Saturday, January 22, 2011

Chapter Five: The Spasmodic Delirium of Plastic

(The words given me for this chapter were 'spasmodic delirium' and 'plastic'.)

I took my umbrella out of my large bag and flipped it around so that the heavy wooden hook on the end was forward and my hands gripped the fabric about six inches from the bottom. The smiley faces on black fabric seemed out of place till I spotted the one I had put a red bullet hole in. Right in the forehead. Now it just seemed ironic instead of out of place. I left the purse on the floor.

I tried to get my eyes to focus a little more and wondered if I should take off my coat, but I figured I didn't have time. I peered around the corner of the pizza counter, back to where the kitchen was and I saw a large plastic bottle and a few buckets filled with blackish liquid, and I think it was then I started to put together what had happened, though all of it didn't occur to me until later.

The black stuff in the bottle was used when creating zombies, and other little voodoo things. Yeah, zombies can be made with voodoo. We won't talk about the other things. The giant voodoo-Joe-doll propped up in the lobby behind me was most likely used to make my favorite pizzeria boss into a zombie. That pissed me off. Nobody could make a stuffed pizza like Joe, and Joe's was the only place I felt comfortable lately. But, back to putting together what had happened here last night.

They, whoever they were, had made the mistake of using plastic in a ritual that any two year old knows has to be done with a natural material-iron, glass, wood-any of those would have been fine. As it is, they used plastic. Stupid fucks. Now they are most likely lying in the back store room in some spasmodic delirium, while a zombie Joe is eating them rather than creating the pizza I ordered.

That thought also brought back a few more details from the previous evening. The guy wearing a shirt that looked like Bruce's shirt, yeah, that guy was actually Bruce. He had come to tell me about Joe's current dilemma, which didn't really sink into my alcohol soaked brain at the time and resulted in a bottle being thrown at Bruce's head and the glass becoming embedded in my feet, which really hurt and were not improving my mood.

One question I didn't know the answer to at the time though. Who had answered the damn phone when I ordered my pizza? Hence the umbrella being held at the ready.

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