Page 7 of Frog Hog
I narrow my eyes at the clock above my stove. “Okay. Honest War.”
“It’s not that I don’t like you swearing. In fact, I swear a fuck-ton when I’m with my buddies, it’s your choice of swear word that I take offense to.”
“Fucking?” I ask. “I’m confused.”
“Anytime you say it my dick jerks.”
Laughing, I call him a liar in three languages. It’s a rapid-fire response I’ve developed while growing up in a tri-lingual household.
He doesn’t return the humor. “I’m not a liar, Valen. I’m a man with a strong response to you saying the wordfucking.”
I choke on a sip of my now warm coffee. “See you at six?” I ask, instead of responding to his odd request. “I’m telling all my friends you’re coming over, by the way. If I end up in a ditch somewhere, they’ll know it was you.”
“Now that’s offensive,” he says, sighing. After a brief pause he growls, “Make it six-fifteen. I need to buy duct tape.” Then hangs up the phone.
Walking over to the large mirror in my living room I study my face. “Fucking,” I say out loud—stretching my lips out on the ending syllable. Tilting my head to the side I say, “Fucking,” annunciating it a different way.He’s out of his mind, I think.
I love the idea of Honest War, though.
Shaking my head, I vanish into my bedroom to get dressed for my dinner date.
