Fat Shite had mentioned in passing – to me, of all people – that some big soccer club in Brisbane had expressed interest in his apparent experience and skills. It was the first sentence he'd deigned to utter to me in weeks, so I didn't pay it much heed. I muttered something about how wonderful that was and retreated to my room, averting further discussion about his many talents, because that was always boring.
Anyway, more weeks passed, the barbecue debacle happened, and I arrived home after another days work to find the house suspiciously and uncharacteristically pristine. I peeped in at the sitting room – toenail clipping-free! I glanced at the sink – the towering Pisa of dirty dishes had disappeared, the counter tops glistened, the floor liberated from its top layer of unknown sticky substance. Warily, almost not daring to hope, I checked the bathroom. Lo and behold, there was a roll of toilet paper expertly threaded through the actual toilet paper roll holder!
For one glorious moment, I revelled in the cleanliness. Then I recalled by whose hand such work must have been done, considering everyone else was at work, and immediately my joy splintered into suspicion.
This continued for some days. I expressed, loudly, my apprehensions at regular intervals to The Boyfriend. Why was Fat Shite suddenly cleaning the house? He was also greeting us when we walked into the room. Something was wrong. The Boyfriend agreed, and began to notice things were being moved about during the day in our own room. He's always had more common sense than me, and I suspect he was beginning to piece things together at this point. I, however, remained perplexed and skeptical refusing to acknowledge Fat Shite's abrupt friendliness or his unwarranted interest in sanitation.
Then, as these things tend to do, it all came to a head, like the eventual eruption of a bulbous, pulsing pimple on a pubescent chin.
The Boyfriend called the real estate agent. She informed us that Fat Shite had contacted her, regarding his wish to back out of the house and asking how he could ensure he still got his deposit back. He'd lied and told her that The Boyfriend and Yours Truly were fully aware of his intentions. He'd been showing the house to interested parties, hence the unusual immaculate state of our heretofore grimy home.
No words can express the level of fury I felt that day. I knew Fat Shite deserved the nickname I had so subtly granted him, but that day I realised he had earned it - the only thing he has earned or will ever earn in his whole life, I predict. As The Boyfriend regaled me with the tale, I stormed angrily around our room, my voice becoming more high pitched with every detail he shared, my face reddening to an alarming depth, my hands shaking, my fists balling – then I snapped.
Now, I have never been exceptionally good at keeping my emotions in check. I don't rant, I rampage. I don't shout, I shriek. I don't think, I just talk.
So, that being said, when I hollered for Fat Shite and Sour Puss to join me in the infuriatingly tidy sitting room, I wasn't looking for a calm and collected conversation.
Fat Shite finally shared his plans – he was moving to Brisbane to start a career coaching the best soccer team in all of Australia. He was going to find two people to replace him, thereby regaining his deposit. The flights were booked, the deed done. All that he was waiting for was two people willing to shack up with us. I responded by screaming that I hoped his plane crashed and killed them both. It wasn't my best moment, nor my wittiest rebuttal. The Boyfriend quietly informed them that they couldn't move anyone into the house without our consent – something I probably should have led with.
A week later, a new couple were living with The Boyfriend and I. And a day after that, we came home to Fat Shite and Sour Puss's empty room. They had sneaked away in the dead of night, without a word of goodbye, leaving only a lingering stench and Fat Shite's favourite beer mug as proof they had ever been there at all.
I smashed that beer mug. I smashed it good.