Here's the final bit of Harmony's chapter. The story will continue on as Cupid tells his side in the next couple chapters, where WAY more questions will be answered about this chapter. But that's later... In this half, Harmony gets accused of committing a crime. What will happen to our secretary friend? Read and find out!
After being rudely interrupted, I am ready to continue where I left off. To my surprise when I came back to the office, Cupid was unconscious.
Quickly, I ran toward him. “Sir, are you feeling okay?” He didn’t reply back and as his secretary, I was worried.
Would I care if he could no longer fulfill his role in life as the Angel of Love? No, because then I would fill-in and salaries are high for such a job. But then I thought: Cupid, in fact, is personally a momma’s boy.
His mother was always overprotective of him. I mean, she didn’t even let him out of the house yet, and Cupid’s around a millennium old. And his mother comes to the office almost every day to check up on her sweetie-pie. She hadn’t come yet today, so I knew to expect her any minute. How would she react to see her son in total mentality? The conversation would probably go like this:
She’d walk in the office, all cheerful. “Honey bunny, I bought you a gorgeous new pair of earmuffs. And I cleaned your ‘you know what’s’ and… Oh my goodness gracious, what happened to my son?” Then she’d run over to him. “Oh sweetie, are you okay? Mommy is so worried about you, my dear.” She’d start to cry for a second and then immediately get nutty. “What did you do to my son, Harmony? I never trusted you for a minute, you no good, liar, cheapskate, piece of rubbish!”
I’d try to comfort her. “Cupid’s fine, he’s just tired because…”
“Did you hear me? Piece of rubbish!”
“No, he just went to a party tonight and…”
“I told you if my son is going to a party, you call me for permission. You’re not in charge of him!”
“Sir, answer me!” Still he remained in his strange state of mind. I heard footsteps from somewhere; there was no time to waste.
I grabbed a cup of water and splashed it on Cupid’s face. He didn’t budge. The footsteps were closer this time. I kicked his leg. He still didn’t move at all. The footsteps were incredibly close now. It was now or never.
I stuffed my own boss in a sack and tied him in. What can I say? I was desperate for ideas, I mean if his mother saw him like that she’d, you know. Right as I was tying the knot on the sack, his mother entered the office.
“Gumdrops, I made you some fresh cookies,” she said, holding a tray of delicious homemade cookies. “They’re chocolate chip.” She looked at me tying the sack and I anxiously smiled. “Where’s my Cupey-poo?” she asked, scornfully.
I tried to pretend that I didn’t hear her.
Cupid’s mother looked at me with demonic eyes, dropping her tray of cookies on the floor. “I said, ‘Where is my son?!’”
I had to think of something fast. “He’s, um, in the bathroom.”
“Oh, I’ll just go in there with then. I mean, he always needs help wiping his…”
“But, Mrs. Cupid, don’t.” She started walking toward the office bathroom. I pulled at her arm and started whining. “No, please don’t. He wants her privacy, he told me himself.”
“I’ve nursed him for over one-thousand years. I know what I have to do by now.”
All of a sudden, a noise came from the sack, a familiar noise that Mrs. Cupid knew and understood very well. She rushed to it and opened the sack. Untying the knot quickly, was certain upon the entity in there.
I tried to stop her. I even carried out saying “no-o-o” for about a minute. She just called me a freaky weirdo and kept untying. And the strange noise kept coming from the bag and it was…
“Cupid!” yelled his mother. “What are you are you doing in here?” He didn’t say a thing; he was out cold still. If he didn’t open his eyes in a nanosecond, I’d be toast. And it’s not like I’m still one hundred; I won’t get grounded for this, especially with Mrs. Cupid’s overreacting. He didn’t open his eyes, and I was in for it.
She twitched her eyes psychotically and looked at me. She was angry. “What did you do to my son, Harmony?” She was like a tea kettle boiling up. “Aha! You beat him with a shovel!”
“Shovel?”
“I got you cornered now because I know you slaughtered my son, Cupid with a shovel.”
I was confused. “Wait, did you just say I hit Cupid with a shovel?”
“Yes, you know you did.”
“Why do you say a shovel?”
She quickly pointed to a dirty shovel leaning on the wall. And I have an explanation, because that was no random shovel. I left it there and never put it away, I guess.
You see, I garden. That’s right: flowers and fruits and vegetables. I garden. It’s a hobby I can’t resist, although it’s something not very masculine at all, and I’m always made fun of. But little did know that it would ever cause me trouble or that Mrs. Cupid would actually make sense.
And she was right. I was cornered. Even though I hadn’t committed the crime, I had no evidence to prove her wrong. It indeed looked as though Cupid’s unconscious state was of my doing.
Cupid’s mother began to cry in my direction. “What did you do to him? He was so innocent and look; here he is, hasn’t made a sound in a whole five minutes. You never know, he might even be dead! And you, trying to get away with it, abducting my son and putting him in this sack. You were probably going to run off, huh? Drive all the way to Albuquerque for all I know.”
I was about to cry myself. “I can really explain,” I said in a soft, frightened voice.
“No need to explain.” She grabbed her cell phone in her pocket and dialed. “Yes hello. Is this the Fairysville Police Department? Oh good, because I have a big dilemma. Wait, hold on, please.”
I anxiously stood there, trying to interpret the conversation between Mrs. Cupid and the police. My heart beat intensely.
She looked at Cupid and then at me. “We’re taking this to court. And that is my explanation.” She got back on the phone. “Yes, come ASAP to 119 Halo Avenue. It’s a big building, can’t miss it. You might know of it as Cupid Love Inc.? Yes, I’m Mrs. Cupid and my son, the Cupid, was hit by his secretary with a shovel until knocked unconscious, presumably dead.”
Then the policeman said something that stayed in my mind. I heard it and was very clear. “We’ll be right over,” he said.
