Warm kisses from the frost covered lips of New Yorkers on New Year’s Eve pecked Louis’s face as the pink wall of slime covering the museum cracked open and began to melt. A smile worthy of an Olympic gold cup medalist spread across the face of Louis Tully. “I did it! I helped you guys! I did it. I did it!” he exclaimed as the roar of the crowd got louder and the slime dissipated back into the sewers and netherworlds in which it came from.
“Ha ha! I’m a real Ghostbuster now!” said Louis. A loud, booming noise came from the museum as Louis spoke and emerging from the front door of the museum were Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler, and Winston Zeddemore followed by Dana Barrett and her child Oscar. Tagging along behind Dr. Stantz was a short European man with blond hair that was covered from head to toe in pink slime. Dr. Venkman walked out of the museum with Dana in one arm and as he passed through the adoring crowd, he removed a cone shaped party hat off the head of a man and placed it on himself.
“My city. My people! You love us! And we, the Ghostbusters, New York’s finest paranormal hunting experts love you, the Big Apple!” bragged Venkman. “Not even this Carpathian, Darwinian Nightmare could stop these four musketeers. Remember this next time Mr. Mayor decided to forget about all the good deeds that I…pardon me…WE do for this great city of ours.”
Louis adjusted his glasses as the crowd turned away from him and began to cheer for the original four Ghostbusters. “Guys…you know. I did it too. I broke the shell. I’m a hero!” Tully’s proclamations fell upon deaf ears as the roar of the crowd got louder for the Ghostbusters.
“Ladies and gentleman of New York City, let it be known that if any ghost, monster, werewolf, vampire, or cockroach tries to mess with the best, they will…” Venkman briefly paused to think of a rhyme, “…have their asses kicked by the best!” Venkman paused again to see if the crowd noticed his goof, but the applause only grew louder.
“Er….uh….I’ll show them! I’m a hero too!” Louis charged back into the museum with purpose. The floors of the main chamber were still covered in pink slime, and with each step Louis took in the slime, the more his body began to tingle.
“Gee, I feel kinda good right now.” It was a feeling similar to what Louis felt when Zuul had possessed his body and named him The Key Master, yet still slightly different. “I feel like a million bucks!” Louis said with a goofy grin. “This is slime, though. Slime is bad, and this could only mean that there are more ghosts around! I must continue with my mission. I’ve got to prove that I’m a hero too. I saved the guys.!” A burp came from a nearby puddle of slime.
“I went inside their lockers, I wore their uniform, and I figured out the proton shooter thing,” the slime burped again. “I broke the pink wall! Why didn’t the crowd understand? Of course, New Yorkers are stupid. They wouldn’t understand.” The slime puddle began to solidify. “Why does Peter always get all the attention? I saved them this time! Why aren’t they commenting on my abilities instead?” Arms grew out of the pink slime.
“Nobody is ever grateful for me. I do everything. If it weren’t for me, those guys would be under a judicial mischangement order! The blue thing I got from the other lady! They could be exposing themselves right now!” Louis snarled. He took off his earmuffs. “Do you hear me? Fight me! I’m the hero!”
“LOUIS…”
The pink slime had formed into a near perfect replica of Louis himself. Complete with slicked hair, round glasses, and another proton pack, the only thing that differentiated between the two Louis’s was the shiny pink slime.
“PREPARE TO DIE!”
“Wah!” Louis screamed as he fuddled around with his proton blaster. His feet had gotten stuck in a solid pool of pink slime, and he couldn’t remember if it was the red lever or the white button that turned on the gun.
“Eyah! I don’t know how this works!” Louis said. Slime Louis reached his proton gun back in order to strike Louis, but was stopped when Louis’s gun finally switched on, albeit pointed at the floor, sending Louis twelve feet into the air.
“AAHHHH!”
Slime Louis grinned with his lips and reformed into a pit not unlike a blooming flower in its appearance.
“NO ONE SHALL HEAR FROM YOU NOR RICK AGAIN!”
“Who? WHAA!!” Louis said with a confused, terrified look as he was swallowed into the slime pit. The slime then swallowed in on itself and liquefied itself back into a puddle. Flowing as if an imaginary force were tilting the floor, the slime poured itself outside and into a nearby sewage drain, unseen and unbeknownst to the Ghostbusters and New Yorkers still in celebration.
Still addressing the crowd with the charisma of a cable game show host, Venkman said, “You know folks, all good things must come to end. This evil, sad little monkey didn’t know which fine city it was dealing with. Only New York has the Ghostbusters, Dr. Raymond Stantz, Winston Zeddemore, Egon, and yours truly will always have this city’s back, and accept no substitute!”
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
"日本語 困惑"
“What do we know about this one?”
“Just the one Asian that needs to be taken out.”
“Do you anticipate a resistance?”
“The boss said not to, but I think we should be prepared anyway.”
“We should have shotguns for this shit,” Karen giggled as she got out of the car. After she shut the door, she checked her hair and dress in the reflection of the car’s window.
“How do I look?” Karen asked. Jack walked around to the other side of the beat up Cadillac that the company gave them for the job. Starting with her feet, he began a close inspection of Karen’s appearance.
“Let’s see…shoes, check. Clear pantyhose, check, but you know I’m a fan of bare legs.” Karen smiled at the compliment about her legs that almost happened. “And we continue, let’s see. Turn around for me?” Karen did a brief 360 degree turn with the grace of a grade school ballerina. “Hmm…that dress does not accentuate your posterior the way that your black business suit does.”
“Stop talking about my ass. We’re professionals!”
“Right, well you asked me how you look, and I’m giving you a fair answer. Having a nice butt is important in this line of work.”
“Jack, come on.”
“Fine,” Jack said with a devious grin. “You’ve been wearing your hair in that same early 90’s Demi Moore style for the past six months, so perhaps it’s time for a change there but other than that, I think you look great. Now can we get to work?”
Karen closed her eyes and handed a shit eating grin on a plate to Jack. “Absolutely.”
“Sun’s going down. Let’s do this.”
Grovewood Palms sounds like a tropical paradise in name, but in actuality, it’s known around Los Angeles as one of the nastier housing developments in the northeast district of town. It wasn’t uncommon to drive down a street and see each and every single window lined with metal bars as if the residents of the neighborhood felt so scared by the world outside that they would have to build their own private jail in order to feel any sense of safety and removal from the streets outside.
