BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Continued from: Of Redheads And High Heels…

As we established in our previous episode, it all started with a blood-curdling shriek. Also as noted, it was an “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands” sort of shriek, which just so happens to be one of those that the redhead can do at the drop of a hat. Moreover, it causes male hearts anywhere within a 5 mile radius to fibrillate momentarily, followed by the family jewels making a hasty retreat indoors, so to speak.

And, as we know, such a scream from The Evil One usually precedes me being screwed – and not in the good way. I mean screwed like the guy in the cartoon… Although, she has yet to use an actual ginormous screw to effect said screwing. I expect once she sees this blog, however, she will find someplace to order one. Damn… I hate when I give her ideas…

Oh well, moving right along.

As it turns out, this time neither my name, nor any of the monikers the undisputed Queen of Evil uses for me (lackey, doormat, hey you, what’syername, et. al), had been uttered. Nope… This was just a plain old scare the pee right outta ya’ shriek straight from the bowels of Hades. This seemed to indicate that maybe, just maybe, it was NOT me who was the target of her wrath this time. Unusual, yes, but hey, it happens once in a blue moon…

Oh, and before I forget, we also established Rule #2 ½ – Don’t mess with EKay’s shoes… I think that warrants a quick reminder because it has enormous bearing on the story…

And, therefore, back to that bone-chilling screech…

So, there we were (and still are) with a plethora of E K shoes hither and yon. In the closet(s), on shoe racks, under the bed, on the stairs, in boxes… You name it. And, back then, not only did we have shoes, we also had a couple of roommates.

We’ll call them Benjamin and Quigley, mostly because those were their names.

And, before you ask, no, Ben and Quigs were NOT a couple of guys E K kept chained up in the basement for recreational torture whenever I couldn’t take any more and simply passed out from the intense agony.  Those guys were named Bob and Bob, and she picked them up from… Well,  that’s a different story so we won’t get into that…

Nope, Ben and Quigs were our English Setter and Australian Cattle Dog, respectively (both of whom have since gone to the great kennel in the sky, but still live on in the pages of the RGI novels.)

I think maybe you can now see where this is going.

And so, I was in the kitchen preparing dinner when the front door opened, the click-clack of Evil’s shoes tapped against our hardwood floor, followed immediately by the horrific scream.  Not knowing what the problem could be, but realizing that if I didn’t respond – even though my name had not been called – there would be hell to pay, I shot out of the kitchen and into the dining room. And, that’s when I saw it… The horribly masticated, chewed up, slobbered upon, ripped to shreds, size 7 shoe.

Ben and the Quigster were already in motion. Unfortunately, they were more like a couple of the Keystone Cops as opposed to a well-practiced football team, or anything else for that matter. The English Setter leaped up, only to have the Aussie run under his legs and trip him. He regained his footing, but once again they bounced off one another as they sought escape, yelping all the way – and at this point all that had happened was the shriek.

E K, being practiced in the art of unconventional available weaponry, as we are well aware from all of her high level NSA training (See: Kay… E Kay…) immediately fell back on instinct. Kicking one foot up behind her, she instantly had a lethal weapon in hand and at the ready.

Both canines  stopped dead in their tracks and stared at the psychotic redhead. In a remarkable and wholly unbelievable moment of spontaneous anthropomorphization, their eyes widened, and my hand to God / Goddess / Whatever deity works for you, I swear that both of them yelled, “OH SH*T!”

Once again, they bounced off one another as they scrambled across the floor in an attempt to escape. E K jumped in front of the Aussie, who immediately began backpedaling. Then, like some kind of gymnast on crack, my wife ran up the wall, across the ceiling, and landed feet first on the sofa, right in front of the English Setter who was attempting to take a shortcut by way of the furniture.

Both of the dogs scampered toward the stairs, but it was no good. The redhead, like some kind of Matrix-Samurai-Ninja who was wielding the sacred stiletto heel, flew from the couch, right over the top of the coffee table, and landed immediately behind them. The pair shot up the stairs, yelping like they’d been beaten by someone with a 2X4, even though she hadn’t even touched them. E K was, of course, mere fractions of an inch behind them, screaming something barely intelligible at the top of her lungs. To this day I am convinced that it was some ancient hell spawn cursing, all of which ended in “MY SHOOOOOZZZ!”

I stood in the dining room, dumbfounded as I listened to the trio circle the  upper half-story at least six times before shooting back down the stairs at blinding speed. I stared on in horror as they came barreling straight for me, both Ben and Quigley still in an athropomorphized state as they yelled, “DOOD! HELP! SHE’S GONNA KILL US!”

At the last minute, just as my heart was lodging itself in my throat, they took a quick right and shot down the hallway. I tried to warn them, but they weren’t thinking clearly and my heart was blocking my vocal chords. You see, the bedroom door was closed, and the hallway dead ended in the bathroom.

The simultaneous scampering of dog paws came to a sudden halt, and a split second later the clickety-clack of a single high heel running at 42,000 RPM’s fell silent. I heard another stream of hell spawn cursing, once again ending with MY SHOOOOOOZZZZZZ!

And then, all was quiet.

