Monday, October 10, 2016

A Southern Living Shootout

“Snick-clack…BOOM!”  Scarlett jolted up out of the cozy hammock she’d strung up on her porch before dawn, lesson plans and classic works scattering as she swayed from side to side.  Tall does not mean graceful, she thought distractedly. But wait… “Was that a pump shotgun? Who the heck is there worth murdering in this town?”

She groaned as she heaved the heavy, rusting, sliding glass door open to take a look.  Need some WD-40 for that later, ugh.  Just then, her front door burst open with a BANG, crashing into the wall hard enough to embed the doorknob into the plaster.  Dust and pieces of wall scattered everywhere.

“Us, apparently!” Shouted a frantic voice, surprisingly high-pitched to be accompanying the massive, hulking man who came barreling into her apartment. “Shut the door! Shut the damn door! She’s coming!”

“…What the hell? Who are you? And I would shut the door! But you slammed it into my wall and NOW IT’S STUCK!” Scarlett’s red-headed temper made itself known. 

“I’m sorry! I’ll pay for it! But help me close this door!” There was a rush of activity in the hallway, and the man’s pleading got even more frantic.  Scarlett, for her part, snuck over to the doorframe (a measure of caution was probably necessary if there was a murderer around, after all) and peeked her head around.  Stifling her curiosity – nosiness, some said – was never her strong suit.  But before she could size up the scene, an enormous bear’s paw grabbed her sweatshirt, yanking her fully back inside. 

“Help me –”  “Okay, okay, jeez!” She obviously wasn’t getting any answers before she…shut the door, and thus herself inside her apartment with this strange, desperate man.  Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Shrugging, she added her weight to the man v. door tug-of-war.  With a heave, the doorknob popped free and the door slammed, sending them both sprawling in a tangle of limbs to the hard, linoleum floor.  Bear-man’s elbow whacked into Scarlett’s eye and she doubled over, clutching at it and yelping.  When she straightened up, glaring at him as best she could with one eye indisposed, he backed up, hands in the air.

“Holy guacamole, you’re scary.  I think it’s the height.”

“Shut up.”

“Touchy subject?”

“I said, shut up!”

He flipped a notepad open and magically plucked a pen out of thin air. 

“Okay, so moving on to other questions—”

“NO! Not until you answer mine! Who the hell are you?”

“Goodness, little lady, calm down.  I’m Joe, from Southern Living, here to interview you—”

“You can forget about that, Joe from Southern Living. Get out.  I’ve been talked down to and patronized enough in my life.  This “little lady” ain’t gonna take it anymore.”


“Leave. I’ll send you the bill to repair my door and wall – plus interest – later.”

Joe-bear-man whipped out a camera, snapped a photo of Scarlett’s glower, and high-tailed it out of there.  Shaking her fist after him, Scarlett yelled,
“I hope you DO get shot!”

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