Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray Page B
Authors: Paisley Ray
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search for a missing book. Francine tapped a pink-furry slippered foot and shouted, “Turn that whiney music down.”
Macy relaxed on her bed wearing men’s plaid boxers and a wife beater tank top. A contraption that looked like brass knuckles, only Styrofoam separated her toes. She capped a bottle of polish, most likely her signature color--Smok’n in Havana--before adjusting an oscillating fan. “Francine, go back to your cave.”
On tiptoes, Francine stood five feet tall max. Being short in stature made her voluptuous-curves all the more intimidating. She wore a permanent scowl and didn’t walk, but strutted in a motion that mimicked the swish-swish of maracas in a samba. Francine grew up Baptist on the Louisiana Bayou and used Ragin Cajun when she threw out insults. Marching back to her room, she returned to the hall with her boom box on a long extension cord. Strategically aiming the speaker at Macy’s open door, she pushed play. The speakers thumped a gospel-choir-musical-selection, “Take Me to the River,” which rhythmically conflicted with the B52’s, “Rock Lobster” playing on Macy’s machine.
I considered shutting my door but didn’t. As the two moved the dispute into the common corridor, I put my eyes into my open book and froze.
Macy, apparently unable to control herself, poked Francine in the shoulder. Beginning round one of verbal assault ping-pong, she shouted, “I’ll listen to whatever I want.”
Batting Macy’s hand aside, Francine growled, “Don’t poke me with those hooker nails.”
Shoving and jabbing evolved into a wrestling match that rivaled Hulk Hogan versus The Undertaker, landing them in my room.
From under Francine’s armpit Macy squeaked, “Help?”
“Francine. Let go of her.”
“Rachael, keep your gumbo out of this. Miss Filth Mouth needs a lesson on respect.”
Knotted together, Macy hooked her leg around Francine, and repeatedly tried to throw her off balance. Momentum moved them backward into the built-in dresser, capsizing Katie Lee’s perfume bottles and my cosmetic containers. I jumped on my bed and warned, “Someone’s going to get hurt.”
Grappling out of the elbow hold, Macy paused to catch her breath while Francine rested her hands on her knees.
“Truce?” I pleaded.
Macy positioned her hip sideways and extended her butt. “Listen here, Mama,” she said before slapping her ass with a whack sharp enough to send any four-legged animal into a gallop. “You-can-kiss this.”
“Your Crisco’s gone rancid,” Francine shouted.
I was born with the non-confrontational gene and vehemently avoided situations where mental or physical injury seemed likely. I would’ve bolted but Francine blocked the doorway when she bulldozed Macy into my desk. I leapt from my bed to Katie Lee’s side of the room, and cringed when my mug of cider tipped over onto my Psych book, before puddling to the floor. “See what you’ve done,” I spat on deaf ears.
In a defensive counter maneuver, Macy launched gourds and pumpkins at Francine. One ricocheted off her chest, causing her to wince and take refuge. Katie Lee’s closet door provided cover from exploding squash grenades and a trail of seedy-pulp mush.
When Macy ran out of ammo, Francine came out of hiding. “So, that’s how you want to play.”
The two circled each other in a game of chicken. “Rach,” Macy said, “back me up.”
Not exactly sure what Macy expected me to do, I crouched an arm’s length away, dodging and shuffling around them in a caveman dance.
Francine’s Louisiana drawl misted the air with every “s” sound she uttered. “You,” she told Macy, “are pissing me off, and I am going to report your biscuit ass and get it kicked outtahere.”
They were destroying my room, and I tried to think of something to diffuse their tempers. Before anything appropriate popped into my head, Macy flipped a double-fisted-bird. Her painted nails glowed like sparkling roman candles, and she told
Macy relaxed on her bed wearing men’s plaid boxers and a wife beater tank top. A contraption that looked like brass knuckles, only Styrofoam separated her toes. She capped a bottle of polish, most likely her signature color--Smok’n in Havana--before adjusting an oscillating fan. “Francine, go back to your cave.”
On tiptoes, Francine stood five feet tall max. Being short in stature made her voluptuous-curves all the more intimidating. She wore a permanent scowl and didn’t walk, but strutted in a motion that mimicked the swish-swish of maracas in a samba. Francine grew up Baptist on the Louisiana Bayou and used Ragin Cajun when she threw out insults. Marching back to her room, she returned to the hall with her boom box on a long extension cord. Strategically aiming the speaker at Macy’s open door, she pushed play. The speakers thumped a gospel-choir-musical-selection, “Take Me to the River,” which rhythmically conflicted with the B52’s, “Rock Lobster” playing on Macy’s machine.
I considered shutting my door but didn’t. As the two moved the dispute into the common corridor, I put my eyes into my open book and froze.
Macy, apparently unable to control herself, poked Francine in the shoulder. Beginning round one of verbal assault ping-pong, she shouted, “I’ll listen to whatever I want.”
Batting Macy’s hand aside, Francine growled, “Don’t poke me with those hooker nails.”
Shoving and jabbing evolved into a wrestling match that rivaled Hulk Hogan versus The Undertaker, landing them in my room.
From under Francine’s armpit Macy squeaked, “Help?”
“Francine. Let go of her.”
“Rachael, keep your gumbo out of this. Miss Filth Mouth needs a lesson on respect.”
Knotted together, Macy hooked her leg around Francine, and repeatedly tried to throw her off balance. Momentum moved them backward into the built-in dresser, capsizing Katie Lee’s perfume bottles and my cosmetic containers. I jumped on my bed and warned, “Someone’s going to get hurt.”
Grappling out of the elbow hold, Macy paused to catch her breath while Francine rested her hands on her knees.
“Truce?” I pleaded.
Macy positioned her hip sideways and extended her butt. “Listen here, Mama,” she said before slapping her ass with a whack sharp enough to send any four-legged animal into a gallop. “You-can-kiss this.”
“Your Crisco’s gone rancid,” Francine shouted.
I was born with the non-confrontational gene and vehemently avoided situations where mental or physical injury seemed likely. I would’ve bolted but Francine blocked the doorway when she bulldozed Macy into my desk. I leapt from my bed to Katie Lee’s side of the room, and cringed when my mug of cider tipped over onto my Psych book, before puddling to the floor. “See what you’ve done,” I spat on deaf ears.
In a defensive counter maneuver, Macy launched gourds and pumpkins at Francine. One ricocheted off her chest, causing her to wince and take refuge. Katie Lee’s closet door provided cover from exploding squash grenades and a trail of seedy-pulp mush.
When Macy ran out of ammo, Francine came out of hiding. “So, that’s how you want to play.”
The two circled each other in a game of chicken. “Rach,” Macy said, “back me up.”
Not exactly sure what Macy expected me to do, I crouched an arm’s length away, dodging and shuffling around them in a caveman dance.
Francine’s Louisiana drawl misted the air with every “s” sound she uttered. “You,” she told Macy, “are pissing me off, and I am going to report your biscuit ass and get it kicked outtahere.”
They were destroying my room, and I tried to think of something to diffuse their tempers. Before anything appropriate popped into my head, Macy flipped a double-fisted-bird. Her painted nails glowed like sparkling roman candles, and she told
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