healing after my recent clash with Dr. Quietus. I left Hub with his paws up and flew to her apartment on Lilywood Drive. She was huddled on the sofa, dressed in Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. Alicia Keys playing on the stereo. Crumpled Kleenex on the floor. Her face was wet with tears and, yes, she looked under the weather. A touch of flu, perhaps. Then she turned her head to the side and I saw the bruise beneath her left eye.
And so we come to Wayne the Fucktard.
Ripped. Head shaved. A maple leaf tattooed on each arm. The first time I saw him, he pulled up outside Yvette’s apartment in a big-ass pickup truck, a toolbox in the bed and his company’s name—APPETITE FOR CONSTRUCTION—stencilled on the doors. I’d been chilling with Yvette, sharing the sofa with her as she watched Dr. Oz. She buzzed him up. “Hey, baby,” she said at the door, and leaned forward for a kiss, but he brushed past her and clomped into the kitchen in his dusty workman’s boots. “I just vacuumed,” she said. Wayne rolled green eyes that were set a little too close together (a sign of untrustworthiness, according to the ancient Greeks, and you’ll get no argument from me), opened the fridge and helped himself to a beer. Yvette looked at the arcs of dirt left in the carpet as he stomped into the living room. He took no notice of her. Gulped his beer, dropped his ass onto the sofa next to me, and flicked the TV over to Sportsnet.
I’ve told you very little about Wayne, but I’m willing to bet you’ve a fairly accurate picture of him in your head. The kind of guy who has Kimbo Slice wallpaper on his cell phone, and who thinks
The Expendables
should have won ten Academy Awards.
This is your boyfriend?
I said to Yvette, who was still looking at the dirt arcs in the carpet. We both wore mystified, somewhat hurt expressions.
What are you thinking?
I didn’t stick around for an answer. I flipped back into my body and pondered the age-old anomaly of beautiful, intelligent girls dating total asswipes.
Jealous? Yeah, a little. But if Wayne was a good dude, I’d at least be jealous
and
happy for her. He’s not
a good dude, though. He’s a fucktard.
The second time I saw him was even worse.
They’d been out on a date (by which I mean, Wayne had watched UFC at Boston Pizza, while Yvette sat next to him, playing Angry Birds on her iPhone). He drank too many beers but drove home anyway—told Yvette to shut her fucking cakehole when she offered to drive. They got back to Yvette’s place and he came on strong. She pushed him away and told him that she wasn’t in the mood. “The fuck you’re not,” Wayne said. He wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed. “I just bought you fucking pizza. New York Cheesecake, too.” I raged and swung invisible fists at him, wishing they had substance, wishing he could feel
something
. But I couldn’t even disturb the air. Yvette managed to squirm out of his grasp. She stood in the middle of the room and shook her head. The shape of Wayne’s hand was imprinted on her throat. I continued to throw empty punches at him. “You’ve had too much to drink,” she said. “You can sleep on the sofa or go home.” He growled and stepped toward her, one fist raised, knuckles scuffed. She said, “Please no,” and backed away and he grinned, lowered his fist, told her she was a lousy lay and that he’d rather jack off, anyway. I stopped swinging haymakers and tried the
Scanners
thing, but his head remained, regrettably, intact. I tried the
Carrie
thing, too—mining the iceberg for telekinetic ability, wanting to open the kitchen drawers and fling knives at him. Forks, too. I’d bounce the toaster off his head for good measure. It was a weighty appliance with four slots and a bagel function. It would hurt like a bastard. Couldn’t do it, though. And couldn’t do the
Firestarter
thing, either. I just stood there, frustrated as hell, feeling like the most useless superhero since Aquaman.
“Bitch,” Wayne
And so we come to Wayne the Fucktard.
Ripped. Head shaved. A maple leaf tattooed on each arm. The first time I saw him, he pulled up outside Yvette’s apartment in a big-ass pickup truck, a toolbox in the bed and his company’s name—APPETITE FOR CONSTRUCTION—stencilled on the doors. I’d been chilling with Yvette, sharing the sofa with her as she watched Dr. Oz. She buzzed him up. “Hey, baby,” she said at the door, and leaned forward for a kiss, but he brushed past her and clomped into the kitchen in his dusty workman’s boots. “I just vacuumed,” she said. Wayne rolled green eyes that were set a little too close together (a sign of untrustworthiness, according to the ancient Greeks, and you’ll get no argument from me), opened the fridge and helped himself to a beer. Yvette looked at the arcs of dirt left in the carpet as he stomped into the living room. He took no notice of her. Gulped his beer, dropped his ass onto the sofa next to me, and flicked the TV over to Sportsnet.
I’ve told you very little about Wayne, but I’m willing to bet you’ve a fairly accurate picture of him in your head. The kind of guy who has Kimbo Slice wallpaper on his cell phone, and who thinks
The Expendables
should have won ten Academy Awards.
This is your boyfriend?
I said to Yvette, who was still looking at the dirt arcs in the carpet. We both wore mystified, somewhat hurt expressions.
What are you thinking?
I didn’t stick around for an answer. I flipped back into my body and pondered the age-old anomaly of beautiful, intelligent girls dating total asswipes.
Jealous? Yeah, a little. But if Wayne was a good dude, I’d at least be jealous
and
happy for her. He’s not
a good dude, though. He’s a fucktard.
The second time I saw him was even worse.
They’d been out on a date (by which I mean, Wayne had watched UFC at Boston Pizza, while Yvette sat next to him, playing Angry Birds on her iPhone). He drank too many beers but drove home anyway—told Yvette to shut her fucking cakehole when she offered to drive. They got back to Yvette’s place and he came on strong. She pushed him away and told him that she wasn’t in the mood. “The fuck you’re not,” Wayne said. He wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed. “I just bought you fucking pizza. New York Cheesecake, too.” I raged and swung invisible fists at him, wishing they had substance, wishing he could feel
something
. But I couldn’t even disturb the air. Yvette managed to squirm out of his grasp. She stood in the middle of the room and shook her head. The shape of Wayne’s hand was imprinted on her throat. I continued to throw empty punches at him. “You’ve had too much to drink,” she said. “You can sleep on the sofa or go home.” He growled and stepped toward her, one fist raised, knuckles scuffed. She said, “Please no,” and backed away and he grinned, lowered his fist, told her she was a lousy lay and that he’d rather jack off, anyway. I stopped swinging haymakers and tried the
Scanners
thing, but his head remained, regrettably, intact. I tried the
Carrie
thing, too—mining the iceberg for telekinetic ability, wanting to open the kitchen drawers and fling knives at him. Forks, too. I’d bounce the toaster off his head for good measure. It was a weighty appliance with four slots and a bagel function. It would hurt like a bastard. Couldn’t do it, though. And couldn’t do the
Firestarter
thing, either. I just stood there, frustrated as hell, feeling like the most useless superhero since Aquaman.
“Bitch,” Wayne
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