BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 2 of 2 Continued from: Heellllpp Meeee…

When we left off with that cliffhanger at the end of part 1 – BTW, don’t you just hate it when I do that? Well, don’t expect it to change anytime soon. (Bwuahahahaha!)

So, anyway, when we left off I had just skulked into the kitchen to investigate a commotion only to find the Evil Redhead decked out in her “torturin’ togs” and talking to a Popsicle stick. If none of that makes sense, go back and read part 1. If it still doesn’t make sense, join the club. I was having trouble wrapping my head around it too…

Now… Something else I need to fill you in on… During the latter part of June and early portion of July we had this absolutely INSANE problem with flies. They were everywhere. Inside, outside, around the side, in the back, out front, above, below… We just couldn’t figure it out. I mean, we keep the litter boxes clean, we take out the trash regularly, double bag stuff that might be conducive to fly breeding, etc, ad nauseum. There was no rhyme or reason for it. Still, they were everywhere…

And so, on with the story…

I drew up next to the imitation-leather-clad redhead who was holding a Popsicle stick, and peered carefully over her shoulder. After all, she seemed to be talking to an inanimate object and I didn’t want to startle her or anything. However, as I mentioned before, the stick wasn’t quite as empty as I had first thought. In point of fact, it had a sopping wet blowfly attached to the end with whatever fixative redheaded bug dominatrixes use for restraining their subs. However, this particular blowfly didn’t seem to be enjoying its encounter in the least… its hairy little legs were kicking and its wings were flexing as it tried in vain to escape the clutches of my evil wife.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” E K demanded, her attention focused on the struggling insect. “Where are all of you little bastards coming from?”

The fly buzzed something unintelligible, to me at least, as it attempted to work itself free to no avail.

“The name, rank, and serial number bit isn’t going to fly,” E K mused aloud, then giggled an evil giggle at her own pun. “Remember, you did this to yourself…”

With that, she turned on the faucet and held the end of the Popsicle stick into the center of the stream of flowing water. After slowly counting to five she twisted the handle and the water stopped running. The fly sputtered and kicked.

“Ready to talk now, Dick?” E K demanded. “Where is your base of operations? How many of you are there? What are your attack plans? Answer me, dammit!”

I cleared my throat and asked, “Ummm, honey… Uh… What are you doing?”

“Enhanced Interrogation,” she replied without breaking attention from the task at hand.

“You’re waterboarding flies?” I said. “What? Did you call Dick Cheney for pest extermination advice or something?”

“Hmmph!” she returned. “I called Dick Cheney all right, but not for advice. I told him to shut the hell up.”

“You’ve been spending too much time on Facebook*.”

“You set up my page for me as I recall.”

“Yeah… okay… You’ve got me there.”

“I’ve always got you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“You really don’t have to remind me about that.”

“Obviously I do.”

“Yeah… Okay… So back to what you’re doing here… I take it your dislike of the former VP has something to do with why you are calling that fly Dick, and it’s not just some crass reference to male anatomy?”

“Oh my, aren’t we quick today,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“I try.”

“Well it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? Flies are almost as annoying as Dick Cheney. Not quite, but almost. So it just stands to reason.”

“Yeah… I suppose I can see your point there.”

“Even so, under the circumstances I think both meanings apply.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you might say that.”

“Talk you little bastard!” she demanded of the waterlogged fly, returning her focus to the interrogation while shaking the Popsicle stick like she was resetting the level on an old mercury thermometer.

I watched her yelling threats at the insect for a moment then spoke up again. “So, this seems a bit complicated and involved. I mean, if this is about torturing flies, why don’t you just pull their wings off or something? You know, simple stuff like regular sociopaths do…”

“Because I’m not regular. I’m high octane.”

“Uh… Yeah.”

“Besides, I tried that,” she quipped. “They die too quickly and I don’t get any information out of them.”

“I see…” I nodded and took a few precautionary steps back from her. “So… Just out of curiosity… Mind if I ask why you are so intent on ruthlessly interrogating winged insects all of a sudden?”

“Because they’ve flown over the line. One of them attacked our daughter last night.”

“Attacked?”

“Yes. It kept dive bombing her.”

“Ahhhh,” I said with a nod yet again. “That would explain why I heard you screaming, “Get away from her, you bitch!‘”

“Hey, it’s one of my favorite lines from Aliens, and you know it,” she replied. “Besides, it fit the situation and I was channeling my inner Ellen Ripley. If I’d had a flamethrower the damn thing would have been toast, trust me.”

“I’m sure the folks at 20th Century Fox appreciate your loyalty to the franchise.”

She turned on the water and shoved the fly into the stream again while saying, “Don’t be sarcastic with me lackey or you’ll be next.”

“I hate to disappoint you but I’m not really afraid of a Popsicle stick.”

“You would be if you knew what I was going to do to you with it,” she countered. “But, that doesn’t matter anyway because I also have an 8 foot 2 by 12, an economy size tube of epoxy, and a garden hose.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah… I thought that might change your tune.”

“Okay, so what about the flies? I mean, is this whole interrogation thing actually working?”

“Of course it is.”

“So, you know where they are all hiding out?”

“Absolutely.”

I pointed to the Popsicle stick in her hand. “Okay… So… Umm… May I ask why you’re still waterboarding that one?”

“Because it amuses me.”

“Ahhh… I guess I should have already known that, huh?”

“Yes, you should have, lackey” she replied. “Just for that, drop and give me twenty.”

I conceded. “Yes, your evilness.”

