ISSN 2371-350X

Fiction: A Hot Bath And Cold Razor Blades

By

Michael Marrotti

 

 

I’ve skipped going to church on this Sunday morning. I see no point anymore. Instead I chose to take a bath, one last hot bath.

I’m accompanied by a glass of cheap vodka, a single cigarette and a fresh set of razor blades straight out the package. This is how the Romans used to do it. I feel entitled to try it their way. After all, my name ends in a vowel.

Most men hate their fathers with a passion. For me it’s the complete opposite. My father, God rest his soul, was the finest man I’ve ever known. He had a revolutionary mindset. A reformist mentality. His dream, his goal, was to make Pittsburgh a better place. This is no easy task when one man is up against a capitalistic system that turns people into mindless consumers only out for themselves.

He had a sacrificial philosophy. He always told me, we’re all here to help other people. All it takes is the swaying of a single zip code. After that the rest will follow. Self-delusion under the guise of good intentions.

I did my work accordingly, I followed the path of the righteous man. Abstaining from sex, drugs and punk rock music became second nature to me. It was for the benefit of all.

This whole “lead by example” thing didn’t win me any popularity contests, but someone had to do the opposite of the norm around here, if anything was to change.

Frugal spending, no meat on Friday, television only two hours a day followed by excessive reading, mostly Hemingway, and church every Sunday no matter what. No excuses. I’d hand out self-help pamphlets downtown every other day for three hours straight.

The literature was directly out of my father’s idealistic mind. It taught people how to get back at the system by working less hours and cutting down on spending, substantially.

God is Jesus Christ, not the almighty dollar. The Pepsi challenge in my father’s eyes was fruitless when capitalism breeds servitude, and coke obviously tastes better.

Any typical American moron knows that.

So I worked my twenty hour workweek as I followed the doctrine. Faygo pop and Ramen Noodles were my steady diet of vengeance against an unjust system who took no prisoners, unless you had enough finance to join the bourgeoisie.

Fuck that shit. I remained devoted, courteous and ready for change. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before people caught on. Emancipation is a beautiful thing.

The only thing that changed was my father’s actions. He met an uptight snob from Mt. Lebanon who owned a red Cadillac, three story house and a visa platinum credit card. She turned him into a green eyed asshole.

He stopped writing his revolutionary literature and started shopping like a materialistic maniac on her dime. Within a month he had his prude bitch of a girlfriend sleeping at our house almost every other night. Plus he amassed a shoe collection that could rival that of Foot Locker.

The day he came home with his stuck up girlfriend and a brand new sixty inch flat screen television is the day I challenged him on contradicting the doctrine.

“Dad, what the are you doing?”

“What’s it look like, son? I’m hooking up this new television so we can all watch the Steelers game this Sunday.”

“What about church, dad?”

“What about it? All God does is ignore me. I’d rather watch football.”

“Yeah,” chimed in his stuck up girlfriend. “Your father deserves a break after all the hard, sacrificial work he’s done in the past. God can wait.”

I pointed my index finger in her face and said, “You don’t speak about God in this house, you materialistic snob! You’ve turned my father into one of them! How fucking dare you!”

My father in a futile attempt to diminish this volatile situation said, “Can someone please pass me a screwdriver?”

I looked at him and said, “Fuck off, dad! You’re lucky I don’t dropkick that devilish piece of propaganda!”

His green eyed girlfriend emanating with disdain said, “Don’t you speak to your father in that tone, you little shit!”

I walked over to the anti-Christ with a vagina and said, “Get the fuck out, you money hungry snob!”

She ran out the door whimpering.

Ok. One less greedy asshole to contend with.

It was time to finish this.

My father had his hands above his head in a state of apprehension as he said, “You ungrateful little shit! That’s not how you treat people! Don’t you remember the doctrine? We must remain courteous!”

“That was then old man, this is now! You changed, motherfucker! It used to be us against them, now you’re one of them! How’s it feel to be on the other side, dad?”

“I love Pepsi now just as much as I love Coke. It’s time to embrace capitalism, and enjoy the options at its disposal.”

“I thought it was servitude! I thought it turned people into callous pieces of shit!”

“Yes, all that’s true, but it also offers a dollar menu at McDonald’s and the time of you life at Wal-Mart. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Taco Bell.”

That’s when I lost all self control as I screamed out, “Fuck Taco Bell!” and tackled my father into his precious sixty inch flat screen television.

I heard his neck snap upon impact. Had he never became a turncoat this would have never happened.

Crossing the tracks is for people crying out for help. It’s an option that holds no relevance in this bathtub right now. My goal is to permanently eradicate the voices once and for all. Only the winners walk up the tracks.

A life well wasted is in fact a wasted life. All the primo drugs and vagina I’ve passed on in the past is meaningless, now. I’ll never know what it feels like to live as a true American. There’s no turning back for me, especially, when the bath water is as red as the republican party.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Marrotti - poetry Tuck Magazine

Michael Marrotti

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon.

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