“Don’t shoot me!” Yaktak screamed. “We’re all related to each other in some way. You wouldn’t kill a family member, would you?”
“As it turns out, in most revenge motive related crimes that don’t involve theft, family tends to be the number one suspect, especially when involving poisoning Halloween candy.” The gun man clicked the safety off—expressing unsafe danger! “And since everyone is related, and murder still happens in our country, having you be related to me means nothing in regards to whether or not I’ll murder you.”
If only I could go into fight mode, but it’s too risky. My adorable clumsiness could work against me. If I accidently roundhouse kick Yaktak right square in her wrinkly, gross, but still bang-able face, I don’t think I could live with myself; and if I couldn’t live with myself, then I’d be homeless. That certainly wouldn’t work for me. I love not living at a Wendy’s parking lot where addicts go to do drugs and die.
“Drat.” The look in my grandma/cousin was one of a mediocre lived life flashing before her eyes. Now that I took the time to also look into the shooter’s eyes, I saw that it was Boyguy, my third cousin thrice removed.
Oh wow. His perfectly shaped nose that is eerily similar to mine. Those black eyes that are the same shade of every other persons’ eyes, along with his ‘inoffensively browned blonde’ skin, as our government forces us to call it. (Yeah, it’s sorta messed up, but that’s another great thing about our society. All but one race was fucked out of existence. Incest is a small price to pay to end racism.)
I can’t believe he’s that unperfect amount of related where I can still talk to him, even hold his hand, yet we can’t fornicate. Curse these terrible thoughts of wanting to bone someone not all that related to me that overflow my mind and cause my endorphins to drown in unrequited despair.
“Boyguy! I can’t believe we keep falling for your classic pranks. You’re going to have the buy the next round of Yaktak’s adult diapers for sure!” I have to keep it together and not sound desperate like a middle-aged woman. That’s still 25 years away for me.
“Yes, he will! I just put this diaper on, and now it’s ruined.” She began galloping toward the linen closet like a broken legged horse that’d somehow survived being shot so the rancher was all like, ‘fuck it. I ain’t wasting another bullet on this flea bag. I’m sure the damn thing will die of blood loss soon enough,’ only for three years to have passed by. Legend says the horse still cries out pain, neighing for a wheelchair and a caring master. “I miss the good old days when I could feel fresh down there. If only they made douches for the elderly.”
“Well Marzark. You better get your cute self out the door if we want to get to classes on time.”
Oh my golly! My distant cousin wants my tender butt skin! The naughtiness torments me ever so!
© Narrauthorator, 2019. All rights reserved.