Blood, Bullets, and Broccoli: Issue #4

The Wood Queen Cometh, And What A Bitch.

scary wood doll

COMBAT LOG #4

• Monday: 1400hrs.

• Mustache: Minor growth.

• Note to self: Buy a house plant. A Fern or a Peace Lily.

• Research: Hot yoga. Sounds hot.

• Mood: Eye of the Tiger.

The wooden chair digs into my back and creaks with every awkward gesture. I’m an action figure placed in a doll house with my legs all tingles pressed up against the desk. The walls are sheets of fake log cabin. Come to think of it, everything in this tiny office that can be wood, is wood. Hard wood floors. Wood shelves. Wood lamp. Pencils sitting in a hollowed out log inscribed MOM. Wood clock. Shellacked picture of a deer hung on the wall. The woman sitting behind the desk is wearing earrings shaped like spruce trees, which I imagine are made from spruce trees. Hell, you can hear the clickity clack of clogs from underneath the desk. This is an obsession only surpassed by Charlie’s drug habit.

I say, “If you’re a fan of wood, Donelda, you should see me in the morning.”

Typing on her keyboard, Donelda says, “Uh huh.”

Scoping out the office I say, “It means you’re a Xylophile, right? Someone who loves wood. Is that why you live in Williamstown? We couldn’t be more surrounded by the stuff.”

A cloud of apricot perfume hovers above the miniature office. The scent of a million screaming bunny rabbits is giving me a headache. No family pictures on the desk. No weapons in the open. I’m scoping the exit points. Four footsteps to her office door and eight more to the exit. It would take me exactly three seconds to escape if I had to and that’s taking into consideration my legs are asleep.

“You know that perfume—"

“Steady, Ian,” a voice whispers.

The woman across from me says, “Yes?”

I smile and then say, “Is absolutely divine, Donelda.”

Donelda sits on a tiny doll chair, her hips engulfing the seat. Donelda looks away from her monitor and says, “Mr. Remington, what have you done to your face?” Scrunching her thin eyebrows she says, “Half of your face is burnt bright red. It’s disgusting. And that silly mustache. You should reconsider growing a mustache at your age. Show a little self-respect and shave it off.”

“Take that bitch out Remington,” the voice coming from my mustache says. “We could clean the office, burn the surveillance tapes, stage a robbery and eat a non-dairy ice cream before the police show up.”

I murmur, “Calm down.”

“What was that Mr. Remington,” Donelda says.

I say, “Tanning bed. Fell asleep in the tanning bed. I won’t tolerate tan lines.”

Donelda groans looking down at documents sitting on her desk.

My face is the result of an atomic blast of sorts. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Charlie might be right. There’s something totally bonkers happening in Williamstown. Even if it’s not supernatural in nature, they scored some intense tech. Retirement has made me soft. Just my luck, I retire to the middle of nowhere for some peace and quiet only to find myself balls deep in an army of freaks with special abilities.

Charlie’s eyebrows are gone and half of his hair is singed or burnt off. He looks like Jason Voorhees after falling asleep at the beach with no sunscreen and a UV Index of eleven. I should complete the look and get him a goalie mask to cover his hideous features, even if it’s just so I don’t have to look at his disgusting burnt scrambled egg face. Truth is, Charlie is lucky to be alive. That blast should have tore his frail body apart, but lucky for Charlie he showed up that night as Intensely Introspective Horny Charlie. Charlie was tripping balls on ecstasy and because he was loose and relaxed he didn’t sustain any life altering injuries from the force. If you’re properly trained you can protect yourself from a blast, or, for the less motivated, just do a lot of ecstasy and hope for the best.

Donelda says, “Now, Mr. Remington, let us get to business. Enough small talk. We both know why you’re here.”

“She’s trying to project her dominance, Ian. She’s a ruthless stone cold killer. Take. Her. Down.”

I say, “You and I both know this is bullshit, Donelda. It’s illegal what you’re doing here. You must have some pretty big balls to think you’re going to get away with this.”

A waft of pine and rose roll in fighting the apricots for dominance, and then two voices from behind say, “Is there a problem, Madame”

Two identical woman, each wearing a brown skirt down to the ankles and a brown vest with a purple shirt underneath stare back at me. “I say, “Good lord, ladies you scared the bejesus out of me.”

Each one is caressing a crucifix hanging around their necks. In unison, the women say, “Better we scare Him back into you Mr. Remington.”

Donelda says, “These are my protègès, Mr. Remington. I’m fine girls. Mr. Remington was just finishing up.”

“We’re just getting started, girls. Take a seat and enjoy the show. First of all, the sewer levy is way too high. Water damage coverage is a joke. The monthly payments are through the roof and the deductibles are laughable. It’s criminal what you’re doing here, Donelda.”

The voice says, “Jesus, Ian. Is that why we’re here? You’re negotiating your insurance policy? I thought she was a terrorist, or some evil criminal genius you’ve been tracking.”

I whisper, “She is goddamit.”

“Who do you keep talking to, Mr. Remington?” Donelda says.

I say, “My conscious.”

“It’s a standard house insurance policy provided by our company,” Donelda says. “I can’t negotiate nor can I barter Mr. Remington so if you can find a better offer then I suggest you take it and stop wasting my time.”

We’re having a classic stare down. Two juggernauts facing off. I know twenty ways to kill a man. I’ve taken down cartels single-handedly. I’ve been to space.

After five minutes of statue-like resolve, Donelda’s robotic features show no hint of fatigue. My eye’s begin to tear, but I fight the urge holding my resolve. The voice says, “Just pay the lady Ian so we can get out of here.” My eyes are vibrating, tears streaming down my face and she’s barely breathing. I’m screaming inside for her to break. My eyes are reduced to slits holding on by a grand stubbornness acquired through veganism and being an epic asshole. Donelda stares back, not a wrinkle, not a movement. The woman is a manikin.

I slam my fist down on the desk, look away and slap my signature on the policy. I say, “This isn’t over, Donelda. I’ll be back.”

She takes the policy, gives it a quick look and says, “I’ll be here waiting, Ian. I look forward to it. Here at Thicket Insurance, we thank you for your continued support and look forward to doing business with you in the future. If there’s anything I can do for you don’t hesitate to call.”

I squeeze my way out of the office, walk outside, rub my hands together and say, “Now, how about that non-dairy ice cream cone you promised, Judith?”

The voice from my mustache says, “Oh boy. It’s worse that I thought.”