Roy: Hey, dude. ‘Sup?
Joël: Dude. Look, I’m really sorry but I don’t think we’ll be able to come to your barbecue next Saturday. My bitchface boss has given me back- to- back shifts and I’ll just be too tired. Sorry, dude-
Roy: What do you mean, you’ll be too tired? What the hell? What are you, a toddler? Come on. Man the eff up, dude-
Joël continues whining in his ear about how exhausted he’ll be and he can’t do it to himself and it’ll be a waste of time anyway because he won’t even be able to have a drink and what’s a barbecue without a few beers blah-blah-blah. Roy walks out of the room, unable to trust his temper in front of the children.
Roy: I thought you were going to get the night off? I can’t fucking believe you’re letting your boss walk all over you like this. What the everloving fuck, dude. Why the hell don’t you tell your boss to shove her job up her arse? Your job sucks, dude. Your boss sucks. Guess what? You suck, too. You’re a gutless, spineless, worthless piece of chicken shit, you know that?
Joël: Whoa, dude. It’s just a barbecue. What’s the big deal?
Roy speaks through clenched teeth.
Roy: No big deal. I just…fuck it. It doesn’t matter. I just…wanted us all to have a nice day together. That’s all.
Joël: Aw, dude, I’m touched. But we can reschedule, right? Anyway, I’m at work and we’re starting to get busy. I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.
Roy forces himself to breathe and to count to ten. It works. The red mist starts to clear and slowly, slowly he can see the outline of a plan emerge.