Don't Forget To Knit Awesome!

Knitting our collective way out of a paper bag since 2011

Extra Story, Less-tra Not Story.

Extra long today, as promised last week.

 

I froze, after my “theoretical” terror scream.  With my heart racing, I glanced at my hand clenched around the handle.  My brain ran through all the options, which weren’t many, and settled on clearing my throat.  It’s a deceptively masterful move, clearing your throat after screaming like a horror movie target.  It projects an aura of sophistication and quick recovery skills, as well as clearing your throat.  My hand released the handle, but instead of my feet pivoting, I replied.

“I’m actually just trying to leave, because this isn’t the place you get… smoothies.  I thought it was, and now the door’s locked.  Which prevents me from leaving.  I really need a smoothie.  Like, you don’t even… Open the door, please.”    At this point, my entire plan hinged on this mystery person sharing my fictitious love of smoothies, and having a key to the door.  Also, no having a blender and being a ax murderer.  I still feel like it wasn’t asking too much.

He chuckled, then replied, in a voice slick like oil paints, “Actually, we do have a smoothie machine, and the storm just got, like, way worse, my friend.  I’ll open the door, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable, like, sending you out into that mayhem.  Why don’t you chill out on one of our power pews, and I’ll get you that smoothie.”  He snickered before each time he said smoothie.  I was very frightened, and turning around to fake a smile made things worse.  He didn’t mention my scream, but upon looking at him, I think it was because he’s used to people being terrified of him.

He was sporting dark red half moon spectacles, which he had low on his nose to stare at me.  Uncomfortably intensely, I should add.  His eyes sported super large pupils, with vividly violet irises.  His hair, which was pitch black, sported a bright blue dread lock roughly 18 inches long. And he smelled like fresh earth, and something else.  I’d vote terror, but I can’t really define that scent.   Other than what this guy smells like.  Anyway, he smiled at me, not without mirth, but without a soul behind it.  His smile, revealing no teeth, seemed to be poorly painted onto a cracked slate.

I simply nodded in reply to his suggestion, and attempted a halfhearted “whatever’s clever” shrug, but it manifested as a shiver.  Wrapping my arms around myself, to pretend I was cold and not shaking in fear, I sat in one of the seats.  Sitting there, the blasphemous feeling all but overtook me.  I got nauseous and confused.  I felt like I was violating some base agreement between man and god, me and my muses.  My ears heard what I thought was teeth chattering like the metal ball inside a spray paint can, but when I reached up to tough them, my teeth were clenched so hard, I became aware of lots of pain in my jaw.  It was a can I had in my pocket, empty save for the ball and some fumes.  My torso alone was shaking, and then things got weird.

The ferret cages and tubes started swirling around my as the room adamantly held firm.   The ferrets chuckled madly in tune with something that sounded like 15 century grunge music.  I tried to speak, but vomited.  The ferrets cackled madly, and the dude returned.  He looked like a bright orange streak, his jump suit and robe (both tacky orange with small gold squiggles scrawled inside and out,) left a trail as he slowly walked to me, humming in tune with the music.  He handed me a couple of gold, sparkling pills, and a glass of cold coffee.  I downed both quickly.

Then I thought to myself, “He said smoothie, and I just ate pills he gave me.  Apparently, I haven’t made enough bad choices tonight.  i hate ferrets.”   Then I blacked out.  Violently, if how I felt when I woke up were any indicator.

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