I was dead meat.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Another Blog You Might Be Interested In
If you're already sick of my blog and think it's way too immature, go to the astute side on www.mgtp.blogspot.com! There, you'll find current events, including info about the King Tut exhibit at the Franklin Institute. You'll get cover-to-cover movie and book reviews, fun and games, and more. If that doesn't sound astute, I don't what does. So visit www.mgtp.blogspot.com today!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Holidays on Holiday Chapter Five: Law and Order (and Harmony) - Part One
This is the first half of my Cupid chapter that I am hoping to get done by Valentine's Day, but knowing myself, I probably won't have it done by then. Because, well, I'm lazy. Simply put. In this chapter Cupid gets a sense of technology, as he plays hours of RPGs. But I didn't get to that yet. This is more of his secretary's story.
What is love? Can you describe it? May you put a picture in your head of what it looks like? Is love good or bad?
Well, I have news for you, because from now on, there will be no more of this emotion, no more love. And who’s to blame, you’re probably wondering, why, no one but the man in charge of love: Cupid. And the woman who brought him into the world: his mom. And this thing all happened because of a little misinterpretation.
Why is it that I know this? Do you think I stalk Cupid? If you said yes, you’re right; it’s my job because I am Harmony, his secretary. I’m here to tell you not to look forward to Valentine’s Day this year, not to write a love note to that special someone nor to let out any emotion at all. There will be no love, there will be no spark. I think I need to explain.
It all started back at Cupid Love Inc., our business in Fairysville, a town in the heavens of clouds. Last Valentine’s Day, after Cupid was finished with his rounds around the world, shooting love arrows at people meant to be, it happened. It was about ten at night when…
“Harmony, I’m going to a party,” Cupid said.
I quickly got excited. “Oh a party! Whose house? What for? Oh I just love parties! When are we going?”
“We, who said anything about we?”
“Then what am I going to do?”
The love angel crossed his arms. “You’re doing what secretaries do best.”
Five minutes later…
“Cupid’s office, please hold. Cupid’s office, can I take a message?” I did this for hours. I mean does Cupid have any common sense to have respect for me. I wanted to walk out right then and there, but then I thought, that would imply losing my job.
It was then that decided to do what I’d never and thought never to be done before. I was just so angry that I decided to go to the local tavern. I’d at least get my mind off of things.
I smashed the double doors to get in with my solid sneakers, pounding the floors with every step I took. The people sitting there were indeed shocked at me. I’d never been a daily visitor there nor did I ever come at all, but I made a lasting impression on everyone, I know it.
I approached the bartender behind the front counter. He was a humongous man, beefy and wide, someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. Squinting, I examined a tattoo on his bicep. It was a heart with the name Kelsi in it. “Kelsi,” I said. “That’s a strange name for a boy.”
He strangled my neck. “That ain’t my name, bub. It’s Ed. And I ain’t no sissy boy, neither, I’m a man.”
I was kind of nervous. I didn’t have much experience with men of his sort and it was like if I said something wrong, I set off a little alarm. Truthfully, I was scared. “Can you kind of let go of my neck…sir?”
The bartender was true to what I asked and let go of me. I was shocked. Scornfully, he said, “What’ll ya be havin’?”
I was oblivious to what they had there and I am strictly not an alcoholic. “I’ll have some chocolate milk.”
Everyone turned their head and stared at me. And I absolutely hate being stared at. Even Ed looked at me with the strangest face, like in a split second, he would die laughing. And he did, as well as everyone else watching this in the bar.
Ed gave me a pat on the back. “You must be a comedian, eh? What are you stand-up?”
“Actually, I’m not really a…”
“Guys, this kid’s a stand-up! We ain’t get much of these anymore. So tell me, what do they call you, kid?”
“Well, my name is Harmony, but….”
Ed cracked up. “This kid’s a riot! Harmony, what kind of a name is that? It sounds all sweet and lovey-dovey.”
"Well, what can I say, I’m Cupid’s secretary,” I replied.
“What?” said Ed, laughing like a hyena. “Cupid’s secretary? Kid, have I seen you on TV, or somethin’? ‘Cause you’re funny. Show us what you can do, alright? Tell us a joke.”
My hands became sweaty and I got nervous. Everyone stared at me with eyes that expected me to do something amazing. Truly, I had never been known for my humor, and if those guys thought I had bad material, it was the end of me.
The room was silent. I gulped. The people in the bar as well as Ed had high expectations, I could tell. “So did you hear the one about the guy who goes into the restroom to find an English man using a urinal?”
A drunken man in the back of the bar quickly blurted. “No!”
“Well, after the guy sees the English man using the urinal, he looks at him and says ‘European.’”
The entire tavern was quiet. But then, one person after another started laughing. I smiled. I mean, I guess I thought of something good on the spot. It was then that I thought that I could make a future of this, maybe audition for a cheap reality show where my talent can be discovered. For once in my life, I was proud.
Another man blurted out, “Man Bill, you really can cut the cheese good.” Everybody again cracked up.
I was concerned. “So, no one was laughing at my joke?”
“Oh that? That was horrible.”
Shamefully, I walked to the front doors. My hope was completely lost.
Ed held high a glass cup. “You still want the chocolate milk, kid?” But I exited the tavern before I could respond. But I didn’t want to anyway.
It was then that I figured out something, as I walked out. With a lousy job, where not even Cupid shows me any love, no girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, and not even being funny at all, I realized it. It’s really hard to say this, but at that point, I thought that my life was horrible.
It all started when I was three and all I ever wanted was a pony. I’d ask my parents, but they never even listened. I just wanted the feeling of riding in wide open space, but no, Harmony the stupid love secretary got socks instead.
Then I was seven and one half and…
“Oh my goodness, will you shut up, Harmony?” asked the author. “I told you, you emotional beast, no sob stories. You’re lucky that you get to tell the story, because, besides Gimel, you’re the only one who gets to tell your story. Hey, I mean not even Santa’s telling his own story and now I’m on his naughty list. What I’m trying to say here is that you have to make sacrifices, and your emotional pleas are something we can do without.”
