Post Number Twenty Four

“Revenge Squared”

The other day I got so fazed by the blood-spurting nose-nerves of the Ganooshlings that I left out a few major details. I mean, it wasn’t as if dodging their bloodstreams was the only thing I did while I waited for the ambulance I’d cordially invited. We had a bit of a friendly confab as well. Because I needed information re: my foe, that Vivekenanda cad. As the boys writhed and shrieked all over the carpet where they’d been (ahem) “squatting”, I ran down a list of hastily thought-up questions.

  • Question One: “Where (pray tell) is my foe, that Vivekenanda cad?”
  • Answer: “… grrrrrAAAAARRRRrrrrgh!! It… it HURTS!! Please… Make the ambulance get here FASTER!!”

 

Honk! Wrong answer. The correct answer (as they shrieked at me on their second guess) was “THAILAND”.

  • Question Two: “Why were you pervoid little shits lookin’ through my bedroom window?”
  • Answer: “WAAAH-huh-haaaaah!” (they sobbed) “It’s torture! In the name of a merciless god, please help-and/or KILL us!”

 

Honk! Wrong again. The correct answer should’ve been: “We were lookin’ through your bedroom window because we’re pervoid little shits.”

  • Question Three: “Why did you tell everyone that you needed a specialist from Switzerland for fixing your nose-hair problem, when I– a NON-specialist, NOT from Switzerland– found said problem easy to fix with naught but a rusty old set of pruning sheers?”
  • Answer: “Ohhhh… The horror… The blood… The bloody horror… The horrible blood– URK!!”*

 

(* Sound they made when they passed out.)

HONK!! Strike four! Or three… Or whatever it was. The correct answer (as I found out later) (and said in the last Post) was: “Because o’ that big, blood-filled nasal-membraney thing that our nose-hairs were growing around.”

Then, before I could launch into my second round of Quiz Questions, the Ambo Men arrived and skilfully spatula-ed the boys up, stacking them pancake-style on top of a gurney.

Now, it’s well-known that identical twins have a secret E.S.P Radar Narrative connecting them together. Said Radar Narrative lets them sense (in a spooky way) when one (or both) of them is (or “are”) in grave danger– although, being Siamese twins (formerly) joined at the nose-hairs they probably wouldn’t have needed that sense too often. That is, until their blood-gushing nasal artery/nerve/membrane(s) got rudely disconnected. Because that mysterious Twinly Bonding Narrative they once shared (through their naso-connection) was now squirting and spraying out into the cosmos where pretty much anyone could pick up their E.S.P messages.

And you won’t be surprised when you learn that someone did.

Or I should say “someone-ZZ” (plural), for the person-ZZ (all thirteen of ’em) who got the signal were none other than the entire friggin’ GANOOSH FAMILY themselves!

Yikes.

In carloads they did come (even though they only lived three houses away) in CARLOADS, I tell thee, with chainsaws and bazookas and other Tools of Displeasure. They came Ganooshing for trouble. The Clan Leader (Muriel Ganoosh) thundered inclemently:

“Where them freaks what sprung from these fragrant loins?” At which point she grabbed herself on the GANOOSH-TICLES and squeezed.

“I’m guessing one of two locales,” I responded. “Either a hospital or a furniture storing shed.”

“Why they there?” cried some anonymous Ganoosh (whose name– ironically– turned out to be “Anonimus Ganoosh”).

“Because… errrm… their nose-hairs got… y’know… ‘snipped’. More or less. Per se,” is what I confidently declared. There was a gasp from the gathered Ganooshery before one of them (I believe it was Ganoosh Number Nine) said:

“Was the prick who did the snippin’… a specialist from Switzerland?”

“Errr… nnnnno…” I said– in response to which the Ganooshes let rip with a follow-up gasp.

“Who, then, did this to my boys?” croaked a person (or thing) of indeterminate gender (or species) who may (or may not) have been one (or more) of the boys’ proud parents.

“Well…” said I, scratching my chin with my bloodied fingers. “I can’t say for sure… but the weapon used is… errrm…” (at which point I dropped The Weapon Used) “… on the floor behind me there. See?”

A Weapon Connoisseur Ganoosh holding a chainsaw took an immediate interest in The Weapon Used. “They MEGA TWEEZERS or what?” he wondered.

“Nuh,” said I. “Pruning sheers. And I believe the owner of same is–”

But so strong was the E.S.P Narrative of the Ganoosh Family that they knew the name before I said it, falling instantly into “Drive-By Displeasure” mode as they raced out the door and got in their cars, ululating wildly as they drove off, leaving me there with an unfinished sentence halfway up my vocal spout. And yet, in spite of all the Ganoosh-related absentee-ism (translation: I was the only one still there) I have never been the type of person who leaves a sentence unfinished, so…

“–ALISTAIR VIVEKENANDA. Is the owner. Of dem sheers. Down dere. So… yair. ‘Sic ‘im’, heh-heh.”

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