First, might I begin this post by saying I had NO idea as to the literary talent lurking within my readership. Next, might I add that you’re all a VERY fucked-up bunch and I can only be thankful that certain people did NOT submit entries.
With over 30 entries in contention for the finals, I was only able to whittle the list down to 7 finalists. Alas, my readers will have to do the rest.
Say hello to your finalists and their stories that are a shitload better than mine:
“She’s got to go!”
“I know, Vito. She’s made a lot of enemies with her bunny ears and her flippant use of hashtags; I’ve even heard she bites. She’s a drunk, and she’s a dangerous drunk, and she puts this whole racket at risk. But the heat’s on, and the feds are already onto our fake mountain climbing and adventure sport business,” said Alphonse.
Vito, surprising given the 60 degree angle of his large, misshapen nose and cleft palate was easy to understand, though. There was a lot at stake here – the fake adventure sports racket was worth hundreds of millions to the Colorado mafia; you know, fake pictures of you on exposed rock faces, mountain peaks . . . impress your friends and buy the influence only the foolhardy pursuit of questionable goals can buy. Yeah – Vito was never going to be the belle of the ball, but he was right about the redhead.
The man sitting quietly in the corner finally spoke. His voice was slow and measured, making his words all the more menacing. “Break her ankle; make it look like an accident. Have her roughed up a bit in the hospital – nothing obvious; burly docs and nurses ‘controlling’ her with a little muscle.” He turned his burning gaze to each man in the room, to emphasize his next point: ” If that doesn’t keep her quiet, I want a more permanent solution. Make it look like alcohol poisoning – no one will question that. And then bring me the bunny ears of the redhead . . . “
Parkour. The word itself was just so fucking pretentious that she refused to say it. Still, one of her friends sent her a link to a Youtube video that made her want to give it a shot. She was fit and lithe enough, there was no doubt about that. Add to that the fact the guy in the video was local and damn hot and her sending him an email was an easy decision.
He had replied with an enthusiastic yes. Perhaps she would have thought it a little too enthusiastic if she had been thinking more about his tone and less about abs. They set the date and on a clear and damned cold morning, she found herself waiting for him outside the library.
The architecture of the marble and wrought iron building was apparently ideal for pretending she was Spider Woman. Fortified with a coffee, itself strengthened with some Jameson, she smiled at the man as he walked up. He was every bit as hot as the video implied and made her last two ex’s look like re-warmed Taco Bell.
Without so much as a by your god-damned leave he looked at her with blue eyes that could have cut glass and nodded. “Follow me.” There was a hint of French Canadian in those three syllables.
He bounded up a wall easily twice as tall as he was and grinned down at her from the height. Telling him that she was an experienced climber may have been a mistake. Still there was no backing out now.
She hit the wall after a brief sprint and was halfway up when she heard the loud crack and felt pain explode up her leg. Less than a second later she felt herself hit the ground and welcomed the blackness.
***special notice for his entry being “tweetable” at a mere 100 characters…astounding
Chuck Norris and the Redhead. Big fight. Redhead broke bone on Chuck’s beard. Declared a draw. Whoa.
The most awesome avatar on Twitter
“In which Ms. Rouge-a-tete holds a tea party, and is interrupted by the rude encroaching of discussions of faith and politics.”
Engaging in her witty banter
Simply too caught up to canter
Conversational fun broke into a run
And turned quiet speakers into ranters
Linguistically, on even tread
Our hero of the flaming head
Threw her “just one thing” into the ring
But spawned several more instead
Words leapt high across the table
Supporting words, just left of stable
Arguments swirled and derision whirled
On if science or faith was the fable!
Tangled in meaning, her impassioned replies
Sought to speak of reason above all the cries
Metaphors sundered, the dinner guests thundered
And completely ignored all the pies
NOW she was angry, her teeth ground like rocks
Her face blushed a color as flush as her locks
This topic (no kiddin!) – by good manners forbidden
And this *language* belonged on the *docks*!
Though wobbly with fury, she stood on her chair
And spoke with a voice just as bright as her hair
“No more talk!” Called out she, as loud as can be
“All this nonsense I just cannot bear!”