“But, I didn’t mean to…”
“No buts, you will stop whining and continue the story. I am glad you’re doing this instead of me, but if you’re going to screw it up then it really doesn’t pay. Now does it?"
What is love? Can you describe it? May you put a picture in your head of what it looks like? Is love good or bad?
Well, I have news for you, because from now on, there will be no more of this emotion, no more love. And who’s to blame, you’re probably wondering, why, no one but the man in charge of love: Cupid. And the woman who brought him into the world: his mom. And this thing all happened because of a little misinterpretation.
Why is it that I know this? Do you think I stalk Cupid? If you said yes, you’re right; it’s my job because I am Harmony, his secretary. I’m here to tell you not to look forward to Valentine’s Day this year, not to write a love note to that special someone nor to let out any emotion at all. There will be no love, there will be no spark. I think I need to explain.
It all started back at Cupid Love Inc., our business in Fairysville, a town in the heavens of clouds. Last Valentine’s Day, after Cupid was finished with his rounds around the world, shooting love arrows at people meant to be, it happened. It was about ten at night when…
“Harmony, I’m going to a party,” Cupid said.
I quickly got excited. “Oh a party! Whose house? What for? Oh I just love parties! When are we going?”
“We, who said anything about we?”
“Then what am I going to do?”
The love angel crossed his arms. “You’re doing what secretaries do best.”
Five minutes later…
“Cupid’s office, please hold. Cupid’s office, can I take a message?” I did this for hours. I mean does Cupid have any common sense to have respect for me. I wanted to walk out right then and there, but then I thought, that would imply losing my job.
It was then that decided to do what I’d never and thought never to be done before. I was just so angry that I decided to go to the local tavern. I’d at least get my mind off of things.
I smashed the double doors to get in with my solid sneakers, pounding the floors with every step I took. The people sitting there were indeed shocked at me. I’d never been a daily visitor there nor did I ever come at all, but I made a lasting impression on everyone, I know it.
I approached the bartender behind the front counter. He was a humongous man, beefy and wide, someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. Squinting, I examined a tattoo on his bicep. It was a heart with the name Kelsi in it. “Kelsi,” I said. “That’s a strange name for a boy.”
He strangled my neck. “That ain’t my name, bub. It’s Ed. And I ain’t no sissy boy, neither, I’m a man.”
I was kind of nervous. I didn’t have much experience with men of his sort and it was like if I said something wrong, I set off a little alarm. Truthfully, I was scared. “Can you kind of let go of my neck…sir?”
The bartender was true to what I asked and let go of me. I was shocked. Scornfully, he said, “What’ll ya be havin’?”
I was oblivious to what they had there and I am strictly not an alcoholic. “I’ll have some chocolate milk.”
Everyone turned their head and stared at me. And I absolutely hate being stared at. Even Ed looked at me with the strangest face, like in a split second, he would die laughing. And he did, as well as everyone else watching this in the bar.
Ed gave me a pat on the back. “You must be a comedian, eh? What are you stand-up?”
“Actually, I’m not really a…”
“Guys, this kid’s a stand-up! We ain’t get much of these anymore. So tell me, what do they call you, kid?”
“Well, my name is Harmony, but….”
Ed cracked up. “This kid’s a riot! Harmony, what kind of a name is that? It sounds all sweet and lovey-dovey.”
"Well, what can I say, I’m Cupid’s secretary,” I replied.
“What?” said Ed, laughing like a hyena. “Cupid’s secretary? Kid, have I seen you on TV, or somethin’? ‘Cause you’re funny. Show us what you can do, alright? Tell us a joke.”
My hands became sweaty and I got nervous. Everyone stared at me with eyes that expected me to do something amazing. Truly, I had never been known for my humor, and if those guys thought I had bad material, it was the end of me.
The room was silent. I gulped. The people in the bar as well as Ed had high expectations, I could tell. “So did you hear the one about the guy who goes into the restroom to find an English man using a urinal?”
A drunken man in the back of the bar quickly blurted. “No!”
“Well, after the guy sees the English man using the urinal, he looks at him and says ‘European.’”
The entire tavern was quiet. But then, one person after another started laughing. I smiled. I mean, I guess I thought of something good on the spot. It was then that I thought that I could make a future of this, maybe audition for a cheap reality show where my talent can be discovered. For once in my life, I was proud.
Another man blurted out, “Man Bill, you really can cut the cheese good.” Everybody again cracked up.
I was concerned. “So, no one was laughing at my joke?”
“Oh that? That was horrible.”
Shamefully, I walked to the front doors. My hope was completely lost.
Ed held high a glass cup. “You still want the chocolate milk, kid?” But I exited the tavern before I could respond. But I didn’t want to anyway.
It was then that I figured out something, as I walked out. With a lousy job, where not even Cupid shows me any love, no girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, and not even being funny at all, I realized it. It’s really hard to say this, but at that point, I thought that my life was horrible.
It all started when I was three and all I ever wanted was a pony. I’d ask my parents, but they never even listened. I just wanted the feeling of riding in wide open space, but no, Harmony the stupid love secretary got socks instead.
Then I was seven and one half and…
“Oh my goodness, will you shut up, Harmony?” asked the author. “I told you, you emotional beast, no sob stories. You’re lucky that you get to tell the story, because, besides Gimel, you’re the only one who gets to tell your story. Hey, I mean not even Santa’s telling his own story and now I’m on his naughty list. What I’m trying to say here is that you have to make sacrifices, and your emotional pleas are something we can do without.”
“But, I didn’t mean to…”
“No buts, you will stop whining and continue the story. I am glad you’re doing this instead of me, but if you’re going to screw it up then it really doesn’t pay. Now does it?"
