Saturday, March 28, 2009
Pink Flipper Nubs
She knew it was going to be a long day when the neighbors started archery practice at ten in the morning. She listened to the incessant thwacking of the arrows into their targets and the relentless shouting of the fletching coach as she stared at the hole in the ceiling that she now realized looked like a profile of Ghandi. It felt odd to have Ghandi posed there on the ceiling, about three feet to the left of the door, just to the right of the cantaloupe stain, and almost directly over her knees as she lay there in bed. She stuck her tongue out at him and scooted her legs over to the other side of the bed, her toes looking for cool spots in the sheets while avoiding the still drowsy chinchillas. About the time she was wondering if Ghandi would have liked thin crust over deep dish, an arrow smashed through the window with a crash and a shower of broken glass. It embedded itself in the opposite wall with a thunk while the endless curses of the fletching coach drifted up from below. She peeked out from under the blanket and saw that it had joined twenty-seven other similar arrows that protruded from her poster of Wink Martindale hugging Pat Sajak at varying depths and angles. Before she had time to fully ponder the wonderful tightness and horrible fletching of the shot grouping, she was reaching for the battered army helmet on the bedpost, fully aware of what would happen next. She had just managed to fasten the buckle of the chinstrap when the door to her room disintegrated with a boom and a cloud of sparks and smoke. The chinchillas stirred restlessly under the covers. Walter charged into the room covered in military equipment of every sort, dove onto the floor, and slithered over to the window. He winked at her from his position below the window as he fitted a rather nasty looking attachment onto a rather nasty looking machine gun that he had pulled form a rather wicked looking backpack. She covered her ears as he leapt to his feet with a wild shout and began firing utterly randomly out the window in any direction allowed by the laws of physics. He was quickly engulfed in a cloud of blue smoke from the gun as pale green shell casings flew all over the room. After a couple of minutes, one of the chinchillas sneezed and Walter paused to take a drink from one of the many wicked looking juice boxes hanging from his nasty looking belt while he affixed a bitchin small parachute to the nasty looking gun. After tossing it out the window, he crumpled his now empty, but still wicked looking, juice box and clenched a nasty looking knife between his teeth. He sat down on the windowsill facing her, she tossed him a quick salute, and he winked at her again and then tumbled backwards out the window with a shout. She thought the rhinestone beret was a snappy addition to his outfit and hoped he managed to avoid landing in the begonias this time.