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A Christmas Encounter (standard:humor, 2069 words)
Author: FFCScripterAdded: Sep 27 2000Views/Reads: 2504/1441Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short story about the adventures of two young people, having met via a mutual friend, and the trouble that ensues as their personalities blend into hilarity and wit.....

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

thus, I feel as though it is pertinent that we become their audience.”  
His blue eyes danced with mischief, but his pearly white grin quickly 
dismissed any hints of doubt.  It was such a fine and noble idea to 
give these misgiven and misled souls a free performance which they 
would one day, undoubtedly, recant to their children and grandchildren. 
 I quickly agreed upon this plan, but was swiftly warned of possible 
side effects which had to be controlled and certain behavior which had 
to be regulated. 

“Beware, though, that you do not allow these peasants to understand that
you are doing them a favor.  Act calm, normal.  Do nothing extravagant 
to draw attention to yourself, but rely on their somewhat keen 
observant skills to notice the subtle irregularities in your actions.  
I shall demonstrate this too you in one brief moment, but I first 
remind you of the cardinal rule of such situations.  Do not laugh but 
at a joke.  Laugh only when necessary, and never at yourself.  Abnormal 
normality is the key.  Watch.”  Upon completion of this monologue 
(which bowled me over by characterizing and classifying his 
improvisational skills as worthy of my own, if not preceding my own) he 
unscrewed the pepper shaker and emptied its contents into his ketchup.  
I watched in silent wonder as he dipped fry upon fry into this 
concoction, his character never wavering.  Greatness sat before me, and 
I dared not disappoint. 

I finished my meal as though normal, but continually drank from my water
using only a spoon, ate my burger with napkins for a bun, and wiped my 
mouth with the bread.  Slowly but conspicuously, those occupying the 
booths and tables about us turned their heads in our general direction, 
staring stupidly at our odd but fantastic antics.  Some pointed and 
laughed then carried on with their meals, not duly impressed; others 
choked on their iced tea, forcing themselves to call for tissues and a 
refill and nearly missing part of the show; while others merely stared, 
afraid that to divert their gaze for an instant would result in their 
missing some important cue or line that could perhaps be crucial to the 
plot line and story development.  We simply continued with the game as 
though our behavior was perfectly standard, the world was absurd and 
Picasso was God.  But Picasso was not God, and so our conduct was not 
of the norm. 

The end of the meal came without any outrageous complaints or comments
overheard about either me or my companion, so we pushed the envelope 
one step further and happened upon the final straw to break the 
AppleBee’s back.  I deftly slithered my arm into my coat pocket and 
produced a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.  Meticulously flattening 
the end, I squeezed a pea-sized amount onto the nylon bristles of my 
red tooth scrubber and placed the functional part into my salivating 
mouth.  With careless ease and obvious talent, I maneuvered the brush 
over all the surfaces of my teeth, being sure to keep my mouth 
partially open so as to be certain of reaching all areas of my enamel. 

Meanwhile, the surrounding tables grew silent and my partner’s face
contorted and convulsed, trying its best not to allow any sound of 
laughter to escape.  He managed to excuse himself to the bathroom, 
leaving me alone with the curious guests whispering about me.  Tiny 
voices of disapproval, stifled sneers, outright laughter rang in a 
largely cacophonous discord within my ears.  I stared at my opponents, 
smiling and waving as the foaming, spearmint drool crept from my mouth 
and vainly attempted to splatter onto my shirt, only to be sucked back 
into my pink mouth or lapped up from my chin by quick slurps of my 
swollen tongue.  Many turned away in disgust, but the valiant few who 
managed not to break their gaze from my horrid, leering face quickly 
lifted their napkins to their mouths, as though to prevent their still 
digesting meals from making an anticipated but early appearance, and 
from leaving their body’s via the wrong orifice.  I dutifully kept  
with my act.  Once again, not wanting to disappoint I swilled a mixture 
of lemon, coke, water, and sweetener from an already filthied glass 
and, upon swallowing the remains of the toothpaste in jerky, spasmodic 
motions, I sighed.  The dirty deed was finally finished. 

But, though still holding the attention of some, my impact and ability
to hold the attention of the crowd had wavered.  Whether by plan or by 
fate or by luck, my associate came to my rescue as he emerged from the 
bathroom, throwing himself about in the door frame and struggling to 
remove his fly from its customary zipped position.  Immediately the 
attention was drawn from me and placed expectantly on my colleague.  
Their gawking eyes began at his dripping face and wetted hair.  From 
his phlegm spewing mouth to his bloated stomach there lay enough drama 
for seventeen Oscars, but below the belt lay an even more inspiring 
scene.  Contained within his gait was an entire sitcom, bursting forth 
in sweet agony to the thousands of spectators we had decided to bless 
with our circus.  Beginning at the crotch and running like the 
Mississippi in a summer storm, an ocean of water poured in a torrent 
from his right leg, ending in a puddle about his shoes.  One might 
expect, as I would have had I not received such profound training, for 
the scene to end at the laces; but not in the case of my dear 
accomplice.  Clutching eagerly, almost desperately, to the heel of his 
shoe was a strand of toilet paper.  No, perhaps strand does not enough 
justice to the gargantuanity of the pulp that had attached itself to 
his foot in a lampric style.  As he stumbled back to our table, the 
toilet tissue faithfully followed.  It wasn’t until my co-conspirator 
had succeeded in reaching our masticating console that the actual 
length of the wiping papyrus could be rightly appreciated.  It 
stretched the entire breadth of the distance between ourselves and the 
bathroom, barely falling short of a mile.  He grinned inanely at me and 
took his seat.  I was in love. 

Having completed the final scene of our continuous play, and having not
stopped for intermission or even a scene change, we decided it best to 
take a curtain call and depart from the theatre (that is, the 
restaurant for those whose attention was so grotesquely involved in 
your meal that you failed to understand that an establishment is only 
what you wish it to be, whether designed as theatre, hotel, restaurant, 
brothel, ect.....).  We politely called for the check, which was 
brought promptly and placed between the two of us. 

As I extended my hand to take up the ticket a light slap fell upon my
wrist.  Defiantly, I drew my hand away, angrily rubbing my wrist.  I 
witnessed the person I had arrived with take up the stub and lay in its 
place a small plastic card. 

“No...,” I began, but was instantly quieted. 

“But Justin...,” I tried once again.  He raised his hand as if to close
the subject, and I complied, but not before promising to pick up the 
tab on the next outing. 

“Michael, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”  Oh,
and he quoted Casablanca!  I knew then he was not merely some stranger 
I happened to meet through a common associate, but a familiar being.  
At last I could speak honestly and without fear the words that had 
danced on my lips all evening. 

“Thank you,  Friend.” 


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