Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Scrapes, Sewers and a Sick Plan


''It's bad,'' he rasped, his left eye squinting harder than usual. Scrapes had a permanent brow-furrow which at this partucular moment had become so deep that Ellie was compelled by sheer morbid fascination to thrust in an index finger.

''Goddammit, woman, we don't have time for this wacked-out Madison ''Berkeley of the damn Midwest'' spirit worship crap right now! Withdraw your digit or forever strum your sickly electric instruments nine-fingered!''

Ellie reddened and yanked out her hand. It was the longest utterance produced by the man in their 20-year partnership; the combined shock of verbosity and spontaneous brow-poking left her oddly dazed.

''Anyways,'' she muttered.

''ANYWAYS, the gang's in the sewers. Lost all sense. Scattered to the four foul winds like a bunch of wet, panicked chickens. Damn Mounties sprayed a tonne of Canadian lead, and that ain't no picnic what with the ricocheting, stink, slippery footing, foreign architecture and so forth. Small wonder they abandoned their wits.''

Ellie rubbed her finger absentmindedly and chewed on the news. Another fine, stinking mess.

''I'm gonna need a bigger amp,'' she growled suddenly, wheeling around to pull an ungainly, oddly-shaped instrument case off the flimsy motel dresser which had been sagging under the weight.

''Ellie, the crew's in the pits and this is NO time to drown your unfathomably twisted sorrows in equally twisted music...'' Scrapes choked, brought up short by the savage, determined glare the woman was directing at a point somewhere between his good eye and brow-furrow.

''I LIKED YOU BETTER MUTE!'' she bellowed in her inimitable baritone, shoving past him out the filthy, paint-chipped door. ''Like I said, a BIGGER AMP!!"

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