However, before I could drop and give her twenty of whatever it is she wanted – she hadn’t told me what just yet – she whipped around and said, “No. Wait.” Then she handed me the dripping Popsicle stick, and added, “Here. Hold this.”

No sooner had I taken the fly adorned strip of wood from her than she quickly stalked out of the room without another word, and left the twenty still unnamed.

“Excuse me… ummm… your evilness,” I called after her. “Mind if I ask where you’re going?”

She poked her head back through the doorway and replied, “It’s time for operation NO PEST STOMP.”

The next time I saw the redhead she was in the back yard scooping clouds of buzzing Phaenicia Sericata into a butterfly net, then tossing it on the ground and doing a frantic flamenco dance on top of it. (And believe it or not, I didn’t even fabricate that particular part of this tale… She really did… And then to top it off she showed no remorse. In fact, she complained about getting fly guts on her shoes. Given PETA’s reaction to the President swatting a single fly I figure we’ll be hearing from them soon…)

But, in the end I guess I can’t complain too much. The fly problem seems to be under control these days, we’ve officially renamed the kitchen “Katmo”, and then there’s that nifty Sci-Fi movie power loader suit thing we have standing in the driveway.

Of course, something tells me Dick Cheney just isn’t going to shut the hell up no matter how many Facebook groups demand it, and that scares me a little. You see, I have to live under the same roof with E K, and if Dick keeps running off at the mouth and annoying her, she just might end up needing another surrogate to torture since we are now out of flies… What do you want to bet that surrogate will be yours truly?

And you know, I just checked… She still has that giant tube of epoxy…

More to come…

Murv

* Facebook Fan Page: “Telling Dick Cheney To Shut The Hell Up”

I have to be honest. I’m rarely shocked by anything E K does, especially if it involves evil. However, please make note that I said rarely. There are occasions when the Evil Redhead will do something that throws me for a bit of a loop. Of course, since I am telling you this now it should be obvious that Her Majesty has recently managed to leave me wondering…

As is the custom whenever E K is about to do something I will inevitably blog about, I was standing in the kitchen minding my own business. Well, in truth I was minding the business of a pound of ground turkey as I set about fixing the evening meal. Now, what was unusual about this is that instead of pacing back and forth behind me while gently slapping a riding crop against the side of her leg, The Evil One was nowhere to be seen. This, in and of itself should have set off a few alarms for me, but I was too busy concentrating on what I was going to prepare with the ground turkey that I hadn’t already prepared at some point during the 2009 calendar year. (You see, E K doesn’t like to have the same thing twice within a 365 day period.)

Anyhow, there I was trying to come up with a unique dish that involved ground turkey when I heard a voice from across the room.

“Hello, Lackey,” E K announced, her tone both serious and bemused. (Don’t ask me how she managed that. It’s an E K thing.)

I looked up from the meal fixin’s and there, standing in the doorway, was the evil redhead, decked out in her own version of Indiana Jones adventure attire, complete with a fedora and bullwhip.

Of course, noticing the whip my first response was, “I’m sorry, your worship, I’m cooking as fast as I can.”

She ignored me, which wasn’t unusual except that she rarely misses an opportunity to enjoy a good bit of groveling on my part. Instead, she stared out the window into our back yard.

“Japanese Beetles,” she finally said , and then let out a heavy sigh that was obviously filled with deep seated trepidation. “Why did it have to be Japanese Beetles?”

I screwed up my face with confusion because I was… well… confused. “Japanese Beatles?” I repeated with a questioning tone. “Are they some kind of tribute band?”

“Popillia Japonica,” she replied. “Very dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Are they really loud or something?”

“Hungry.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

“I’ve only got a pound of turkey here so that might be a problem,” I told her.

“They’re vegetarians.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I agreed with a nod. “McCartney is all about the veggie thing isn’t he…”

“There are Japanese Beetles in the back yard, Murv!” she barked.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Calm down. I can defrost some more turkey in the microwave. Not a big deal. Just go out there and stall them for a bit while I get to cooking. So, just out of curiosity are these guys any good? I mean, should we sell tickets or something?”

“Whiskey,” she replied, a demanding note in her voice.

“Yeah… Okay…” I returned with a shrug.

Since she was still holding the bullwhip I decided I had better comply. I pulled a bottle of the good stuff from the cabinet, poured a shot, then placed it on the island in front of her. She picked it up, tossed it back, then slammed the empty shot glass onto the counter upside down. From out of nowhere a Nepalese man dressed in Yak fur appeared, burped, then passed out and fell to the floor. E K proceeded to take all of his money then kicked him a couple of times to make him move out of her way, and of course “just because”… She’s evil like that.

“Get the pry bars in there,” she ordered, a wild look in her eyes.

“Do the what?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes then barked, “Open the damn back door, Lackey!”

I did as I was told, because that’s what I do. As I turned back to face her I noticed that she had unfurled the bullwhip and was now rearing her arm back over her head. I immediately cowered in the corner, fear running rampant through my veins. However, the sting of her lash never fell upon me. I peered out from behind my hands and watched on in complete awe.

With a speedy swish and a sharp crack the braided leather snaked out the open doorway, the end wrapping itself around a tree branch. E K pulled on the whip to cinch it tight, then grasped it with both hands, jumped up in the air, and swung through the open doorway and out into the back yard.

As she flew past me I heard her mutter, “You wanna talk to God, let’s go see Her together…”

I’m still not entirely sure what all that was about. She insists that we don’t talk about it. Ever.

All I know is that we never sold a single ticket, I never heard a single Beatles tune, and I’ve now spent the past three days using a paint scraper to get the scarab carcasses off the bottom of her shoes…

More to come…

Murv