4:25

The beaver glanced down at a loose sheet that seemed to have been torn from a notebook.

Sunday, June the second, nineteen hundred and eighty-five

Fuck. Fuck. She’s not fucking here. The stupid fucking slut isn’t fucking here. Fuck.

Isn’t it just like a fucking woman to screw with a simple plan. I should have known, never, ever trust a fucking woman: whores or incompetents and usually both. It was going to be so simple. I’ve got her keys, her car, all the fucking data and account lists and even her god-damned passport. It was going to be easy street from now on. Suck the stupid bitch dry, spit out the remains and I’d be on an island by summer. All I needed was a tiny bit of cooperation from the silly cow, but no, she’s gotta fuck off to town on the one day this month I could make this work.

Now I have to put up with this shit hole for another month, smile at that smarmy cow’s chatter and worst of all, keep up this ridiculous dance with that ugly dog of a bank teller and her moron the manager.

Fuck. Twenty-eight fucking days. Fuck.

Ordo ab chaos
Barnabas