Monday, January 29, 2007
Holidays on Holiday Chapter Four: Red Hot Mamacita - Part Two
The finale to Mrs. Claus' chapter. You'll see more of her in later chapters, though, except it won't just be her chapter. Maybe a couple reindeer will be in the next chapter. So, be on the lookout for the next addition to Operation: Save Santa. However, I'll be taking a break from Santa after this, and will be moving on to Cupid and Baby New Year. But enough future talk, here's the dramatic conclusion of Red Hot Mamacita.
LaShawn and his gang were back at their hideout in a broken down alley between two apartments. With them was their newly received sleigh. They just brought it back there.
“Dang,” hollered Miguel, admiring the object they stole. “If we hook this thing up with some big rims, it would be mad ballin’.”
LaShawn punched his fellow gang member hard in the shoulder. “What it is with you? You be talkin’ gangster when you some Mexican blood Latino who don’t even have the potential to beat some preppy reindeer at yo momma battlin’.”
The Hispanic man raised a finger. “Actually, I’m Puerto Rican…”
“Do it look like I care. Besides, we ain’t takin’ this ride to the streets. We sellin’ it fo’ mad money, you heard?”
The gang was thrilled.
“Like on meBay?” wondered the Asian, filled with optimism.
“Yeah shorty,” shouted the wannabe gangster, emerging from the crowd.
The crew replied, “No!”
Miguel was the first to criticize this selling technique. “Yo, we ain’t no white boys who use stupid computers to solve our problems, we solve ours by force, Holmes. And, by the way, shorty ain’t ballin’ anymore.”
LaShawn struck Miguel in the gut. “Yo I’m ‘a’ beat you so hard if say that again, Miguel.”
“So,” began a gang member in the back, “how we gonna sell it?”
LaShawn smiled and nodded. “Yo, I’ve been thinkin’ of this a long time.”
***
Cyndra raised her hand. “I’m lost. We leave at midnight for what? I need to know, for an intellectual like I require motivation.”
“Sweetie,” replied Mrs. Claus, “I told you on the phone, we’re going to rescue my husband in Las Vegas.”
Her fellow book club friends knew she was the wife of Santa Claus and often joked around about it. “What did he do there?” started Cyndra. “Did he gamble all of his toys, is that it?” Although she expected a reaction from everyone, no one budged. She grunted. “I thought it was rather humorous and witty.”
Claus faced the chart. “Let me explain this chart a little more. The circles on here are us; the X’s you see are the ‘gangsters’ that took my husband’s only means of transportation.”
Olivia took this opportunity to feed herself a couple lemon squares. She stuffed them in her mouth while no one, not even Gladys, the Eskimo who slapped her arm before, was looking. The flavor enriched her mouth.
And between me and you again, Olivia only comes to the book club for free chow. Honestly, she is an extremely overweight, old woman whose only current form of entertainment is mooching off of Mrs. Claus’ home cooking. Now that’s sad.
Olivia was so focused on the scrumptious delicacy she’d eaten, that two horrible things happened:
1. She didn’t listen to the plan.
2. She stuffed the entire batch in her mouth at once.
Gladys, of course, was the first to notice.
Interrupting Mrs. Claus, she blurted, “Look at what Olivia has done!”
Oh yes, and I forgot. Three horrible things happened, my apologies. Number three is that she upchucked on the couch.
Everyone faced Olivia to speculate a blob of green, yellow, a rainbow in fact, lying on the couch. The corpulent elf blushed, her face as red as a bright tomato. She was dripping beads of sweat that were atrociously speeding down her face. The entire club was watching her.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
The elderly women looked at Olivia in disdain.
“I’ll go get a mop,” Mrs. Claus said, sighing.
***
”So, how are we gonna sell it, LaShawn?” wondered Miguel.
“Don’t play dumb with me, I just said I gave it thought, never that I knew how to sell it. You bein’ such a re-”
“Tarts, I like tarts!” interrupted a random homeless man wobbling in the alley, holding a bottle of rum. He gulped down a swig of the alcohol, although most of it missed his mouth.
The Asian of the group shook his head. “That was an incredibly strange predicament that just occurred.”
“In English!” a gang member shouted.
“Ah ya!”
LaShawn nodded his head, his eyes telling something in his mind had unfolded. “Yo, we gon’ sell the sleigh in the black market.”
***
“Now that the mess is cleaned up,” began Mrs. Claus. Olivia blushed again. “I personally think that we are ready to begin Operation: Save Santa.”
Cyndra rose from her seat and stuck out her hand. “Not so fast! We’re going to leave like this?”
The book club members were confused. Some were scratching their heads, some in deep thought, and some, like Olivia, were splashing glasses of egg nog down their throats like they’d never drank before.
“Well, it seems I need an explanation. I figure that for our little escapade, not only to look delightful, but to camouflage into our surroundings, we must wear the color black.”
“Let’s knit,” proclaimed Mrs. Claus, “the best black spy outfits you’d ever gosh darn see.”
Five minutes later…
Everyone fetched needles and black yarn and began to knit. Elderly woman have a natural ability to knit, so it wasn’t too challenging to create endless supplies of heavy-duty black spy clothes. They made black shirts, pants, hats, even undergarments.
“So, are we prepared now?” Mrs. Claus asked everyone. Everyone seemed to nod their heads in agreement, as if they were completely ready for the operation.
“Wait!” shouted an Eskimo.
“Oh, what now, Florence?”
Florence was shy and always went with whatever anyone said. She was a pushover, but always followed directions, however whenever she interrupted anything to comment, she was disciplined. “Maybe,” she said in a low, nervous voice. “Maybe we can, um, have code names.”
“No, that’s a stupid idea, sweetie.”
Cyndra raised her hand in a vigilant manner, waving her arms in anxiety to be called on. “I believe that we should have secret code names.”
