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It began with the innocence of masturbating on my roommates beds.  Then, of course, I contracted crabs from pulling down my pants in Denise’s sheets.  And now, here we are.  I’m not going to lie when I say the back and forth war between Denise and I has been exhausting.  I’m always weary from lack of sleep, plotting my next attack while she’s at her weakest, or her at mine.

Both sides turned up the dial and brought food into this grotesque cake mix of war.  The dreaded waft of hidden food rotting in each of our rooms haunts my nostrils.  Door locks are installed only to be tampered with and broken.  Biological warfare has reared it’s ugly face.  We knew the day would come.  Used, snotty handkerchiefs are rubbed on door handles and laptop keys.

In my darkest hours, I used the cover of night and picked a baby’s diaper out of the trash bin of the daycare centre across the street, plugged my nose with one hand and with the other stretched as far away from my body holding the diaper with my thumb and index finger, I dashed like Donovan Bailey inside the house.  I gave Denise’s shiny, golden coloured door knob a jiggle while she slept, it was unlocked…idiot…I opened up the diaper like a cardboard box and swung her door wide open heaving in the exposed diaper with one motion.  The aftermath wasn’t friendly.  The cold winter months have been unkind with sicknesses and coughs and dishonourable warfare.

On top of the power struggle with Denise, the neighbours downstairs, the dread neighbours, launched their own assault and have turned this into a three party war.  The cramped laundry room – the unprotected, undefended flower of the house.  Still with its maidenhood, still a beautiful rose, yet to be uprooted.  That all changed when the neighbours declared war and executed their version of Pearl Harbour.

Him – the brains of the outfit.  He thinks and rationalizes when and where to move on us.  Her – the brawn, the unpredictable guns blazing, shoot ’em up and ask questions later kind of cowboy.  She’s a hot-tempered dragon that spits period blood instead of fire. Their code names: the Brain and the Dragon.

I can outshine him in war games any day…her though…she acts on impulse and has balls bigger than watermelons with her finger always on the button.  You have to be careful around volatile Neanderthals like her.  The need to show unpredictability in return is vital… It’s how I keep them at bay…for now.

The laundry room was never even considered between Denise and I…it was an unsaid safe zone… it was a penis without a condom, so to speak.  And then the penis started jizzing everywhere – on our face, our back, up our fallopian tubes – mayhem ensued.  It started with the washing machine making our clothes more dirty than clean. Oh, we’d find this and that mixed in with our clothes – salsa, crushed coffee beans, what I expected to be rabbit feces.  Then the dryer would over dry our clothes, shrinking them into comical sizes suited for clowns.  We weren’t happy clowns.

An alliance was spoken briefly between Denise and I.  However it swiftly ceased after my failed attempt to push her down a flight of steps.  She grabbed onto a railing.  Crafty girl.  Not really clever for trusting me, though.

Denise launched a counter blow on our neighbours fortress.  From the best of my knowledge from my nameless sources who whisper here and there.  Her attack, I thought, was tasteless, absurd, demented, despicable, vile, and disgraceful.  It made me jealous I hadn’t thought of it first.  Denise left an anonymous letter stating she had slept with the Brain and she had to come clean to the Dragon.  I heard faint arguments from the Brain and Dragon through the floor boards days after.  The Dragon was erupting with period blood through every orifice and lashed out on the closest being to her, the Brain…Poor bastard.  Denise the Diabolical, I call her now, or the Disease.  It was a good move… Too good.

To be continued…

– Tanner

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