The Sister and I have this thing. One may call it a bond? Sisterly Love and whatnot. However, it works like this: I could make fun of her freckles, and she could make fun of my greasy hair, and it's cool. I'm a whore, she's a bitch, etc. We could go back and forth.
But don't anyone else dare to mess with her. Or me. Oh no, it just doesn't work that way.
So when I got a call shortly after midnight from a hysterical, frightened sister, I was ready for action. Let me back up a bit.
Remember that one time I mentioned The Sister was engaged? Right. She's not anymore, for reasons I don't know that even she understands. It's his fault, it's her fault - the two of them, as a whole, equal dysfunction. So it's better this way. Trust me.
Anyhow, they've had their ins and outs, tried to be happy, tried to be unhappy, and well, he's pretty much a LOSER. (I will warn you now that this post is about to get vile, and I don't often get vile. On my blog, anyway).
One day, The Sister realized, MY GOD, I can be HAPPY! And it came in the form of someone I'll call Sir Tony. Sir Tony is fabulous and wonderful and treats her like a lady. Sir Tony is ALSO not a Man (boy) Who Wishes He Were A Rockstar, But Instead Is A Chainsmoking, Worthless Douchebag With A Guitar Pick.
So, yay for Sir Tony.
However, Guitar-Picking Douchebag hates this plan. Oh no, if HE can't make The Sister miserable, NO ONE CAN. ROOOOAR. (He thinks he's tough. By "tough," I mean, A PIECE OF CRAP). So, Chainsmoker threatens. He'll wreck The Sister's Life, etc., etc. If by "wreck," he means, "Piss Off The Sister's Family To The Point Where They Will Choke Him With His Own Bong," then cool, he's doing a REALLY good job.
He shows up at The Sister's work, he calls her names, he smokes. And doesn't brush his teeth. But anyway, that's just details. He threatens to "shoot" Sir Tony should he ever come near The Sister. Because, you know, he's got a gun cabinet right behind his GUITAR STAND and marijuana stash. Idiot.
But last night, ohh boy, he crossed The Line. Last night The Sister and Sir Tony, etc., were enjoying a night of karaoke at a local tavern. Sir Tony, who generally works nights, was rather tired, and resting his head for a quick snooze. Suddenly, BIG, BAD Dirty-Toothed Douchebag enters the tavern. (Rooooooar). But this time, he proceeds to pummel an unsuspecting Sir Tony. Punch, throw fists, create general melee.
WHO DOES THAT?
Anyhow, this is when The Sister ran scared to the parking lot to call me. Sobbing. Scared. And I was aaaaaaaangry. I felt all Protective Mama-like. He did WHAT?! Did you KILL HIM? SERIOUSLY? (Hold me back, I'll kill him. Hold me back. Things like that. Only I am an hour and a half away from said Melee).
Soon she stopped crying, and was assured Sir Tony was alright. We hung up the phone, and she said she'd call if she needed me. But, man. I could NOT go back to sleep. My blood pressure was all high, and I was fuming. I'm SO SURE he tried to BEAT UP Sir Tony. I'm so sure he DOES that. I'm so sure I HATE HIM SO MUCH. This person who's been in and out of the picture for almost 10 years. Had I the balls and were he not busy getting a $700 battery citation from the police, I would have called him and used the F-word several times. Probably no coherent sentences, just lots of F-words.
"$#%#!! #%$%!! %$#@!! *&%$!!"
Something like that.
I realize he did not beat HER up (so help him, God, shall he ever try), but Jesus H. Almighty. He's messing with The Bond, man. And I don't know if you know this, but I've got tickets to the gun show, boy. Right here under my pink t-shirt sleeves. And I'm not afraid to use 'em.