This Increasingly Obvious Miscalculation

That evening she heads out; she’s off to a spa--6  hours booked, and your plan has no flaw.  You’ve paid an attendant, who, after 3 hours, will make some excuse re: organic mud showers.  She’ll be sent on her way, still covered in goo, and when doubly embarrassed, she’ll really need you to support her, accept her, soothe her hurt feelings; for a moment, you’re almost ashamed of your dealings.  It’s as if someone else implants these ideas… oh don’t be ridiculous, your rational mind sneers as you end your ablutions and look in the mirror—eyes bright, teeth white, your skin never clearer—you then finish dressing and head down the stairs, to see dark buxom beauties arriving in pairs.

Bob’s offering drinks and playing good host; an hour in, he’s downed maybe two beers, at most.  The girls are already in states of undress; Bob’s sending a text to her, couldn’t care less.  With a sigh and a shrug (this has to be done) you opt for Plan 2 instead of Plan 1.  As you enter the kitchen and mix Bob a drink, you slip in a pill from a Mexican shrink.  When you hand him the cocktail, back in the den, he sips like a girl for a minute or 10.  Then all of a sudden, he needs to lie down.  A sexy brunette wanders around, ‘Take good care of him,’ you say, as she inserts her hand under his shirt to undo his waistband.

Just then, she walks in—she’s 3 hours early!  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, girlie?” she says, yanking the raven-haired tart off her guy.  Turning to him with a murderous eye, she raises her hand to give him a slap—then, out of nowhere, she crawls in his lap.  “Chris!” she shouts frantically, waving you near, “His eyes are bloodshot, and he can’t tell I’m here!”  Crying forgiveness, she gives him a hug, and takes out her phone to report he’s been drugged.

Holy crap.  You’d forgotten—she’s a trainee nurse.  She works at the free clinic, could this be worse?  She knows what drugs look like, in pill form or ingested, with junkies her workplace is nearly infested.  You head for the bathroom, the toilet, precisely—where else do drugs go? This should work nicely.  As you reach in your pocket, the evidence to flush, you hear sounds on the carpet of mulberry plush.  You recognise her walk; as you turn back in shame, your one question is, “How’d you rumble my game?”

But she’s pointing behind you, to a tree outside.  On the lowest branch perches a squirrel, looking snide.  His eyes flash bright yellow just once, then he jumps to the ground mouthing something that looks like, you chump. 

You don’t understand—what stick in your craw?  You ask, and she says, “On the way to the spa, I was stopped by, well, maybe, I think it was that rodent.  He spoke, and his words were urgently potent.  He bid me come home, to avert a disaster—I didn’t know he meant you, you sick two-faced bas—”

Then a loud, shrieking sound from outside shakes the room.  Is it God? Paramedics?  All you know is you’re doomed.  You trudge back to the den, to sullenly wait, for God or whoever to come seal your fate.

The End

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