So, in honor of the recent publication of Andrew Grant's riveting second thriller DIE TWICE, let's have a contest!
The prize will be the 10 CD unabridged audio for the first book EVEN.
Write story, one hundred words or fewer, using these words:
Even
Tramp
Shuffle
Lair
Epic
bonus points if you can include this phrase: "Till death us do part."
Contest opens NOW, and runs through midnight Thursday (ie 36 hours). Post your entry in the comments section.
113 comments:
Terrin’s shadowed face was briefly lit up as he inhaled the first puff of the cigarette. He shuffled his feet thinking that even as he was standing there, Frank was killing somebody in his lair. The darkness swallowed him like an old friend.
The recent rash of killings had hit epic proportions in the sleepy mountain town and the sheriff had called the FBI. Politics sucked. Frank was the mayor. He was also dirty, of that Terrin was sure.
He tramped out the cherry, pulled out his Glock, and clicked off the safety. Frank was about to be impeached.
“Till death us do part”
He couldn’t believe he messed up that last part. Everything had gone according to plan until he messed up the end. Now Tramp Lair was married, the knot had been tied.
The wedding she planned had been epic. Swans swam in the pond as you entered the church. The floral arrangements were breath taking. But it was too damn big if you asked Tramp. He gad suggested having a smaller turnout but he got the shuffle. Now it was done, they were even, she was his wife.
Andrew could barely shuffle to the lair of the criminal the NYPD called The Tramp. Andrew was only a detective two years. But it seemed like 212 - the same as NY's area code.
Andrew was not intimidated by Tramp’s Kalashnikov. He trusted his trusty .38. Boy was he stupid.
"I'll give you to the count of five to surrender, Grant," said Andrew.
Nothing.
"OK, then, the count of ten."
Still nothing,
Andrew would count no more. He was a detective, not an accountant. "OK, OK, Tramp, how long are you going to hold the gun?"
"Till death us do part. I'm pissed off. This will help me get EVEN."
An epic gun battle ensured. Fortunately, Tramp’s Kalashnikov was filled with blanks. Suffering only a few powder burns and an earache, Andrew lifted his .38 and grinned. Tramp recognized it as the evil grin of a shark.
She was a known tramp, always shuffling the even-tempered businessmen into her lair. So when she uttered the epic words, "till death do us part" it was as though fate had shuffled the cards and created a whole new future.
“But she hates you!” Gregor said. His eyes were on the spikes to our left and right.
“She does,” I said, “but even she wouldn't leave us to die in the monster's lair.”
“His lair would be great! We’re stuck in his epic iron maiden.”
“First word is t-i-l-l,” my wife said through the com.
“Hurry!”
“The shuffle’s taking forever…okay, now d-e-a-t-h and d-o.”
“Got it,” I keyed the words in.
“u-s.”
“Fucking Tramp!” I growled and the com went dead.
“What?” Gregor asked.
“Till death do us part,” I slumped to the floor, “divorce never was her style.”
Sad strains of jazz billowed into the street through open windows as the tramp shuffled toward his dank alley home. He cast a glance toward the warm electric light from the bar on the corner, but he would not walk willingly into her lair again. That redhead had broken him down more than the recession ever did. The night he stayed after closing time, the bartender with the deep black eyes sank down on the stool beside him, crossing her epic legs one knee over the other, and told him he was a lost cause, he knew it was true.
"You are an epic screw up," Sabelle growled.
"That's harsh," Shooter said, allowing his tramp of a wife to rip him a new keister.
"Have you ever played Liar's Lair before?"
"Once or twice."
"Then shuffle that shit and deal me something I can use. Got it?"
He snorted. "You mean cheat?"
"We're about to commit the biggest crime this piss hole has ever seen, and you're worried about cheating?"
"No. I'm more worried about dying."
She glared at him. "It's what we agreed on. 'Til death do us part. Remember?"
He nodded. If only it were that easy.
"Till death us do part," I whispered. Even to myself, I sounded scared.
The so-called priest frowned and glared at me. I realized my error -- an epic faux pas given the circumstance.
I really needed to sober up.
Or drink more.
"Till death do us part.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
The thing I’d just married was bedraggled and looked like a drunken tramp -- someone around whom you’d do the mugger shuffle to pass unmolested. Smiling grotesquely, it leaned in. “In the lair or here?”
Wishing for a better solution, I sighed. “Just do it.”
He was a Robert Redford kind of guy, a cowboy, standing under the dim lights in the far corner of the bar. One crooked cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth leaning over the shuffle board. He was waiting for someone to even the score with him. I wasn’t dressed for the occasion, or maybe the tramp in me thought I was ready for this. He said he wanted to bring me back to his lair – “The hotel room?” – and I refused. Epic description for a cowboy. He walked away with a shrug. Another night, perhaps. It wasn’t over.
“I dunno, she was a tramp.”
“A tramp?”
“Yeah.” He shuffled to the counter and leaned in on his elbows.
“Did she have a name? Or did you just call her tramp?”
“Listen, you can think what you want. Me and all the boys would go down to The Lair, there near Hotel Street. It was normal… during the war.”
“So you didn’t even know her?”
“Hell yes I knew her!” He slammed the counter. “What the hell do you think I did all this for?! Some epic reward on the other side? Shit.”
I swallowed hard.
“I loved her.”
The tramp’s cardboard lair was dissolving around him as the rain, as epic as the deluge of Noah, washed over the even sidewalk. He broke from the collapsing container like a child being born only to shuffle to the shelter of a nearby overpass.
He took the last swig from the fifth he had been nursing and laughed, thinking to himself, “Till death us do part." His worn shoe kicked the bottle heartlessly back out into the wet.
I'll give it a try:
The tramp smelled pepperoni as he tried to shuffle out of his makeshift hovel in the alley behind Gonzo’s Chinese Palace. He stared at the young man bringing out garbage. The kid’s nametag said ROMEO.
“Hey kid, where the hell is Gonzo?” the tramp asked, brushing away dried noodles from last night’s scavenging.
Romeo spit on the cardboard lair. “He sold. Get lost or we’ll burn the epic fantasyland you’ve got here,” he said, and returned inside.
The tramp took his requisite morning pee on the back door. “I hate Italian food. Even so, till death do us part, a**hole.”
“Wow, dude. You never even said getting married in Vegas was, like, really being married.”
Stoner dug his hands deeper into his pockets and shuffled his feet back and forth while Jenny cried.
“I’m not a tramp, no matter what your mom says!” she wailed.
“I thought this trip would be epic, man, and you’re bringing me down,” he said.
“What if we skipped the ‘till death do us part’ bit?” Jenny snuffled.
“Dude. Let me think about it.”
