“FUCK ’EM!” he screamed, throwing his withering ’85 Escort into park, turning it off and yanking the key from the ignition in one fluid movement. He slammed his fist into the dashboard. “Fuck them and their stupid rules.”
Ben stomped up the front steps of the apartment building, and pulled the door open. Mrs. Henderson, the sweet, silver-haired landlady was at the next door, and as she unlocked it he rushed through with flagrant disregard for her.
“FUCK!” he screamed as he rammed his key into the hole, and pushed his way into his apartment. He threw his apron to the side into a pile of unwashed laundry and trampled through the mess of his home, nearly crushing the cat that lay harmless on the floor. “Fucking thing,” he screamed, raising his foot to kick it. “Yeah, that’s right. Run the fuck away.”
He made it to his bedroom and flicked on the light, sitting down at his decrepit, disease-ridden Mac and pushing the mouse around until the screen flickered its various shades of gray. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ it proclaimed with an obnoxious ping. He pushed the mouse over to Fuckface, the appropriately named hard drive, and double-clicked. The folder opened, he scrolled down to AOL, and again he double-clicked. With his free hand, he pulled solitary strands of greasy brown hair out by the roots. He waited patiently for the connection to be made, and for the annoying little voice to tell him he had mail. The cat wandered in from the other room. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked it.
The cat said nothing, staring back at him with every ounce of feline indifference in its body.