Evil Redneck
This is post 21 of Section II. To begin at the beginning, go here. Section II begins here
Evil Redneck interrupted her thoughts. “Just shut up and git the hell over here,” he said, spitting over the side of the recliner. Without removing his hand from the waistband of his pants, he added, “And bring me a beer whal yur at it.”
Now Chloe had a decision to make. She could be “Surrendered Christian Wife,” who believed that if Jesus could just show her the way to make her husband happy he would stop making his bizarre sexual demands. Or she could be “City Slicker Woman,” who defied Evil wherever it reared its ugly red neck. Although Are You an Emotional Junky? offered no advice on this head, she remembered the tape she had found and reasoned that a show of resistance might enhance his masculine triumph. She drew herself up, every inch a feminist.
“Who are you?” she said severely. “Get the hell out of my house, or I’ll call the police.” The dialogue was always stock, at the beginning.
Gregory rose and dug deep to scratch his balls, while stretching his free arm out and giving a loud, exaggerated yawn. “Go ahead and call, then,” he said, with a nasty smile. Casually he hooked the phone up with his free hand, and she saw that he must have unplugged it before starting the game. He threw it at her, and she caught it, feeling almost as stunned as her character. She had forgotten her cell in the SUV, which was at the garage again. The cordless was somewhere in the house, unless he had hidden it.
“Th-the beer’s in the kitchen,” she fake-stammered, putting the phone down on the vanity. “If you’ll just let me get my robe . . . “
“Oh no you don’t, Missy,” he said, and without breaking character, he drew a gun from the back of his jeans and, pointing it at her, began to advance.
Continue
Evil Redneck interrupted her thoughts. “Just shut up and git the hell over here,” he said, spitting over the side of the recliner. Without removing his hand from the waistband of his pants, he added, “And bring me a beer whal yur at it.”
Now Chloe had a decision to make. She could be “Surrendered Christian Wife,” who believed that if Jesus could just show her the way to make her husband happy he would stop making his bizarre sexual demands. Or she could be “City Slicker Woman,” who defied Evil wherever it reared its ugly red neck. Although Are You an Emotional Junky? offered no advice on this head, she remembered the tape she had found and reasoned that a show of resistance might enhance his masculine triumph. She drew herself up, every inch a feminist.
“Who are you?” she said severely. “Get the hell out of my house, or I’ll call the police.” The dialogue was always stock, at the beginning.
Gregory rose and dug deep to scratch his balls, while stretching his free arm out and giving a loud, exaggerated yawn. “Go ahead and call, then,” he said, with a nasty smile. Casually he hooked the phone up with his free hand, and she saw that he must have unplugged it before starting the game. He threw it at her, and she caught it, feeling almost as stunned as her character. She had forgotten her cell in the SUV, which was at the garage again. The cordless was somewhere in the house, unless he had hidden it.
“Th-the beer’s in the kitchen,” she fake-stammered, putting the phone down on the vanity. “If you’ll just let me get my robe . . . “
“Oh no you don’t, Missy,” he said, and without breaking character, he drew a gun from the back of his jeans and, pointing it at her, began to advance.
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 4:32 PM
1 Comments:
I bet this doesn't go well.
Post a Comment
<< Home