Scott's blog contest

Scott, author of Life is Grand, Love is Real and Beauty is Everywhere!, posted an interesting contest which I thought I'd partake in. Interested participants in the no-prize contest would choose a scenario he outlined and write about it. Listed below is the one I chose:

"4. A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of the busboy who keeps going to the restroom to snort cocaine."

Here goes:

Stupid fucking people. Slobs they all are. Just look at this? Eating this wretched diet of trans fats and tipping a slave's wage. How do they expect one to live off this shit? I keep this dump clean for them to gourde themselves on biscuits and gravy while their whiny brats scream up a storm complaining about eating applesauce. This couple, for example, put their snot drenched napkins for me to touch and toss.

I can't wait to quit this rat infested eatery. I'd like to see all these fucks who participate in wanton displays of jackassery get hit by a bus and get peed on by a bum. So tired. Need to hit the can.

The Defavre couple just walked in. I hate them. They argue constantly over stupid shit. She's a self absorbed whore who drives a SUV and is nowhere near as hot as she thinks she is. Her husband is some fucking dope. Looks like a middle management type, probably works in software and is nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is.

"Be nice to them Darryl," Cheryl says. "They're going through a divorce." Cheryl is a waitress not unfamiliar with scorned love.

"Fuck them," I say to her. "They never tip worth shit anyways."

"Darryl," she says all authoritative like. "Be nice. Your job is to make people happy."

"My job is to clean up their dishes and plunge the toilets."

"Just go clean up table six," Cheryl says. "I'll have them seated."

Sigh. Table six was occupied by two soccer moms and a couple children who made Damien seem angelic. Another table mix of cracker crumbs, spilt ketchup, and french fries scattered all over the joint. I hate these people.

Cheryl goes to sit the Defavres. Fucking trendy nonsense couple they are. Yeah I know their type. She probably spends hours fucking her tennis instructor while he cries jerking off to reruns of Three's Company.

So they're getting a divorce. Good for them. Hopefully they haven't spawned any rugrats who'll grow up as miserable as they are. Look at them. Under that pancake makeup she shows signs of aging. Her mustached needs to be waxed, again. She'll never find someone to love her now. She used goods and no man wants to get a woman who's certified pre-owned.

He's a different story. Look at him sweat. He knows he'll be taken to the cleaners and he won't be able to afford lush gifts for his 22 year old secretary. Beer gut is filling out nicely.

Screw this. Time for the bathroom. I enter the stall and pull the devil white from my pocket. Just a quick shot to get me through the end of my shift. Hmmmmmm. Devil white. You come at the right time.

"Where the hell you been?" my boss Arivo asks as I exit the bathroom. "We got tables that need cleaning."

"Well Arivo," I say smirking. "I was in the potty. I can give you details such as consistency, time, weight, splash, whatever you want."

He's not amused. He just points.

Another spill. The Defavre couple are arguing over some shit like frequent flyer miles. Her arms got all wavy and knocked the coffee cup conveniently towards her soon to be ex. This should be fun.

I don't say anything to them at first. They don't apologize. Typical. I just clean it up and offer them a new mug. She responds without even looking at me. Fuck she's got great boobs.

Oh man that devil white. It's starting to, oh shit. What the hell. I need to clean this table up more. No wait the bathrooms need to be scrubbed. I'll head on over there. No the silverware needs to be sorted. On second thought I need to fill the ketchup bottles.

Oh no. It's happening.

Cheryl starts talking to me. What the fuck is the nonsense she's babbling about? Wait. Maintain. It's just the white. Calm yourself Darryl. Oh hell they're all looking at me. Bathroom. Go to the bathroom. Wait, is that Chad my dealer? Oh my god he's come to collect. I have fucking nothing.

Bathroom. Into the bathroom. You're safe now Darryl. They won't come in here. I need more white. Devil white. Ahh you crafty stuff you. I can handle them now. They're all going to remember the name Darryl.

I step out of the bathroom. Everyone is staring. Can't make a word of what they're saying.

It's now or never Darryl.

"It's all about the mother fucking green."

What the hell did I just say? Doesn't matter. Those two shots I fired in the ceiling have them scattering. Defavre's a coward. Ran like hell crying. His wife is just frozen.

Two more shots and a scream of "hit the floor bitches" sends most to the ground. They're throwing wallets and purses at me. Yeah even Chad is terrified. Good. He's been ripping me off for too long.

"Get your money out," I say gripping the sweet metal in my hands. "NOW."

Cops arrive. They won't do nothing as I've got hostages. Fucking pigs can't shoot worth sh-

The end.

Well that was fun.

"So, since everyone who blogs or reads blogs is in one way or another a writer, I have decided to come up with a little creative writing challenge. There are no prizes or anything but I think that it will be fun. What I have come up with is a series of writing prompts. What I would LOVE is for as many of you as possible to complete this challenge. Pick one and write something. It doesn't have to be long, just have lots of fun with it." - Scott