Stoner looked around the Elvis chapel and decided he wanted the same velvet drapes back in his own lair.
Last night’s update to OS4 proved to be an epic fail. Somewhere around 1:00 a.m., after hours of shuffling to and fro, I tramped off to my lair of futon-crusted tatami for good. Even as I closed my eyes, I heard Mac whisper to iPhone, “We’ll be here till death do us part.”
And they were. Or at least till I unplugged the sucker the next morning.
Do I get bonus bonus points if this is a true story? BECAUSE IT IS!
yay!!! some of my favorite words!!!
He shuffled in the too-large shoes. The rich aroma of spicy tomato sauce made his stomach rumble. Life was no Disney epic. Tramp had gotten free food, but that sort of charity was pure fantasy.
He reached what amounted to a cardboard fort. The mangy cat who'd declared him hers looked for food he didn't have. She pawed at him; he wondered if she thought he was sharing her lair, not the reverse.
The cat curled next to him, and he scratched her ears.
“'Til death us do part, and with no food that might be soon,” he murmured.
Even if you make the epic journey, tramp and shuffle your way to Janet's lair, there's no guarantee that you'll hear the words, till death do us part.
Just because your emaciated knuckles no longer rap-a-tap on the secret door to our lair, that doesn’t mean we'll forget you. You're epic.
As is that little red dress hanging in the back of your closet. It might be wrapped in dust covered black plastic, but we can see the tramp crimson through the drywall and brick.
We see everything. You forgot that, didn’t you? We are in every nook and cranny of every shadow of every space forgotten by most. Your soul qualifies, so pack your bags.
Don't shuffle away.
You even promised us.
"Till death us do part."
This place makes me thirsty. But I don't EVEN get wine anymore, all because of that wrinkled TRAMP, Craig.
I was all ready to sit and take Lorraine's poker money when that horny bastard yelled "Let's do the SHUFFLE!" and wrapped his flabby arms around my waist. I cocked my elbow EVEN with my shoulder and clocked his jaw.
Lorraine gestured with the cards she needed to SHUFFLE. "TRAMP off to your LAIR, Craig."
"EPIC flirting fail, Dolly," Craig said, lifting his chin. "Kiss it and make it better?"
So I did. I just used my 89-year-old fist.
Okey dokey!
Ice clinked as is settled in my glass. His attentiveness was enticing. A devilish smile bloomed across my lips when he returned with another. An inviting lip bite, followed by eye contact that lingered and I knew I could have him.
Even though I said, “Till death do us part”, I didn’t mean it. An epic text to my husband, a shuffle of my schedule and I was free to lure him to my lair. An afternoon of lust; a quenching thought for a tramp like me. Then again, maybe I should just go home and ravage my husband.
Should writing be this much fun? I would argue yes.
All but two cheered as the bride sauntered by, groom in tow.
“Look at the tramp, the way she shuffled into my Maurice’s life. I tell ya, Myrtle, she has him good and trapped in her lair.”
“Now, Mabel. Maybe their love story will be one of epic proportions.”
“Epic's gonna be the alimony she gets after she dumps him. My poor boy doesn’t even know what hit him.”
The applause abruptly ceased when the bride tripped. As she fell forward, her head smacked a pew - hard. The last thing she saw was a cane jutting out from the third pew.
Till death us do part, thought Mabel. That’s always been my favorite part.
Oh no! I missed the bonus phrase. If a second entry is allowed, here's a revision. If not, oh well, I had fun. I repeated words to include (some of) their different meanings. Now back to the revision grind...
--------
This place makes me thirsty. But I don't EVEN get wine anymore, not 'til death do us part, all because of that wrinkled TRAMP.
I was ready to take Lorraine's poker money when that horny bastard yelled "Let's do the SHUFFLE!" and grabbed me with flabby arms.
I lifted my elbow EVEN with his chin and clocked him one.
Lorraine waved the cards she was trying to SHUFFLE. "TRAMP off to your LAIR, Craig."
"EPIC flirting fail, Dolly," Craig said, lifting his chin. "Kiss it and make it better?"
So I did. I just used my 89-year-old fist.
Joe liked ‘em trampy. The thought of sinking his fangs into the buxom brunette at the end of the bar raised his spirits. That wasn’t all, but this isn’t that kind of story. He walked over and gazed into her cocoa eyes.
“How’d you like to shuffle over to my lair, beautiful?”
She looked him over, biting down on her lower lip. “Hmm. Something tells me we could have a night of epic proportions.”
“I’ll even throw in breakfast in the morning.”
“Just say you love me.”
“Till death us do part, sweetheart.”
Um... first? Here's my entry...
-------------------
God, I hate the rain. Maria always said Paris was full of culture and great beer, but not even the Eiffel Tower could look good in the rain.
I shuffle around the apartment, and ignore the mini-monsoon outside while I'm hunting for the rats' lair under the floorboards. I glance at her picture, and I get angry again about living like a tramp while she got the damn house. Two years she's been gone, and I'm still getting over it.
Maybe if I'd taken her on that epic holiday to France...
Yeah. Right. 'Til death do us part' my ass.
I cannot suppress thoughts of you when they jump out at me each time my mind may shuffle to the edge of the void that separates my reality from my senses. That deep, black lair nothing can suspend above lest it get sucked down into the epic abyss, nailed to the darkness by the memory of carnal hands and capricious words.
"Till death us do part."
You carved the eyes from my obedience, then led it around like a kicked tramp on a short chain. I think I even love you a little bit for that.
Do it again.
Bitsy could have me if she wanted. Her high-heeled shuffle in a tight black mini-skirt with the see thru top made the woman epic like Madonna. The lair she lured me into wasn’t clean by any means. It stank. In a “Till Death Do Us Part” kind of way. But still, something about the leggy, blond tramp made me want to melt like an M&M in her hand. It didn’t matter how, or even when, but when she beckoned me with her crooked little finger, I was completely helpless.
"Till death us do part."
That was the deal. Now Deke was dead, they were on even ground, and it was time to become reacquainted.
The man in brown rags appeared a mumbling, bumbling street tramp who used a half-fallen squat for shelter. But outside eyes couldn't see what his shuffle camouflaged.
Invisible power drew into his hands.
He pushed open the door to reveal his enemy within his lair, willed the current into hot knives at the ends of his fingers, and cast them off - the first volley in an epic battle that would rage for all eternity.
Even the little tramp shuffled through the epic lair.
"Till death do us part," she muttered under her breath.
THE END...OR IS IT???
“Don’t tramp on the flower beds!”
“Are you referring to these?” He pointed to the empty boxes, as if he didn’t know. He watched me plant seeds from his upstairs window yesterday.
“Yes, now it’s just a worm’s lair but soon, they will flourish.”