Karen and Jack approached their target house which was so decrepit that it’s hard to tell if the brownish stains adorning the outside walls were from rain water or urine. Patches of obviously dead grass polka-dotted the front lawn, and the driveway was more like two strips of dead grass instead of an actual paved driveway. Indistinct booms from neighbors‘ subwoofers and dog barks that sounded more like cries for help littered the silence of the neighborhood. “Get your game face on, little girl.” With those words, the girl-next-door shine in Karen’s face turned into the demeanor of a cold blooded killer. Jack smirked.
“I’m ready,” Karen said. Jack knocked on the door.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Jack’s second knock was done with the underside of his fist instead of his knuckles.
“Open up or we will open the door for you.”
“You can be such a prick, Jack” Karen whispered. Just when Jack was about to give a harder knock, they heard the sounds of chain locks being removed and the clicks of the normal locks unlocking. Opening the door was a unkempt man in his early fifties wearing nothing but a pair of ripped, striped boxers and a smile.
“Can I…” the man’s greeting was interrupted a belch that could wake the dead, “Can I help you?”
“Good morning Mr. Tucker. My name is Jack Marr and this is my associate Karen Foreman and we’re here on behalf of Los Angeles Social Services. Please step aside, sir.” Jack shouldered his way past Mr. Tucker and into the house.
“I…uh…what?” Tucker said as he nearly lost his balance.
“Mr. Tucker, we’ve received a fair number of complaints regarding the way that you have been raising your foster child, Ms. Puzaka Utsumi. Ever since Mrs. Tucker passed away, which we are very sorry about, your apathy toward not only your child but yourself have made you an unfit parent for this girl. We are here to remove her from your custody,” Karen said while inspecting the house cluttered with dirty laundry and empty fast food wrappers. Each step inside the house required Jack and Karen to move a random piece of garbage or clothing to the side with their feet.
“Fine. Take the little yellow bitch. I don’t know what the fuck to do with her anyway. She’s like a fucking Rubix Cube to me. All the kid does is shout random Chink words. She’s fucking retarded. Fuck her. I don‘t know what to do with her.”
“Precisely why we’re here, Mr. Tucker. The state of California has deemed you to be unfit for parenting this child especially one with special needs such as Puzaka,” Karen said. “Where is she?”
“She’s in front of the computer in the bedroom,” Mr. Tucker said nonchalantly and then walked to the kitchen for a beer. “Stupid autistic bitch. She does not do a damn thing I say, but she really knows how to work a computer.”
Coming from the bedroom was a loud shout of “Anaka! Wai tai!” Jack and Karen cleared a path to Puzaka’s room through the Burger King wrappers and dented Milwaukee’s Best cans. Puzaka’s room was similarly messy, but obviously due to no fault of her own. Her clothes and bed sheets were strewn across the floor as if the carpet was too ugly to see the light of day and boxes of toys sat on the floor still wrapped in plastic.
“Puzaka? Puzaka honey?” Karen said softly as she approached the young girl. Puzaka sat at her computer, hammering her fingertips on the keyboard. “Puzaka?” Karen said again. Then a couple of familiar notes started to emit from the computer speakers.
“Is she playing Super Mario World?” Jack nearly lost his tough guy mask. The smooth Caribbean feel of Mario’s map screen music was interrupted by a square wave synth that led into the type of rave song pink haired Japanese kids in leather shirts dance to. Punctuating the pulsing beat were the sounds of Mario and Yoshi breaking blocks, kicking turtle shells, and hopping on flying bullets all in perfect synch with the music.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Shh, Jack!”
“She made it do that?”
“How?”
Mr. Tucker entered the room with a belch that almost seemed like a proclamation of his arrival. “Yeah, I told ya. She can only do one thing and that’s fuck with a computer. She can’t even figure out how to turn the fucking machine on, but once you sit her down in front of the desktop, she pulls that shit out of her ass. I don‘t get it. A complete puzzle to me.”
“Sir, we must remove the child from your custody. If there’s anything you’d like to…”
“Fuck her. Do I need to sign anything?”
Karen rolled her eyes at the apathy , and squatted down to make eye contact with Puzaka. “Puzaka? Puzaka sweetie? It’s time to come with us.” Puzaka didn’t acknowledge Karen’s words.
Jack sighed, “C’mon Puzzles. Let’s go.”
Puzaka smiled and said, “Tadashii! Ai shiteiru!” She jumped out of the seat and grabbed hold of Jack’s leg.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m going to go pass out on the couch. Goodnight…heh…Puzzles.”
“Shiijei-dono!” Puzaka shouted to Tucker. Jack reached out and held Puzaka's hand as they left the room. Karen stayed to look around. On Puzaka's desk were an assorted array of Tucker's trash. Arranged in order were a hamburger wrapper from Hardee's, an empty bottle of Evian water, a plastic bag from Lowe's stained with paint, and a cardboard rice holder from Pollo Tropical.
“Just the one Asian that needs to be taken out.”
“Do you anticipate a resistance?”
“The boss said not to, but I think we should be prepared anyway.”
“We should have shotguns for this shit,” Karen giggled as she got out of the car. After she shut the door, she checked her hair and dress in the reflection of the car’s window.
“How do I look?” Karen asked. Jack walked around to the other side of the beat up Cadillac that the company gave them for the job. Starting with her feet, he began a close inspection of Karen’s appearance.
“Let’s see…shoes, check. Clear pantyhose, check, but you know I’m a fan of bare legs.” Karen smiled at the compliment about her legs that almost happened. “And we continue, let’s see. Turn around for me?” Karen did a brief 360 degree turn with the grace of a grade school ballerina. “Hmm…that dress does not accentuate your posterior the way that your black business suit does.”
“Stop talking about my ass. We’re professionals!”
“Right, well you asked me how you look, and I’m giving you a fair answer. Having a nice butt is important in this line of work.”
“Jack, come on.”
“Fine,” Jack said with a devious grin. “You’ve been wearing your hair in that same early 90’s Demi Moore style for the past six months, so perhaps it’s time for a change there but other than that, I think you look great. Now can we get to work?”
Karen closed her eyes and handed a shit eating grin on a plate to Jack. “Absolutely.”
“Sun’s going down. Let’s do this.”
