Ron's Worst Nightmares
Swearing Up a Storm
By Pat Squared
WARNING: LANGUAGE
Mr. and Mrs. Doctor Possible watched helplessly as their oldest child rose up from the kitchen table and ran to the bathroom. Two seconds later, the sound of retching could be heard throughout the entire Possible household.
"Don't even think of making that comment," Mrs. Dr. Possible warned her husband of twenty years.
Mr. Dr. Possible managed to catch the unspoken threat despite the Y-chromosome demanding that he open his month, make the observation that his wife's morning sickness did not last so long as his daughter's, insert foot into mouth and close it.
Mr. Dr. Possible could only watch helplessly as his only daughter dealt with a difficult pregnancy.
Mr. Dr. Possible wanted to hurt someone badly... so badly he could taste the bile and blood in the back of his throat. He wanted to send the father of his future granddaughter on a one way trip to the nearest black hole.
However Ron Stoppable was dead. He was killed in the latest war in the Sudan during a roadside ambush. Being blown to bits by an antitank rocket was a nasty fate, but Mr. Doctor Possible wanted to personally launch Ron into orbit.
Today was Sunday. Normally, Sunday was Mr. Possible's day off, time to sleep in, play a little hanky with the wife, forget his job at the Middleton Space Center, and forget most of his weekday worries. Nevertheless, since Anne told him that Kim was expecting, Mr. Dr. P did not have a moment's rest.
Dr. James Possible and home improvements were too things went as well together as alcohol and driving. In the past, his wife would have simply hired Ron to do the minor stuff and would have hired a contractor if there was no other choice.
The ladies of the household were in nest building mode that occurred when one of them was expecting. In addition, Ron was ... unavailable to fix the problem he started at a party six months ago.
Not a day went by without Anne asking that he do something about the house.
Mr. Possible was surprised that he was not already killed in home improvement accident, although he had several close calls. Even with two respectable incomes, it was impossible to pay for the attic conversion if he had the contractors do all the work, so he had to cut cost, by doing all the minor things like dry-walling, painting, and laying in the new laminate flooring.
It was an educational experience to know that while you are a rocket scientist and use to assembling rockets, you can't even begin to figure out those written in Sweden instructions that came with the assemble it yourself nursery furniture from Nordic Furniture. The shop names all their furniture in Norwegian with names like Anschloss. It probably meant I am a big dumb American who can't find my ass with both hands, a road map, a compass, and a Sherpa guide.
Then when he finally was finished with a particular task, the women would choose another color or wall paper pattern and he would end up redoing the nursery.
Mr. Possible had to suffer this curse silently twice when it was his wife carrying his kids. Now he was really upset at Ron. A little upset for knocking up Kimmie-cub and making a beeline for the Marine Corps, but he was really upset because Ron successfully escaped the whole redoing the hose for the baby routine. James Possible hated being the cleanup guy for Ron's mistakes.
Today, Dr. Possible had to put down laminate flooring so that the plumber can install the fixtures in the new bathroom early tomorrow mourning.
The twins were not of any help to Mr. Possible. They had long figured out that if they screwed up the first task, that no one would think to ask them to do another. Despite nearly impaling himself on hand tools and exposed piping, Mr. Possible was not similarly excused.
Mr. Possible was peeved that his two sons managed to pull a fast on him. Mrs. Possible take Jim and Tim off the non-unionized laborer list and left him alone with the long list of Honey Do These or I Don't Love You Anymore. Today, the twins would be playing with some rockets at a friend's place or trying to pick up on some girls, while he worked.
Maybe the twins will end up knocking up some other father's daughter and run to the Corps, leaving some other old fart like me to put up with the hormone queens.
Mr. Possible mutely finished his breakfast, rinsed off his dishes, and put them in the dishwasher. Now, it was not a good time for him to raise his wife's ire by leaving dirty dishes on the table. The demands of taking care of a single, pregnant daughter were cutting into his Anne time. While he was no longer a randy nineteen year old, he still had needs.
Today, he would have to buy vinyl flooring, tools, and figure out how to lay the floor down without killing himself. Thankfully the local Orange House in a Box was holding a home improvement seminar on the same topic. He planed to tape it and watch it as he did the work. According to the home improvement handbook, it should only take a couple hours, but Mr. Possible knew that a couple hours for the professionals meant a lifetime in frustration.
Mr. Possible was in a belligerent mode when he walked out to his car. Another car was blocking his driveway.
It's probably another damn reporter. Goddamn tabloids!
