Back when I ran out of things to say mid-NaBloPoMo, I threatened to randomize Kristabella's 201 things and write a story about her.
Today ... is the day y'all. Because tomorrow? You're getting fluff. Or fashion. Or fluffy fashion. And NaBloPoMo will be OvOMoFos.
Heaven help me, but Random.org puked up "188".
And that entry is: "188. Remember that boyfriend from No. 120? He made horror movies"
It was a dark and stormy night. November's clutches tightened around the Windy City. Lake Michigan's waves were cresting and white-capped and the wind was blowing to beat hell. The clocks had been changed back to Central Standard Time and it was already fuckin' dark by the time Kristabella made it back to her apartment. She was hugging the bottle of Cabernet she picked up; trying to make up her mind whether to finish reading that book for damn book club (which she joined mostly for the free wine) or to kick back on her couch and watch a little reality television.
Walking the streets of Chicago, in November, in the wind, takes a certain heartiness. In the dark? It takes more than that. A "tough girl" strut and attitude-plus come in handy. But the clicking of her bootheels on the concrete combined with the howling gales coming from between the buildings prevented Kristabella from hearing the footsteps of the guy in the black leather jacket and skin-tight jeans walking behind her. Had she heard him, she would have quickened her step more. Had she knew who he was, she probably would have cracked him over the skull with the wine she was carrying. It was the guy she had once thought was "the one." The asshat who had broken up with her on her mother's birthday. During Grey's Anatomy! Fucktard.
When she let herself into her home, Simba and KittyKitty were waiting for her. They were pissed that she was late. They had contemplated using her Jim McMahon jersey as a litter pan liner, or her "What Would Bacon Do" wheel as a scratching post. But in their evil little cat hearts, they loved her and knew that she would never intentionally leave them hungry. She might pass out from the wine, but she always came home (albeit sometimes a bit bruised). Simba was quick to remind KittyKitty of that fact.
Her mind made up and her cats fed, Kristabella put on her duckie pajamas, poured herself a tumbler of Cabernet ('to hell with the fancy glasses', she mumbled to herself. 'I'm just going to read a couple of chapters and get my butt to bed.') and plopped onto the couch.
The book drew her in. The clock ticked and the wind gusted outside her windows. She poured another tumbler. And then another.
What she didn't know is that the guy in the tight jeans and black leather was standing outside her front door, trying to talk himself into knocking. He'd hurt her before. He hadn't meant to, true, but such was his life. Always screwing up the best things about it. He had been thinking about how beautiful her skin was, soft and luminous. He had loved it when she decided to darken her hair. But, asshat that he was, he didn't see it until he'd fucked it all up.
He was back with a proposition. He wanted to make her a star! A star in his new horror show. Maybe he could win her back. She would be the gorgeous marketing executive who discovers the victims of a psychotic football player and then becomes the target of the linebacker's rage. He thinks, "C'mon Dickhead, just knock on the door already." And then he does, three raps. Tap, tap, tap.
Kristabella puts down her book, takes another swig of wine, and walks to the front door. She looks out the peephole, but can't really trust her eyes. She's blind, but afraid of Lasik. She figures it's wine blindness this time though.
"Who is it?"
"Asshat" a voice answers that she recognizes. She may be blind, but her ears work just fine.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I want to talk to you about a movie I'm making. I think you'd be perfect in the starring role. C'mon, let me in."
Against all of her better judgement, (but again, y'know, the wine) she opens the door. She's surprised that she really doesn't feel much at all. Of course, that, too, could be the wine. She lets Asshat in. Simba and KittyKitty look at him. Simba hisses. KittyKitty does the humpback cat shuffle.
Kristabella stands, with her hands on her hips, while he hems and haws about "Nice to see you." and "How've ya been?" He thinks about leaning in for a kiss of her wine-stained mouth. She, on the otherhand, thinks about the Cubs bat in her closet. And her Arizona State Sun Devils pitchfork leaning against her wall. And about how she really just wants some more Cabernet.
But, because she's one of the sweetest, friendliest people in town, and she's been hurt enough by shitheads and pompous asses in her life that she doesn't want anyone else to feel badly, she invites Asshat to sit down. He sets his video camera down on her table. She wonders, "Why the hell did he bring his camera? " just as he begins to explain that he wanted to show her some of the footage that had already been shot for this new horror flick he was making. She smiles politely and starts walking towards her drink.
Just then, KittyKitty darts across the floor. Simba chases, jumps up onto the table and somehow manages to flip the camera switch to Record. Kristabella, slightly tipsy, tries to jump just as KittyKitty runs between her feet. It was not her most graceful move. As she fell, ass over teakettle, her arm hit the lamp on the table where she'd been cuddled up earlier reading. Before Asshat walked back into her life and wanted to make a damn movie. The lamp teetered. Tottered. Finally tilted just far enough to brush against that Arizona SunDevils pitchfork leaning up against the wall.
The handle of the souvenier had been down, the fork part in the air because she didn't want the sharp metal tines to scratch her floors. It hadn't looked like much of a brush from the lamp, but the pitchfork fell. It fell just as Simba jumped on Asshat's back and caused him to lurch forward.
Pitchfork and Asshat met. They met at chest height. The camera continued rolling.
Kristabella silently toasted Sparky the night she won the Academy Award. Her Sun Devils managed a win that night.
---- The End. Mah Gawd people. Tomorrow you are sooooo getting fluff. ----
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