Grovewood Palms sounds like a tropical paradise in name, but in actuality, it’s known around Los Angeles as one of the nastier housing developments in the northeast district of town. It wasn’t uncommon to drive down a street and see each and every single window lined with metal bars as if the residents of the neighborhood felt so scared by the world outside that they would have to build their own private jail in order to feel any sense of safety and removal from the streets outside.
Karen and Jack approached their target house which was so decrepit that it’s hard to tell if the brownish stains adorning the outside walls were from rain water or urine. Patches of obviously dead grass polka-dotted the front lawn, and the driveway was more like two strips of dead grass instead of an actual paved driveway. Indistinct booms from neighbors‘ subwoofers and dog barks that sounded more like cries for help littered the silence of the neighborhood. “Get your game face on, little girl.” With those words, the girl-next-door shine in Karen’s face turned into the demeanor of a cold blooded killer. Jack smirked.
“I’m ready,” Karen said. Jack knocked on the door.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Jack’s second knock was done with the underside of his fist instead of his knuckles.
“Open up or we will open the door for you.”
“You can be such a prick, Jack” Karen whispered. Just when Jack was about to give a harder knock, they heard the sounds of chain locks being removed and the clicks of the normal locks unlocking. Opening the door was a unkempt man in his early fifties wearing nothing but a pair of ripped, striped boxers and a smile.
“Can I…” the man’s greeting was interrupted a belch that could wake the dead, “Can I help you?”
“Good morning Mr. Tucker. My name is Jack Marr and this is my associate Karen Foreman and we’re here on behalf of Los Angeles Social Services. Please step aside, sir.” Jack shouldered his way past Mr. Tucker and into the house.
“I…uh…what?” Tucker said as he nearly lost his balance.
“Mr. Tucker, we’ve received a fair number of complaints regarding the way that you have been raising your foster child, Ms. Puzaka Utsumi. Ever since Mrs. Tucker passed away, which we are very sorry about, your apathy toward not only your child but yourself have made you an unfit parent for this girl. We are here to remove her from your custody,” Karen said while inspecting the house cluttered with dirty laundry and empty fast food wrappers. Each step inside the house required Jack and Karen to move a random piece of garbage or clothing to the side with their feet.
“Fine. Take the little yellow bitch. I don’t know what the fuck to do with her anyway. She’s like a fucking Rubix Cube to me. All the kid does is shout random Chink words. She’s fucking retarded. Fuck her. I don‘t know what to do with her.”
“Precisely why we’re here, Mr. Tucker. The state of California has deemed you to be unfit for parenting this child especially one with special needs such as Puzaka,” Karen said. “Where is she?”
“She’s in front of the computer in the bedroom,” Mr. Tucker said nonchalantly and then walked to the kitchen for a beer. “Stupid autistic bitch. She does not do a damn thing I say, but she really knows how to work a computer.”
Coming from the bedroom was a loud shout of “Anaka! Wai tai!” Jack and Karen cleared a path to Puzaka’s room through the Burger King wrappers and dented Milwaukee’s Best cans. Puzaka’s room was similarly messy, but obviously due to no fault of her own. Her clothes and bed sheets were strewn across the floor as if the carpet was too ugly to see the light of day and boxes of toys sat on the floor still wrapped in plastic.
“Puzaka? Puzaka honey?” Karen said softly as she approached the young girl. Puzaka sat at her computer, hammering her fingertips on the keyboard. “Puzaka?” Karen said again. Then a couple of familiar notes started to emit from the computer speakers.
“Is she playing Super Mario World?” Jack nearly lost his tough guy mask. The smooth Caribbean feel of Mario’s map screen music was interrupted by a square wave synth that led into the type of rave song pink haired Japanese kids in leather shirts dance to. Punctuating the pulsing beat were the sounds of Mario and Yoshi breaking blocks, kicking turtle shells, and hopping on flying bullets all in perfect synch with the music.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Shh, Jack!”
“She made it do that?”
“How?”
Mr. Tucker entered the room with a belch that almost seemed like a proclamation of his arrival. “Yeah, I told ya. She can only do one thing and that’s fuck with a computer. She can’t even figure out how to turn the fucking machine on, but once you sit her down in front of the desktop, she pulls that shit out of her ass. I don‘t get it. A complete puzzle to me.”
“Sir, we must remove the child from your custody. If there’s anything you’d like to…”
“Fuck her. Do I need to sign anything?”
Karen rolled her eyes at the apathy , and squatted down to make eye contact with Puzaka. “Puzaka? Puzaka sweetie? It’s time to come with us.” Puzaka didn’t acknowledge Karen’s words.
Jack sighed, “C’mon Puzzles. Let’s go.”
Puzaka smiled and said, “Tadashii! Ai shiteiru!” She jumped out of the seat and grabbed hold of Jack’s leg.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m going to go pass out on the couch. Goodnight…heh…Puzzles.”
“Shiijei-dono!” Puzaka shouted to Tucker. Jack reached out and held Puzaka's hand as they left the room. Karen stayed to look around. On Puzaka's desk were an assorted array of Tucker's trash. Arranged in order were a hamburger wrapper from Hardee's, an empty bottle of Evian water, a plastic bag from Lowe's stained with paint, and a cardboard rice holder from Pollo Tropical.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Repent
For all the negative press that this place has been getting in recent years, to their credit it does feel really peaceful and serene in here. I always pictured places like this as having a musky smell, like Nana’s attic or something, but it smells like candle wax in here. Not quite sure of the exact scent, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s something red. Rosary isn’t the right word, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.
I also thought that there would be a lot more stained glass and old pews made from wood that probably dates back to the time of Jesus himself. Instead, this place feels more like a middle school converted into a church. Instead of hardwood floors that would allow even the slightest whisper to echo through the halls, the floor is adorned with a cheap green carpet that is not even worthy enough to be the astro-turf at a minor league baseball park. The walls still retain the smell of cheap drywall work. Hell, I could have done a cleaner job myself. Instead of stained glass windows, or any windows at all for that matter, the walls are decorated with pictures of Jesus, God, Joseph, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Peter, Paul, and Mary. I don’t know. The only one I recognize is Jesus.
The spot of the church that I came here for looks exactly how I imagined it would. The confession booth looks like it was transplanted from an older, better church somewhere out in…where are the good churches? New York? Delaware? Liechtenstein? I don’t know. I don’t think God had New Jersey in mind when telling people where, when, and how to construct these things. Right there is that smelly wood that I had imagined. I wonder if there are termites in there? There were termites in my desk at middle school.
