This is the epic finale of the second chapter. Get some popcorn, 'cause it's suspenseful! Keep in mind this Frosty story is so long that I need two chapters to tell it. The next Frosty will come up a few chapters ahead and will be called "Frosty Bahamas." Try and come up with what that'll be about.
“How much can I get for this orange?” the snowman asked a supermarket cashier with a serious acne problem.
The zit-faced teller scornfully looked at the snowman. He spoke in a nerdy tone. “Is this some kind joke?”
Frosty scratched his snowy chin. “No, I don’t think so. If it was, I’d be laughing hysterically, which I’m not.”
“Well first of all, we don’t take food from anyone but a reliable farm or produce company. Second, we won’t take back what you already bought from us. And third, you made a sleet track entering the supermarket, and Suzy just mopped. Therefore, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“So, how about an apple instead?” the snowman asked.
Five seconds later…
“I cannot believe they kicked me out. I guess they don’t like apples,” Frosty said to himself. He threw the groceries in the garbage can in front of the supermarket.
Yes, things weren’t looking too good for our snowman friend. His brain was more speedily depleting, he still had nowhere close to the amount of money he needed to board the plane, and he still was living the life of a hobo. But things looked up after that.
The following day, he found an instant lottery ticket in the dumpster. Scratching it didn’t work. The more he touched it, the more it shriveled up.
Frosty used the four dollars and fifty-two cents he had to buy flimsy gloves on sale at a department store three blocks down. The gloves only cost three ninety-five, but he gave everything he had to the cashier.
Still, some water seeped through the shameful gloves. Desperate, Frosty tried asking people to scratch it for him. “Hey, kid,” he said to a toddler, holding her mommy’s hand on the sidewalk. “You want to help and old snowman out?”
“Mommy, a talking snowman!” she shouted excitedly, tugging on her mother’s sweater.
Her mommy, with a beautiful designer purse hanging on her arm, smiled and turned around. “Now, how many times do I have to tell you: snowmen don’t talk…?” She was abruptly interrupted by a filthy snowman standing in front of her. They glanced at each other for a couple seconds, Frosty jovial, and the woman shocked.
“Hi there!” the snowman said.
The child’s mother grasped her young, keeping her away from this supposed beast. “What do you want with my daughter?”
Innocent Frosty had to be honest. He was not a lying snowman. “Well ma’am, I need your daughter’s hands.”
The grown-up forcefully swung the purse from her arm into her hand. She began striking Frosty with it in a fury of hasty thwacks. “How dare you, you sick depraving fool. How dare you ask for the hands of my daughter?”
The snowman was incredibly frightened, for his body was fragile. If Frosty were to have been beaten with a harder object, both his arms and legs would be torn away from the rest of him. “It’s just a misunderstanding, miss,” the man of snow explained hesitantly. Shivering, he showed her the lottery ticket and flashed it in her face. “Can…someone scratch this?”
The youth’s mother stopped drumming Frosty with her purse, following an awkward amount of silence. Her eyes dimmed. However, inside she was amazed. Everyone knows that if a snowman talks, it’s maniacal, she thought. Instead of being stereotypical, she said to her daughter, “Lara, just scratch the snowman’s lottery ticket so we can go home.”
On it was a game called “Honey Money,” decorated creatively with six honey combs. There was an immense beehive on the ticket as well, with three numbers in it, cash rewards next to the figures: 25=$2.69, 199=$396.48 and 7=$1,000,000. The goal of the game was to scratch the honeycombs and get the numbers to match those in the hive.
Lara took the voucher and started. Her nails were short and stubby, which made the waiting and the pressure build up.
Slowly, she scraped the first honeycomb. 11. Nothing. She got at the second. 56. Nothing. Lara then went to the third and cut half, 7, and the other half, 2. There was nothing there, either.
The petite girl gave a sympathetic look to Frosty. “I’m not so sure about your chances, snowman,” she moped in an innocent cutesy voice.
Her mother seemed, besides sad for the snowman, fearful. Although almost certain this man of snow would not suddenly whip out a weapon of some sort, she still seemed anxious. “Less talking, Lara,” she said, quivering.
“Jeez, Mommy.”
“
Mommy” pointed a finger at her young and intently looked at her. “Don’t use that kind of tone with me, missy!”
“But Mommy…”
“No buts. Now you scratch that lottery ticket now so we can go home or you won’t get any dessert tonight!”
Lara sighed and continued onward.
She began scratching the fourth honeycomb. She got a 9 and something that looked like an O! Still, it had nothing and a typo. However, she pursued onto the fifth. 6. Nothing, none, nada, zilch.
Patiently, concerned, she began the final honeycomb. Frosty was dripping beads of water.
Nothing had matched the beehive yet. The entire situation was beginning to seem grim. Life was sluggish, voices echoed, as if existence as a whole strictly depended on this single number.
Carefully, Lara dragged her finger up and down, the debris of the ticket fluttering to the ground. Up and down again, but this time, the slightest bit of a line began to gleam. She swiped the final bit easily, the number right in front of their eyes.
The light of the sun shimmered onto the numeral, blinding both Frosty’s and Lara’s eyes from speculating such a number. As the sun was quickly blocked by the clouds, shade came forth and it was apparent of what would become.
Hearts beating, sneakers tapping the tough sidewalk, it was clear that the number was…199. Frosty had won $396.48, enough to take the plane.
The little girl and snowman jumped giddily, however Lara was hastily dragged away by her mother.
Alone, Frosty knew where he had to go: to the airport to go to freezing lands uncharted, to start a new life, a new journey. He needed to walk on a new path and start anew. But was he ready to be on and endure such an adventure? Did his plan work? Did the acne-faced teller at the grocery ever get Proactiv, or some zit remover? As the story continues on, many answers will be revealed, yet more questions will rise!
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