“Ooh, secretive. Cyndra you always think out of the box, in fact, I don’t even think you have a box. Sweetie, wonderful idea. Everyone, in order to simplify the identification process and to sound, as the kids say, cooler, we are making code names.”
Florence’s mouth hung open, her face in disgust.
Mrs. Claus was in deep thought, then her eyes brightened up. “You may now refer to me as Red Hot Mamacita. Now let’s save my husband. Operation: Save Santa is…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Claus.”
“Florence, what have I told you about suspending my sentences?” She tapped her foot. “Now this had better be good.”
The Eskimo cleared her throat. “Well, in all due respect ma’am, um, that code name thing was, uh, my idea. Cyndra took it. Um, you gave her credit for it after you ignored me.”
“Does it look like anyone cares?” replied the old woman. “Now as I was saying before rudely interrupted by someone here, Operation: Save Santa is…”
Before finishing her sentence, Florence ran off sobbing. “I’m never coming to this book club again!” She ran off to front door and opened it, however she only speculated clothes.
“Other door, miss, that’s the closet,” said Mrs. Claus.
She opened another door that led to the outside confines of the North Pole, the endless snowy abyss blowing in the lush blustery weather. Florence slammed the wooden door. She began to walk, a shadow in the bitter cold, a speck on the white blanket of frost. And that was the end of her.
“Good riddance,” said Beatrice, back at the meeting.
Mrs. Claus jerked a sullen smile, one forced. “Operation: Save Santa is ago.”
LaShawn and his gang were back at their hideout in a broken down alley between two apartments. With them was their newly received sleigh. They just brought it back there.
“Dang,” hollered Miguel, admiring the object they stole. “If we hook this thing up with some big rims, it would be mad ballin’.”
LaShawn punched his fellow gang member hard in the shoulder. “What it is with you? You be talkin’ gangster when you some Mexican blood Latino who don’t even have the potential to beat some preppy reindeer at yo momma battlin’.”
The Hispanic man raised a finger. “Actually, I’m Puerto Rican…”
“Do it look like I care. Besides, we ain’t takin’ this ride to the streets. We sellin’ it fo’ mad money, you heard?”
The gang was thrilled.
“Like on meBay?” wondered the Asian, filled with optimism.
“Yeah shorty,” shouted the wannabe gangster, emerging from the crowd.
The crew replied, “No!”
Miguel was the first to criticize this selling technique. “Yo, we ain’t no white boys who use stupid computers to solve our problems, we solve ours by force, Holmes. And, by the way, shorty ain’t ballin’ anymore.”
LaShawn struck Miguel in the gut. “Yo I’m ‘a’ beat you so hard if say that again, Miguel.”
“So,” began a gang member in the back, “how we gonna sell it?”
LaShawn smiled and nodded. “Yo, I’ve been thinkin’ of this a long time.”
***
Cyndra raised her hand. “I’m lost. We leave at midnight for what? I need to know, for an intellectual like I require motivation.”
“Sweetie,” replied Mrs. Claus, “I told you on the phone, we’re going to rescue my husband in Las Vegas.”
Her fellow book club friends knew she was the wife of Santa Claus and often joked around about it. “What did he do there?” started Cyndra. “Did he gamble all of his toys, is that it?” Although she expected a reaction from everyone, no one budged. She grunted. “I thought it was rather humorous and witty.”
Claus faced the chart. “Let me explain this chart a little more. The circles on here are us; the X’s you see are the ‘gangsters’ that took my husband’s only means of transportation.”
Olivia took this opportunity to feed herself a couple lemon squares. She stuffed them in her mouth while no one, not even Gladys, the Eskimo who slapped her arm before, was looking. The flavor enriched her mouth.
And between me and you again, Olivia only comes to the book club for free chow. Honestly, she is an extremely overweight, old woman whose only current form of entertainment is mooching off of Mrs. Claus’ home cooking. Now that’s sad.
Olivia was so focused on the scrumptious delicacy she’d eaten, that two horrible things happened:
1. She didn’t listen to the plan.
2. She stuffed the entire batch in her mouth at once.
Gladys, of course, was the first to notice.
Interrupting Mrs. Claus, she blurted, “Look at what Olivia has done!”
Oh yes, and I forgot. Three horrible things happened, my apologies. Number three is that she upchucked on the couch.
Everyone faced Olivia to speculate a blob of green, yellow, a rainbow in fact, lying on the couch. The corpulent elf blushed, her face as red as a bright tomato. She was dripping beads of sweat that were atrociously speeding down her face. The entire club was watching her.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
The elderly women looked at Olivia in disdain.
“I’ll go get a mop,” Mrs. Claus said, sighing.
***
”So, how are we gonna sell it, LaShawn?” wondered Miguel.
“Don’t play dumb with me, I just said I gave it thought, never that I knew how to sell it. You bein’ such a re-”
“Tarts, I like tarts!” interrupted a random homeless man wobbling in the alley, holding a bottle of rum. He gulped down a swig of the alcohol, although most of it missed his mouth.
The Asian of the group shook his head. “That was an incredibly strange predicament that just occurred.”
“In English!” a gang member shouted.
“Ah ya!”
LaShawn nodded his head, his eyes telling something in his mind had unfolded. “Yo, we gon’ sell the sleigh in the black market.”
***
“Now that the mess is cleaned up,” began Mrs. Claus. Olivia blushed again. “I personally think that we are ready to begin Operation: Save Santa.”
Cyndra rose from her seat and stuck out her hand. “Not so fast! We’re going to leave like this?”
The book club members were confused. Some were scratching their heads, some in deep thought, and some, like Olivia, were splashing glasses of egg nog down their throats like they’d never drank before.
“Well, it seems I need an explanation. I figure that for our little escapade, not only to look delightful, but to camouflage into our surroundings, we must wear the color black.”
“Let’s knit,” proclaimed Mrs. Claus, “the best black spy outfits you’d ever gosh darn see.”