That’s when I started to get concerned. I slowly crept around the corner and made my way down the hall to the bathroom. There stood the redhead in her business attire, hair puffed out from her head like a cat with an arched back, one shoe on, and the other held high over her head in the death strike position.

The dogs, having reached the end of the line, were rolled over on their backs, paws in the air, tongues hanging out, and fear in their eyes. I looked at them, and they looked at me. Then they looked up at the redhead with the killer shoe. They looked back at me. I looked at them, then I looked at the redhead with the killer shoe. They looked back to the redhead…

And, then Quigley proceeded to pee all over himself.

In the end, E K never touched the canines. She did, however, make me clean up the dog pee and then proceeded to beat me with the shoe. Something about her shoes being named Husbandstomper, and once the stiletto was unsheathed, it had to draw the blood of a man before it could be put back into its box.

Personally, I think maybe she was reading too many of Michael Moorcock’s Elric Novels*…

More to come…

Murv

* The character in the novels, Elric, carried a cursed sword named Stormbringer. Whenever unsheathed, it could not be re-sheathed until it had drawn blood.

So, I finally wore out my Sunday Go Ta’ Meetin’ Reeboks.

I’m a little disappointed, but I can’t really complain. After all, I managed to get better than four years out of them. I bought them on sale at a Sports Authority in Virginia of all places. Just outside of DC, as a matter of fact. I was on tour with Morrison, and after two days of standing around bookstores in my dress shoes, my feet were killing me. I knew why, of course. It was because I had bought an unbelievably cheap pair of dress shoes with no arch support whatsoever. I’d never worn them for more than a few hours at a time, so it wasn’t that big a deal. But now, I was doing some long stints on my feet and they were doing me in. I considered getting some insoles – but I’d tried them in the past and all they managed to do was make me hurt more. So, on one of our rare mornings off, when Morrison needed to run to the office supply store, I tagged along and hit the Sports Authority next door. Twenty minutes later I had a stylish pair of black Reeboks that had been ON SALE (I mention that because E K likes it when I buy things on sale), and my dawgz were feeling much better.

But, like I said, I finally killed them. The sole pulled away from the upper on one of them, and shoe glue just wasn’t doing it. They’ll work for knocking around in the yard and such, but not for Sunday Go Ta’ Meetin’ like before.

So, I went out shopping for some new shoes while we were on a “household supply run.” After checking out the on-sale Reeboks that looked like some kind of plastic & Velcro Stormtrooper shoe from Star Wars and deciding that I wasn’t interested in looking ridiculous, I wandered down another aisle. I was futzing about with some Reebok knockoffs that looked much like the pair I was aiming to replace, when E K said, “Come here, lackey!”

Well, even when you are in the middle of a store with folks all around, if E K gives you an order you follow it, lest she beat you to death right there in public. And, she’ll get away with it too. Trust me. But, well, you know… digressing and all that…

So, I dropped everything and rushed down to the end of the aisle where E K was waiting and panted, “Yes, Mistress. What may I do to serve you, Mistress?”

Quite a few women who were in the general vicinity reached out and slapped their husbands to get their attention, then pointed at me and announced, “See? HE knows how to behave.” Of course, the husbands just glared at me, but I’m used to that by now.

E K finished reading an information card attached to a pair of shoes, then handed them to me and said, “Here, lackey. Try these on.”

I looked at the shoes in the box she had handed me, then I looked at her. Then I looked at the shoes in the box she had handed me, and then I looked at her.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” she hissed and snapped her fingers. “Chop chop!”

What she had selected for me were “Therashoes“… No, not Theraflu, THERASHOES… The problem is, they looked exactly like something Herman Munster would wear. Seriously. I would not lie about something like that. But, Her Supreme Worship was glaring at me, and all of the other wives were holding their husbands by the ear and making them watch how obedient a lackey I happened to be, therefore I had very little choice.

I tried them on.

I walked around for a minute.

I almost fell down 72 times in the span of 60 seconds.

You see, not only do “Therashoes” have a platform sole like Herman Munster footwear, said sole is shaped like a rocker on a rocking chair. Again, no kidding. I wouldn’t lie about this. You can see it just a little bit in the picture, but believe me, that doesn’t do it justice. These things have as much curve as a freaking basketball (see cross section below).

I guarantee you it is easier to walk in stiletto heels – and, I’m sure you are wondering how I could possibly say that with any authority. Well, because I have walked in stiletto heels. No, not because E K makes me dress up like a French Maid and wait on her… Well… Not lately anyway… But, because in my youth I went to a costume party in drag on a dare/bet. BTW, I looked damn good and I won the bet. I certainly couldn’t pull it off now; besides, the costume was long gone, long ago. It just didn’t go with the rest of my wardrobe…

But, back to the shoes… In the end, E K decided these were the clodhoppers I needed to have. I wore them for about six hours today and I now feel like I have been hobbled by Kathy Bates wielding a sledgehammer.

It took me a few hours, but I finally figured it out. These things were designed by a Dominatrix – hell, probably by E K and the Redhead Collective – as a type of bizarre bondage gear in order to keep men from escaping during torture. I’m certain of this, because I’m here to tell you, wearing these damn things I can’t even run away from a toddler…

I can, however, pitch back and forth like a rocking horse.

More to come…

Murv