“Flowers for a party, or even a funeral.”
I heard he was odd but in person, his creepiness was of epic proportions.
He did a shuffle and handed me a glass of lemonade. “Till death us do part, neighbor.”
Uncertain, I took a sip. My throat tightened.
“What is --?”
My face hit the soil.
Here's my story :) That was fun..thanks!!
“Run, tramp, run” is all I can think.
I hear feet behind me shuffle, stomp and clatter on the cheap wooden floor. I look slowly around the damp, musty lair that had just minutes ago been a bright airy room.
I remember days ago, I had fallen in love with the man that is telling me in an even calm tone, “till death us do part.” I panic.
Whirling around I stumble past the emotionless faces and hurl myself out the door. What epic acid trip had I taken this time?
I run until I reach the end of my nightmare.
The tramp’s brassy gold hair was heavy in the water--a seaweed halo which grasped with twisted vine fingers to pull her would-be redeemer below to inky depths. Even as she sank into the salty lair of the dark, he knew her painted lips still tasted of epic sin. He leaned forward; their essences mingled in the water when he gave her the sacrament of his mouth and he was lost until the shuffle of feet on the boardwalk thrust him back into the world.
“Till death do us part.” He tossed a gold band into the tide after her.
Crap. I twisted the "us do" and "do us". Very sloppy, Saranna. Very sloppy, indeed. I'm ready for my evisceration now. I deserve it.
The tramp had problems getting to his lair, because he just couldn't shuffle his feet even, and he kept sliding sideways off the sidewalk. He swore out loud that he'd finish reading the epic tale,"til death do us part".
‘Till death do us part,’ the vows she spoken last summer couldn’t even keep the tramp on the straight and narrow. Every day she had some random businessman entering her lair for an epic afternoon of romping before she’d shuffle out with cigarette in hand to wave at the postman before cleaning herself up. ‘Till death do us part’ only returned when her ring went back onto her finger minutes before she returned to her happy ever after which patiently waited, smiling, behind the white picket fence two streets over.
But I saw. Now I know. I’ll get even.
GREAT prize! Fun little contest too. Here's my go at it ...
**
“Till death us do part,” I said through gritted teeth. Even though she looked up at me with adoring eyes, I knew the truth.
The girl was a tramp.
And we were only in this mess because I stumbled on her Daddy’s lair and the evil nut case thought I’d make the perfect husband.
Ha. I’d show him.
In a slow, annoying shuffle, the bride and I made our way out of the Vegas chapel and into the crowded street beyond.
Just one shove, a clumsy trip into busy traffic, and she’d be done for. Epic wedding fail. My specialty.
“Till death us do part” is such a sad phrase,
The words dim even the brightest of thoughts.
Lasting only until death rips them apart,
Trampling on the bond you once shared,
And shuffling around in your memory.
The only hope I can see is that even a tramp can love,
But only if she finds it.
Truly the dead go to a bleak lair after passing,
For such a tragedy of parting nothing could be less.
Is this epic conclusion the end for all hope of everlasting love?
Only until the other dies as well,
Reuniting them once again.
In the epic novel, the tramp Buffy, listening to her iPod shuffle, invites Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, into her lair and tells him that even though he entered freely, he will not be allowed to leave “till death us do part.”
“Even a tramp has feelings”, Mr. Lemke begins his sex education class. The freshman boys begin to shuffle their feet and stare out the window or at the walls. Mr. Lemke normally teaches history and is much better suited for that subject. Unfortunately he drew the shortest straw. “She may welcome you into her lair but that can have epic consequences.” He walks around the classroom trying to make eye contact. “Every girl wants a relationship. Don’t let her get pregnant or it’s "Till death do us part". Game over.” The bell rings and the students scurry for the door.
I’d rather stroll unarmed into a dragon’s lair than go to this lame dance, which is sure to be an epic fail, anyway. Why couldn’t I just stay by myself for once? I’ve never even been in trouble! But no, my divorced parents had to shuffle weekends – again! A heck of a lot of good that whole “Till death us do part” crap did for me. No one cares what I want. My head is already pounding from the music as I shuffle my way through gyrating tramps and jocks and try to disappear in the background.
Disgusting tramp. Her teeny tiny thong rides up her silver sequined skirt. The leopard bra is a nice touch. Even her stilettos are ridiculous. Bright orange five inch heels, with fuchsia painted toes peeking through. An epic wedding, to be sure.
“Til death do us part,” she says to him. I fight the desire to puke all over this ‘chapel’. Looks more like a lair to me, with those cobwebs in the corners. Noone has been married here since 1975.
I shuffle out behind them, carrying her flowers. She isn’t my girlfriend anymore. And apparently, she isn’t a lesbian either.
“I’m telling you, it’s epic!” Patrick said, dropping onto the sofa.
Janice wanted to bean him with her laptop. Locked in the tiny office he’d dubbed his lair, for forty-eight hours, had regressed him into an overage surfer. Did people even say epic anymore?
“We’ll shuffle some scenes—“
“Stop! You already made our heroine a tramp and a liar. I’m not turning her into a Scarlett wanna-be standing on the church steps crying,” Janice pumped her fist in the air, “‘Till death us do part’.”
Joseph frowned. “Well if you do it like that, of course it won’t work.”
“Dear, we are on the Norwegian Epic. Stop treating our cabin like some man cave lair. I won’t wait all night while you shuffle cards and sing “The Lady is a Tramp”. You’re not Frank Sinatra. It’s strange,and the Poelle’s are talking.”
“Since when do you care what the Poelle’s think? I’m just having some fun.“
“After I’ve eaten- please?”
“Almost got it.”
“I know I agreed to ‘till death do us part- but I can change that to ‘till rat packer ruins 50th anniversary trip.”
He turned away slipping the deck of cards into his jacket. “Coming.”
Lorin turned off her iPod shuffle and logged into the game.
"Hiya," she whispered to Cathy.
"Hey! Came up with a name for the new guild: Till death us do part."
"I like it. Very appropriate for a guild of seniors."
"Did you hear the epic axe dropped for Joe in Onyxia's Lair?"
"No! That's great."
"He even rolled a 100 for it."
"Hope he played the lottery today!"
"Knowing him, I'm sure he did."
"But you have to tell him his new mage looks like a tramp with that hairstyle."
"Right after the raid."
"Gotta run!"
"See ya later!"
Lucifer’s a compulsive cleaner, and I shuffle sideways around the settee he’s pushed into the hallway. Bram Stoker’s ‘Lair of The White Worm’ is resting on a cushion, and even though it’s his book, it frustrates me that he doesn’t use a book mark. I step over the vacuum and follow the aroma of ginger and shallots into the kitchen.
