Becoming an Evil-Doer: Step 2

See Becoming an Evil-Doer: Step 1 for some context.

So, there’s this guy. I’ll call him Prick-Cocksucker (PC for short). An old college buddy of mine used that name quite a bit. I never knew its etymology, but it sort of stuck in my head over these fine years and, quite frankly, it comes to mind every time I see the dude who lives on the corner of Black Knob (and, yeah, that’s a real street name).

Mr. PC is the type of guy who wears a turtleneck shirt under a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt is the type of shirt that lets us know where the dude went to college. I never can get a close look at it, but I’m sure it is some Ivy League school or, at the very least, the most prestigous school in whatver state he went to college.

So, PC’s lawn is the type of lawn that looks like a barber comes out every morning annd evens up the blades of grass so they are just so. The edging looks like a protractor was invovled. The picket fence is straight, the flowers are in bloom year-round, and the trees always have a perfect symetry to them. From the outside, it looks as if PC has the perfect lawn, and perhaps by extension, the perfect life.

For the past two years I’ve been vowing to buy some diesel fuel and spray it on the guy’s grass. It may have had something to do with the fact that my grass always browns prematurely, my trees are untrimmmed, and the edging…well, it rarely exists. Nonetheless, I have had it in for PC. The only thing that has held me back from my grass-killing mission is the reality that perfect lawns don’t always translate to perfect lives. I mean, Nicole Simpson had a pretty nice lawn, right?

So, I let it go. Until yesterday.

Usually, PC is out in his driveway in his turtleneck, sweeping the concrete with a broom or sanding down the rough edges of the asphalt. I frequently refrain from flipping him the bird, if only out of common decency. You know, for the kids. Yesterday, though, PC was nowhere to be seen.

His wife was in the driveway.

I will admit, there was a part of me that believed–or at least hoped–that the dude had a fat, ugly wife. I was sure the guy never had sex, and if he did, it was a grudging, plodding, mechanical, missionary experience that left him wanting for something resembling a human experience. I was sure he was more of a masturbate in the shower before going online to a site like masturbationaddiction.com straight away kind of guy. The kind of guy, you know, who spends a half hour a day hiding all the fattening food in the house in the futile hope that his wife will lose three pounds and look like a less weighty version of the manatee he married.

So, PC’s wife was in the driveway and fuck me if she wasn’t hot. I mean, seriously hot. I’ve watched my fair share of videos on https://www.fuckvideos.xxx/ and she wouldn’t look out of place on there. That’s how hot I’m talking. I mean I was just sitting there in awe, I couldn’t believe my eyes. This guy with his turtle neck sweaters, bagged a hottie like that? How?! I think I might have to get a belladonna pocket pussy or something to relieve myself, she’s too much!

My wife, who is fully aware of my disdain for the guy, was in the car with me when we drove past. When my cursing fit stopped, she looked at me with a smile I’ve come to know. It’s a smug little grin that says, “Yeah, the dude has the perfect little life? Kind of sticks in your junk, doesn’t it?”

I fell back into an apopleptic rage, vowing to buy the diesel fuel that night and get to work. And then my wife said, “His daughter plays violin on their deck, too.”

That did it. The dielsel fuel be damned. I had come up with Step 2 of Becoming an Evil Doer.

I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I get a lot of Erectile Dysfunction spam. Every day, it’s Viagra or something else to keep my boy smart. Of all the self-improvement medications I need, ED meds ain’t one of them, if you happen to do so, you can read all about male enhancement here. So, I always delete the spam. Now, I’m not going to. No, I have another plan.

Now, I’m going to buy as much of it as I can. I am going to empty all the boxes (maybe sell the meds on the geriatric Black Market–or is it a Gray Market) and then leave the empty pill containers in the guy’s trash every Thursday night. First, I’ll just leave one box in the trash can so the trash men can see it. You know, get a buzz going.

Then, once the trash guys have started talking, I’m going to leave two empty boxes on top of the guy’s recycling container. Now, the neighborhood wives will start chattering. “Did you hear PC takes Viagra? With a wife as pretty as his, he must have a real medical problem if he can’t get it up.” Buzz, buzz.

Once that gets going, I’m going to implement the final stage of the plan. I’m going to wait until the trash guys have come. Then, I’m going to drop an empty box beside the empty trash can so Mrs. Sexy Britches will see it when she comes home from Perfect Life Mother’s Day Out at Violin Recital Day.

Ah, yes. What will go through her mind? Will it be that her husband doesn’t find her sexy enough to stimulate his marching band? Will it be that PC is having so much sex with a mistress that he needs a little extra help when he gets back to his house on Perfect Lane? Will it be, oh please let it be, that she sees some online literature that suggests there is a fad among the alternative lifestyle set that includes recreational use of ED medications?

Oh, yes. Step 2 on the road to becoming an Evil Doer is in place. Now, I just have to wait for the order to come in.