[21] ). For the gash above his eye, Grundish had to shave the eyebrow in order to effectively seal it with more glue. For consistency, the other eyebrow was also shorn. In an effort to minimize the freakish browless appearance, surprised-looking and severely-arched brows were drawn in by Turleen with a brown El Marko permanent marker.
• • •
Reeling from a screaming headache and debilitating nausea, Askew leans against the counter and decides it is not worth it to try to pick at the wounds. He made a solemn oath to teach himself to use only his feet, and with the way he is feeling, it doesn’t seem possible to twist himself up enough to prod his face with his toes.
Later
, he tells himself,
later I’ll check it out
. He walks out of the bathroom, hands in pockets, and opens doors with his foot until he finds the master bedroom.
In the middle of the king-sized bed, snoring, dropping flatus, and drooling, is a lump of warm flesh known as Grundish. Lacking the energy and motivation to seek out another bed, Askew climbs in with the Grundish-lump, digs a knee into its back, and manages to clear himself enough room on one side of the bed.
• • •
Grundish and Askew sleep away the most part of the first day in the temporary hideout. But not Turleen. At sunrise, despite only having a few hours of sleep and a twisted ankle, she is up and about, working on plans for a safehouse for her and the boys. First it is half a dozen provocative squats. She takes a shower and squeezes her spots. Uses a brush on her teeth. Trims and deodorizes her twat. She looks at her house dress and says to herself,
a body can’t expect to lure a man in a get up like this, it can’t
. In the master bedroom, Turleen tears through Mrs. Buttwynn’s wardrobe, being as loud as she wants and still doesn’t wake the boys. The clothes look to be a close enough fit for her to make them work. She chooses a red dress and thinks to herself,
I would wear something like this if I were going to be on T.V.
She flings the dress over her shoulder and heads back into the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror makes her happy. The fine red dress hangs on her slight frame just right. Mrs. Melba Buttwynn’s pearl necklace and matching earrings are perfect. Turleen’s hair, an unnaturally blinding shade of red, is pulled back and twisted up in a bun, a #2 pencil stuck through to hold it in place. She flashes a maloccluded grin, the lower jaw jutting out proudly past the ill-fitting upper plate of false teeth. A small foam of spittle nestles in the corners of her mouth. The make-up on her face is thick and garish, the rouge like berries smashed on each cheek, the eye liner thick and clumpy, the eye shadow a trashy aquamarine. Turleen takes in her reflection and feels young and vigorous again. She feels sexy.
While the boys sleep, unwittingly entangled in a tender spooning position, Turleen arranges the objects in the kitchen to her satisfaction. The way it was set up made no sense to her. Who puts the silverware in the cabinet when it should be in a drawer? Why would the dishes be under the counter when they should be in the cabinet where the silverware was placed? Shouldn’t the dish rags and towels be in a drawer near the kitchen sink? What is the purpose of this dry-rotted rubber dildo hidden back under the sink, behind the Drano? These and many other ill-thought-out arrangements are remedied by Turleen. And the boys still sleep. Turleen decides to cook a pot of beef stew and have it ready for Grundish and Askew for when they awaken.
• • •
The sounds of moving bowels reverberate in the master bedroom. The booming flatulence bounces around from wall to wall until the noise finds its way out of the slightly ajar door of the bathroom and wends its way to Grundish’s ears. He stirs, rolls over toward the middle of the bed and wonders why the mattress is warm in a spot where he was not lying. A smell tickles his senses –
• • •
Reeling from a screaming headache and debilitating nausea, Askew leans against the counter and decides it is not worth it to try to pick at the wounds. He made a solemn oath to teach himself to use only his feet, and with the way he is feeling, it doesn’t seem possible to twist himself up enough to prod his face with his toes.
Later
, he tells himself,
later I’ll check it out
. He walks out of the bathroom, hands in pockets, and opens doors with his foot until he finds the master bedroom.
In the middle of the king-sized bed, snoring, dropping flatus, and drooling, is a lump of warm flesh known as Grundish. Lacking the energy and motivation to seek out another bed, Askew climbs in with the Grundish-lump, digs a knee into its back, and manages to clear himself enough room on one side of the bed.
• • •
Grundish and Askew sleep away the most part of the first day in the temporary hideout. But not Turleen. At sunrise, despite only having a few hours of sleep and a twisted ankle, she is up and about, working on plans for a safehouse for her and the boys. First it is half a dozen provocative squats. She takes a shower and squeezes her spots. Uses a brush on her teeth. Trims and deodorizes her twat. She looks at her house dress and says to herself,
a body can’t expect to lure a man in a get up like this, it can’t
. In the master bedroom, Turleen tears through Mrs. Buttwynn’s wardrobe, being as loud as she wants and still doesn’t wake the boys. The clothes look to be a close enough fit for her to make them work. She chooses a red dress and thinks to herself,
I would wear something like this if I were going to be on T.V.
She flings the dress over her shoulder and heads back into the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror makes her happy. The fine red dress hangs on her slight frame just right. Mrs. Melba Buttwynn’s pearl necklace and matching earrings are perfect. Turleen’s hair, an unnaturally blinding shade of red, is pulled back and twisted up in a bun, a #2 pencil stuck through to hold it in place. She flashes a maloccluded grin, the lower jaw jutting out proudly past the ill-fitting upper plate of false teeth. A small foam of spittle nestles in the corners of her mouth. The make-up on her face is thick and garish, the rouge like berries smashed on each cheek, the eye liner thick and clumpy, the eye shadow a trashy aquamarine. Turleen takes in her reflection and feels young and vigorous again. She feels sexy.
While the boys sleep, unwittingly entangled in a tender spooning position, Turleen arranges the objects in the kitchen to her satisfaction. The way it was set up made no sense to her. Who puts the silverware in the cabinet when it should be in a drawer? Why would the dishes be under the counter when they should be in the cabinet where the silverware was placed? Shouldn’t the dish rags and towels be in a drawer near the kitchen sink? What is the purpose of this dry-rotted rubber dildo hidden back under the sink, behind the Drano? These and many other ill-thought-out arrangements are remedied by Turleen. And the boys still sleep. Turleen decides to cook a pot of beef stew and have it ready for Grundish and Askew for when they awaken.
• • •
The sounds of moving bowels reverberate in the master bedroom. The booming flatulence bounces around from wall to wall until the noise finds its way out of the slightly ajar door of the bathroom and wends its way to Grundish’s ears. He stirs, rolls over toward the middle of the bed and wonders why the mattress is warm in a spot where he was not lying. A smell tickles his senses –
Similar Books