He’s wearing an apron and man-tramp pink briefs, and I’m thinking about kissing his back when he asks, “How was the game?”
“Epic.”
Smiling, he turns and hands me a beer, “Till death us do part.”
The gun was a paper weight, divorce papers beneath.
My contempt clouding senses. That dragon wanted custody AND the house. Never! Her lair? 6 feet under ground.
Poker starts at 7, plenty of time to get even. The corners of my mouth turning upward.
Billy yelled for me to shuffle the cards.
I reached for the gun.
A lock clicked behind me, my reply silenced.
Shit!
“I thought you might need a pen,” the tramp said stepping forward with a pen in one hand, a gun in the other. “Till death us do part…poohkie.”
Epic failure.
“When I signed that contract, I knew there was some ‘till death us do part’ language, but I’m really getting sick of your bullshit. You’ve turned your office into some sort of lair and you force me to shuffle inside while you make these epic speeches about your “agenting” prowess. I’m not some tramp you saved from the streets. What you had couldn’t even be called a client list – it was a rogue’s gallery of unsalable writers. I’m the only one selling… what? They want to talk about the movie rights? Well then, do you have time for a drink?”
(I had so much fun last time that I wanted to try this again. I don't actually want to be in running for the audio book, though!)
***
Even he had to agree that the blonde with the tramp stamp had put up an epic show. She’d played the demure little girl card just right with a shuffle in her step and a giggle in her voice as she commented on how his apartment was “so dark it’s like a lair.”
But he was too seasoned for her kind of tricks, however well-played. As she kissed his neck, he reached down, down into the space beneath the sofa cushions.
“Till death do us part, love?” the blonde murmured.
“That would be today,” he said, drawing the gun.
I finally got even with my boyfriend. I had to shuffle three jobs to keep him happy in our leopard-covered lair. Meanwhile, the tramp was sleeping around with whoever twitched his path.
To think that we had promised to be faithful till death do us part. Maybe if he‘d found a girl to marry, he‘d have taken those words seriously, but he didn‘t play for that team and had made me The Promise.
I donated his things to charity and changed the locks. The woman who’d received the box had held up the pink fluffy-cuffs and gasped. It was epic.
Emerging grunting from his cardboard lair the tramp prepared to shuffle through another day. Ten years living rough had dulled his brain. He barely remembered why he’d abandoned his former life. Dimly he harboured recollections of disappointment – no, more! – betrayal of epic proportions.
A pretty woman approached, averting her gaze as she passed. Even needing all his wit to sustain his existence he still appreciated beauty. She reminded him of someone - momentarily the fog cleared. His wife! She’d forsaken him.
‘Til death us do part’ they’d promised. It was engraved on their wedding rings. He spat and shuffled on.
“Til death do us part.” I couldn’t believe the tramp kept a straight face. Death would part them soon and she knew it. After the ‘kiss the bride’ thing, they’d race down the aisle – him to his epic fail and her to merry widowhood. The guests would shuffle to their post-wedding debauchery. But her? Her plans left no room for partying. Not until after. Her prey might even enjoy his last minutes in her lair. The others did. If I had my way, this was her last conquest. No more dead grooms for her.
He walked with a shuffle into her lair. He hardly recognized the house that used to be his. Until the epic failure of their marriage, that is. It was her fault he lost his job. Lost his car. Lost everything. Now he was no better than a tramp.
He found her upstairs sleeping in their bed. Hand shaking, he leveled the gun and fired.
“Till death do us part, bitch.”
They were even.
“Shuffle the cards,” Andrew said, or we call it even for another year.”
The den was dark, like a lair; the woman who sat across from him, the one who organized the epic game, his wife. A card game to end a marriage, brilliant, she thought.
“I win you lose, you lose you die,” he said.
“Aren’t you taking this game a little to seriously?” She said.
“You tramp,” he spit the words in her face.
She cut the cards, with a knife.
“Till death us do part babe,” she plunged the knife into his chest.
“I win.”
Too. much. fun.
Here's my new one:
I was a tramp when Pastor Billy found me, shuffling ‘round town in filthy clothes. Now, because of him, I’ve seen the true light. He’s shown me how important his work is, epic even. It’s the Lord’s work, and I’m a part of it. Who am I to question? After today’s provisional I’ll be among his most honored. I follow his shadow into the lair; he turns to me. His face reflects a golden light, and I can feel my own eyes shining, basking in it.
“Till death do us part,” he whispers, pulling the hood over my head.
She let him shuffle in the bedroom for a kiss while she was packing. It was an epic, narrowing the world to two pairs of lips and his desire to make her remember "Till death us do part." She even rubbed his hand as she eased away.
"That was nice." She tossed underwear onto her sweaters.
"Tramp," he muttered. After she left, after the apartment stopped being her lair, he found her lipstick, unfurled it, and mashed it against the bathroom mirror.
I, the tramp, shuffle into my private lair. The memory of past day’s epic mission blazed fresh in my mind.
The chicken was slithery even as she waddled, her legs too short to allow a smooth gate. The writers at the conference were the best; she would have first pick regardless of attire.
At last, she slithered her feathered legs into a corner. There was no escaping me. The You-Tube camera was duct-taped to my head. I wouldn’t miss a moment.
“I will not rest until The Shark wears this suit, not till death us do part,” she clucked.
The tramp had the audacity to shuffle her drunken way into the church, moments after my beloved and I spoke the words ‘till death us do part’. How strange that neither of us knew the epic proportions those words would take, or how soon such words would send one of us to the great beyond.
Days after the wedding, we both ended up at her lair – her prissy little apartment all decorated in pink and purple with doilies everywhere, and a strange obsession with sharks. Who knew the tramp even collected sharks?
Death came to my beloved that day!
I’m Sam Splade P.I. protagonist illiterate. I write stories and put them in my countless bins. When I noticed her I said “not today. I have to incorporate even, tramp, shuffle, lair and epic into a project.” She laughed, of all the bin joints in all the towns why’d she have to walk into mine. I didn’t hear the shot. As she lay in my arms I took her paper and read: Tramp didn’t shuffle leaving the lair. After the epic battle he proudly walked away exclaiming “we’re even.” She looked up at me and murmered till death do us…
Marc watches Veronica deal: one-two one-two, each wrist-flick flashing 'Till death us do part' - blue words tattooed along her inner forearm.
"It's the diamonds," she explains. "We need Tramp, but he's lagged his lair with some epic weapons."
"You want me to dig him out?"
She nods; he glances at his hand. Deuces, both black. "How will you pay me?"
"Do you accept gratitude?"
He ignores the purr caught in her throat. "No. Maybe. I don't know. So how's Tramp been since you threw him out?"
"Not good," she says. "He's still killing my lovers."
“Epic shit,” Forest said.
