The result of a random exercise and breaking a longstanding case of writer's block, so it might be a little scattershot. Superhuman group therapy.
Fucking Hudgens. Three times this week that pinstripe wearing, brown-nosed, semen recycling machine has given me shit about my audits. Pinstripes! Like he thinks he's fucking classy! Greasy, self-righteous little cunt. I hope he chokes to death in Sorrenson's colon. Fucker. Trying to snake my promotion. He can eat shit.
I was sitting at my desk, finishing out some paperwork, keeping to my-fucking-self, When up walks Hudgens with that shit-eating grin. “Hey, Tom.” Like he's my fucking buddy. “I talked to Sorrenson and he says he's gonna need you to take over the Davis file.” Leaning into me like the fucking douche he is in his heart. “They're in kind of a shit heap.”
Dick. The Davis case is indeed a shit heap. Those people are fucking maniacs. So here I am, up Shit's Creek with this grinning fucking chode draped over my desk, and I'm losing my fucking mind. I think I'm going to have a stroke I hate this fucker so bad, right? When BAM! Three stacks of 1040's catch fire right under his smug, oily fucking soul patch. Lit his whole damn head up like Christmas. Third degree burns all over his face and neck.
Lost my job at the IRS, spent three years running from a government containment crew, lost my wife and daughter. Still the best fucking day of my life.
“That's how I found out I had Pyrokinesis.” Tom said, leaning back in his folding chair. Group was always kinda weird, Super Humans Anonymous doesn't attract a very even-keeled mentality, but Tom's stories were always in a league of their own. We all just sort of blinked for a few seconds after he stopped speaking.