Saturday, February 19, 2011

Chapter Seven: Smelly Bananas and Cigarettes

Just as the little evil voodoo elf in front of me smiled, I heard a noise behind me. I swung my umbrella around in a arching rap shot in the hope of blocking or at least stunning, whatever had made grandma evil smile. The heavy wooden handle vibrated in my grip as it struck a rather lively looking Voodoo-Joe-doll, which moments ago had been just sitting there in the middle of the pizzeria floor, completely inanimate. Just my luck. Now at least I knew what they were doing with the hemlock and plutonium. Crap.

The thing was over six foot, like Joe, had a hefty weight to it, like Joe, and smelled like cigarettes and smelly old bananas, also like Joe. Unlike Joe, however, it obviously had an oak skeletal structure, or some other hard wood, as my numb fingers would attest to. Zombie voodoo dolls. That's weird even for me.

The thing was glaring at me with its button eyes, or at least I think it was a glare. Hard to tell with buttons.

“You should have gotten your pizza down the street at Keno's like everybody else today.” Grandma evil was practically jumping up and down with glee.

“Yeah.” I dodged a chunky, white clad arm as the Voodoo-Joe-doll swung clumsily at my head. “But I hate that healthy shit.” I dodged away again, narrowly missing the still glowing green fountain. “All feta cheese and spinach with avocados...” I did a flip with a bit of a spin landing on top of the Joe things back. “I prefer grease..” I pulled on the hat, pulling it off and quickly rammed my umbrella into the soft head, yanking backward and pulling it off. “...and pepperoni.” I jumped off the now falling, smelly Joe and landed on my feet in front of the now gaping Grandma-evil.

“What...? Who the hell are you?”

“A refugee stranded in Kansas.” I rabbit kicked up into her small head, knocking her into the wall behind. “And all I want is some GOD-DAMNED-PIZZA!” I screamed the last into her prone form and stood panting, my feet aching with the wounds left from the earlier glass, and my head exploding with the even earlier tequila.

“You have got to start getting your anger issues under control.”
I spun around to see Bruce standing at the stop of the stairs that led from the street to the now rather wrecked pizzeria. He looked good with his hair short, still black, and his too pale skin. Dammit, I wanted him to look like crap. I looked like crap. “Yeah. You should be glad all the bottles in here are already broken.”

“Fair enough.”
We stood there, staring at each other for a few moments, wondering what to say, whether the other would speak first and all the other stuff people wonder when they see their ex. God, I hate Mondays.

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