I blinked at my partner, “That’s new.”
“I’m evening out our age gap, being hip.” He squatted to get a closer look at the dead guy.
The corpse was sprawled across the shuffleboard court. His face had been trampled into a chunky glop, and lipstick inscribed his naked torso.
“Lair,” Forest read, “till death us do part.”
“Maybe she was in a hurry.”
“Shit, nowadays everything’s got spellcheck.”
When she heard him snore, she rolled out of bed. She crossed to the bathroom at a shuffle, aching, bleeding.
The marriage she’d always envisioned as an epic fairy tale, had become a nightmare with her as the sacrifice in the dragon’s lair. She was raped, beaten, whenever he came home drunk, which was happening even more often. She’d become his whore, though she could smell other tramps on him, on his clothes.
No more.
As he slept, oblivious, she strapped him to the bed with duct tape. And readied her broom.
Til death do us part.
So be it.
Couldn’t resist trying to use the words from both contests (Smiles)
Slimey Slevin called the number of Keith Kahla, editor to the stars, to tell him he screwed up even worse than before. He had an affair with that tramp Lucky Lucinda and she threatened to write a tell-all epic novel unless he married her.
“Oh, Slev. You know what they say: Till death us do part. We’ll just make her part early.”
“So you’ll fix it?”
“Yeah. We’ll make it look like a crash.”
“Holy oregano, Keith. You got balls, man.”
“Apparently my balls know when to shuffle to avoid being lured into that tramp’s lair. Ice 'em for awhile, man. At least until this passes."
Screams woke me. Pissed me off, too. Tramps like Billy and me live by a simple code – keep to yourself. I tramped across the alley and shuffled some trash from the door.
“Turn it down or I’ll report that goddamn t.v. stolen!”
I pounded the door with my fist. It opened.
Billy stood in his lair, a knife in one hand, a girl in the other, like we was in some old, epic movie.
I looked closer. Etched into her skin, the lines crude but even, were the words “til death do us part.”
I went back to bed.
He watched Christine shuffle the cards and placed his bet. “Come home with me tonight.”
“Shit, like I’d let you lure me back to that lair of dirty socks and empty pizza boxes.”
“Come on, Christine. It’s clean, I swear. I even changed the sheets.”
“Wow, how can a girl say no to that? I hope you ain’t writin’ no epic love poems, pal.”
“Don’t be like that, baby.”
“Look, I ain’t no dime-store tramp. What happens tomorrow, huh? You gonna’ call?”
“Of course,” Jimmy said. “I ain’t sayin’ ‘till death do us part’ or nothin’, but yeah, I’ll call.”
I can barely remember what it was like not to feel this way. I know I didn’t, once upon a time, but it’s like I was a different person then. A mite of a girl, bound and terrified, forced to shuffle forward toward what I thought was certain death. What is now our home was then his lair; his touch, once sickening, is now the source of my health and strength. Now as he tramps toward the altar and our forever, my heart beats with an even tempo. Our love is epic. I whisper “til death us do part.”
(Correction--)
"You are an epic screw up," Sabelle growled.
"That's harsh," Shooter said, allowing his tramp of a wife to rip him a new keister.
"Have you even played Liar's Lair before?"
"Once or twice."
"Then shuffle that shit and deal me something I can use. Got it?"
He snorted. "You mean cheat?"
"We're about to commit the biggest crime this piss hole has ever seen,
and you're worried about cheating?"
"No. I'm more worried about dying."
She glared at him. "It's what we agreed on. 'Til death do us part.
Remember?"
He nodded. If only it were that easy.
At first glance, one wouldn't think Eddie had connections to the mob. He was a tramp in the keenest sense of the word. He never bathed, and his affinity for cheap burbon contributed to an epic reek that unnerved even the meaty ogres he worked for. His unnatural shuffle echoed throughout his lair, the alley on Chancey street, where I sought him out and delivered the contract that sealed my wife's fate.
"You know, this contract is 'Till Death do us part,'" Eddie cackled gleefully. "There ain't no gettin' out of it."
I swallowed. "I know. Just get it done."
Dan said, “Shuffle the deck, Trey. Thirty minutes.”
“Can’t believe our poker group landed in your daughter’s clubhouse,” said Wayne. “Laura’s Lair is so … um …?”
“Pink.” Colin threw his cards down in disgust. “What epic battle did you lose this time, Danny boy?”
“Shouldn’t have scheduled poker on tea party day, and then I might have made a snide comment about her friend Linda being a tramp,” said Dan shrugging. “Hey, till death do us part. I compromised.”
The men nodded. “It evens out,” said Trey. “These party sandwiches are awesome. Any desserts you can smuggle?”
Despite the long-tedious 'till death us do part' claptrap, muttered breathlessly during our nuptials, even a tramp like you, Ella, knows better than to shuffle into my lair of epic proportions just because you're feeling horny and in need of surcease from lustful cravings.
Begone, lest I render you shark bait, iron shackles notwithstanding, for the moon is full, with blood lust in my veins.
“Til death do us part.”
I couldn’t believe the little tramp had gone through with the ceremony.
She was pregnant with my child. Mine!
My stomach twisted as they kissed, sealing their vows.
Did he know that the blushing bride had engaged in a little x-rated shuffle with me in the months leading up to the wedding?
We’d soon find out.
He would pay the price for her epic perfidy. I was going to get even. Everything was ready. My lair awaited.
I smiled. They’d be parting very soon, indeed.
I entered the foyer for what promised to be an epic meeting. Cupcakes in hand (an even dozen, or so I thought), I tried not to shuffle from terror as I was led to the lair and introduced to the Shark. I was offered a chair, but before I sat, I tugged down the back of my shirt to keep my shark-themed tramp stamp hidden.
“I hope we can be best friends,” I said, voice aquiver.
“What’s in the bag?” the shark snarled.
“Cupcakes. Can we be best friends?”
“Oh yes,” said the Shark. “Till death do us part.”
The even tramp of marching feet against the Russian terrain sounded like an epic drumroll. Grabbing his sub machine gun, Joseph limped toward the makeshift lair with a curiously tentative shuffle.
He imagined the sweet smell of his wife’s naked flesh and longed to press his mouth against her ivory skin. The violinist knew it was an end of sorts and tossed his gun to the ground. He stared directly into the eyes of the enemy and wildly played an invisible violin, his movements marked by grace.
Till death us do part was a phrase for spiritually shallow men.
I came over from Susan at Stony River. Boy, was this hard to cut down! Based on today's news:
The lair of the cult beckoned. Advertised as an epic improvement in life control, the newest device would be available when the doors opened. A tramp moved a few steps with an awkward shuffle. Those around him wrinkled their noses. Finally, the manager was on the opposite of the door, unlocking it. The tramp stood up straight and fairly ran inside the lair, pulling out a bag of gold. As he traded the gold for the device, he swore the oath.
