The Warthog sat perfectly still, almost rigid, while wave after wave of hatred welled up in her stomach. This hate she directed toward the Slut at the dartboard, batting her fake eyelashes and wiggling her fat ass, thinking she’s God’s gift to men. Through her thick glasses her eyes glared and sizzled as she watched this red-haired hussy Slut in her tight little skirt steal her man right out from under her. Had anyone been watching her, they would’ve noticed her teeth grinding together (indicated by the clenching and unclenching of her jaw) and her fingers wrapped around an invisible throat under the table.

But no one ever noticed the Warthog, except to place her at the butt end of a hurtful remark or practical joke, most of which she remained blissfully unaware, such as being referred to as the Warthog. Nature had not been kind to her, giving her mousy hair that seemed endlessly greasy and a face that invited questions of gender identity. She was legally blind, but managed to get by with glasses that resembled Coke bottles. Her figure was dumpy, all hundred-and-forty pounds of it, and her flowered silk blouse didn’t distract anyone from her polyester stirrup pants and flats. She had no noticeable breasts. She had no noticeable friends.

She was in love with the Boss, and there he was, about to go home and screw this stupid temp Slut just because she was beautiful. (She couldn’t actually hear them, but she could read lips well enough, a skill acquired through taking care of her mother dying of lung cancer.) She had been in the office the longest, and knew him the best, and was always around to listen to him complain about his situation at home. Many times she took him in her arms and kissed his forehead and whispered that she would fulfill his needs, but he would not allow it.. He was married and married men simply do not do that, he explained. He used his wedding band like a shield around her, and tonight he was doing his best to hide it from the Slut.

“You idiot,” she thought, “she knows you’re married. Why do you think she’s coming onto you like that? Because she’s attracted to you? Ha! She’s a prostitute homewrecker and she knows what you are! Her next victim, that’s what. She’ll spread her legs and rake your back and ruin your life! We can all see what she’s up to! You could’ve had me, I would’ve kept your secret! I would’ve made you happy. Now look what you’re about to do! You’re gonna break my heart and your wife’s heart!” Her fingernails, not long or pretty but very hard, gouged ten lines under the table while she screamed to herself.

As she watched them giggling and flirting at the dartboard, she decided what to do. She had to stop them somehow. She knew words were no good. She would have to intervene.

As she resolved to do this, the Slut turned and shot her a triumphant smile, flipping her hair and sticking out her chest. Something snapped in the Warthog, and she stood up violently, knocking her chair over, took one step toward her, then whirled and stalked out to her car. She flung the door open, denting the car next to hers, and bent at the knees to reach under the seat. Having found what she was looking for, she stood up, slammed the door and walked back to the bar, her finger on the trigger.

As she reached the door, she stopped. She could see through the glass that the Married Pig and the Slut had their coats on and were coming out. She wheeled and ran for his car, which was parked next to hers, ripped open the door and dove into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind her. She cackled to herself as she waited.

She heard their voices approach, laughing. She heard one door open, then two. She heard both doors slam. She heard him start the car, but she couldn’t feel it. Neither could she feel it when they shut the doors. They were not in the car. She sat up quickly, just in time to see them pull away in the Slutmobile. Her heart sank, and she began to weep. Silently at first, then softly, then wailing, then kicking and shrieking. People walking by outside and looked at her curiously. When they noticed the gun in her hand, they moved on quickly.

“I’ll show him,” she said aloud as she pressed the barrel to her eye and pulled the trigger.

© 1996 Pat Hahn

(Back)