Five minutes later…
Everyone fetched needles and black yarn and began to knit. Elderly woman have a natural ability to knit, so it wasn’t too challenging to create endless supplies of heavy-duty black spy clothes. They made black shirts, pants, hats, even undergarments.
“So, are we prepared now?” Mrs. Claus asked everyone. Everyone seemed to nod their heads in agreement, as if they were completely ready for the operation.
“Wait!” shouted an Eskimo.
“Oh, what now, Florence?”
Florence was shy and always went with whatever anyone said. She was a pushover, but always followed directions, however whenever she interrupted anything to comment, she was disciplined. “Maybe,” she said in a low, nervous voice. “Maybe we can, um, have code names.”
“No, that’s a stupid idea, sweetie.”
Cyndra raised her hand in a vigilant manner, waving her arms in anxiety to be called on. “I believe that we should have secret code names.”
“Ooh, secretive. Cyndra you always think out of the box, in fact, I don’t even think you have a box. Sweetie, wonderful idea. Everyone, in order to simplify the identification process and to sound, as the kids say, cooler, we are making code names.”
Florence’s mouth hung open, her face in disgust.
Mrs. Claus was in deep thought, then her eyes brightened up. “You may now refer to me as Red Hot Mamacita. Now let’s save my husband. Operation: Save Santa is…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Claus.”
“Florence, what have I told you about suspending my sentences?” She tapped her foot. “Now this had better be good.”
The Eskimo cleared her throat. “Well, in all due respect ma’am, um, that code name thing was, uh, my idea. Cyndra took it. Um, you gave her credit for it after you ignored me.”
“Does it look like anyone cares?” replied the old woman. “Now as I was saying before rudely interrupted by someone here, Operation: Save Santa is…”
Before finishing her sentence, Florence ran off sobbing. “I’m never coming to this book club again!” She ran off to front door and opened it, however she only speculated clothes.
“Other door, miss, that’s the closet,” said Mrs. Claus.
She opened another door that led to the outside confines of the North Pole, the endless snowy abyss blowing in the lush blustery weather. Florence slammed the wooden door. She began to walk, a shadow in the bitter cold, a speck on the white blanket of frost. And that was the end of her.
“Good riddance,” said Beatrice, back at the meeting.
Mrs. Claus jerked a sullen smile, one forced. “Operation: Save Santa is ago.”
Screen Name
For any of my friends who don't know this already, (or just stalkers) my screen name is doodledude77 because I am totally into Instant Messaging. Just give me a holler if you have any questions about the story so far, if it's siomething you wish were added to the site or you just wanna talk to me. If you think I don't have your screen name, (if you have one) just send it to my e-mail: doodledude77@aim.com. Don't post your screen name in a comment, or you'll ahve stalkers like I do. Ugh!
Monday, January 22, 2007
Holidays on Holiday Chapter Four: Red Hot Mamacita - Part One
Sure, it has been a while, but I've been getting loaded with homework, I have drama club almost everyday, and I just got a Wii yesterday. Yes, it's been hectic in my life. And in the past week, I haven't done much. This bit of the novel, which took me a week to do, normally should've taken two days, but it's just as good. Check out Santa's savior. Who? None other than... Never mind, you figure it out.
Channel Four
“We now bring you back to the eleven ‘o’ clock news with Richard Flemming. Richard?”
“Thanks, Kate. You’re such a doll. Wait, where is my cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla flavor on the top? Huh? What do I pay you for, Kate? Do I work for you? No, I don’t! And if you expect me to…”
“You’re cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla on top is on your desk, sir.”
“Boring,” sighed an elderly woman, watching television in her home.
Her husband had been on vacation for almost two days now, and it was lonely without him. He was so – oh what’s the word – jolly, that’s it.
However, to pass time and keep her mind off of her husband, she watched hours of television. She had never watched much TV, but figured they had one and she needed to catch up on current events anyway.
At first, she was baffled of the reason why she couldn’t attend her companion’s vacation. She was told by her husband that he’d be inviting a friend and that they wanted a boy’s night out. Unfortunately, it had been almost two nights since their return and she hadn’t received any phone calls.
It didn’t stop there, either.
She was heavily against drinking and her husband was intoxicated in Las Vegas. If that’s not enough, on vacation, they were robbed by local gangsters.
The woman changed the channel.
Channel Five
“Hello, I’m Opal Carefree!”
“And I’m bored,” grunted the aged woman, and with that, changed the channel once again.
Channel Forty-One
‘In a perilous time, many have fears, many taste fears, and many have pancreas pain. But one man decides to take a risk and charge head-on into these uncertainties. It’s the next sensational action-adventure film about a hero we all know and love, except this time, there’s a twist.’
“Oh my gosh,” said a man in disgust, with a slightly feminine voice. “Is that a yellow top with brown jeans? Eww! And you know that yellow shirt looks like a moldy lemon?”
‘Ricardo Simone is…’
“Don’t eat that French fry! You’ll get fat.”
‘…Indiana Germs.’
“It’s time to face the Diabolic Dust Bunny, but first I need to put on my Microbe-Protection Suit!”
The old woman shook her head. “People these days: they take something great and make it horrible.” She changed the channel back to the Eleven ‘o’ Clock News.
Channel Four…again
Richard Flemming had his arms neatly on his desk, as well as his cappuccino with the teensy bit of French vanilla on the top. It was in a coffee mug that said #1 Anchor.
“In other news,” he started, “people have reported seeing Santa Claus as well as Rudolph staggering in the Las Vegas streets.” He began laughing as he was talking. “This just in, they’re on the freeway right now trying to get a ride to the North Pole. I’m sorry, but who wrote this stuff; it’s preposterous!”
The older woman was glued into the television.
Richard began to calm down. “We have Michael Cropper in Vegas to give us more details on this strange happening.” He put his headphones on. “Michael?”
