Sandpaper Handjob- Short stories no one likes: The Bank Teller


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Small amount of snow? Check. Orange barrels fucking up traffic? Check. Retarded fat asses dicking up the flow while turning the powder into nasty brown slush? You bet your sweet ass. That's Columbus, bitches.


21-18-4 (46) The Jackets traded Clay Wilson and their sixth round pick to Atlanta for winger Jason Williams. Columbus obtained that sixth round pick in a trade that sent fan favorite Jody Shelly to San Jose nearly a year ago. The hope is that Williams and his right-handed shot will give the league's worst power play a swift kick in the ass. Next up: New Jersey, Friday, 7pm

21-18-4 (46)

The Jackets traded Clay Wilson and their sixth round pick to Atlanta for winger Jason Williams. Columbus obtained that sixth round pick in a trade that sent fan favorite Jody Shelly to San Jose nearly a year ago.

The hope is that Williams and his right-handed shot will give the league's worst power play a swift kick in the ass.

Next up: New Jersey, Friday, 7pm

Short stories no one likes: The Bank Teller

Thursday, January 15, 2009 02:36 PM

She was a white trash Claire Danes with bigger tits, but that's not why I liked her. It's hard to remember why I did because I don't care much for her now.

I met her at the bank. She had been working there for months, but she never waited on me until one day when I lost my card and had to withdraw some money in person. We didn't exactly hit it off.

"You shorted me twenty," I said. I felt like shit, and wasn't in the mood for bullshit from some south side whore who dressed well enough to fool a major bank into thinking she wasn't.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. She looked around, grabbed my hand and dug her nails into my wrist. She used her free hand to rip the money from my palm and lowered her voice. "Listen, you stupid coke head motherfucker, you just watched me count the shit. Watch, and pay attention to me before I slap the shit out of you!"

She switched back to her pleasant banker voice as she counted out the money a second time. Yes, sir. She was right. I tried to apologize, but she just looked at me, leaving me to stutter while the people in line behind me started to huff and puff impatiently. I glanced over my shoulder and saw an old woman glaring at me for wasting what was probably going to be one of her last Halloween afternoons. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and at this point I just wanted to pick up some stuff and go home. I headed for the door without my money.

"Sir? Just a second, sir." She masked the Kentucky Mean in her voice perfectly, smiling as I came back for the cash. I saw the same smile when she killed me a week later. "You have a good day, sir."

"Thanks. You, too." I couldn't get out of that lobby fast enough.

I saw her again at the bar. I had the bartender and the whole place to myself, working on a fourth Seven and Seven and wishing I was at home. She walked in and sat next to me, smiling and nodding to Miss Cherie. Miss Cherie walked away and quickly returned with what looked like a gin and tonic.

I wondered why she chose to sit with me, but I left it alone and sipped my drink. She nodded for a second gin drink and pointed at my glass. Miss Cherie, who was normally a pretty chatty lady, simply smiled and brought us the drinks. Miss Cherie was a good bartender, and I would marry her if she wasn't a sixty-year-old, three-time widow. One of the old-timers once told me that she killed all of her husbands for insurance money. We all laughed.

The next three rounds went the same way, with nobody saying a word as Miss Cherie polished glassware. It had been an hour or more since she walked into the bar.

"I'm Kevin," I said. It was the best I could do. I wanted to ask her about the shit at the bank, why she was such a bitch and why the change of heart, but I was too drunk to get the words to come out. A weird drunk I can't describe, even now. Besides, maybe she wanted to fuck. Or do some lines. What did I care?

"I know. I'm Alex. Give me your keys." She threw four fifties on the bar. Miss Cherie gave me a strange wink as I said goodbye and struggled out of the stool.

It started to storm when we got to my car. This was too easy. I couldn't wait to brag to my buddies at the garage. Guess what, assholes? I nailed that foxy bank teller last night. It was easy. She even bought the drinks. They would never believe it, but I'd tell 'em everything and repeat the nasty details over and over.

Except everything got fuzzy and I never got to brag. She drove us back to my shithole apartment without directions, which was so out of the way that even my friends had trouble finding it. I started to ask her how she knew the way, but by the time I had gathered my thoughts I was on the kitchen floor, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around and around again. I didn't feel good, and it wasn't the Seagram's.

She was on top of me, fucking me to death. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move my legs. Then I saw the box cutter. She brought it down across my chest and face. She was killing me, counting each cut that she made. I waved my arms around in a desperate attempt to avoid her wild slashing. She ripped her blouse open with her free hand, smiling that smile as she bounced up and down on my sex, rubbing my blood all over herself. I turned my head to the left to avoid the blade just as lighting flashed in the kitchen window, revealing a bloody pile next to the fridge that included my roommate and his two rottweilers. She kept on fucking me, but don't ask me how. My balls had crawled up into my stomach, and if my pecker was still stiff it was involuntary. I was busy thinking about dying on the dirty kitchen floor I had been meaning to mop since the Halloween party. That was a great party, for what it's worth.

When my arms went numb and I had given up, she brought the blade across my throat. I swear to you it got her off. As everything went black she jammed a crisp bill into my mouth.

I think it was a twenty.

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Sandpaper Handjob:
Ruining weddings since 2007

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21-18-4 (46)

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Short stories no one likes: The Bank Teller

Thursday, January 15, 2009 02:36 PM

The Smiths

Sandpaper Handjob: Ruining weddings since 2007

Picture of the Day

21-18-4 (46)

Short Fiction

Dear Jorgé

Drunk in the Booth

The Truth

Sponsored by:

Music

Short stories no one likes: The Bank Teller

Thursday, January 15, 2009 02:36 PM

The Smiths

Sandpaper Handjob:
Ruining weddings since 2007