people
are still being persecuted and when will it ever end, the whole nine. She
apologized, but it was too late. Rumor is, they’re reshooting the next episode
of Smile High to kill off her character.”
“Seems a bit
excessive for a t-shirt.”
Lauren throws her
hands out wide. “Thank you. That’s what I’ve been saying, too. It’s not like
she got a five-year-old girl attacked by a demon, right?”
“Ouch.”
“I’m just making a
point. No harm intended.”
“You sure?”
“I just meant it’s
not quite on the same level, and…”
“I get it,
Coeburn.”
“Give me a sec,
will ya?” Lauren stands up from the stool and wobbles a little. Looks like
breakfast finally caught up to her. She plays it off like a pro, however,
apologizes again, and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
Which leaves me
standing here in the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I don’t have the slightest
bit of paranormal investigation equipment with me. I’m supposed to be here
relaxing, so yeah, I’m severely unprepared.
Then again, these
little black-eyed bastards are kinda front and center. I won’t need much to
have a face-to-face conversation. Any sort of camera would be nice for proof,
and I figure my cell phone will have to do for that. I’m not about to run down
to the nearest superstore and walk out of there with a few cameras and voice
recorders. There’s too much risk of being recognized and drawing attention to
the fact that the almighty Ford Atticus Ford is up to something.
Aside from a
smartphone, what does one take into battle against a paranormal entity that
appears to be flesh and blood, but may not actually be alive?
I don’t carry a
gun. Never have. Even when my celebrity star was at its apex in the sky, I
didn’t carry any heavy-duty protection with me. I figured if a stalker or some
overly excited fan got a little too rowdy, I’d trust my instincts and charm.
What to do? What
to do?
This condo isn’t
mine, so I spend about thirty seconds rifling through cabinets and drawers,
looking for something to use as a weapon besides a kitchen knife. How about a
lighter and some cleaning spray? Or maybe I could throw a handful of flour in
their eyes and then use some karate-chop action. I find a half full bottle of
canola oil over the stove and get a slightly hilarious and cartoonish image of
pouring it on Ellen’s steps, then watching them hilariously slip and slide off
the edges.
I’m bordering on
absurd now. What else is there?
All this shit is
scary as hell, but sometimes it’s so unbelievable that all you can do is laugh
at it and at yourself.
Perhaps Ellen will
have something useful at her house. I’m not above using a kitchen knife to
protect us.
I feel awkward
about the possibility of stabbing a child, yet if there’s a demented alien or
upper-level demon possessing its host, one that has its sights set on dragging
me down to hell, I might just have to find out if these things bleed.
Lauren enters the
kitchen from the hallway, looking fresher. She says, “I’ll have to leave a
thank you note for the owners. I feel a little more like myself.”
“How so?”
“Fully stocked
drawers.”
Finally, I see
what she’s talking about. She has on a touch of makeup now and it suits her
well. Much subtler and normal than the garish, exotic-bird tones she was
flaunting this morning. Little bit of lipstick, little bit of eyeliner. I’m not
sure what the need is because she’s here, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and she
doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to go confront some terrifying paranormal
entities.
Hey, I said I’d
forgive her—I just didn’t say I’d be entirely nice about it. I’m not letting
her hang out here while I go parlay with the beasts by myself.
***
We drape a
patchwork quilt over Ellen and leave her behind with Ulie. I like the idea of
him staying behind to protect her rather than risk being exposed to the unknown
potential. He’s my little buddy, you know? I
are still being persecuted and when will it ever end, the whole nine. She
apologized, but it was too late. Rumor is, they’re reshooting the next episode
of Smile High to kill off her character.”
“Seems a bit
excessive for a t-shirt.”
Lauren throws her
hands out wide. “Thank you. That’s what I’ve been saying, too. It’s not like
she got a five-year-old girl attacked by a demon, right?”
“Ouch.”
“I’m just making a
point. No harm intended.”
“You sure?”
“I just meant it’s
not quite on the same level, and…”
“I get it,
Coeburn.”
“Give me a sec,
will ya?” Lauren stands up from the stool and wobbles a little. Looks like
breakfast finally caught up to her. She plays it off like a pro, however,
apologizes again, and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
Which leaves me
standing here in the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I don’t have the slightest
bit of paranormal investigation equipment with me. I’m supposed to be here
relaxing, so yeah, I’m severely unprepared.
Then again, these
little black-eyed bastards are kinda front and center. I won’t need much to
have a face-to-face conversation. Any sort of camera would be nice for proof,
and I figure my cell phone will have to do for that. I’m not about to run down
to the nearest superstore and walk out of there with a few cameras and voice
recorders. There’s too much risk of being recognized and drawing attention to
the fact that the almighty Ford Atticus Ford is up to something.
Aside from a
smartphone, what does one take into battle against a paranormal entity that
appears to be flesh and blood, but may not actually be alive?
I don’t carry a
gun. Never have. Even when my celebrity star was at its apex in the sky, I
didn’t carry any heavy-duty protection with me. I figured if a stalker or some
overly excited fan got a little too rowdy, I’d trust my instincts and charm.
What to do? What
to do?
This condo isn’t
mine, so I spend about thirty seconds rifling through cabinets and drawers,
looking for something to use as a weapon besides a kitchen knife. How about a
lighter and some cleaning spray? Or maybe I could throw a handful of flour in
their eyes and then use some karate-chop action. I find a half full bottle of
canola oil over the stove and get a slightly hilarious and cartoonish image of
pouring it on Ellen’s steps, then watching them hilariously slip and slide off
the edges.
I’m bordering on
absurd now. What else is there?
All this shit is
scary as hell, but sometimes it’s so unbelievable that all you can do is laugh
at it and at yourself.
Perhaps Ellen will
have something useful at her house. I’m not above using a kitchen knife to
protect us.
I feel awkward
about the possibility of stabbing a child, yet if there’s a demented alien or
upper-level demon possessing its host, one that has its sights set on dragging
me down to hell, I might just have to find out if these things bleed.
Lauren enters the
kitchen from the hallway, looking fresher. She says, “I’ll have to leave a
thank you note for the owners. I feel a little more like myself.”
“How so?”
“Fully stocked
drawers.”
Finally, I see
what she’s talking about. She has on a touch of makeup now and it suits her
well. Much subtler and normal than the garish, exotic-bird tones she was
flaunting this morning. Little bit of lipstick, little bit of eyeliner. I’m not
sure what the need is because she’s here, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and she
doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to go confront some terrifying paranormal
entities.
Hey, I said I’d
forgive her—I just didn’t say I’d be entirely nice about it. I’m not letting
her hang out here while I go parlay with the beasts by myself.
***
We drape a
patchwork quilt over Ellen and leave her behind with Ulie. I like the idea of
him staying behind to protect her rather than risk being exposed to the unknown
potential. He’s my little buddy, you know? I
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