Sunday Sunlight

Sunday Sunlight

It wasn’t long till I found out where the bastard was. He was standing there, wearing them as if no one noticed. I sent him the look, but he ignored it. The motherfucker. Pale, and scrawny, with a nose that could’ve probably pierced steel: your typical shadowy folk. "There he is," I told Fred, who was sitting next to me, sipping the martini I had bought for him. Freddy cleared his throat, fixed his tie, and looked at the man.

"He’s wearing the glasses."

"I know."

"He’s just wearing the glasses." I took a sip of my drink, keeping the asshole at sight. How old? I’d say twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Some little punk who thought he got lucky. Well think again, you little fuck. Probably some of those spoiled rich kids who think they got it made, who think their untouchable. I scanned the area around him. An ugly looking girl –Asian, with way to many make-up on (black lipstick?), and tits touching her knees- was holding his hand, probably his girlfriend, which was something I just couldn’t explain –why would he be with someone as ugly as her? Why would her want to be with someone as ugly as him? Money was probably the answer. The fat old guy who was sitting next to him was probably his father, the one that started all. No mother in sight, but I could picture her. Siliconed front, as fat as her husband, and a stretched out look on her face. I looked around. Like most of the ladies here.

"So, what do I do?" I consulted Michelle, who sighed and returned to her whisky on the rocks –which I had paid for. “What?”

"They’re just a pair of glasses, Howard. You have tons of them." She whined, grabbing my shoulder.

"But they are my glasses. He stole them."

"So, what?" Freddy laughed at her comment, reaching across my lap and pinched her cheek. Michelle glared at him.

"They’re his glasses.” Fred further explained. Now the bastard was touching the girl’s ass, who just smiled at him as if she actually liked him and wasn’t just sticking around for the money. And the bastard smiled back as if he was actually going to keep her around. The ass was wobbly, and as ugly as everything the girl had. "I think you should go, tap him in the shoulder, and bam, head-butt his ass."

"You’re going to make a scene, and we’re gonna get kicked out of the club, just because of those stupid sunglasses." Michelle punched me on the arm, softly. I clicked my tongue, and finished my drink –vodka and tonic. She looked at me, waiting for me to say something.

"They’re my glasses."

"They’re not even that nice."

"Hey, those cost me money, OK? They don’t just… grow on trees. I paid for them, and that
motherfucker—"

"Oh, Howard don’t swear."

"—took them, and now I can’t see shit, because the damn sun blinding me… and this asshole is just wearing them like they’re his glasses."

"How do you know they are yours?"

"Because those are the damn glasses."

"Maybe he has the same glasses that you do."

"Or maybe he stole them." I looked at her, annoyed. "You know what, Michelle? Just shut the hell up." Freddy chuckled.

"I still think you should butt-head him. In the nose." He said, scratching his head. "That’s a very big nose. That’s a big motherfucking nose." I laughed out loud, standing up.

"What are you going to do?" asked Michelle. I glanced towards the man, who was excusing himself to the bathroom. And what do you know? I wanted to pee. I started to walk. "Wait, Howie…" she called out to me. Ignoring her, I kept walking, past the phony old men, talking about badminton matches, past the group of ladies, discussing about what plastic surgeon turned them into the monster that they are, past the young pair of yuppies, who talk about if it is OK to wear a striped vest in formal meetings, and past the well-dressed young man, who walked out of the bathroom, and had a look on his face that told me he had just taken a crap.

I opened the door.

The bathroom, as everything inside the Royal Casino Club, was fancy. Marble floor, a nice painting hanging from the wall next to the lavatory, golden handles, and a man, dressed in a white smoking, holding a towel. The bastard was taking a piss, standing up, and whistling Moonshadow. Calmly, I walked towards him, clearing my throat. He didn’t turn around. The hell with him. Furiously, I pushed his head towards the wall. One. Two. Three times. He screamed in pain, cursing. The man with the towels jumped, caught by surprise. I grabbed his tie, and pulled him to the floor. He was bleeding, and shaking, trying to scare me away. I kicked his jaw, and that stopped the shaking. I looked at the towel man, who had slowly backed up towards the corner of the bathroom. I kneeled down. He wasn’t wearing the sunglasses. I searched in his pocket, and –aha- pulled them out. Smiling, I put them over my eyes, and then pointed at the towel man, who was trembling. I looked down on the motherfucker. "Son of a bitch." I muttered, before stomping on his hand. Clearing my throat, I walked out of the bathroom, and the sun was no longer a problem.

