After the egg hunt is over

 

 

This event was before my brothers/bastards found my Superman comics collection , back before I learned just how low and evil my brothers were, and would become.

It was Easter, maybe 1960 or 1959.  Church was over.  Ham dinner was eaten and done. It was time for the egg hunt.  Hard boiled and dyed eggs had been hidden in our vast lawn after we all had in bed asleep.  It was never questioned by whom.

Source

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious and/or violent. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....


This was posted in 2020, rewritten and here it is now. 

My brothers (whom I love dearly now) were miserable bastards in my youth. They were harshly mean to me most of the time. Revenge would be mine, someday. 

Source etsy

Ex-Marine can think on his feet.

 

 

By the time Pete was through the door, Mz Wanda was on him like a mosquito on a pool of blood.  

 Pete was no fool; painting has made Pete to be wary. He had almost  been stripped by a pole dancer. It did not go well.

The witch came running at him, syringe at the ready, screeching a witchy screech. Pete was ready; being an ex-Marine had honed his senses. 

The battle lasted mere seconds, ending with Mz Wanda lying on the floor. The sedative had taken over and she moaned. Pete pondered his next actions.

Marines think on the run, and Pete did exactly that, moral or not. 

He finished plunging the syringe into her neck, causing her black heart to stutter and stop. Pete wrapped the cold body in tarp, rolled it up. That was when he decided: throw her in the oven.

After the necessary clean-up that was done at top speed, Pete carried the supplies to the door, opening and stepping outside. He hollered back to the empty house, “I’ll come back to start over. Just give me a call.”  Then he stepped away, calling back, “Hope you’ll be feeling better. “

One would think this story was over, but nooo. 

In his truck,he phoned to his business partner.  “Hey, there, Henry.  Well, I took care of that witch. She sure has a nice oven. But, hey, this is the second witch in a month.  Something….” The phone went silent, and nothing would ever be heard of Pete.

 

The Flea and Me

The Despicable Flea

The Flea and Me
Have battle done.
It was hard to say
Who had won.

It bit.
I swore.
It bit again.
I swore some more.


Scratch and itch.
Itch and scratch.
But, at last,
Flea had met its match.

War Wounds

Do not waste time.
Do not give in.
Pick up the phone,
And call Orkin!

Right now!!

Call Orkin Today!

We battled for a month with fleas.  They were the result of three outdoor cats that roamed the neighborhood, infesting all the yards and plants.  Orkin is awesome.  Excellent service.