TLIAD: This Is Not Your Fault!

modelcitizen

modelcitizen

Oy, wtf what are you doing?

Huh?

YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!

Go hump yourself.

No, really. Don't you have some Draka to shove into another mole-hole? Some poor sap of a freely-elected leader to possess with a "demonic" hand?

You should leave me alone. I feel like I'm being watched. Watched closely.

That's your wife. I'm just wondering what makes you think you're going to write something that could fit in THIS part of the site here.

(Smiling in a way that I think is enigmatic.)

That psycho grin may work with some of your students. But you're not at work, now, are you? Are you?

It's been snowing outside.

If you make climate part of this, then, this will need to be in ASB.

Stop that.

I wonder how far you'll get with this. How many TLs have you actually COMPLETED?

Hey, screw you. (Pauses.) Ironic that on this site you're more likely to start a story with a mushroom cloud than end it. But yeah.

I'll fix your red wagon. Your wife will attempt to make your head explode in five, four, three, two...
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

Brewster's wife was pissed.

He had bought too much car.

Way too much.

"Come on, baby. This is safe sound engineering!"

"YOU ASSHOLE!"

"We can afford it!"

"I don't need some six-wheeled surrogate for your genitalia! What is wrong with you?"

"This is a smooth ride! Life is nicer with something like this."
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

Brewster refrained from telling his darling that he had gotten a good deal, that the low interest six percent financing he had been given was a nice thing to have on what was almost a used car, and besides, he still had paid for most of it with but a fraction of the still-ample reserve from his recent-ish liquidation.


Go with brazen arrogance, he thought. Don't give an inch.


"You will thank your husband at the first road trip," he said grandly. "Baby, it's got Betamax in rows two and three!"
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

Brewster's darling Anita finally fell for her husband's chutzpah and bedroom eyes. She grabbed him by the necktie and dragged him inside. All was forgiven.

Brewster was sufficiently wowed that he completely forgot to grab the keys from the ignition of his newly acquired Chrysler Imperial turbine-powered minivan, parked in his driveway and resplendent in Royal Black Cherry and deeply shining chromium Turbine Alloy Wheels. (The two axles in the back were for traction for the turbine-hybrid power-train's enormous torque and towing capacity.)

As Anita's alluring grin and tugging at his tie further dumped Brewster's blood-flow away from his brain and to elsewhere, he didn't even think to close the driver's door of the vehicle.
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

About twelve hours before, at a nondescript office building park of the kind you find serving as breaks between suburban clusters, in a large room with no windows and dim "standby" lighting of the type you might expect in a large room at night that doesn't fully illuminate but nonetheless prevents folks from breaking their freaking neck when they go into the room looking for something like a light switch, you know?

Two dim figures are standing at what looks like a counter, blocking most of our view of something they're both paying close attention to and discussing. Or talking with. Hard to say.

John Doe, big guy, could be any age between fifteen and sixty, not quite sounding like Hey George Tell Me About The Rabbits but kind of close: "Hey, buddy buddy!"

Jack Doe, hard to distinguish, slightly throaty or raspy, not quite parrot-like: "Heeey, buddy buddy!"

John D., "Hey, he spoke back to me! He likes me."

Jeff Doe, sounds like Steven Wright: "No. If he repeats it, it means he doesn't get it."

Someone snorts.

Jack: "Doesn't get it."

John: "Oh."

Jack: "Buddy buddy buddy!"

Jeff: "Now he's just mocking you."

Momentary pause.

John: "Tell me again why he's blue."
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

On the suburban street by the home of Brewster and Anita, maybe three minutes after she and he go in, we can see the overwrought cherry black not-that-mini van with the six turbine wheels and various turbine-fetishistic styling cues in the driveway, with the driver's door slightly ajar, you could maybe even be able to tell that the interior light is on in the car even though it's a nice sunny day.

On a bicycle with a crate held wobbling-ly on the handlebar, we see "John D." in broad daylight, he's a big not-too-tidy fellow, probably in his twenties, and he's been exerting himself and the guy looks distraught.

The lab-coat John D. is wearing has the name "Zach" on it in blue script. Okay, his name is Zach. Zach is slack-jawed, breathing hard, and looking around desperately for... well, he has no idea what he's looking for. He pauses riding for the moment, his big body heaving with breath from what's been a very very active day.

What is that annoyed-sounding growl we hear?

Of course, Zach on the bike with the crate kind of precariously balanced atop the handlebar, it evokes ET, no?

Zach: "Ohh man. Oh man oh man oh man. No, oh man, we have got to go, oh, man!"

We begin to hear the at first faint but then slowly growing sound of a siren, and then more than one siren. After a moment, Zach perks up and adopts a woebegone facial expression.

Zach is about to lift his hand from the crate to assume a "Home Alone" expression of horror but remembers just in time to keep his hand in place to keep the crate from falling onto the ground. The crate is jostled a bit, but, it does not fall.

The annoyed-sounding growl we have been hearing increases in both pitch and volume.
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

Abruptly and with stunning rapidity, something blue and furry bursts out of the crate, shattering it thoroughly and leaping and hurling itself in the direction of Brewster and Anita's driveway. It moves with such speed that all we can see is that the thing is low to the ground and has long, long arms, like a gibbon's.

The thing is heard uttering, "FFFFFFFFFFFFFAAAAAAAAA--"

Zach is not taking this in stride. "Noo! VERN! Vern, no, no!"

Vern abruptly comes to a halt and then glares at Zach.

The creature is maybe three feet tall, albeit a bit crouched, large head, long powerful arms, legs that seem to be a parody of a hare's at second glance --they are compact and powerful and at "rest" seems on the verge of springing forward-- and large very alert eyes that are narrowing with scorn at Zach.

Vern then throws his arms up and shouts at Zach, "GO FFFFF--K YOURSELF!"

Vern then returns to his breakneck pace, making an obvious beeline for the Chrysler Imperial with the chrome chrome wheels.

There are large tears rolling down Zach's face. "Noooooo! No!"
 
modelcitizen

modelcitizen

It is early evening now.

We are somewhere around Barstow, by the edge of the desert.

The Imperial is going at a peacefully rapid pace, with a hushed jet-whine in the background.

POV behind the wheel, and a blue-furred big hand with pronounced knuckles reaches to one of the numerous chrome knobs and adjusts the volume by one click, and, it's Fresh Air, with Terry Gross, on Public Broadcasting Radio.
Terry Gross, as always, announces, "This is Fresh Air!"

Vern gives a subdued growl, clears his throat and says, "This is Fresh Air!"

Gross describes the show's content and then, "but first, the news!"

Vern precisely turns the knob another click louder.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top
Top