|The Dread Hairbrush of Doom–surprisingly effective at a weapon! Only $13.99 at your local pharmacy!|
I met a man today. We sat in a plaza and had a casual conversation, getting to know one another. Then we took a stroll to the nearby Duane Reade, where he purchased a bar of Ivory soap and a wooden hairbrush.
I brought him back to my space. There, my demeanor changed all at once, as if by alchemy. I became stern, I spoke in a very precise fashion. You know that “voice of GOD” you use on dogs? I used it on him.
I beat the holy hell out of him with that hairbrush. It proved to be a fearsome implement. I was impressed (though of course I couldn’t tell him that–he asked, “Did I take it well, Miss Margo?” I said, “Yes, pretty well. You’ll do better next time.”). I am a
pretty very serious masochist, and I do not think that I could endure what he endured. I beat that man to pulp. My arm hurts at the elbow.
|Hairbrush, where have you been all my life?!|
Then I washed his mouth out with soap. He hadn’t cursed or used profanity in my presence, so I had to fabricate a pretext for the punishment. I said that I knew he was bad. Bad, bad, bad. Incorrigible and in desperate need of consistently applied maternal discipline. Don’t drop that soap out of your mouth while I’m hitting you. Don’t you dare. You keep that soap where I placed it.
He left floating on air.
Some days, I love being a sadist. I gave him my card–my secret job card–it says, “M. Margo: Oppressor for Hire.” I love it.