I hate surprises. No, I really do hate surprises. The last time someone surprised me I nearly killed them. I happened to be holding a large shovel at the time, you see. This was very convenient. I could have simply killed them with the shovel and buried them right there in the backyard, all before lunchtime. Handy things, shovels. It was on my birthday too.
Christina Lloyd, that crazy crack addicted neighbor from across the hall, thought that sneaking up behind someone with a dozen shiny balloons while shrieking “It’s your birthdayyy!!” was a terribly funny idea. It wasn’t, because she could have been pushing daisies had I not lived in such a tight community. Backyard fences were almost useless, as the apartments were so close together that any old lady and her cat could be looking into your backyard and you wouldn’t know it until later, when they’d come shuffling over to you saying “I saw Christina Lloyd go into your backyard with balloons today. She never came back out. Mr. Fluffles and I would like to know why.” And that's how serial killers are born, plus I would miss lunch. So being the Good Samaritan that I was, I invited her inside. I also wanted to get the balloons out of the public eye as soon as possible.
Christina twirled her hair until the end was a neat spiral.
“I wanted to see you again,” she said,
“But I wasn’t sure, after that terrible first impression…” She trailed off with all the skill of a beginning soap opera actress. Christina is one of those women who talks to herself in the mirror, no doubt. I smiled back at her, just because I knew it would make her look away. She took it as a sign to start talking again. I wanted to punch her.
“It’s fine,” I said, then lifted up a kettle.
“Care for some tea?” She hates tea.
“Oh.. Sure, why not?” she squeaked. With a chuckle I dropped two tea bags into the pot. Christina is amusing, not unlike a parrot. Parrots, by the way, are not as smart as people think they are. She’s colorful to be sure, but mostly stupid. I had a parrot as a pet once, but I was constantly threatening to flush it down the toilet if it didn’t shut up. It never did shut up, so I did flush it down the toilet. When my grandmother asked what ever happened to that nice blue bird we’d had (It was actually green.) I told her the cat had gotten to it, what a shame. She believed me, and the best part was that we didn’t even have a cat. Alzheimer’s, you gotta love it. I wouldn’t mind seeing Christina mauled by a cat, I thought as she took the steaming mug from me.
“What do you think?” I looked up at her mid sip.
“Hm?” Christina was beaming at me. One of her nails was tapping against the ceramic mug, annoying me to no end. ting ting ting ting ting
“I’m so sorry, I was miles off.” I replied. Apologizing to women seems to make them think they have some kind of power over you. It’s funny, but also kind of sad.
“I was wonderiiing,” ting ting ting
“if you’d like to come to a little shindig I’m having next Friday.” Shindig? Did she really just say that? I wanted to ask her if she grew up under a rock, but somehow managed to say
“Sure, let me mark my calendar,” instead. Great. Well I knew that she’d make a big deal of me coming over to see all her little druggie friends. I’d arrive and she’d hug me and it would all go to hell from there. I had to make certain that she did not make me out to be her partner in any way, or whatever it is crack addicts have in the way of relationships. “Would it be alright if I brought along a friend?” Christina’s smile slipped by a fraction, but she hitched it back into place almost immediately. It put me in mind of someone dropping and catching a wet bar of soap, just in the nick of time.
“Oh absolutely!” she cried,
“Bring a hundred friends along! The more the merrier.” Tingtingtingtingting! Grand. Now all I had to do was find just the right girl to accompany me to this crack fest. The hunt was on.
By the way, the first time I met Christina she was laying in the middle of our apartment’s back lot, wrapped in a towel and hollering about someone named Wayne who had stolen the rest of her rum. There’s nobody in our apartment named Wayne.
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Debating many things, such as this young antagonists name. That's what he is- the main character, and the antagonist. I love unreliable narrators!
But more importantly, any advice?
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