The Night I Burned My House Down: The Grand Finale

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To read Parts I and II of this saga, click here for Part I, and here for Part II.

Forcibly repressing the urge to castrate the taints beside me I realized the gravity of our situation: Rory might fucking die. In full understanding and acceptance of my total lack of heroism, I sprung to action the best way I knew how: denying any and all culpability.

“Mark set the house on fire with his fucking lube collection! He needed to grease the doorway so Rebel Wilson could fit in his room!” Mark glares at me. “And you know the cocksucker is guilty. I mean look at him! He’s already clearly lying, he said the ham hock he slid his dick into was hot!”

I’m beyond desperate at this point, when, in a moment as anti-climatic as the female orgasm, a visibly ill Rory wanders out the front door as if nothing had happened.

“Jesus Rory, are you okay???” Rory approaches us casually, seemingly annoyed by the commotion the demise of our home has caused.

“No, do I look okay? I’m sick, my girlfriend… well, I guess ex-girlfriend is a total twat, and now somebody burned my house down. Does that sound like the life of a person who is okay? I’d rather be kidnapped by ISIS with an “I LOVE JEWS” tattoo above my asshole.” Mark laughs, we glare at him.

“I’m sorry. Poor timing, you’re right.” Rory is back to his rant.

“So Siblings, was it you, was it Mark and his weekly rendition of “hey, let’s try to pretend I didn’t fuck a yeti last night” or is there an arsonist around?” I explain the situation to our very much alive, and angry, third roommate. He has already declared his intention to not only move out (of our burned-down house), but to initiate legal proceedings with the ever-mature “I’m calling my dad” pronouncement.

“Everyone told me not to live with you fuckers.” He motions to Mark.

“You’re a fucking idiot with a fat fetish.” He then motions to me

“And you, Siblings… you alcoholic waste of space and potential, your parents must be really proud, you cunt.” I pause for a moment.

“Well they would be, but they died when I was 14 in a car crash.” Rory recoils.

“Jesus man, I’m sorry. I’m emotional, I was just mad about the fire.” Mark starts laughing, knowing full well that my parents are still alive. With nothing left to lose, I figured now was as good a time as ever to burn my Rory bridge.

“I’m kidding man, go fuck yourself. Nobody fucking likes you anyway. Oh, and Calley blew me.”

“She did what?!!?”

“Or I guess I should say blows me.” Dropped the mic on his ass.

“Fuck you both, I’m calling my sister and getting the fuck out of here. You two will hear from my father’s lawyers.”

Rory is away on the phone when Mark becomes noticeably anxious.

“Hey man, we really should get out of here before Rory’s family shows up. Best to avoid the whole thing.” Mark, well aware of my preference to run away from all meaningful situations and issues, thinks he has struck a chord with me. “Shit, you know, I’d like to, but they’re going to need a statement from us and if we run away from our flaming house we look OJ guilty bro. And I don’t see Robert Kardashian or Cochran’s ghost around to save us.”

“Ok man, well I gotta go.” Mark tries to leave when a white Prius pulls up.

Assuming it was an Uber, I motion for it to leave, as the road is blocked and Mark cannot actually leave the scene of this massive accident.

“Holy fuck, no” Mark says.

“What?”

The car parks as Rory approaches the vehicle and the lights turn off. The driver’s side door opens and a massive cankle shakes the ground like the stomp of Godzilla. Rory and the Pillsbury dough girl embrace.

“Jesus, Mark. You didn’t…”

“Oh, I did.”

The latest victim of our chubby chasing Casanova pointed at Mark and I.

“Hey honey, good to see you again!” Mark says sheepishly. Rory pivots, points at Mark “you’re a fucking dead man you Zach Braff-looking cunt.” Rory bolts after Mark, who, unlike his Sicilian (half) ancestors, crumbles in the face of adversity or threat, adhering to the general stereotype of today’s wealthy college students requiring Bar Mitzvah.

In his desperation, Mark swift kicked Rory in what I have been told is his effective mangina, a micropenis unable to satisfy even the smallest slits, and prompting the nightmarish “are you in yet?” questioning on a regular basis. As my two roommates lay pummeling each other in some sort of bizarre, somewhat homoerotic wrestling match involving genital assault and Serena Williams-like grunting, I realized the silver lining from all of this: it was Saturday night of welcome week and my house had burned to the ground leaving me nowhere to sleep, lending me the ultimate excuse for unreasonably irresponsible sexual behavior: “Hey ladies, I really need a place to stay.”

Somewhere between #ButtStuff2014 in the dorm of a free-loving freshman aptly named Chastity (actual name, hope all is well!) and the realization I had destroyed a $700k property, I accepted my fate, resigning myself to the fringe class of society. The following morning, desperate for some quick cash, I submitted to my most primal urges: I became a TFM writer.

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