Her tea party ruined, she quivered with wrath
As a one of the gathering dared then to laugh
“You’ve nothing to land on, and no chair leg to stand on!”
And she didn’t – it had snapped right in half!
As she fell tragically, shock leapt to her face
The doctor was summoned, and to her he raced
Examined and wrote down, with a most solemn frown
“Etiquette: Breached in two places.”
It would be a crock of shit to say I was doing anything remotely adventurous when I tore myself open, but for the sake of keeping you around to buy me another drink I’ll entertain the idea of embellishing just a bit.
You see the real story sucks: I fucken fell down like an idiot. The type of fall that might resemble what happens when a freshman pigtailed blonde girl walks by the senior quarterback while crossing paths in the parking lot. Just in my case there was no fucking quarterback, just a momentary loss of balance. Pathetic I know.
I guess that’s why I now tell people I was saving the world or some other shit. You know the type of stuff 30-second Michael Bay studio pitches are made out of. The ludicrous stuff that makes 13-year-olds cream their pants as cars transform and Nicholas Cage sticks foot-long needles into his heart.
Last night it was running away from some drunken 16-year-old on a cougar hunt. Two nights ago it was from drop kicking a midget out of my favorite Irish Pub. (Rumor has it he was a leprechaun, but there was no fucking pot of gold to be seen.) Last week I told a pathetic looking old lady it was another old ladies fault when she ran over my foot in the grocery store on one of those motorized cart things. She however, did not seem to appreciate the bullshit as much as I did.
So for the sake of you sacking up and throwing down another ten spot on my love for alcohol I’ll tell you what happened. Lets just say for the sake of time it was epic. There was a panda, a bowl of orange chicken and one really pissed of pair of chopsticks.
So there was a dog. A little one. Chihuahua maybe? How the fuck would I know? The point is, it jumped from some chick’s purse in an arc that could only be described (by my friends who were watching and failed to warn me) as legendary. It landed behind me as I walked backward on the sidewalk, talking to the delicious pyrotechnic gentleman who was in charge of the Fourth of July fireworks.
Yes, I can walk backward.
Anyway, Mr. Pyrotechnic yelled “Wow!” or “Watch it!” or “Look out, little dog!” or something like that, but it was too late. I tumbled over that runty rat-dog in a spectacular flailing of red, white and blue (I had dressed for the occasion). My ankle cracked like a Roman candle.
Before I passed out from Pain Like No Other, I extinguished someone’s discarded cigarette butt on the sidewalk next to me with my martini. I am that kind of person.
Mr. Pyrotechnic raced to the dog’s aid.
The dry sound of match dragging on wall was followed by a violent blue spark.
“I never knew how to pronounce #,” a voice in the dark said.
“Go back to sleep. I’m leaving,” hissed the RedHead.
“They’ll bring you back,” the voice in the dark said.
” The #fbomb they will, when I’m gone, I’m gone.”
“RedHead, there’s razor wire on the 12-foot fence. Guards. Dogs. This isn’t some joke, it’s rehab for #fbomb users.”
“So what SHOULD I use? ‘Linoleum?’ It doesn’t have the force. Although I liked it fine when I dropped the #Fbomb on the floor in the French Kitchen. What a reaction! Linoleum Blown-apart! HAH!”
Then, in the dark, the sound of a chain dragging. A pause. Dragging. A pause.
“RedHead, the walls are wired for #fbombs. One more and they’ll throw you in solitary. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wanted you to love me for me, but I can grant you one wish. Just tell me, do you want me to set you free?”
“No, I can do it on my own.”
“Just say the word. I can make it come true.”
Gritting her teeth, she dragged the heavy chains toward the window. This was the second floor, right? Not the fifth? She threw the chains out the window and their weight pulled her out, too.
Too fast. She’d miscalculated. It HAD been the fifth floor.
One word. One wish. Could he still hear her? A moment of weakness. Rehab was working.
Her wish was granted. Her leg snapped.
“#fbomb. I should have used the #fbomb.”
Now – please vote. The winners are determined by you, my readers. I absolve myself from any reponsibility at this point except to put the iPod Touch in the mail to the winner and adopt the winning story as my own for posterity.
And thanks to all who submitted entries – you made me laugh endlessly. Better than any pain meds out there.