Michael picked up the transmission in Las Vegas and responded, “Hey Rich.”
“So have you seen any traces of Santa or Rudolph tonight?”
“Yes, I have. They’ve been walking across the streets, asking people for a ride to the North Pole because they were robbed of their sleigh apparently. They said gang members took it, however, they refuse to give any names and…”
The elderly woman suddenly stood up and turned off the TV. “I have to go save my husband.” She was Mrs. Claus.
Five minutes later…
“Well, first I had a drink of egg nog and I fixed up a delicious batch of lemon squares, but now I’m ready to save my husband! But I’ll need help.” She scratched her chin. “I know! I’ll call the people in my book club; they always have great ideas.”
Another five minutes later…
“Beatrice, sweetie, it’s not that I don’t care about your comments on ‘The Van Gogh Code,’ it’s just that I’m just a little anxious. My husband is stranded in the city and… Yes, I know the author put too many similes in the novel, dear, but… I know he cut of his own ear and almost bled to death, but I need your assistance in rescuing my husband.” She listened to her book club friend blabber on. “Oh, you’re interested?”
Soon she was phoning all of her fellow book club members, and practically all of them decided to facilitate. Mrs. Claus deduced the best way to get together was a meeting at her home.
The book club associates were almost entirely elves, which makes sense because not many humans would go freeze in the North Pole just to participate in a book club. The others remaining were Eskimos.
And just coming from me to you, Santa hates the bitter cold. He and his wife always put their heater on, actually.
The pleasant old woman had a strict code of setting out food before having any get-togethers. She placed a gigantic bottle of egg nog on a small coffee table in her sitting room, as well as the lemon squares she’d baked. She also made sure that her home, let alone the singular room, was spotless.
Soon enough the guests had arrived. After getting situated, after everyone sat down, Mrs. Claus began. “Have any of you watched the news recently?”
“Yes,” they all responded.
“However,” Cyndra, a fussy British elf started, “their lack of prepositional phrases concerns me.”
Another elf looked confused. “No, you got it all wrong. It’s not descriptive enough, that’s the problem.”
“I believe their extended use of conjunctions is very pitiful,” explained an Eskimo.
Soon the three began to shout at one another, and one elf even threatened to take this misunderstanding outside. Just as the Eskimo was about to hit one of the elves on the side of the head with its coat sleeve, Mrs. Claus screamed.
Everyone remained silent and dormant. In the hushed air, one woman hesitantly reached out her arm to snatch a lemon square. But her arm was immediately slapped.
“Gladys that hurt more than getting stabbed by the tip of a porcupine’s prickly back,” she said quietly.
“That was a poor metaphor,” she whispered back.
Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Everybody, be quiet!” she exclaimed, panting. Her audience was silent and at the point where they were petrified to move. Soon after, however, the elderly woman snatched an inhaler that she kept in her pocket at times in case of emergencies. She deafeningly sucked in oxygen.
This definitely took away effect from her brutal words because her many of her book club friends were forcing themselves not to laugh.
“They should put this in a novel,” said Beatrice. “It would really add humor and hilarity to it.”
Cyndra shook her head. “I say the gag is tad clichéd. Said person yelling at said person is not very preposterous. It sounds like that of something a thirteen year old would find silly. Though, I find it quite pointless.”
Mrs. Claus scampered out of the room in disdain.
Beatrice held up “The Van Gogh Code”. “I brought this in case anybody wanted to discuss it. I always keep a spare with me.”
Before anyone could answer, Claus reentered the room pulling in a gigantic white board. On it, in blue marker, were drawings no one could quite identify. She also carried a small pointer stick and smacked it on the board. “We leave at midnight."
Channel Four
“We now bring you back to the eleven ‘o’ clock news with Richard Flemming. Richard?”
“Thanks, Kate. You’re such a doll. Wait, where is my cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla flavor on the top? Huh? What do I pay you for, Kate? Do I work for you? No, I don’t! And if you expect me to…”
“You’re cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla on top is on your desk, sir.”
“Boring,” sighed an elderly woman, watching television in her home.
Her husband had been on vacation for almost two days now, and it was lonely without him. He was so – oh what’s the word – jolly, that’s it.
However, to pass time and keep her mind off of her husband, she watched hours of television. She had never watched much TV, but figured they had one and she needed to catch up on current events anyway.
At first, she was baffled of the reason why she couldn’t attend her companion’s vacation. She was told by her husband that he’d be inviting a friend and that they wanted a boy’s night out. Unfortunately, it had been almost two nights since their return and she hadn’t received any phone calls.
It didn’t stop there, either.
She was heavily against drinking and her husband was intoxicated in Las Vegas. If that’s not enough, on vacation, they were robbed by local gangsters.
The woman changed the channel.
Channel Five
“Hello, I’m Opal Carefree!”
“And I’m bored,” grunted the aged woman, and with that, changed the channel once again.
Channel Forty-One
‘In a perilous time, many have fears, many taste fears, and many have pancreas pain. But one man decides to take a risk and charge head-on into these uncertainties. It’s the next sensational action-adventure film about a hero we all know and love, except this time, there’s a twist.’
“Oh my gosh,” said a man in disgust, with a slightly feminine voice. “Is that a yellow top with brown jeans? Eww! And you know that yellow shirt looks like a moldy lemon?”
‘Ricardo Simone is…’
“Don’t eat that French fry! You’ll get fat.”
‘…Indiana Germs.’
“It’s time to face the Diabolic Dust Bunny, but first I need to put on my Microbe-Protection Suit!”
The old woman shook her head. “People these days: they take something great and make it horrible.” She changed the channel back to the Eleven ‘o’ Clock News.
Channel Four…again
Richard Flemming had his arms neatly on his desk, as well as his cappuccino with the teensy bit of French vanilla on the top. It was in a coffee mug that said #1 Anchor.