Just standing in here, I feel like a sinner, and I haven’t even confessed anything yet. Everything feels so clean inside this middle school church that I can practically see the sin emanating off of me as if it were my Spider-Sense. Little, squiggly black lines of sin. I wonder they made the confession booths look like portable showers/bathrooms on purpose.
Of course the door would creak as I open it. Just like in the movies. I sit down, and breathe deeply. Of course this is the first time I’ve done this. Not even a cushiony seat for me? It is less like a public middle school and more like a private one. Sit up straight, no excuses. I can already hear Father Ohwhatshisname shifting around in his seat on the other side of our churchy toilet rooms. I guess I’m supposed to knock.
“Yes, my son?”
Whoa. I didn’t even say anything, and he already knows my gender. He’s good.
“I’ve never done this before. I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Well, what brings you here today?” I almost want to laugh. Every stereotype of a priest that I have seen in movies is personified in the toilet next door to me. His voice has an Irish accent. I almost want to ask him if his name is Father O’Malley.
“Well, I…um….” breathe, keep breathing. It’s just an anonymous voice, “…I’ve been having some…issues…and I want to know your opinion. See, I never believed in God or anything of the sort, but recent events and circumstance have forced me to reevaluate my beliefs.”
Father O’Irish cleared his throat, “The Lord and I are listening my son. What has been troubling you?” I wonder if he can see my Spidey-Sin through the little copper peephole? I almost want to look in there, but shyness always wins.
“See, I always grew up thinking that all of religion was a bunch of hocus pocus. I could never wrap my head around the idea of Adam and Eve, people walking on water, unicorns, and fairies.”
“There are no unicorns or fairies in the Bible, my son. That is, as you say, hocus pocus.” He already thinks I’m a dumbass.
“You know what I mean. I’m very realistic, so it was hard for me to follow that kind of stuff. Anyway, recent events and coincidences have made me rethink everything. I’ve had three suicide attempts within the past two months.”
“Three?” I could tell Father O’Potato was surprised. “What troubles your soul?”
“It’s a strange story. Well, to me it is. I don’t really work, I just play around with the stock market using the money that my family heaped upon me upon graduating college. They thought I was going to be a successful computer programmer, so I was given lots of money for equipment. I decided that it would be lucrative to just invest and trade, and for a long time I was doing pretty well with it. Well, when one company crashes, a lot of similar stocks fall with it.”
“How much money have you lost?” Damn, he’s good.
“I’m 2.1 million dollars in debt,” Father O’Bono tried to interrupt but I kept going, “I can’t even afford food for my daughter anymore. We’ve been eating ramen noodles and leftovers that we find in the trash outside of Lucky 8 Chinese Restaurant. At one point…well, at three points…I tried to give up and get out of it all. The first time I tried hanging myself, but Holly caught me in time once she heard the chair fall over from the other room. The other two attempts were while I was in Fairview Mental Hospital. It was just like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted in there, I tell ya. I’ve watched enough movies about mental institutions to know how to sweet talk the nurse so that my buddies could smuggle more drugs from behind her counter. So the second time, I swallowed a handful of Adderall along with some wine that my buddy had smuggled inside. The nurse caught me as soon as she heard my vomiting.”
“What about the third time?” Boy, he’s curious.
“As soon as I was released, I tried cutting myself. I don’t think I did it right. Well, I know I did it right, but I never died. I slashed up and down the river instead of side to side, and I laid in a warm bath. Nothing happened. Well, I passed out for a while, but I woke up feeling woozy from losing all of that blood, but not enough to kill me.”
“Oh my.”
“For real. That’s what brings me here today, Father. Why can’t I die?”
“I think you know why, and you’ve already made a step in that direction. God has a plan for all of us, and He loves each one of us equally whether you accept his existence or not. I feel that God has great things in store for you. You’re obviously a smart man, and your financial pursuits have gotten in the way of your happiness. God knows that your daughter needs you at this point, and He’s keeping you here because of that. Money isn’t everything, my son. Money can’t buy you love.” Heh, a priest that listens to The Beatles.
“If I can’t provide for my daughter and be a good dad, then what’s the point?”
“That’s the point. God is there with you, every step of the way. You felt distressed from losing all of that money? God knew, and He saved you from yourself.”
I think I buy it. Three botched suicide attempts is no coincidence, not to me, no sir. And he’s right. I knew what the fuck I was doing before I walked in here. Of course there’s a God. How else to explain my continued existence?
“Can I come back, Father?”
“Anytime, my son.”
For the first time in several months, I smiled. I don’t know what it is that Father O’Leprechaun said, but I don’t feel so alone anymore. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day. Holly needs me. I need me. I can do this.
As I step outside, I feel like a new man. I’m ready. I feel happy and relieved. Time to go get something nice for Holly. As I walk across the street, I hear the Doppler Effect of a bus horn out of my left ear. I look to my left, and all I see is a metal grill before everything goes black.
And then it hit me.
Of course.
I also thought that there would be a lot more stained glass and old pews made from wood that probably dates back to the time of Jesus himself. Instead, this place feels more like a middle school converted into a church. Instead of hardwood floors that would allow even the slightest whisper to echo through the halls, the floor is adorned with a cheap green carpet that is not even worthy enough to be the astro-turf at a minor league baseball park. The walls still retain the smell of cheap drywall work. Hell, I could have done a cleaner job myself. Instead of stained glass windows, or any windows at all for that matter, the walls are decorated with pictures of Jesus, God, Joseph, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Peter, Paul, and Mary. I don’t know. The only one I recognize is Jesus.
The spot of the church that I came here for looks exactly how I imagined it would. The confession booth looks like it was transplanted from an older, better church somewhere out in…where are the good churches? New York? Delaware? Liechtenstein? I don’t know. I don’t think God had New Jersey in mind when telling people where, when, and how to construct these things. Right there is that smelly wood that I had imagined. I wonder if there are termites in there? There were termites in my desk at middle school.
Just standing in here, I feel like a sinner, and I haven’t even confessed anything yet. Everything feels so clean inside this middle school church that I can practically see the sin emanating off of me as if it were my Spider-Sense. Little, squiggly black lines of sin. I wonder they made the confession booths look like portable showers/bathrooms on purpose.