When his wife last went shopping, Anne spotted the one that implied that he was the father of Kim's baby. The lawyers were handling the lawsuit for libel, but the thought that someone accused him of being his grandchild's father still angered him. Of all the low down, nasty things that anyone could accuse him of, that was the worst lie.
Mr. Possible turned red as he held his breath for ten seconds trying to control the growing anger. He wanted to pull out the old family hunting rifle and use it on the bastard. It had not been fired since his father died six years ago, but James ensured that it was kept in the pristine operating condition that his father kept it in. So far all it took were deer, dall-sheep, elk, and mountain goats. Mr. Possible was seriously beginning to add homo sapiens to the list of species killed.
You can't take care ofyour familyfrom inside of a prison cell.
The inner voice in his head was right. Kim was doomed by fate to be a single mother and she needed the help of both her parents. The last thing the family needed was to have to slap another mortgage on the house to raise the cash to bail him out of jail.
The Stoppable family earned his hatred most of all. When he confronted his former pal, Mr. Stoppable, about the fact that they were going to be grandparents, Mr. Stoppable merely told Mr. Possible that Ron was not really his son and that he was actually glad that the ungrateful bastard was now scavenger food. It took his wife to prevent him from killing Mr. Stoppable on the spot. While Mr. Possible was not fond of Ron at the moment, Ron did not deserve that comment.
Dr. Possible hated the world. Dr. Possible hated the reporters. Dr. Possible hated the Stoppables. Dr. Possible hated the Corps for letting Ron Stoppable die before he had his chance to punish the bastard that did... that did this to his family. Most of all he hated Ronald Dean Stoppable or whatever name he was using before he died.
Dr. Possible removed the keys from his pocket. The thought was juvenile, something that his kids would considered infantile, but Dr. Possible was seeing red.
"Sir, do you need us to move our car?"
The speaker managed to interrupt Dr. Possible train of thought before he started to key the car.
Dr. Possible looked up. There were three men. Two in Marine Corps dress blues and one in a naval uniform.
"Get the fuck away from my family, you sons of a bitch."
"Sir."
"You just had to send the father of my unborn granddaughter to die in some African shit hole. You couldn't even send him to the Middle East. At lest there, he could die for oil, something of some value. No you had to have him play cop in Sudan. For what, a bunch of savages fighting over what god to pray to. Because of you, I will have to tell my granddaughter that her daddy died for nothing important. Get out."
"Sir, I ..."
Dr. Possible, once Private First Class James Andrew Possible, 327th Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) called upon the memory of an old school retired NCO chewing out some deserving bastard. Now that he was a civilian, he launched into his own interpretation of that speech.
"Don't sir me you one point higher than a horse so you don't shit in the middle of the street marine. I work for a living. Take the sir shit and shove it up you ass. Since you are apparently dumber than the second johns out of Hudson High that I had to deal with in my youth... let me rephrase my displeasure in terms you all can understand. Find a corporal, bend over, shove your commissions up your ass, and have him demonstrate why boot camp was call boot camp in the good old days.
"Get that fucking piece of shit out of here before your oil leak ruins my spotless driveway, so I can go to the fucking hardware store, where I can fucking buy the shit, so I can fucking finish converting my attic into a frigging nursery for the daughter of a kid you expended for shit. You got twenty seconds before I go postal."
"Sir ..."
"You got fifteen seconds, run."
"Sir, I have ..."
"What part of get out don't you understand, boy? Get your head out of your can't cunt commanding officer's ass, stop begging for a damn purple heart because you got a paper cut on your shit-coated tongue when you were licking the god-damned stamp ... find your fucking keys, drive that piece of shit out of here, and leave my family in peace. Go look for cannon fodder elsewhere. Seven seconds."
Dr. Possible went into the garage and looked for the heavy hammer that he bought for the demolition phase of the damn attic project. He was going to make them leave, one way, or another. He had all he could stand and knew that he was nowhere near sane at the moment.
"Sir..."
"Drop dead you shit for brains."
A female voice cut through the tension.
"James Andrew Possible, how could you use such language?"
His wife's comment cut through the insanity gripping his mind. She liked it when he talked dirty in bed, but in public... Tonight, his hand was going to be his best friend.
"Honey..."
"Shut up. Guy's, I apologize for my husbands bad manners."
"No problem, Mrs. … Dr. Possible. I came over, because we got more news about your friend Vasilii Boiarskii."
"Good or bad?"
"Both. May we come inside?"
"You can. The Neanderthal I married can't enter until he washes his filthy mouth out with soap."
Better get the razor ready, I am going to be shaving my palms for a long time.
Mr. Possible sputtered as the three men walked into his house and left him stranded. They still haven't moved their damned car out of his way.