It was a sunny day, and I was sweating. I needed a bath, as I usually did after playing tennis with Fred –he had beaten me, by the way: six; four, three; six, four; six. There was only one shower available, and another man, one with a big motherfucking nose, had just walked in. I had to hurry. I stripped, and left my sunglasses next to my bag, then rushed into the showers. Ten minutes later, they were gone, along with the bastard who had taken them. It wasn’t long till I found out where the bastard was.

(How did I do?)

This started really well, it was a fabulous first few sentences. And for a few lines, the language was good at setting the mood. But then you kept going with the language and vulgarity, and it got so boring that I really couldn't read far beyond the bit with the well endowed asian. You sound almost like a child with a new toy. "I learned a new word today! Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck." It isn't interesting, and it looses all sense of power because you went on with it a bit too long.

You have roughly 1000 words, and about 25 actual vulgarities, not including the situational vulgarity. That may not sound like much, but that is huge compared to any good literature. (an I mean ANY)

I also noticed that about half the story is dialog and thats too much also. Not everything thats said needs to be said. Internal monologue is extremely useful when your working in the first person.

"They were my glasses. They weren't nice, but they cost me money. Its not like they grow on trees. They were mine" Establishes exactly the same mood, and is a little less tedius as just having him talk back and forth.

Hmm. Since this was posted for the Short Story Contest, I'm going to take a leap of logic and say that this is supposed to be a short story. If it is, cut out the part where the sunglasses go missing again and he tracks the guy down — it makes for an incomplete story. At the very least, keep the missing sunglasses and the vanishing Ugly Dude but don't make the protagonist start tracking him down again. It sounds unfinished this way.

On a minor note, you'll want to bump the rating of this up to "R", in accordance with the YWS ratings system.

And on a not-so-minor note, please format.

Observe the miracle. A plain, unformatted passage:

"They’re my glasses."
"They’re not even that nice."
"Hey, those cost me money, OK? They don’t just… grow on trees. I paid for them, and that motherfucker—"
"Oh, Howard don’t swear."
"—took them, and now I can’t see shit, because the damn sun blinding me… and this asshole is just wearing them like they’re his glasses."

With the application of the wonderful miraculous thing known as the "Enter" key

"They’re my glasses."

"They’re not even that nice."

"Hey, those cost me money, OK? They don’t just… grow on trees. I paid for them, and that motherfucker—"

"Oh, Howard don’t swear."

"—took them, and now I can’t see shit, because the damn sun blinding me… and this asshole is just wearing them like they’re his glasses."

... tada! It is transformed into a thing of beauty. People will flock from afar to worship the nice beautiful double-spacing. The world will be a happier, cuddlier place for it.

So, format.

I do agree with LamaLama to a great extent. The swearing captures the atmosphere really well for the majority of the story, but at times the excess of swearing compromises the quality of the story. Instead of actually using description, you resort to swear words.

Like:

Ten minutes later, they were gone, along with the bastard who had taken them. It wasn’t long till I found out where the bastard was.

The story becomes clunky and repetitive. That's not good.

Another example:

There was only one shower available, and another man, one with a big motherfucking nose, had just walked in.

Scroll up a little bit, and you'll find:

That’s a big motherfucking nose.

Which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that you were d describing two completely different people.

I like this story — it's funny and quirky and offbeat, irreverent in an interesting way. But your narrative is being weighed down by the homogeny of your descriptions (mostly the fault of the copious expletives), so — tweak that, format the story, and work on the ending. Good luck.

The last part is the start of the story... Sorry. I just like to mix up the storylines. That's why the last sentence is the first --and that's why I repeat the word bastard twice.

And the swearing... I don't really think it's excessive, but I respect your opinion. I'll R it up.