The Land of the Cheddar Monster Vivisectionists

As Kris contemplated in horror the continental breakfast before her, Mr. Powell appeared at the kitchen door, martini glass in hand.

-¿Vermouth? -He asked his wife.

Mrs. Powell poured cold goo on Lindy’s plate in an attempt to divert attention from her father. But Kris hadn’t grown up in an alcoholic house without learning a thing or two:

-¿Vermouth? Look under the sink, behind the rat poison -Kris knew that her dad had a heart of gold, but a liver that was more grayish-. ¿Can I take the van since Dad’s hammered?

-I’m not hammered, but my head has been compressed into tiny camel toes -Mr. Powell said, entering the kitchen and then falling out the open window-. Please, someone, roll me over.

-¡See you next fall! -Kris supplied the comedy relief, but no physical relief.

-¿Huh? -He was his daughter Lindy’s father.

-I said, ¿Can I take the van? ¡Puh-weeze!

Her dad’s eyes seemed far away and the dummy’s eyes seemed to be coming right at her.

-Umm... ¿Can someone give me a hand? -He prayed that nobody was shooting rabbits in the backyard.

-You got your self out the window, so I think that you can get your self back in -Kris replied, thinking fast and using the old parental wisdom back at her father.

-I don’t think I’m getting up any time soon -Her dad replied-. But, hey, it’s Saturday, I don’t have to go to work... ¿do I?

The dummy burped. But he might as well have tip-toed through the tulips screaming “¡Muenster cheese!” for all her parents noticed.

-¿Did you guys notice a slight drop in the air pressure? -Kris asked in the persona of a box kite.

Before her dad could pull his self up, Mrs. Powell’s self reappeared in the kitchen doorway.

-Listen -She said, laying out some lava chips on the kitchen counter-, we’re leaving before this planet runs out of water.

Mr. Powell emphasized that it would take a crane to get him to the car.

-¿Why do you bother us with questions? -He asked.

-It’s my eco-librarian training... -Kris began. But it was no use. They never listened. And they didn’t know who Robert Creeley was-. Nothing. It’s not important -She murmured.

A second later she could hear car doors slam and then screeching, as if the gods had decided to attack the garage.

She had so had it with her parents.

And then she realized that she was alone in the kitchen with a dummy who wasn’t right in the head.

Mr. Madero was soldering his capacitors when he turned his silly grin to Kris. His bug-eyed eyes were still in his clavicles, but they were also still staring at Kris.

-¡It’s the lesbian adventurer! -That Madero never chilled out.

Barky trotted into the kitchen, making a rude noise with his paws and then pissing on the linoleum. He must’ve been urinating a long time because he was reading a book about the life and death of Jimmy Durante.

-Barky, ¿where are we supposed to piss? -Kris asked, content to bust the terrier’s balls.

The dog ignored her and hummed a Bob Dylan song that had actually been written by Mr. Madero himself. “Hmmm hmmmm, doll you’re bound to fall hmmm hmmmm”

-¡We still haven’t gotten any royalties off that song! -Lindy said, taking her eyes out of their sockets and throwing them into the kitchen like a pair of dice. She took off her pants and threw them into the kitchen and she threw her shirt right after it-. Stupid fucking dog.

Barky began rolling around on the urine-soaked linoleum floor.

Lindy was still griping about Dylan and royalties when she saw Mr. Madero for the first time.

-¡Oh, fuck!

-Hey, if it isn’t her egregiousness -This dummy was COLD-. You two are more disgusting than SUV-driving lemmings.

Lindy started hitting Kris on the back with a combination of soap, rice and TERROR.

Kris picked up Lindy’s eyes and handed them to Mr. Madero.

“¿What does she see when a dummy has her eyes?” -Kris asked her self-. And, ¿how come I’m proud to be a prestidigitator?”

Septuagenarians were all over the place, with no impishness and no retro-gressor guns. But, ¿what does this have to do with a story about mallets and chicken salad sandwiches?

“¿Isn’t this story about how our manners are deteriorating in this modern world? ¿Will we find a segue out of this?”

This story is about a diabolical dummy, Mr. Madero, and how said dummy was making a career out of pissing people off. He put on tennis shoes that didn’t match, gulped down some Contra Chipotle Sauce and slipped on the linoleum.

-You two are more disgusting than SUV-driving lemmings -He repeated, as if someone had pulled a string in his back.

-¿What did you just say? -Kris said in a voice traditionally reserved for septuagenarians.

-¡I’m going to castrate you! -The dummy replied-. And -and the dummy made a dramatic pause-, and I’m probably going to talk your ear off!

-¡Nooooo! -Kris cried out in anguish.

But the dummy started talking rapidly. He told Kris all about the recliner he had just bought. He even growled continually at Barky and all the poor dog could do was put his paws over his ears.

The dummy pulled the terrier’s paws from his ears and Barky went howling out into the septuagenarian night.