4 - Some meathead or me

Davidè has always dreamed beyond his station, but never succeeded beyond sniffing the shots, pawing ineptly at the opportunities presented before letting them slip away forever. He was booted from university in the first six months for some academic misconduct. On the farms he never made it past general shitkicker idiot, and it went down the same way in the Army. Sometimes he would emulate his hero (me), striking up sudden interests in cigars, nice cars, and liquour that he could hardly afford and barely stomach. So when Davidè told me he and Emma were a couple it filled me more with disbelief than disgust. How the fuck does the shlump with the six-pack who still shits himself get the most beautiful girl in the world? It’s plain to see now, but it took years for me to accept that I orchestrated their coupling.

It was Australia Day 2013, and I was out with some friends celebrating Britain’s sweeping colonisation of this great land. Davidè was in tow, sucking down more than his share of beers while telling lies about his war service. A spattering of other friends and taggers-along had joined, and Emma had made one of her infrequent appearances. Davidè had been creepily schmoozing her, and I had just to bide my time while he wrote himself off, puking or passing out before I could swoop in to take what I was owed.

Truth be told I knew deep down I would never ‘swoop in’. Emma and I had been friends for nearly at decade by this time, with never more than an extended hug coming between us. But she was mine! And by ‘mine’, I mean at least she was certainly not Davidè’s.

The night passed in a blur. We had dumplings. Davidè was burping great gusts of garlic over the table while gurlgling stories between gulps of baijiu. The oaf managed to turn all conversation to himself, interrupting and one-upping and showboating, at one stage even removing his shirt to show his latest tattoo: a squad of silhouetted Shutzstaffel, “marching across the Caucasus to buttfuck the reds”, apparently.

Eventually it was just the three of us at a bar. I watched and smugly sipped my scotch as the brute babbled to the beauty about his foolish thoughts on this and that. He used ‘nigger’ at least twice, and farted loudly once. But she was digging it, somehow. Her eyes widened, she laughed at his terrible jokes, and even feigned interest in stories about fucking other girls. I bared my fangs, settled my scotch, and decided to strike.

“Emma!” I slurred, shocking myself with the volume and urgency. “Put him out of his fucking misery already”. It struck me as I spoke that I may have had too many victory drinks a bit too soon. “You have to make a choice, Emma. Me or him. You want this moron? You like meatheads with muscle over men with substance? You're coming home with me tonight”. Davidè shrugged and looked at Emma, and her lack of response drove me into frenzy. “You fucking women don’t know what you want, so I’ll tell you. It’s not this fucking idiot”. I downed my scotch, raised myself to my full six feet in height and skulked, sadly, into the night.

Davidè messaged me a month later telling me they were a couple.

I messaged back telling him I’d break them up.

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