“In other news,” he started, “people have reported seeing Santa Claus as well as Rudolph staggering in the Las Vegas streets.” He began laughing as he was talking. “This just in, they’re on the freeway right now trying to get a ride to the North Pole. I’m sorry, but who wrote this stuff; it’s preposterous!”
The older woman was glued into the television.
Richard began to calm down. “We have Michael Cropper in Vegas to give us more details on this strange happening.” He put his headphones on. “Michael?”
Michael picked up the transmission in Las Vegas and responded, “Hey Rich.”
“So have you seen any traces of Santa or Rudolph tonight?”
“Yes, I have. They’ve been walking across the streets, asking people for a ride to the North Pole because they were robbed of their sleigh apparently. They said gang members took it, however, they refuse to give any names and…”
The elderly woman suddenly stood up and turned off the TV. “I have to go save my husband.” She was Mrs. Claus.
Five minutes later…
“Well, first I had a drink of egg nog and I fixed up a delicious batch of lemon squares, but now I’m ready to save my husband! But I’ll need help.” She scratched her chin. “I know! I’ll call the people in my book club; they always have great ideas.”
Another five minutes later…
“Beatrice, sweetie, it’s not that I don’t care about your comments on ‘The Van Gogh Code,’ it’s just that I’m just a little anxious. My husband is stranded in the city and… Yes, I know the author put too many similes in the novel, dear, but… I know he cut of his own ear and almost bled to death, but I need your assistance in rescuing my husband.” She listened to her book club friend blabber on. “Oh, you’re interested?”
Soon she was phoning all of her fellow book club members, and practically all of them decided to facilitate. Mrs. Claus deduced the best way to get together was a meeting at her home.
The book club associates were almost entirely elves, which makes sense because not many humans would go freeze in the North Pole just to participate in a book club. The others remaining were Eskimos.
And just coming from me to you, Santa hates the bitter cold. He and his wife always put their heater on, actually.
The pleasant old woman had a strict code of setting out food before having any get-togethers. She placed a gigantic bottle of egg nog on a small coffee table in her sitting room, as well as the lemon squares she’d baked. She also made sure that her home, let alone the singular room, was spotless.
Soon enough the guests had arrived. After getting situated, after everyone sat down, Mrs. Claus began. “Have any of you watched the news recently?”
“Yes,” they all responded.
“However,” Cyndra, a fussy British elf started, “their lack of prepositional phrases concerns me.”
Another elf looked confused. “No, you got it all wrong. It’s not descriptive enough, that’s the problem.”
“I believe their extended use of conjunctions is very pitiful,” explained an Eskimo.
Soon the three began to shout at one another, and one elf even threatened to take this misunderstanding outside. Just as the Eskimo was about to hit one of the elves on the side of the head with its coat sleeve, Mrs. Claus screamed.
Everyone remained silent and dormant. In the hushed air, one woman hesitantly reached out her arm to snatch a lemon square. But her arm was immediately slapped.
“Gladys that hurt more than getting stabbed by the tip of a porcupine’s prickly back,” she said quietly.
“That was a poor metaphor,” she whispered back.
Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Everybody, be quiet!” she exclaimed, panting. Her audience was silent and at the point where they were petrified to move. Soon after, however, the elderly woman snatched an inhaler that she kept in her pocket at times in case of emergencies. She deafeningly sucked in oxygen.
This definitely took away effect from her brutal words because her many of her book club friends were forcing themselves not to laugh.
“They should put this in a novel,” said Beatrice. “It would really add humor and hilarity to it.”
Cyndra shook her head. “I say the gag is tad clichéd. Said person yelling at said person is not very preposterous. It sounds like that of something a thirteen year old would find silly. Though, I find it quite pointless.”
Mrs. Claus scampered out of the room in disdain.
Beatrice held up “The Van Gogh Code”. “I brought this in case anybody wanted to discuss it. I always keep a spare with me.”
Before anyone could answer, Claus reentered the room pulling in a gigantic white board. On it, in blue marker, were drawings no one could quite identify. She also carried a small pointer stick and smacked it on the board. “We leave at midnight."
Monday, January 15, 2007
Holidays on Holiday Theme Song
Yes, I've made one. Some will be impressed, some will laugh, some will cry, some will not even read the whole thing because it stinks so bad. However, I like it. It's to the tine of Jingle Bells.
Did you ever think, all of you girls and boys
That maybe the holidays weren’t just meant for joy
If that is really true, it’s hard to ring a bell
But there are just some stories that I really have to tell
Holidays
Holiday
From dummies to the wise
I really hope that these readings will suffice
Holidays
Holiday
From Christians to the Jews
You will be oh, so surprised of what these people do
Could you imagine Santa drinking all that he has got
Or being just so ferklempt that you now could plotz
How about lovey Cupid as a computer geek
Possibly even Rudolph whose yo momma skills ain’t weak
Holidays
Holiday
I’ll tell you once and clear
That there are more oddball things happening every year
Holidays
Holiday
This is what you’ve never heard
But I’m telling you that it’s all true and you got to take my word
Sorry its been a while since I updated, *coughs*, nine days.
Did you ever think, all of you girls and boys
That maybe the holidays weren’t just meant for joy
If that is really true, it’s hard to ring a bell
But there are just some stories that I really have to tell
Holidays
Holiday
From dummies to the wise
I really hope that these readings will suffice
Holidays
Holiday
From Christians to the Jews
You will be oh, so surprised of what these people do
Could you imagine Santa drinking all that he has got
Or being just so ferklempt that you now could plotz
How about lovey Cupid as a computer geek
Possibly even Rudolph whose yo momma skills ain’t weak
Holidays
Holiday
I’ll tell you once and clear
That there are more oddball things happening every year
Holidays
Holiday
This is what you’ve never heard
But I’m telling you that it’s all true and you got to take my word
Sorry its been a while since I updated, *coughs*, nine days.
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