Mixtape

Local Man Ruins Everything- The Wonder Years

Roger the Bully

Outside of Roger's cruddy little apartment, it was warm and windy. Those were the kind of days that Roger would've usually enjoyed, if they hadn't made his step-father so cranky.

His step-father was cranky pretty much all the time. Cranky enough that he drank to try and make the crankiness go away, but as Roger always told him, that just made it worse. And when it got worse, Roger's step-father needed a punching bag.

"Freddy, where the HELL 'er my tennis shoes?" Roger screamed across the apartment, throwing jackets and pants aside and tossing one or two into the laundry where they should've been in the first place.

"What'd you call me, boy?" his step-father screamed back, stumbling out of his rank-smelling, cockroach-infested bedroom to glare at the boy. He leaned up against the doorpost, flask in one hand and the other balled up into a presumptuous fist. He was two inches shorter than Roger, but that had never stopped him from making the boy shrink away from him like helpless child.

"... DAD... Where're my fucking shoes?" Roger said, gritting his teeth and staring at Freddy straight in the face. He hated calling this man dad. This man was an intruder to his life, but thought he could just go ahead and rule over him like his real dad. His real dad had been nice, and clean, and gentleman-like, but he had also died, so all of that was worth nothing. His mom had remarried this prick then went ahead and died too, so now he was stuck here with this phony who wanted Roger to call him 'dad.'

"Whatchyu need yer shoes for, kid?" Freddy sneered, taking a swig of that gross, sloshing liquid in the bottle. It could be beer, or it could be piss, for all Roger knew or cared.

"I'm goin' out," Roger said despite knowing full-well that this was a dangerous thing to say. "An' I won't be back til real late. Okay?" No response. "So where're my shoes?"

Suddenly Roger was on the ground with a bruise on his cheek. The pain coursed through his body and for a long time he couldn't even open his eyes to look up at the monster towering over him.

"Don't you be so damn RUDE to me, boy!" his step-father roared, spit flying from his thin, cracking lips to land on Roger's neck. "Yer lucky I let you stay in my place! I could throw you out on those streets you love so much and never let you back in! Whadaya say to THAT, huh, you little punk?" He gave Roger a kick in the stomach, not hard enough to do real damage, but just enough that Roger couldn't breathe momentarily.

Roger was quietly catching his breath and thinking. The monster stared down at him with his foggy, drunken, shit-colored eyes.

"I'll bring you back some whiskey," the boy said finally, and the monster merely stared at him in confusion, one shaggy eyebrow raised curiously.

"Really, I'll get you whiskey," Roger continued, sitting up. He was holding his side and his cheek was swollen, but he looked his step-father firmly in the eyes, feigning bravery. "Ol' McDouglas at the spirits and winery knows me. He likes me. I can get him to gimme some. Best you'll find in all New York State." Mr. McDouglas was a kind old man who knew just by looking at Roger that he was a troubled kid in a troubled place. He would give him whiskey, knowing full well that it wouldn't be Roger drinking it. "Okay, dad?"

Freddy considered this for a moment, then smiled his gross yellow-and-black smile. "That'd be awful sweet 'o' you, son!" he laughed, and Roger felt his stomach turn at how disgusting that laugh was. "Be back soon, a'ight, kiddo?"

"A'ight... Dad," Roger replied, and watched as his step-father retreated into his room, bottle of beer-piss and all. He got up quickly, looking into his room to see his tennis shoes resting peacefully at the top of his dresser. He grabbed them, ready to get the hell out of this apartment, but paused. He looked at the top drawer of the dresser, the one that was never used for clothes.

He told himself not to open this drawer, but he did. He told himself not to look at the pictures in this drawer, but he did.

There were his mom and dad on their wedding day, dad all in polished black and mom in angelic white. There was the day he came home from the hospital, and the first time his Uncle Jimmy held him in his arms. There was Roger at three years old, smiling brighter than the sun, holding his parents' hands.

Roger put away the pictures, put on his shoes, and walked out the door. It was warm and windy, which usually he liked, but right now he hated it. He was going to go get that whiskey, and probably steal some popcorn from a vendor, and then he was going to go find that fat kid, Everett.

((a/n roger))

((Lol I'm looking through some old notes and apparently I originally designed Roger as "smart, handsome, rich, and popular".... Oopsies))