Of course the door would creak as I open it. Just like in the movies. I sit down, and breathe deeply. Of course this is the first time I’ve done this. Not even a cushiony seat for me? It is less like a public middle school and more like a private one. Sit up straight, no excuses. I can already hear Father Ohwhatshisname shifting around in his seat on the other side of our churchy toilet rooms. I guess I’m supposed to knock.
“Yes, my son?”
Whoa. I didn’t even say anything, and he already knows my gender. He’s good.
“I’ve never done this before. I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Well, what brings you here today?” I almost want to laugh. Every stereotype of a priest that I have seen in movies is personified in the toilet next door to me. His voice has an Irish accent. I almost want to ask him if his name is Father O’Malley.
“Well, I…um….” breathe, keep breathing. It’s just an anonymous voice, “…I’ve been having some…issues…and I want to know your opinion. See, I never believed in God or anything of the sort, but recent events and circumstance have forced me to reevaluate my beliefs.”
Father O’Irish cleared his throat, “The Lord and I are listening my son. What has been troubling you?” I wonder if he can see my Spidey-Sin through the little copper peephole? I almost want to look in there, but shyness always wins.
“See, I always grew up thinking that all of religion was a bunch of hocus pocus. I could never wrap my head around the idea of Adam and Eve, people walking on water, unicorns, and fairies.”
“There are no unicorns or fairies in the Bible, my son. That is, as you say, hocus pocus.” He already thinks I’m a dumbass.
“You know what I mean. I’m very realistic, so it was hard for me to follow that kind of stuff. Anyway, recent events and coincidences have made me rethink everything. I’ve had three suicide attempts within the past two months.”
“Three?” I could tell Father O’Potato was surprised. “What troubles your soul?”
“It’s a strange story. Well, to me it is. I don’t really work, I just play around with the stock market using the money that my family heaped upon me upon graduating college. They thought I was going to be a successful computer programmer, so I was given lots of money for equipment. I decided that it would be lucrative to just invest and trade, and for a long time I was doing pretty well with it. Well, when one company crashes, a lot of similar stocks fall with it.”
“How much money have you lost?” Damn, he’s good.
“I’m 2.1 million dollars in debt,” Father O’Bono tried to interrupt but I kept going, “I can’t even afford food for my daughter anymore. We’ve been eating ramen noodles and leftovers that we find in the trash outside of Lucky 8 Chinese Restaurant. At one point…well, at three points…I tried to give up and get out of it all. The first time I tried hanging myself, but Holly caught me in time once she heard the chair fall over from the other room. The other two attempts were while I was in Fairview Mental Hospital. It was just like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted in there, I tell ya. I’ve watched enough movies about mental institutions to know how to sweet talk the nurse so that my buddies could smuggle more drugs from behind her counter. So the second time, I swallowed a handful of Adderall along with some wine that my buddy had smuggled inside. The nurse caught me as soon as she heard my vomiting.”
“What about the third time?” Boy, he’s curious.
“As soon as I was released, I tried cutting myself. I don’t think I did it right. Well, I know I did it right, but I never died. I slashed up and down the river instead of side to side, and I laid in a warm bath. Nothing happened. Well, I passed out for a while, but I woke up feeling woozy from losing all of that blood, but not enough to kill me.”
“Oh my.”
“For real. That’s what brings me here today, Father. Why can’t I die?”
“I think you know why, and you’ve already made a step in that direction. God has a plan for all of us, and He loves each one of us equally whether you accept his existence or not. I feel that God has great things in store for you. You’re obviously a smart man, and your financial pursuits have gotten in the way of your happiness. God knows that your daughter needs you at this point, and He’s keeping you here because of that. Money isn’t everything, my son. Money can’t buy you love.” Heh, a priest that listens to The Beatles.
“If I can’t provide for my daughter and be a good dad, then what’s the point?”
“That’s the point. God is there with you, every step of the way. You felt distressed from losing all of that money? God knew, and He saved you from yourself.”
I think I buy it. Three botched suicide attempts is no coincidence, not to me, no sir. And he’s right. I knew what the fuck I was doing before I walked in here. Of course there’s a God. How else to explain my continued existence?
“Can I come back, Father?”
“Anytime, my son.”
For the first time in several months, I smiled. I don’t know what it is that Father O’Leprechaun said, but I don’t feel so alone anymore. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day. Holly needs me. I need me. I can do this.
As I step outside, I feel like a new man. I’m ready. I feel happy and relieved. Time to go get something nice for Holly. As I walk across the street, I hear the Doppler Effect of a bus horn out of my left ear. I look to my left, and all I see is a metal grill before everything goes black.
And then it hit me.
Of course.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Things That End With "Y"
Make me know that you care. There’s nothing I’d rather do than cradle you in my arms and call you my kin. I want to take what’s left of me and plant it inside you. Let the seed crack open, cut through the stringy roots inside, and sprout into something that is better than me. Better than what I have become. Mommy will always love you, my little panda bear. I want the world to see what I have seen in you that being the innocence of it all.
This is to all of you. Let it be known in this letter that I do regret what I have done. I know you all are just going to see me as a monster, and I am really sorry. Truly. I am an adult, and while I realize that I am mature and responsible enough to make my own decisions, it was a series of bad decisions that led me to where I am today and what I am about to do as soon as I am done writing this. I don’t want you to hate me. Not anymore. The drowning is meant to be symbolic. I’m going away for a long time, but I want you to smile when you think of me.
Daddy, I know you don’t. You love me. I’ve always been your little girl. In your eyes, I always will be your little girl. I will always be the one that went to Mavericks games with you. Daddy’s little girl with her little soccer shorts and jersey.. I remember you always used to tell me to keep my head low and stay out of trouble, but do you remember when I was in Junior League soccer and there was that one game where I got a red ticket because I slapped the girl that stole the ball from me even though she was on my own team. You tried to be upset, but then you told me it was ok and that no one should steal the glory from me and that I should always do what‘s right even if it means going against your own. That was so unfatherly fatherly of you, and I always loved you more for little moments like that. Or how about the time that you bought me that book about dinosaurs, and I immediately started cutting and pasting and making up my own dinosaurs? You said that they looked better than the real dinosaurs. I’d look up at you with adoration. In my eyes, the perfect man must have a moustache. Sorry, Daddy, but you set the standard.
