Really funny, moves at a great pace, and despite the subject matter it doesnít overdo the goofiness.

Nice one.

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The Swinemaster
Dec 28, 2005

623 words.

Dear John

Iím leaving you, and itís not just because of the gremlin.

I feel thereís something between us, something driving us apart, something that leaves your side of the bed cold. And itís not just the gremlin

When we met, you asked to try your new hobby of palmistry and took my hand in yours. I jumped, but you held tight so I couldnít pull away. Cold hands, warm heart, you said. I wonder.

You traced your index finger on my palm, your torn cuticle scratching the route ahead. Told of good fortunes and vague promises. You gave me that old love line. Looking into your eyes, I wondered if you hadnít been dabbling into mesmerism as well.

The last time you held my hand was to get a drop of blood. A drop of blood for a homunculus that shrieked until 4 am before it finally dissolved into damp ash and we could get some sleep.

When you brought home the crystal ball to fill out your hobby room, I supported you. Even though it cost a monthís rent and Iím pretty sure it was a bowling ball without fingerholes.
So now youíre gazing at balls, I said. Why break the habit of a lifetime? We laughed together. I turned on Netflix. You went into your hobby room and closed the door. You must have seen something in that ball. Why else would you spend all those nights, locked away, gazing?

I guess you saw enough, cause now the ball is gathering dust. And it feels like mine are too.

But when you came in with the gremlin idea, I thought it would bring us together. Like a pet. Like the baby we could never make. My god, the hours we spent looking for ingredients. Are you still banned from the zoo, I wonder? We would have had to dig through the darkest jungle to get all of it. So, you went on Amazon instead.

But, you did make it yourself, Iíll give you that. And when that small, homemade egg appeared, smoking and putrid, you swept it up an sat on it. And we made up for our Netflix time. Until it hatched.

He was cute, in a slimy kind of way. When you held him in your arms, every inch the proud papa, I thought this just might work. But when it was time to put in the work, where were you? When we found out Norman wouldnít wear a diaper? When he decided to snack on our Ethernet cable? When he popped his festering buboes into the wallpaper? You can open a portal to the underworld, sure, but how about you summon the strength to pick dried gremlin turds out of the sock drawer?

Now youíre out again at midnight, doing God-knows with Christ-knows who. Your old routine, speaking tongues and making eyes. And Iím here, alone. The gremlin is tearing the tape out of all your old cassettes, by the way. He puts the tapes back in backward and upside down. Itís actually quite meditative.

I know you can make vows and pledges. Lord knows Iíve heard you screaming them for Satan at guttering candles in the moonlight. But what about me? What about commitment to me? Your problem is youíre a dabbler. You try your hand at these hobbies, and lose interest. Youíve lost your interest in me now. So what did that make me, a hobby?

Your devil may care attitude was cute when we were 25, but I need something more.

Iím leaving this letter in the one place I know Norman wonít touch. His immaculate loving litterbox.

Itís not just because of the gremlin. But he didnít help.

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