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.

It all started with a horrible, bone-chilling shriek.

Now, you need to understand, this wasn’t an “OMG I’m frightened,” sort of shriek. This was an “OMG You Are Going To Die A Horrible Death And My Hand!” sort of shriek. However, at no point during said shrill scream (not to be confused with Brill Cream) was my name even uttered. And, since it was The Evil One doing the screeching, I wasn’t exactly sure what could possibly be going on – I mean, after all, whenever she lets out a high pitched wail such I was hearing, it usually involved me being in for a beating.

But, before we get to real reason behind the fact that I had a 5′ 4″ tall,  severely pissed-off, redheaded banshee standing in my living room, I should probably fill you in on a basic fact of life around here at Evil Kat Central…

Rule #2 ½ – You just don’t mess with EKay’s shoes if you know what’s good for you…

I mean yeah, obviously you clean them up if she steps in something.  That goes without saying. Although, if you happen to forget, she will in fact say it. Repeatedly, and – very loudly to be sure – until you have seen to the task and the results meet with her strict approval.

Honestly, you’d be amazed at what you can do with a bottle of resolve and a tin of saddle soap when you have to. I know I was. Seriously.

As a matter of fact, I’ve actually become extremely proficient at removing my own blood from her pumps. Of course, that’s more a case of  her stepping ON someone, as opposed to IN something. But, the former is pretty much a daily occurrence and done on purpose, whereas the latter is normally an accidental sort of thing. Unless, of course, she’s in one of those “moods” and steps in something just to have the pleasure of making you clean it off her shoes.  But, you get the idea.  You have to make sure you keep them spotless, polish them when necessary, bring them to her when she demands it, put them on her feet, take them off of her feet, put them away when she’s finished with them, and all the other stuff that go along with the proper care and maintenance of Her Supreme Evilness’ shoe collection.

And, we mustn’t forget – you must prostrate yourself before her and kiss her shoes when she orders you to do so. Obedience to the redhead  can save you from getting stepped on. Well… not really, but she doesn’t stomp quite as hard as she would otherwise.

Seriously.

But, even with all of that, you have to remember that you don’t mess with her shoes, be they blue suede, black leather, brown leather, red patent leather, white, blue, fuchsia, purple, ad infinitum… Pumps, sandals, boots, espadrilles, wedges, heels, flats, Mary Janes, cross trainers, ad nauseum…

Get the picture?

Don’t mess with the woman’s shoes. And, when I say you don’t mess with them, you definitely don’t roll around on the floor chewing on them. Any of them. But, most especially not her high heels.

I learned this in spades that blustery autumn evening…

At this point I am sure you are probably wondering why in the world I would be rolling around on the floor chewing on EKay’s shoes. Well, actually, were I ordered to do so it would probably be in my best interest to comply. However, we have already established that messing with her shoes is a bad thing, so obviously I wasn’t rolling around on the floor gnawing on her pumps. That would only serve to get me in trouble. So, just keep reading. In theory this will all make sense, but bear in mind that I am writing it early on a Sunday morning, so I make no guarantees…

Now, as I’ve noted in the past, E K no longer wears high heels to work on a daily basis. They’ve been relegated to special occasions, date nights, and when she is in a mood to inflict damage on someone. However, there was a time, in our younger days, when my petite dynamo of a wife not only lugged her 40 pound tool case AND an armload of parts up three flights of stairs in order to repair a printer– she did it in skirts and heels. Of course, I later found out that she would arrive at a service call, strike a pose, and all of the men present would be falling all over themselves to “carry her books” so to speak. She probably still does this on occasion even without the spikes and gams on display, but these days, even though she still has more than the necessary looks to pull that off, she actually doesn’t have much patience for drooling, untrained males. Therefore, she would much rather just carry the stuff herself.

But I digress…

The point is, she used to wear heels to work, and being the fashion plate she is, she had them in various styles, colors, heel heights, etc. Because, obviously she couldn’t wear the same pair of shoes twice in the same week. That would be… well… bordering on criminal.

So, anyway, back to that scream…

I was in the kitchen as usual, preparing dinner for Her Highness, when I heard the front door open, and the click-clack of high-heels against the hardwood. This was, of course, a sure sign that the redhead was home and I’d damn well better get her evening drink delivered to her post haste, and then see to it that the dinner I had been preparing appeared on the table shortly afterward. However, before I could even begin to mix the evening aperitif for The Evil One, I heard the bloodcurdling shriek…

More to come…

Murv

To be continued in: Lethal, But Fashionable…