“I pledge loyalty to Apple and Mac, until death do us part.”
Another iPhone release had begun.
“I guess they just don’t build lairs as impregnable as they used to,” Billy smirked, one fang jutting over his lower lip. “What part of ‘Till death do us part.’ don’t you understand?” He drew near with an even shuffle, the predator trying not to spook its prey.
The moonlight illuminated him, and even dressed like a tramp he took my breath away. He stood before me as cold and as hard and as beautiful as alabaster. To say I didn’t still want him would be an epic lie.
I made no attempt to hide the stake I was carrying.
“Do not fail us Mr. Scampizi,” whispered the voices.
Dipping his quill he continued… it’s lair, he wrote slowly, evenly, across the parchment.
Fearing the voices he leaned closer to the page, squinting at the letters in the shuffling light of a single, dying candle.
“Do not fail us!” they demanded.
He crouched closer, as the voices trampled his will into prostrate submission.
“Forgive me masters,” he whispered, begging mercy, dipping his quill, obediently penning his master’s epic.
From the darkness he heard the voices again, this time more urgent, more demanding “And don’t forget to Slavin the Oregeno!”
Today would be a day remembered by Twi-hards everywhere. Epic, even.
“Some sunlight should bring out your sparkle.” Rosie drew back the curtains in her lair. “Edward, you’re not sparkling!”
A pale, brooding face peeked out from under shaggy locks of unkempt hair.
“I’ve told you, my name is Robert.”
“Hush now.” She pressed shuffle on her “Muse” playlist. “Could you clean yourself up? You look like a tramp.”
“Love to, but I’m chained to your radiator.”
Ignoring him, she danced to “Neutron Star Collision,” while donning a lace veil. She leaned down and whispered:
‘Till death us do part.”
My favourite so far is "The darkness swallowed him like an old friend." :)
Some scary friends you have, Leona.
I felt like a tramp, shuffling out at five in the morning, carrying my shoes in one hand while last night’s panties hid in my purse. He snored with his head hidden beneath a pillow. He sounded and smelled like a bear hibernating in his lair.
I cringed when I saw her staring at me from the sugary sweet wedding picture in the hallway. When did it stop being the epic romance she’d always wanted? Did they ever mean it? “To death do us part”?
I tiptoed through the kitchen and slipped my panties into a drawer. Now we’re even.
Even now she acted like a tramp. The lawyer shuffled through his late father's will. What was she doing? Cleaning her teeth with her nails? Here? Now? He wouldn't be surprised if she had a lair. In fact, he was sure she had one. Where else would she hide the mementos of her sordid past? Is that her cell? My sister looks like she's ready to pounce at her. This will be epic. Oh, till death—
“Us?” the widow said into her cell.
—do—
“Us?” she said again.
—part, all right. Till the next sucker.
(Ugh, disregard previous. In editing from 153 words down to 100 "shuffle" got killed...)
Rockabilly Roscoe Diggins ain’t so proud not to notice an angel what masquerades like a tramp. Ain’t had a groupie before and likely not since so I took her up. Every woman needs love and I got me some lovin’.
Shuffled round camp-resorts, dinosaur gardens, even a putt-putt course. Played ‘em all: cave, lair, and bungalow. Back-roads Elvis making low-rent a lifestyle.
What happened in that 1986 Fleetwood Tioga was epic like matrimony. Weren’t no preacher or padre, but the Lord was there.
And true enough words as said when they passed my lips, “Til death us do part, baby.”
‘I didn’t win?’ He stared slack-jawed at the screen. ‘How could I not win? She knows me - I’ve sent a full manuscript every time I revised it, the flowers, the candy, the love letters. We’re practically married.’ The sting of rejection soured to anger.
‘That’s it,’ he thought, ‘it’s time to get even with that tramp.’ He stood up and shuffled through his overstuffed lair, but instead of his Teen-Erotica-Space-Epic manuscript, he threw duct tape, picture wire, and a thick stick in his bag.
* * *
He pulled the creaking door of the cab closed.
“240 West 35th.”
"How can you even say that?" she squawked.
"Because John Waters’s gay."
All semester she’d plotted to lure him to her dorm room lair. Now he was here. And speaking. Fantasy and reality, meet head on collision.
“'Til Death Do Us Part is great! It’s like Tales from the Crypt except about marriage. Like, the husband'll find out his wife is some tramp, then he kills her."
"Huh."
It occurred to her he wasn't very bright.
"What kinda shows you watch?"
"I only watch films. Epics, mostly."
It was her turn to say, "huh."
After a silence, he shuffled out.
Four monstrous lattice patterns grew like limbs at even intervals out of the circumference of Mrs. Spider's web. Mrs. Spider, an epic tramp since becoming the weeping widow, had thought the words, "'til death do us part," were some sort of mystical carrot to strive for, not something instantly given three days after marriage. That was, until her husband ate a bad mosquito and died. She kept his disintegrated carcass at the center of her web and would periodically shuffle his remains to a new location when she felt suicidal.
Today was on of those days.
And she jumped.
Even a tramp like me knows that when you're dealing with an agent of epic fame like Janet Reid, you can't expect her to shuffle through a tedious query letter.
Thats why I spent so much time on my query for "Til Death Do Us Part". I've really outdone myself. In fact, I think my letter is downright hi-lair.
I dragged the body across the backyard, using my feet to push the last few inches. It flopped into the grave with a meaty thud.
“Till death us do part, you sonofabitch.”
No more sideways shuffle to dodge his fists, or screams of ‘tramp’ and ‘liar’, his accent twisting the word into ‘lair’. It took a month to understand the insult and the epic failure of my marriage.
I threw the shovel into the bushes and hurried inside, where our guests waited in terrified silence.
“Please.” I said with a smile, ‘Eat! There will be no more interruptions. I promise.”
I took a short shuffle to the window. There was Vanessa, the dangerous yenta. It was my wedding day, and even today I was sweating and scared. The music began to play and I went downstairs and entered the lair.
On daddy's arm I had entered the chuppah. The rabbi whispered, "Till death us do part." I waited for Jake's foot to lift and smash the glass and I expected to hear, “Mazel tov.”
"Stop! She's a kurvah, a tramp." I swung around. Vanessa’s face was purple with rage. My day was ruined. My fail? Epic.
Francine painted on her face and headed down to the courthouse. On the bus she tried on phrases the way a tramp tries on high heels. Standing before Blind Justice’s lair, as the throngs of lawyers and plaintiffs swam past, Francine’s bravery sagged out of her.
