Dylan Lee violently slammed the door of his apartment and flung himself on the couch. As he switched on the TV, he touched his hand to his broken nose and sizable black eye and mumbled to himself, "Fucking hell."
It was all going so perfectly. He had Frankie right where he wanted her and that kid, that geek and that thing fucked it all up. And the guy in drag? What was that about? He had said he didn't really love her, but deep down inside, he knew he was lying. He really fucking loved her. Not only did those four screw him over, they cost him Frankie Foster. And he would do anything to get her back.
"Stupid fucking bitch...who does she think she is, dumping me?" he said to no one in particular. "Whoever winds up going out with her now is gonna be fucking sorry. That's MY property!" He cracked open a Rolling Rock, chugged it and flung it at his TV. As it shattered against the corner of the set, he grinned sadistically and began to write down exactly what he would do when he heard a knock on his door. He tried to ignore it, but it kept ketting louder and more consistent. Finally able to take no more, he uprooted himself and screamed, "ALL RIGHT! I'm coming!"
He flung open his door only to find that no one was there. As he turned around to reenter, he saw a note attached to his door. He took it off and opened it, only to find it was an eviction notice. Dylan stood speechless in the doorway as he read it over and over again to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. First he lost his woman, and now he lost his home? To him, this was no coincidence, and really no big deal. Now that he wouldn't have any bills to pay, he could put everything into motion. With a determined grin slowly crawling across his face, he went back inside and began to pack his things.
The next morning, Dylan's landlord awoke and went outside to get his morning newspaper. As he bent over to pick it up, he noticed that there was a note attached to his front door, just like he had done with the eviction notice the previous night. He apprehensively took it off the door and slowly opened it to find that it wasn't a death threat like he'd originally feared. Instead, the letter only contained one word:
THANKS.
Dylan paid the desk clerk at the hotel and walked up to his room. He had dropped off all the things he didn't need at a storage unit he'd rented the week before, only taking a few week's worth of clothes with him to the hotel. As he settled into his new home, he pulled out his cell phone and connected it to the GPS he'd taken from his car. As he filed through the contacts, he came across Frankie's cell phone number. He said, "Gotcha," and put the cell number into the GPS and watched as it centered on her location. He smiled broadly as the unit said where Frankie was at that moment--right at Foster's.
Now he could keep an eye on her whenever he wanted.
Now he could make her pay.