I woke up from a dream. Just spent the last couple hours thinking up a short story based on it. Here it is. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas.
-SR
I’ve been shot.
That old hag tried to silence me with bullets. That’s what I get for calling Jeanne Chavanoz out on my blog for smearing my allies and friends in the left as gluttonous warlords and perverted witches in her latest Anglocentric fantasy book.
You are not going to believe this! An attendant/accomplice actually laid out a page of newspaper between a pistol-toting Jeanne and I in order to scare me. Before the searing bullet burned and pierced holes through the page and my left shoulder, the assistant said “Sawry shoog. nuthin’ personal” in a canned but probably congenital Virginian belle accent. The bullets cool down slightly in my body as quickly as the belle closes the door and runs off. That’s right! Run!!
I fumble around the armrest on my wheelchair for the buzzer. I press it in a pattern familiar to anyone over six years of age
“…_ _ _…”
My valkyrie is woken up and galloping down the stairway. Kristen is my QT/PT/M.D all in one toned and gorgeous body. Although Kristen and I are quite close, we have a small mnemonic joke to signify what is off limits. Three P’s; Penetration, Pets and her Past. I can only guess about her past, but I would say she was in one of those Scandinavian antifascist vanguards in another lifetime. It may not be true, but it explains many things I know and would like to imagine about her.
“Oh…my…god! Chavanoz?!” Her deep Norse accent sooths me. It still captivates me how worried she gets when I’m hurt.
“Chavanoz”
She seizes the handlebars on the back of my chair and rushes toward the kitchen. When she walks me, I always imagine that we are two Japanese robots linking up to form an unstoppable mecha made of carbon fiber, bamboo, and flesh. It puts me at ease and calms some of the scorching pain.
As soon as we are in the kitchen, she carefully lifts me off my bamboo-carbon Throne of Death and lays me down on the counter. I cringe as my bloody left shoulder rests.
“Skeit. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back”.Before she turns away, her lips echo another sorry. Her eyes and cheeks are shaking
She comes back with blistering speed carrying a bright orange duffel bag labeled “First Responder”. She zips open the bag and takes out exactly what she may need for this impromptu operation and zips the bag closed as she prepares her effects on the counter across from me.
She faces me with a supersonic injector in her hands “I’m giving you a little morphine” *ksh* goes the syringe. The morphine kicks in within two heartbeats.
She rotates away and back towards me in a clockwise fashion with tools in her hand. Her rotations start getting quicker and blurrier. It reminds me of when she dances for me. She always puts on great music for those hypnotic moments. It’s always electronic with oriental elements to suit her dancing style. Now everything is blurry, the morphine takes me away for a while.
I hear a clank of metal, then another. It must be the bullets dropping on a pan. I can feel my warm and probably cholesterol saturated blood ooze out from my wounds. Kristen wipes the blood off before she binds my torso up like a mummy.
“It’s done, baby. It’s not life threatening, but you’re gonna be off for a while. Damn .22’s are cruel like that”. She sets up another bottle on the injector.”This one is a tetanus antigen, just in case!” *ksh*. As soon as she puts away her things. She blurredly turns to me and gives me a warm kiss on my temple. “I’ll be right back”
I imagine she is leaving me to call the hospital, ghost an emergency message on my blog, and probably cry a little. As much as we both share our feelings with each other, We usually cry by ourselves. We are not the type of couple who cry on each other’s shoulders. Quite a good idea since my left is fucked up at the moment. I guess it’s because we realize that our crying isn’t shiny, straight and clean like you see in the movies. It’s messy, slobbery, and ugly.
I yield to unconsciousness.
I wake up to Kristen’s smiling face. She went through the trouble of placing me in my office.
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to noon”
“Can I see what you ghosted?” She hands me my laptop, It’s on and ready on the post in question.
EMERGENCY!
An attempt has just been made on Mark’s life by associates of Jeanne Chavanoz. I implore to loyal fans of Mark; Please offer any support you can, but do not panic, and do not retaliate. This is exactly what she expects you to do. Mark is in stable condition at the moment, and will offer a rebuttal to this despicable act soon.
Kristen Andersdatter
“Good. You left out enough details not to attract too much attention. I’m glad you understand the situation”
“As soon as I recognized the rounds as .22, I knew what was going on”
Jeanne didn’t want to kill me, she just wanted to scare me off. Nice try, but Jeanne can’t undo her stupid mudslinging fantasy book, or the other allegorical crap that lead my predecessors to call her out as a liar and cheerleader for Washington.
Sorry shoog, but It’s personal now.