Dylan, nervous
and apprehensive, observed as she thoughtfully stepped along the forest floor
catching every sunbeam that pierced through the low flamboyant, floppy, canopy
above. She shone, her hair shiny black, long and loose. A knee-length flowing,
thin cotton dress, in the sunlight, failed to hide the contours of her body.
Espadrille ribbons tied high around her cut calves a delicateness to this
feminine beauty.
She was
enchanting. Her name Shelby Bennet, singer, songwriter, and recently awarded
the status of American A-list actress. Dylan was trounced floating above the
clouds then brought back to earth with a screech.
“What the fuck, fuckwit,
are you playing at? You were supposed to wait for my specific revised
instructions are you purposely building what can only be described as something
out of a Tolkien novel. Do I look ten? Do I look like I have children?”
She shuddered
like the actress hamming up her point. “What line were you in when God was
distributing brains you moronic, pathetic, Tarzan wannabe and you,” she pointed
at Jake who was stunned and squirming.
“You, flunky sidekick banana boy, get the hell off my property.”
This all said
with Dylan’s camera crew behind her. Referring to Jake as banana boy due to his
hearing aid.
“Technically Tolkien's Hobbits lived
underground well half-and-half and my brother’s earpiece is five thousand
pounds worth of state of the art..."
“I don't care,”
she screeched interrupting him.
Dylan's anxiety level heightened. “Bollocks! We worked to your exact
instructions you approved my drawings.”
“Clearly not,”
she paused and looked at the camera. “Imagine,” she said, in a low voice as if
moving from one side of the stage to the other pointing at the air, “a faraway
place,” her voice changed to a raging scream, “now go there and hope those
idiot people value your opinion and don't think I am paying for this lot you
better remove it quick before the press get a picture of it – oh wait a minute
– too late.” She false laughed in his face.
Dylan had tuned
out and was sucking up the smell of her fresh, floral perfume. She had tiny
wispy hairs on her and arms and glowed with a subtle amount of perspiration. He
thought she was magnificent. Jake’s late retort brought him back to reality.
"What is
wrong with you lady?" said Jake in his dull tone nearly stuttering with
anger and signing at the same time.
“Don't want to
hear it,” she waved him away shooing him with her fingers.
A black jeep
skidded to a halt beside her. She climbed in and purposely instructing the
driver to accelerate, and wheel spun in a puddle of mud. Plastering them with
earthy sludge. They stood dripping in cold shock to the delight of the camera
crew and producers.
“You have two
hours to vacate my property then I will unchain the hounds,” she yelled.
“What!” screamed Jake, “you bleeding…
people don't behave like that in polite society. That's what separates us from
the monkeys you Neanderthal.”
“Wow, easy saber-toothed tiger, that was cutting,” said Dylan, side glancing
the camera trying to lighten his bravado, his sarcasm enraged Jake further. Dylan
grabbed his arms stopping him from launching his claw hammer at the Jeep. An
action he would never normally do as he was way too hippy passive.
“What a
controlling bitch. What is her problem and why didn't you say something?” said
Jake.
“I'm speechless.
I can’t explain,” he whispered and signed. He felt bad for lying, he knew why
he just didn't expect such an over-the-top reaction from her.
Jake eyed him as
if a light bulb switched on. “You slept with her didn’t you!”
Dylan sighed,
raised a jaunty eyebrow, stared with brooding intensity at his brother and then
flicked his eyes to the side as if to say we are still on camera.
“Does that tool
belt come with tampons you pussy tell me the truth,” said Jake, playing to the
camera.
“Get the equipment and tools together I'll try
to find out what just happened.” Dylan smothered the camera lens with his hand
forcing it to fade to black.
After his last
meeting with Shelby, which there had been five, mostly with abusive hissy-fit
tantrums, where she called him bad skinned, beer, seamen breath. He wrote a
negative, criticising letter to this awkward pain in the ass, prima-donna to
vent his feelings and frustration at her outrages demands and petulant
behaviour. He never sent it; he would never commit anything in writing that was
negative.
The internet has
taught people to stop making public shows of themselves, which later could
haunt them. Dylan’s father gave him advise and not all of it was misogynistic.
He often repeated about Abraham Lincoln's self-control and understanding
criticism is pointless. Lincoln realised pointedly chastising someone,
especially in writing, only made them defend themselves, justifying their
actions. It hurts someone’s pride, arouses resentment and in 1842 almost got
him killed in a duel to the death after he publicly ridiculed, through the
local newspaper, an obnoxious politician named James Shield. At the last
minute, the duel was cancelled leaving Lincoln contemplative.
Dylan wrote the
email to vent his anger whilst clutching a glass of his old man’s favourite
flavour, Old Monk Indian rum. Somehow it was sent, maybe one of the other
carpenters saw it and couldn't resist or he drunk sent it.
