Failure. It's a funny thing, by definition it's supposed to be bad, it's supposed to make the victim of it sad and cause him to pity himself. However, for many, due to purely unacceptable reasons, they try again, just to fail. Now, while Failure is supposedly always bad for one, it's usually great for another, one's failure is another man's accomplishment, so were the basis to which Fosters suffered twice in one night. He arose out of his bad sore and still slightly bloody, the gash above his left eyebrow probably shoulda been looked at, but mistakes should never been regretted, because then they become regrets and no one....No one likes regrets.
He stepped out of his bed and onto his wooden paneled bedroom floor and as he did he let out a loud howl of agony.
At that moment all he could wonder is, if he had stayed with the doctor just a little long, wouldn't he have gotten some pain pills? Fosters drove his fist into his bed's metal frame, which undoubtedly hurt seeing as he let out a shallow huff and limped his way to the bathroom. You see being as cool and bad-ass as Fosters has it's consequences, like not thinking. Because he didn't accept full help from the doctor, he was going to have to stitch the gash himself. He opened the mirror cabinet and pulled out a spindle of thing black thread and a overly size needle, he set them down and turned on the sink. As he waited for that water to warm up he did his best to gross himself out, playing with the gash, sticking his finger in it and rolling it around till blood drew.
"eeeeuuuck, ****ing gross, bloody ****ing gross" He grinned into the mirror, watching as the blood trickled down his face and into the sink. He pulled some rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the first aid kit sitting on his toilet and began to clean the gash. Each soggy red cotton ball he formed, he threw in the toilet. Finally, it was time to do some sewing. He picked up the needle, threaded it and drove it right into his skin, He took his hands away and start stomping around
"**** **** **** **** ****ity ****ing ****er ****atash that ****ing hurt like **** god damn it son of a ***** MMMMMMMother****a."
He snickered at his own little outburst and went back to his sewing, with each new stitch a gasp followed. twelve stitches later he put the utensils away and flushed the toilet. He turned on the shower and stripped. He stepped in without hesitation and jumped out faster. The water was cold cause Mr.Brilliant didn't let it warm up, damn electric heating, so slow. As he readied for his second attempt into the shower he tested it first, nice and hot. He stepped in, one foot behind the other and closed the curtain. All of the sudden...
I'm singing in the rain
****in singing in the rain
What a glorious feeling
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
cause it's so god damn dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for Fuc....
Let the stormy clouds chase...
As Fosters sang to himself in his shower, lathering, rinsing and repeating, he wasn't thinking happy thoughts, he wasn't thinking about ****ing.... He was thinking about how to get back at The Butcher, how would he defeat this insane, unstable man and that's when his college education struck him... Get into the man's mind and he's yours to control. He was going to play a sick twisted mind game, he was going to take what The Butcher had and by that not the title, but his only true friends.
He stepped out of the shower, failing to dry himself off he ran into the living room and grabbed the phone book out from under his couch. He sat bare naked and wet on his black leather couch, opening the book he looked into the business section. A grin shined upon him, snickering to himself he picked up the phone and dialed the number he had found.
"Charlie's meat shop, we cut it up, you cook it. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to buy ever ounce of meat in your store...."
At Vendetta The Butcher would face a new challenge, one that himself nor anyone else could of imagined. At Vendetta he'd be saving....his....meat.