dramatic dry-heaving

 The day was winding down, and I was ready to sink into the land of sofatuation and temporarily become a vegetable on my favorite piece of furniture. My mother was visiting, and we picked out a movie I thought we’d all like. It became clear that my choice of thriller was not well-suited to my mother’s jumpy nature, as she spent the following two hours yelping like a surprised cocker-spaniel and wailing “Ow weiah! I can’t watch!” while covering her eyes. “Tell me what’s happening!”

“Sure,” I said as I begun to narrate, “The man exits the building and sees a body, still and bloodied, black and wet, glistening in the moonlight.” I was enjoying my dramatic narration so much, that I was nearly disappointed when she started watching again.

In one scene, where a hospital floor full of corpses was discovered, she screamed, and immediately made a sound like she was going to vomit. “I can’t look!” she cried between puking sounds. “What are you making me watch! Why did you do this to me?” she lamented.

Carl and I traded knowing glances and shrugged. We were familiar with these theatrics, and knew it was best not to feed into them.

“If you have to vomit, you should probably go the bathroom” I said casually, wondering when her show of disapproval would end.

“Huuuuuugh!” she continued as she paced to and fro within the living room, intermittently pausing to dramatically dry heave.

About five minutes of heaving with no signs of actual vomit, she settled back onto the sofa and we finished the movie.

Debauchery waits for no man!

 It was Saturday night, and the friars of the cult of Ahh had just finished their unholy sacrament. It had been a great success, as evidenced by the pool of blood in the center of the floor, encircled by an ungodly number of lit candles. The friars were in great spirits as they walked away towards their dorms, looking forward to their evening of blood painting and sacrificial table dancing. All except one: brother Anzu. Brother Anzu was a man of order; he was the type of person to iron the pages of his grimoire, and was known to make his bed so tightly that you could bounce a demon’s horn off of it. Instead of making his way to an evening of debauchery, he was bent over, blowing each candle out one by one. He looked at his fellow friars in disbelief.

“Umm, hello??” he said, his voice raspy with irritation. “Who’s going to help me blow out all of these candles?”

He glanced from one friar to the next, palms facing up questioningly, eyebrows raised. “No one? Nobody? There are literally six-hundred and sixty six candles, guys. Six-hundred. Sixty-six. Fucking. Candles.”

One friar shrugged apologetically, another said “Debauchery waits for no man!” as he scurried out of the hall while pulling off his friar dress.

Brother Anzu sighed dramatically and grumbled to himself. “You have got to be kidding me.” He blew out another dozen candles and paused to catch his breath.

“GUYS!” he cried plaintively as he fell to his knees and began wheezing, “I have ASTHMA!”

Soon he was alone, and room echoed with the lone sound of his labored breath.

“Lord,” he said as he got up and he peered towards the dark altar, “forgive me.”

He grabbed one of several fire extinguishers and blasted the rest of the candles.

 

Tooth or Lie

 "What do you mean the tooth fairy's not real!?" Herbert whistle-shouted through a gap in his nearly perfect row of teeth.  "I need that money to pay rent!"

"I mean," Mary replied, "there's no fairy that flies around collecting your teeth."

"Oooh, I see, it's some sort of angel or imp, not a fairy.  Hmm.  I guess that makes sense." He tilted his head, deep in thought.

"No," Mary sighed.  "I mean it's a lie that Mom and Dad told us so that they could collect our teeth."

"EW, WHAT!?" Herb screamed.  "NO.  What do they DO with our teeth?  Do they use them for spells??  Do they sell them on the black market?  OH GOD are our parents deranged?"

"Well...I guess they just keep them in a jar somewhere."

"In a jar?  A fucking JAR??" He felt his sense of reality slip away, knowing his parents were collecting pieces of him one at a time, in jars, possibly suspended in some ominous-smelling liquid.  He wondered what was next on their collection list; a piece of cirrhotic liver?  A kidney stone?  A severed finger?  No he thought as he shook his head.  There has to be a tooth fairy.

Herbert narrowed his eyes at his sister and curled his lips inward.  "I call bulshit.  That's right, I know your tricks. 'ha ha, let's all play a prank on Herbert, he's so gullible, he'll believe anything I tell him.'  Well I've had enough of it!" He slammed down the bloodied pliers and walked away with the freshly harvested, crimson-stained incisor clutched tightly in his hand.