Mom, I know you’re going to read this too, and I know for sure that you will get mad at me for saying this, but Daddy was always there for me at times when I really needed you to be. When Jeff got me pregnant, I needed a mom, not a lecture on the hows and whys I’ve sinned. I needed a home. This child needed a warm, serene environment, yet you kicked me out because god forbid your fucking, swanky Forest Creek Homeowner Friends found out that not has your teenage daughter been getting busy with the fizzy but that’s she’s got one in the oven as well. Sorry that I ruined your reputation, Mom. I’m sure that during those power walks you were asked about your daughter and granddaughter, and what did you say? Did you deny it? Was acceptance into this circle of golden girls that important to you? Angry that your daughter turned out more like Dad instead of you? I’m so sorry. I’ll bet that your homeowners meetings are even more awkward now knowing what I have done.
Dad took me in, and I will forever be grateful to you for that. Kevin, I love you, but I can’t be with you. Not like this. You deserved a perfect wife and a perfect life. You’re not supposed to be a father now. I led you on, looking for something to keep me occupied while Jeremy was fucking around on me. I should’ve told you that from the start, and I’m sorry that you have to learn of it here. You are an amazing boy, though. The bond that you have between you and Dad is really weird but exciting. You guys have almost become best friends during this ordeal. Movies and after school led me to believe that this sort of relationship wasn’t supposed to happen when this scenario occurs, but it made things so much easier for me, and I thank you both for that. I guess in a way I am attracted to boys that are like my dad as gross as that sounds.
So here you are with this letter and a few paragraphs of apologies without explanation. Concerning whomever finds this letter, what you see before you is a shock, but I couldn’t think of any other way to solve the predicament that I found myself in over the past year and a half. I’m too young to handle this, and I know that. I also know that you know that. Kevin is too immature to raise a child and so am I. I realize Daddy that you are here for support and everything, but I think that given recent complications, it would probably be best for Lily to grow up in an a different family so that she’ll never have to know what a fuck up her first mother was. Lily deserves to be raised by two normal parents, not the one night stand, yet really sweet father and the hippy grandfather. Mother, I’m not even sure if I want her to know you.
Lily is a bright, little girl. She’s not even a year old, but she’s so beautiful and is already starting to show signs of her own distinct personality. Lily is special, and I think that she’s going to change the world someday. That’s why I left her at the county adoption center this morning. I hope that they find a good home for her instead of just sticking her with whoever is next in line. That would defeat my purpose.
I know that there is a lot of shock value in what I’ve done. Dad, Mom, Kevin, Lily, and even Jeremy, I’m really sorry for all of this, but I like to end things with a bang. The highchair sitting at the bottom of the pool outside is meant to symbolize an end for Lily’s life as a baby here as well as a killing off of my life here. It’s art. You like it, don’t you Daddy?
As for me, I took the 12:15 Greyhound bus out of here. I have a place to stay, and I’ll be getting a job when I turn 18 next month. I just need to escape for a while and start a new life. I love you all, but you guys deserve better. Smile when you think of me. Just because I’ll gone doesn’t mean that I won’t be thinking of you either.
All of my love,
Jenny
This is to all of you. Let it be known in this letter that I do regret what I have done. I know you all are just going to see me as a monster, and I am really sorry. Truly. I am an adult, and while I realize that I am mature and responsible enough to make my own decisions, it was a series of bad decisions that led me to where I am today and what I am about to do as soon as I am done writing this. I don’t want you to hate me. Not anymore. The drowning is meant to be symbolic. I’m going away for a long time, but I want you to smile when you think of me.
Daddy, I know you don’t. You love me. I’ve always been your little girl. In your eyes, I always will be your little girl. I will always be the one that went to Mavericks games with you. Daddy’s little girl with her little soccer shorts and jersey.. I remember you always used to tell me to keep my head low and stay out of trouble, but do you remember when I was in Junior League soccer and there was that one game where I got a red ticket because I slapped the girl that stole the ball from me even though she was on my own team. You tried to be upset, but then you told me it was ok and that no one should steal the glory from me and that I should always do what‘s right even if it means going against your own. That was so unfatherly fatherly of you, and I always loved you more for little moments like that. Or how about the time that you bought me that book about dinosaurs, and I immediately started cutting and pasting and making up my own dinosaurs? You said that they looked better than the real dinosaurs. I’d look up at you with adoration. In my eyes, the perfect man must have a moustache. Sorry, Daddy, but you set the standard.
Mom, I know you’re going to read this too, and I know for sure that you will get mad at me for saying this, but Daddy was always there for me at times when I really needed you to be. When Jeff got me pregnant, I needed a mom, not a lecture on the hows and whys I’ve sinned. I needed a home. This child needed a warm, serene environment, yet you kicked me out because god forbid your fucking, swanky Forest Creek Homeowner Friends found out that not has your teenage daughter been getting busy with the fizzy but that’s she’s got one in the oven as well. Sorry that I ruined your reputation, Mom. I’m sure that during those power walks you were asked about your daughter and granddaughter, and what did you say? Did you deny it? Was acceptance into this circle of golden girls that important to you? Angry that your daughter turned out more like Dad instead of you? I’m so sorry. I’ll bet that your homeowners meetings are even more awkward now knowing what I have done.
Dad took me in, and I will forever be grateful to you for that. Kevin, I love you, but I can’t be with you. Not like this. You deserved a perfect wife and a perfect life. You’re not supposed to be a father now. I led you on, looking for something to keep me occupied while Jeremy was fucking around on me. I should’ve told you that from the start, and I’m sorry that you have to learn of it here. You are an amazing boy, though. The bond that you have between you and Dad is really weird but exciting. You guys have almost become best friends during this ordeal. Movies and after school led me to believe that this sort of relationship wasn’t supposed to happen when this scenario occurs, but it made things so much easier for me, and I thank you both for that. I guess in a way I am attracted to boys that are like my dad as gross as that sounds.
So here you are with this letter and a few paragraphs of apologies without explanation. Concerning whomever finds this letter, what you see before you is a shock, but I couldn’t think of any other way to solve the predicament that I found myself in over the past year and a half. I’m too young to handle this, and I know that. I also know that you know that. Kevin is too immature to raise a child and so am I. I realize Daddy that you are here for support and everything, but I think that given recent complications, it would probably be best for Lily to grow up in an a different family so that she’ll never have to know what a fuck up her first mother was. Lily deserves to be raised by two normal parents, not the one night stand, yet really sweet father and the hippy grandfather. Mother, I’m not even sure if I want her to know you.