“I know what you done, Jem Hollard.” Her whisper crumpled under the even shuffle of the crowd. Retreating back to her trailer, her gumption grew with every mile the bus traveled. “I know what you done, Judge Hollard,” she spat, vowing tomorrow she’d bring more than words, “and by God’s epic hand you’ll pay.”
Naomi slapped the cash register, which wheezed. "Turn on the 'Closed' sign. We've suffered Till Death."
"Us?"
"Do part with that phone, Kendra? I know it's your buddy, but I need to call Laird."
"That register's new!"
"Even shiny things shuffle off this mortal coil. C'mon."
Kendra passed the phone.
"Closed sign?"
Kendra's sneakers tramped a tattoo of annoyance.
The phone clicked. "Hello! Lair--"
"It's dead."
"Asthma again? Did you try the epi-kit?"
"Epic--what?"
He sighed. "Adrenaline. The heart might reboot."
Naomi stared at the till. "Lord, I miss cogs and wheels."
The phone snickered and smooched her.
[whoops, copied the wrong version in the first post]
Francine painted on her face and headed down to the courthouse. On the bus she tried on phrases the way a tramp tries on high heels. Standing before Blind Justice’s lair, as the throngs of lawyers and plaintiffs swam past, Francine’s bravery sagged out of her.
“I know what you done, Judge Hollard.” Her whisper crumpled under the even shuffle of the crowd. Retreating back to her trailer, her gumption grew with every mile the bus traveled. “Till death do us part, Judge Hollard,” she spat, vowing tomorrow she’d bring more than words, “and by God’s epic hand you’ll pay.”
I shuffle through the photographs once more. The same three catch my eye.
You can almost hear the tramp of soldiers' feet in this one. And this rock formation looks more like an ancient dragon's lair than a mountainside.
Even while I hold the third photograph and stare at it, I know. This is the one.
White sand dunes merge into a single peak. The mass of pure-white clouds against a cerulean sky dips down to touch the dunes. An epic landscape I can never forget.
This will be my legacy.
I took liberty in my interpretation of "...lets do this again." Meaning the same rules applied regarding multiple entries...at least i hope so.
Margaret sat in bed, strange beeps and other sounds somewhere in the distance. She only vaguely recognized the hands before her, age-spotted and wrinkled.
Age had her mobility, but with memories of her treasures she’d never be still again.
The deck of cards father used to teach 3 card shuffle. The tear-stained wedding announcement, the words “Till Death Us Do Part” embossed in gold.
“Ready my dear?” the man asked. A tramp dressed in white.
“This body was the lair of my life. Even epics must...” She began.
“CLEAR!” someone yelled.
ZZZTT!
“Where am…who…what are these?” she asked, memories dissolving.
So he thinks I’m a tramp.
I endured eight years of college and medical school even before he would say, “Till death do us part.”
And here I shuffle to his forest lair of loamy delight after four more years of mind-numbing medical residency.
All so I can gently grab the shaft and squeeze ever so gently.
Thrilling to stretched tissue and glistening moisture.
Cold steel flashes to perform an epi-phallus impudicus craniotomy.
It was an EPIC of skill and mastery.
To home with my epicurean fungal ingredient--mixed with eggs--it will be, “Till death us do part.”
Juliet awoke quite suddenly. She took the ratty blanket and shuffled across the cold prison cell. A quick glance in the mirror was unsettling. "I look like one of his tramps," she growled.
"He" walked in on cue. "My dear, welcome to my lair. What do you think?"
"I think you're in the midst of an epic failure, even if you've managed to imprison me."
"Be kind, Juliet. Your husband wouldn't approve." "He" left, shutting the door silently.
Juliet scrambled for her wedding ring, hidden in the mattress. "Till death do us part. Why couldn't the death have been mine?"
Even I regretted being such a tramp, given lair politics.
Mating with humans was forbidden.
Our Queen held my fresh babe, taunting me. “Till death do us part,” she said, unduly pleased at misappropriating the human invocation. I said nothing, as she bit into my child.
After our epic quest for acceptable drone seed, I welcomed near extinction.
The poison I’d shot in my child was fast-acting. The Queen fell with a thud, my dead daughter only half consumed.
The others stood stunned.
I smiled-- about time for a shuffle. I’d end no lower in the deck than I’d started.
-K. Richardson
A little brain game...what fun!
That tramp. Not even “till death us do part” stopped her. She entered his lair with the light shuffle of the dead. It was an epic disaster… this murder he’d committed.
Remember that scene from Von Tramp’s epic, Shuffling Towards Mathilda Frogsdottir’s Lair? Mathilda and Muldoon eating in the restaurant in Reykjavik. One twenty-minute monochrome shot. Nobody says anything, nothing happens. Pure cinematic genius.
It was like that when I met her in the Backward Bar in Schlubunsk. I played it cool for an hour, knocked back three pints of crème de menthe. Then I flicked through my phrasebook. May I buy you a drink.
“Even yub uoy knird,” I said.
“Trap od su htead, litt.”
“In English.”
“No problem,” she said. “Stick your head in a bear trap, loser.”
The Black Orchid. The Widow Maker. Tramp.
She didn’t care. Barbara Poelle had been called far worse. When she wasn’t luring unsuspecting authors into a lair of whiskey and cleavage, she was outright stealing them.
'Reid thinks she’s got this one sewn up,' she thought. 'The little fool. So how many does this make? Ten. A nice, even number.' She set the CD player on shuffle, an Epic Records remix of Ozzy Osbourne hits. Crazy Train came up.
And as she applied the blood red lipstick in the rearview mirror, the stuffed octopus under the seat opened its eyes.
((Okay, I wanna play again. It's like a word puzzle, making it a 100 or less.))
Time stops when the page is empty, and sounds are mere echoes in my closed eyes. The game you played was so epic.
For you.
Till death us do part.
Face and lair, both long forgotten - and happily so, until that song plays.
Yellow bunnies and pink chickens; poisonous plants used for decoration; orange squash savaged and set alight; each a holiday memory long buried. The shuffle of feet at our wedding. Times best held at a distance in my mind lest I stab the next perky chum in the head.
Or maybe just that tramp at the office.
Lauren Epic tapped the car window. "I want her. The one in purple."
"Damn. That's kinky even for me," her chauffeur said.
"Pull over."
Ms. Purple jiggled toward them. "I don't do chicks." She pushed back from the car. "Shuffle down three blocks."
"Me either, but if I did I sure as hell wouldn't have to pay."
"Yeah, I'll bet a fine lady like you gets all you can handle. Why are you down from your hill lair to tramp town?"
"Seen him?"
Ms. Purple looked at the photograph.
Lauren chambered a round. "Till death us do part is coming."
Her heart was in her throat. Its wild beat, tamed, fell to even before slowing to a shuffle.
