The words over at Three Word Wednesday are ambush, hideous and meddle.
Janice Parker has meddled in my affairs for the very last time.
Eighth grade isn’t the happiest of times to begin with, but to have a bully who is a girl? My reputation sinks like a stone. Soon, I’ll be eating my lunch with the nerds, dweebs and other assorted fuck-ups.
You can never repair damage like that. High school will be hell.
But I know a weak spot. Janice Parker has a religious affinity for fun-sized Almond Joys.
I’d seen her stuff an entire sackful – wrappers and all – in her pie hole one humid afternoon this summer at the lake.
And I think it’s the reason she’s been all over me this semester.
Fine. I’ve got a plan.
I casually toss a bag in my backpack, making sure part of it sticks out. She follows like the rat she is.
And my ambush is set.
It cost me $100, five crisp twenties from the bank, a small loan from my college fund, to secure the services of Justin Lambers, high school thug.
I walk with purpose toward the greenbelt that straddles the school, Janice in shockingly close pursuit.
Lying in wait deep into the oaks is my well-paid hoodlum, probably smoking a butt he pilfered from the folks back at the trailer park.
Janice is nearly ready to pounce when Lambers intervenes, wrapping his calloused, shop-class-worn hands around her fleshy biceps.
She protests with a string of surprisingly well-constructed obscenities while I carefully open an Almond Joy and masticate with slow purpose.
Lambers pins her arms behind her back and tells her to stop struggling. Her face turns three shades of crimson and she starts shaking violently.
In her struggles, Janice’s facial skin goes slack, then falls completely off.
Staring at us is a hideous boil of tentacles, each pus-covered stalk ending in a beady, red-tinted eyeball.
Lambers lets go and stumbles a hasty retreat in reverse.
The thing begins to quake and sheds its Janice covering across the clearing. I think she looks like a turd, with a wild shock of putrid, quaking tentacles.
I move slightly left as Lambers pisses himself and runs screaming toward town. Janice the Turd plops to the forest floor and slithers off into the underbrush, shrieking in a high-pitched, yet gurgly, whine.
“Well, that certainly explains a lot,” I say, toeing Janice’s quickly rotting fleshy overcoat.