Don’t Be Shy(amalan)!

“What are you talking about?” She was as insistant as a girl scout cookie sales girl outside a Walmart when she sees you putting change in your pocket.

“You know what I’m talking about. You know exactly what I’m talking about!” He was as repetitive as something that happens, and then happens a couple more times after that first happening.

“I have no idea.” She was as in the dark as a woman listening to a Billy Squier song at night in a room with a burned-out light bulb under a heavy blanket under her bed.

“You have some idea.” He was as helpful as someone who wants to have a premeeting before the premeeting before the meeting, so they can go over what happens at the premeeting before the meeting, and then meet afterwards.

“No, sorry, I don’t. Where were you?” She turned the conversation corner sharper than a polished and buffed knife cutting a block of cheese on some type of catalog involving an image.

“If you’re just going to play stupid, then I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” He sounded as final as an exam, or a fantasy, or an answer on some game show, or like, you know, don’t make me say it… okay, like dying, for some people.

“All the way over there, huh? What are you doing there?” She was as confusing as a belated oyster parade after a tinsel discount parasol.

“I’m starting to think you aren’t even listening. Can you even understand me?” He was as whiny as a flock of small hungry children riding rusty wagons into ancient doors while drinking spiked grape juice from sippy cups.

“Hang on a second, will you? Just one second.” She was on the verge of a real breakthrough, like the Kool-Aid Man through a wall after smoking crack and snorting sugar.

“Finally, I can get some answers.” He was as relieved as like, you know, when you drink a Big Gulp on a long trip because you’re really thirsty, but then you remember that during a long trip with a full bladder, you have two options, and only one of them involves stopping, but whichever one you choose, it feels so damn good when you finally piss-

“Excuse me, sir, please wait your turn. I believe this gentleman was next.” She was as – well, she was kind of a bitch.

“Hey!” Well, she was!

“Anyway, can I help you?” She was as businesslike as a door-to-door salesman for pool cleaners, when you don’t have a pool, or a yard, and you don’t live in a house, and you’re walking down the street, and you are invisible.

“What do you mean, can you help me? I’ve been talking to you for the past half hour! I wanted to know why you won’t answer your phone, and haven’t been home in three weeks. What the hell, you know?” He was as indignant as someone who said something funny and/or cool after looking up ‘indignant’ in the dictionary, and then decided it was too hard so they made an oblique reference instead.

“Half hour? You were talking to me? I’m sorry – I was on the phone. See? I have an earpiece.” She was as sheepish as a shepherd who flocking has a lot of flocking sheep, but he doesn’t know how many because every time he tries to count them he falls asleep.

“Earpiece? You mean you weren’t talking back, Susan?” Realization had dawned on him like listening to Tie A Yellow Ribbon while doing the dishes in the morning.

“Who the hell is Susan? My name is Betty. You must have mistaken me for someone else.” She was whatever this metaphor or simile was intended to be representative of.

“Don’t yank my chain! I think I would know my own wife, or girlfriend. Fiance. Something like that.” He was as unsure as someone who forgot to put deodorant on that morning.

“Sir, please show me your hand. Ah, just as I thought. Security! Take Mr. Pifflebootie back to his room!” She was as stern as the guy who narrated the Wonder Years listening to some shock jock in the back of a boat.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” He sounded like one of those khan men.

“Okay, can I help you? Who are you here to see?” She looked at me like someone who hadn’t eaten in weeks looking at a pile of shit, and deciding a few more hours couldn’t hurt.

“I am here to see you, sweetness.” I was as smooth as a Rob Thomas song if Rob was eating peanut butter and sanding a surfboard, then waxing it, then waxing it again.

“Security! Take Mr. Clever back to his room!” She was as disgusted as a person watching a Dr. Phil marathon.

“Don’t you mean to YOUR room?” I was as sly as a spy in the sky with a dandelion eye.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant. Take him to my room. Yeah. Sure.” The sarcasm was dripping like a stalagmite, or stalagtite, whichever is the thing in the cave that is on the floor, because I can’t remember what it’s called.

“Yes, take me there
Take me anywhere
Drag me up the stair
Put me in a chair
In my underwear
Where you’ll sit and stare
Dancing like a bear
With a certain flair
Firing off a flare
Up into the air
Eating an eclair
Fingers through my hair
Drag me to your lair
PUT THAT DOWN! IT’S NAIR!
We make quite a pair
In these clothes we wear
That will never tear.”

I had run out of things to say. So I broke into poetry, hoping it was enough to convince her to let me stay with her. The werewolves were just outside this tiny rural hospital with a mental ward, and I had to find a reason to stay, for her to let me stay. No matter what. They wouldn’t tolerate any sort of shenanigans or even tomfoolery from me – not since I had killed their leader with my breath. Hey, I can’t help it if werewolves were deathly allergic to garlic salmon and I was the first person to discover it. It was an accident! I meant the werewolves no harm! Honest!

She looked at me. “Seriously?”

“What do you mean?”

“All that stuff you just said.”

“Did I say that out loud? Because I didn’t see any quotation marks, and that usually means it was exposition designed to move the story along to the plot twist, which is that-“

“No! Don’t say it!”

I wake up in a pool of sweat. My sweat. Because I’m covered with so much hair that it gets kind of hot, but all I can do is pant, until the moon goes dark…

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