Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #485

Boris: “Don’t you think it’s time we took the Christmas tree down?”

Ginger: “Oh, heavens no! Can’t you see that Fluffy really likes living in it? Where will he sleep without the tree?”

Boris: “Fluffy is a piñata that we got in Guadalajara when we were watching all of our best friends get quickie divorces. He sleeps all the time and he doesn’t care where that happens. Because he’s not real.”

Ginger: “You’re so mean! How would you feel if people made fun of you just because you didn’t look like everybody else?”

Boris: “Have you not seen any of my movies? I spend a lot of time playing dead things that should have remained dead. I think I know all about being different.”

Fluffy the Piñata: “Since we’re talking about your movies, Boris, can we focus on the Frankenstein franchise? Because I’d like to be reanimated, just so I can jump down and run like hell. Do you know what it’s like for Ginger to constantly be slapping tinsel on my ass whilst warbling a song about chestnuts roasting on an open fire, while that very thing is happening to me because of all the lights on this hellish tree? My only hope of salvation is to chew through this string of lights.”

Ginger: “Wait, did you just hear something?”

Boris: “I’m hearing a bottle of gin in the other room calling my name, if that’s what you mean.”

Ginger: “No, I’m used to that noise. This is something new, like a knocking sound. Do you suppose someone is at the front door?”

Boris: “I don’t know, because I’m not writing this story. Why don’t you go check on that and I’ll go check on the gin.”

Ginger: “That seems a bit unfair. You get a prize and I don’t.”

Boris: “Maybe your agent has dropped by with a new script.”

Ginger knocked Boris aside and raced to the front door, wrenching it open. “Yes?”

Short Woman with a Surly Expression: “I’m here about the burning nuts.”

Ginger: “I have no idea how to respond to that.

Surly: “My name is Lorena Hedgewhack and I’m from the SPCA and we received a report of animal abuse at this address.”

Ginger: “Still don’t know what to say. No animals are being abused here unless you’re talking about Boris running out of gin.”

On cue, Boris trotted back into the room, looking much more relaxed and clutching a half-empty glass, belching slightly. “What seems to be the issue here?”

Ginger: “I’m not quite sure. Something about burning nuts and a report that has been filed.”

Boris, paling considerably as he turned toward Surly: “They promised me at the free clinic that my test results would be anonymous.”

Ginger: “Why on earth would you go to the free clinic?”

Boris: “I got bored watching the divorces in Guadalajara and I made a poor decision. Maybe two.”

Surly: “Look, I don’t care who’s got the clap and who might be getting divorced. I’m just here to rescue Fluffy. Can you tell me where he is and I’ll be on my way?”

Just then, the Fluffy in question managed to chew through the last strand of the light cord, a development that led to unexpected results. Instead of diminishing the nether-damaging heat of the Christmas lights, the unleashed electricity caused the tree to burst into flames and the piñata exploded, sending projectiles of molten candy in all directions. (The gin bottle in the other room screamed.) Several of the charcoaled bits skittered to a halt betwixt the three on the stoop.

Ginger: “Well, I guess the chestnuts are done. Along with my marriage.”

Surly: “I don’t even know how to write this up in my report. They don’t pay me enough.”

Boris: “But at least we can take the tree down now, right? What’s left of it.”

Ginger: “Oh, the tree isn’t the only thing that’s going down.”

 

Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 01/11/17. Considerable changes have been made. For those of you who may be dismayed by the violent end of Fluffy, just keep repeating this to yourself: “He’s not real.” Just like everything at Crusty Pie…

 

25 replies »

  1. “Fluffy” should sue for the nom de plume. Whoever heard of a PINATA named “fluffy??” Fluffy sounds like the name for that faux puss I had as a kid after it was discovered that actual cats made me barf because I was allergic to them. Someone donated/gave me a stuffed angora ‘cat’ with bright blue eyes in which one could tuck their jammies. You shoved them up the cat’s…oh you get the idea. No wonder I’m warped. Now back to “Fluffy” and his/her untimely implosion. MULLIDO (spanish for fluffy) did the only thing possible. Because when you are trapped, well puking seems to be a viable way of the meanest or most deluded “owner’ to let you go..

    Liked by 4 people

    • Now, now, let’s not get hasty in judging the names of others, Embeecee. (You know I had to go there.) As for this angora with the storage bum, thank you for sharing. It does indeed shed an interesting light on how you became you… 😉

      Like

  2. Fluffy shouldn’t complain. Pinatas at children’s birthday parties face horrifying deaths. (One wonders at the sanity of anyone who’d put a bat in little Jimmy’s hands, blindfold him and yell, “swing, Jimmy, swing!”)
    Lordy, how did we survive childhood?
    Also, what’s with their tree? It looks like a desert shrub decked out in tinsel.

    Liked by 2 people

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