Lily is a bright, little girl. She’s not even a year old, but she’s so beautiful and is already starting to show signs of her own distinct personality. Lily is special, and I think that she’s going to change the world someday. That’s why I left her at the county adoption center this morning. I hope that they find a good home for her instead of just sticking her with whoever is next in line. That would defeat my purpose.
I know that there is a lot of shock value in what I’ve done. Dad, Mom, Kevin, Lily, and even Jeremy, I’m really sorry for all of this, but I like to end things with a bang. The highchair sitting at the bottom of the pool outside is meant to symbolize an end for Lily’s life as a baby here as well as a killing off of my life here. It’s art. You like it, don’t you Daddy?
As for me, I took the 12:15 Greyhound bus out of here. I have a place to stay, and I’ll be getting a job when I turn 18 next month. I just need to escape for a while and start a new life. I love you all, but you guys deserve better. Smile when you think of me. Just because I’ll gone doesn’t mean that I won’t be thinking of you either.
All of my love,
Jenny
Friday, March 14, 2008
Fiorinal
“It hurts, but it’s worth it.”
I’ll take her word for it. Ronnie never did me wrong before. That’s just her nickname. Veronica is her real name. I think. Ronnie makes her sound like a lesbian. Which she is.
I think.
Never could watch when the needle takes its deep plunge into my skin. Scared of those things, always was. I once took an allergy test when I was in the third grade. The nurse sat there and pricked at my arm forty five times.
I think.
Each prick was then padded with a little drip of a common allergy in liquid form. It would sink into the little hole that the nurse had just punctured my beautiful skin with. If that hole would turn green or something, that would mean that I’m allergic to that particular allergy. Each test was inconclusive.
“Now that you feel it, you’ll be gone soon”
I love you Ronnie. You’re my girl. Nothing could ever come between us. Except your sexuality, but that’s ok. As long as you’re near me, I know everything will be alright.
Think.
Maleigha wouldn’t have done this with me. Meleigha loved me. She listened. She wanted to know what I had to say. She looked forward to when she’d get to see me. She missed me. She noticed when I wasn’t around. Sometimes it’s good to have an alpha-female for a girlfriend. It’s good to know that at least someone’s always thinking about me every few hours.
I still can’t think.
“It’s not working.”
“Give it time”
“It’s supposed to be instant.”
“Not this kind.”
Maleigha and I used to go thrift store shopping every Sunday. There wasn’t much to get in a small town such as this, but it was worth a trip once a week for the occasional furry brown sweater or the pair of pink, knee high Converse that she found at the Salvation Army on Bahey Rd. Those were the most ridiculous shoes that I had ever seen, and to add insult to injury, she would wear them with a long black leather coat that went all the way down to the ground. It made her look like a cross between Trinity from the Matrix and Kim Gordon.
Well, at least I think she did.
“You’re cute when you’re high.”
“Are you implying that I‘m not cute when I‘m sober?”
“No! You’re cute all the time! But you’ve got a really silly grin on your face right now that I’ve never seen you do.”
I laughed a hearty laugh, one of those kind that a pothead belts out when told a joke that doesn’t make sense to anyone else at all, including said pothead. Ronnie’s cute. I wish she weren’t a lesbian. Still haven’t figured out if she really is a lesbian or not, but I’ve acquired enough evidence to raise suspicions, but not enough to require me to work up the nerve to ask. She hangs out with Kaysie a lot. I don’t know why I want to know so bad. People have a right to their privacy, but there is a part of my friend that I don’t know yet. Maleigha was not a lesbian.
Wonder if Ronnie knows that I love it when she puts her hand on my leg when I make her laugh. Couldn’t possibly be a flirtatious move. Not from her at least. I think.
I can hear Ronnie’s voice, but I can’t make out what she’s saying anymore. I can think now. I can remember things clearly. The couch looks more comfortable than this fucking barstool. I don’t want to get up though. My whole body feels like sex right now. The middle of the afternoon kind. The kind of sex that ends with a nap in each others arms and a trip to Denny’s afterwards because both of us are too lazy to cook anything afterwards.
A lot happens at Denny’s. Although I mainly think of it as a sweet haven filled with country fried potatoes and waffles for the drunk at two in the morning, but shit happens at Denny’s. I bet it’s the food. Maleigha and I ate there a lot. It was nearby, and we had lots of afternoon sex. She would always order the French toast and drench it with butter and strawberry jam. And each time, she would get about one and a half of the toasts eaten before she would give up. I feel like I know the size of her stomach even though I’ve never actually seen it. I would always get the country fried potatoes and pour however much ketchup was left in the bottle at the end of the night all over them. Heart attack, schmeart attack.
Seen her arm though. Too many times. Maleigha started to throw up one night after we got home from dinner. I figured it was food poisoning. Wouldn’t be much of a surprise coming from Denny’s. It always breaks my heart to see vomit stuck in an angel’s hair. Little globs of who the fuck knows that stuck to the same brown hair that I run my fingers through every night. Her being sick made me want to cry. Situations of regurgitation always make me feel helpless.
The vomiting wouldn’t stop, and she began dry heaving. She was having trouble breathing because her stomach kept contorting and there was absolutely nothing left. I kept trying to feed her water just to get something in her system. Something had to be there.
Maleigha fell on the floor and started convulsing. I gave her mouth to mouth naively thinking that was going to help in some capacity.
9/11. I hate having to talk to the police. I may not be not doing anything wrong, but police officers have a way of making me feel like I am guilty even if it’s an emergency situation. No matter. Hide the pot. No big deal. They’ll be here to help.
I think.
I’m in another world right now. Everything feels like it should be something it’s not but it is anyway. That doesn’t make sense. I feel like everything is going to be ok. I feel like Maleigha is near me. I want Ronnie to be Maliegha. I want something real.
An ambulance came and picked up Maleigha sometime around 7:30, I think. I rode to hospital with her in the ambulance. She had to be hooked up to a respirator. I kept asking the EMT guy questions throughout the ride: Is she going to be ok? What’s wrong with her? Can you help her? Does this thing drive any faster?
