by Sirloin Furr
The discovery of the Behicle had enlightened the lives of the Slushy’s, reinstalling hope, care, and passion, that purred throughout their engines into libidinous actions, caressing throughout the night, finally resting in the early morning. Troy was able to get a few hours of rest until he woke up, ready to start the script so that it would be finished all the sooner. He elevated from his bed and landed softly into the den, thinking that he possibly may be able to finish his Magnus Opus by dinner.
But the hours were passing by. Troy had found that he had been pacing more than writing. He sat down again to analyze his notes, to observe his progress, but only to discover a plethora of scribbles, manifesting into well drawn tornadoes prancing over his paper. He stared at the tornadoes, thinking of corralling one of those twisting hombres, slapping a saddle onto its vortex, and riding that tornado down to the bottom of the ocean where there would be no light, and his water-logged body could function as the home for some sweet crustacean family, serving a better purpose than it was currently serving in the hot sauce factory.
After four hours of sitting in his den, with little progress made towards the completion, it became clear to Troy that he had no idea how to construct a movie script.
“I must just be a blockhead if I can’t even muster up a couple of characters dancing around some absurd plot,” Troy concluded, after realizing “writer’s block” would have been too kind of a diagnosis, considering he was clearly no writer. However, as Troy had learned yesterday, perseverance is much more eminent in accomplishing a goal than feasibility, which fueled his being into completing his objective.
“The determination is here,” he determined, beating his chest. “All I need is someone else to help pump the fillings into the script.” Troy was satisfied with these conclusions, and ready to take initiative, seeking the necessary individual. Perseverance took affirmative action, abruptly removing Troy from the den.
“Lacy!” hollered Troy, in a mad search for his love. Lacy wasn’t the individual that Troy had in mind to complete the script. She was actually a liability. She had shown weakness yesterday by relapsing against Troy’s morning proposal, accepting Awful, Ohio as their fate after she had agreed to Troy that they would not accept Awful, Ohio as their fate. Troy knew that his inability to complete the script would only fuel doubt back into Lacy, forcing her into a permanent relapse that would drag Troy back into the core of Awful, Ohio that would infinitely seal up with an unbreakable crust. The Behicle was a perfect answer to their earlier moments of doubt. But even with perfection, Troy knew that Lacy could still relapse. Troy walked into the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth, and soaking it in sweet smelling ether.
Lacy had been sifting through their belongings since she woke up that morning, preparing for their exodus with excitement, packing and planning as if she were about to embark on a wonderful vacation. Lacy Slushy had started separating everything into two piles throughout the house. But as she started to do more separating, she realized the unnecessary pile was accumulating faster than the necessary pile. In fact, she took notice that the unnecessary pile began to form into the shape of their house, mostly because it was their house. Lacy was now working in the hallway closet, searching for more necessities to add to the pile, as they started to become scarce.
“Lacy,” Troy repeated, discovering her body jaunting in and out of the closet. He approached her purposely with the wet washcloth full of ether in his left hand. Lacy lifted her torso from the closet, pivoted on her heals to turn and face Troy, but before she could respond, Troy had aggressively wrapped his right arm around her, restraining her self-defending, flailing arms. He quickly elevated the rag-filled, left hand, and covered her mouth and nose. She attempted to break through the restraining grip, but the instance of panic caused her to breath in a heavy dose of ether that was saturating the cloth. It froze over her lungs, filtering down through her veins to every nerve ending that tickled her body. She quickly lost control, as her limbs went limp, numbed from the ether, and she passed out from the fumes. Troy relieved pressure from his grasp, now calmly holding Lacy like she was a charming lush seeking a place to rest.
He dragged her comatosed body back into the bedroom. Lacy’s body was heavy, but he managed to spread her across the surface of the bed in a respectful position so she could maintain dignity when she woke up. Troy praised her with loving words, expressing his feelings and emotions, before being removed from the room by the perseverance.
“Lacy, by the time you wake up, everything will be exactly how we planned it. You won’t have to wait around for this script to get completed. I want you to just sleep here, and enjoy the black surroundings that your closed eyes will reveal to you. I want to protect you from the life-revealing light that exposes the horror of day. By the time you wake up, everything will be ready for our westward exodus. I love you, Lacy.”
Troy kissed Lacy on the forehead, grazing his hands through the strands of hair that fanned over the flannel pillow cases. He stepped from the bedroom, walking out of the home, into the hatchback, and expeditiously drove from his driveway to the home of the individual that was going to help him complete the script.
Chapter 8
A Script Needs to be Authentic and Accurate with its Story,
Exposing the Plot and Characters Honestly.