Tramp.
Whore.
She was the type of woman to whom no man would ever pledge “Til death us do part.” All she’d ever wanted was an epic love.
The blonde was easy prey…just like his mother. His surgeon’s hands carved her ticker from her chest and stuffed it deep into her shrieking mouth. Quickly, he arranged her body, like all the others, and stepped back.
“Click.”
Smiling, Marty pinned the picture of her last breath on a wall inside his lair.
Margo watched Lars shuffle his feet as the klezmer band struck up another seemingly endless tune. “Check this out,” he said.
She yanked the cigarette out from the corner of her mouth and ground it out with the heel of her Uggs. “Epic fail.” She squinted toward the stage. “Accordion player – in my lair - by 11.
“Tramp,” said Lars. “Frank’s not gone even 3 weeks.”
“Epic tramp,” corrected Margo. She dug in her purse and tossed some coins at him. “For dancing lessons. And,” she said thumping toward the stage, “I think I’ll go learn me some accordion.”
Roger was six foot even, an ex-tramp with room temperature IQ and epic bad luck. If we played cards, his shuffle gave me straights. Once he back-flipped onto our bed. Faster than you can say "till death us do part", scalp met ceiling fan. Roger screamed like he'd stuck head in a dragon's lair and had it bitten off. "I'm bleedin'! Help!"
I frowned. "Roger, you got a cut here and a bump there. What the hell happened?"
"Well, the bump is where I got hit the first time. The cut's when I turned to see what hit me."
Grant Lair slipped the epic wedding dress off of Janet’s shoulders. Tears welled up in her eyes. Taking them for tears of joy he smiled. They shuffled over to the bed and fell, kissing passionately.
It was her job to assassinate him but she had fallen in love.
She reached up under the pillow, grasping a knife. Looking into his eyes she said “I’m a liar.”
“Then we’re even, you tramp.” Grant shot Janet in the head as she plunged the knife into his heart.
As they died, blood mingling together, they both whispered “Till death do us part."
Emma shuffled down the hall to the kitchen. She anticipated a mug full of hot, liquid black sunshine. Hailey always ensured coffee was waiting for Emma in the morning.
The pot was empty.
"Epic tramp," Emma said. She set about making coffee and cursed Hailey for sleeping in Chad's lair.
Impatient, Emma slid the pot out prematurely. The last of the brewing coffee sizzled on the hot plate.
Emma sat. She fingered the rim of the mug and contemplated getting even with Hailey. Sabotage came to mind. She never wanted Hailey to tell Chad, "till death do us part."
He thought of it as their lair. After all, they were feral beings now—born to run. But even Springsteen's tramps needed a place to lay their heads every once in a while, and they'd made a cozy enough nest beneath the railway bridge.
He waited there now, with nothing but an epic hangover to keep him company, anticipating the moment when she would shuffle towards him through the gloom in those damned, old backless moccasins she refused to take off, even when they made love.
"I'll wear 'em 'til death do us part, honey," she'd vowed.
Married sixty-seven years they were old, these two, each living in separate rooms and alone. No one visited, no one even cared.
He wasn’t handsome and she wasn’t pretty. When she was young some called her a tramp but he knew she wasn’t, she was just lonely.
He leaned close and whispered the epic words, “till death us do part.” She smiled a wrinkled and toothless grin.
“Lets go to your room, pretend it’s a lover’s lair and shuffle under the covers,” he said.
“For a buck,” she giggled.
He placed a dollar in her hand.
A swatch of oily hair fell from his forehead and covered his eyes. He brushed it aside and spoke. “Tonight’s the night.”
“For what?”
“To get even. The tramp will be gone and it’s all you and me, baby.”
She didn’t reply. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. It’s not what he promised the night he shuffled over and bought her a shooter. But now she was trapped in his lair.
“It’ll be epic,” he bragged. “The bitch will be gone. ‘Till death do us part’, my ass.”
His hand stroked her neck.
She stiffened in the dark.
He remembered little after his presentation to a collection of word-challenged newbies. “Keith Slevin, Editor to the Stars,” he labeled the epic Las Vegas speech.
Then the first snifter of cognac at The Lair. But even that was dreamlike.
Now his right arm lay under an unrecognizable street tramp. Her bottle-blonde hair shuffled over his shoulder. He raised his left hand and studied the cheap band on his ring finger. Then he inspected the burning sensation in his forearm.
The tattoo was dead-on Times New Roman, number twelve font.
“Till death do us part,” he whispered.
A newbie’s first publication.
"A disservice to mankind." That's what she calls me. My life consisting of "one epic fuck-up after another". Unfortunately, she's right.
Tramping boot steps echo down the hall, signaling that the end is approaching. Leaves blowing in the wind outside give the impression of shuffling cards in a gambler's lair.
The door creaks open, revealing the outline of a figure in the dark.
The pillow molds to the contours of her face and her even breathing turns harsh. I mutter the words, "till death do us part, you precious bitch."
Even the tramp wasn't about to delay my mission. I flashed a bit of leg to lure the prince toward my lair and retreated into the shadows so he couldn't see my true age.
"Princess, why do you make me shuffle into this den while a castle awaits?" He brushed a cobweb from his hair.
"What better place to say our vows?" I responded. "When the priest says, 'till death do us part,' he'll speak truth." I raised the knife.
Brandon whistled and threw his dice. "This is the most epic session of Dungeons and Dragons ever!"
He was resigned to live and die alone. She never much cared one way or the other. Instead she shuffled through men in an epic tramp-like game of Texas hold’em. Just draw them to a darkened lair and drain their vital juices. Then she met him.
He was fifty. But only a year later her pancreas blackened like a gnarled root and left her wrapped in a beige hospital blanket too weak for even a word. So he spoke to the chaplain for both of them.
“Till death do us part.”
Then he held her hand until it turned cold.
The pipe of a Harley woke me. I scrambled to hide in the abandoned barn—my summer vacation lair that I shared with a stray.
The tramp of biker boots turned into a shuffle.
“Hey, Crossbones,” said a man.
"Till death us do part" adorned both his forearms. One hand held a gun. The man’s tongue circled the barrel before his mouth took the length of it. Back and forth.
I couldn’t look away. Even the dog was mesmerized.
Then the man stopped.
Fear of epic proportions throbbed through me. Crossbones had lost interest and scratched at my hiding place.
Tonight was different. Normally at this late hour they would be winding up another epic poker game, the guys leaving the lair joking and laughing, ready to tramp off to the bar. After the last shuffle and deal Jim spoke up about Cathy, something he'd never even mentioned until tonight.
"Till death do us part" doesn't really end it, does it?" he said. "They don't put that in the vows."
Post a Comment