I remember a lot of the color white from then on out. Maleigha had a fatal reaction to an allergy that she didn’t know she had. I wish I could remember what it was. Think. Think, you fucking asshole. You loved her, and now you can’t even remember how she died because you’re fucking strung out on H.
“…”
I remember when she took an allergy test. It was shortly after we started seeing each other. She didn’t like needles either. Every little needle prick made her squeal that was cute despite the fact that it was a squeal of pain. I kept telling her to picture each little prick like it was just a pigeon poking at her arm with his beak.
Come to think of it, I think it was the thirteenth prick that made her arm swell up. What was it called? Think. Fatal Nut. That’s it. Fatal Nut.
“I’m gone.”
I’ll take her word for it. Ronnie never did me wrong before. That’s just her nickname. Veronica is her real name. I think. Ronnie makes her sound like a lesbian. Which she is.
I think.
Never could watch when the needle takes its deep plunge into my skin. Scared of those things, always was. I once took an allergy test when I was in the third grade. The nurse sat there and pricked at my arm forty five times.
I think.
Each prick was then padded with a little drip of a common allergy in liquid form. It would sink into the little hole that the nurse had just punctured my beautiful skin with. If that hole would turn green or something, that would mean that I’m allergic to that particular allergy. Each test was inconclusive.
“Now that you feel it, you’ll be gone soon”
I love you Ronnie. You’re my girl. Nothing could ever come between us. Except your sexuality, but that’s ok. As long as you’re near me, I know everything will be alright.
Think.
Maleigha wouldn’t have done this with me. Meleigha loved me. She listened. She wanted to know what I had to say. She looked forward to when she’d get to see me. She missed me. She noticed when I wasn’t around. Sometimes it’s good to have an alpha-female for a girlfriend. It’s good to know that at least someone’s always thinking about me every few hours.
I still can’t think.
“It’s not working.”
“Give it time”
“It’s supposed to be instant.”
“Not this kind.”
Maleigha and I used to go thrift store shopping every Sunday. There wasn’t much to get in a small town such as this, but it was worth a trip once a week for the occasional furry brown sweater or the pair of pink, knee high Converse that she found at the Salvation Army on Bahey Rd. Those were the most ridiculous shoes that I had ever seen, and to add insult to injury, she would wear them with a long black leather coat that went all the way down to the ground. It made her look like a cross between Trinity from the Matrix and Kim Gordon.
Well, at least I think she did.
“You’re cute when you’re high.”
“Are you implying that I‘m not cute when I‘m sober?”
“No! You’re cute all the time! But you’ve got a really silly grin on your face right now that I’ve never seen you do.”
I laughed a hearty laugh, one of those kind that a pothead belts out when told a joke that doesn’t make sense to anyone else at all, including said pothead. Ronnie’s cute. I wish she weren’t a lesbian. Still haven’t figured out if she really is a lesbian or not, but I’ve acquired enough evidence to raise suspicions, but not enough to require me to work up the nerve to ask. She hangs out with Kaysie a lot. I don’t know why I want to know so bad. People have a right to their privacy, but there is a part of my friend that I don’t know yet. Maleigha was not a lesbian.
Wonder if Ronnie knows that I love it when she puts her hand on my leg when I make her laugh. Couldn’t possibly be a flirtatious move. Not from her at least. I think.
I can hear Ronnie’s voice, but I can’t make out what she’s saying anymore. I can think now. I can remember things clearly. The couch looks more comfortable than this fucking barstool. I don’t want to get up though. My whole body feels like sex right now. The middle of the afternoon kind. The kind of sex that ends with a nap in each others arms and a trip to Denny’s afterwards because both of us are too lazy to cook anything afterwards.
A lot happens at Denny’s. Although I mainly think of it as a sweet haven filled with country fried potatoes and waffles for the drunk at two in the morning, but shit happens at Denny’s. I bet it’s the food. Maleigha and I ate there a lot. It was nearby, and we had lots of afternoon sex. She would always order the French toast and drench it with butter and strawberry jam. And each time, she would get about one and a half of the toasts eaten before she would give up. I feel like I know the size of her stomach even though I’ve never actually seen it. I would always get the country fried potatoes and pour however much ketchup was left in the bottle at the end of the night all over them. Heart attack, schmeart attack.
Seen her arm though. Too many times. Maleigha started to throw up one night after we got home from dinner. I figured it was food poisoning. Wouldn’t be much of a surprise coming from Denny’s. It always breaks my heart to see vomit stuck in an angel’s hair. Little globs of who the fuck knows that stuck to the same brown hair that I run my fingers through every night. Her being sick made me want to cry. Situations of regurgitation always make me feel helpless.
The vomiting wouldn’t stop, and she began dry heaving. She was having trouble breathing because her stomach kept contorting and there was absolutely nothing left. I kept trying to feed her water just to get something in her system. Something had to be there.
Maleigha fell on the floor and started convulsing. I gave her mouth to mouth naively thinking that was going to help in some capacity.
9/11. I hate having to talk to the police. I may not be not doing anything wrong, but police officers have a way of making me feel like I am guilty even if it’s an emergency situation. No matter. Hide the pot. No big deal. They’ll be here to help.
I think.
I’m in another world right now. Everything feels like it should be something it’s not but it is anyway. That doesn’t make sense. I feel like everything is going to be ok. I feel like Maleigha is near me. I want Ronnie to be Maliegha. I want something real.
An ambulance came and picked up Maleigha sometime around 7:30, I think. I rode to hospital with her in the ambulance. She had to be hooked up to a respirator. I kept asking the EMT guy questions throughout the ride: Is she going to be ok? What’s wrong with her? Can you help her? Does this thing drive any faster?
I remember a lot of the color white from then on out. Maleigha had a fatal reaction to an allergy that she didn’t know she had. I wish I could remember what it was. Think. Think, you fucking asshole. You loved her, and now you can’t even remember how she died because you’re fucking strung out on H.
“…”
I remember when she took an allergy test. It was shortly after we started seeing each other. She didn’t like needles either. Every little needle prick made her squeal that was cute despite the fact that it was a squeal of pain. I kept telling her to picture each little prick like it was just a pigeon poking at her arm with his beak.
Come to think of it, I think it was the thirteenth prick that made her arm swell up. What was it called? Think. Fatal Nut. That’s it. Fatal Nut.
“I’m gone.”
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