Part Four
The night air was hot, stale, and, in general, an environmental hazard. Its only redeeming quality was the precious life giving qualities it possessed and even that was questionable with prolonged exposure. Diana’s husband's big frame unconsciously inhaled and exhaled the noxious fumes while other parts of him contributed to the overall toxicity of the air. Dinah followed her husband's example, dutifully duplicated his rhythm exactly as if, without his example, she would fail to breath.
He coughed confusing the rhythm, throwing off Dinah. She held her breath and waited for him to start breathing with regularity before entering the duet again. The duet was timid at first before Dinah felt assured he would not cough again. But before long, once her apprehension had abated, they both were breathing deeply together again. Dinah could continue following her husband breathing for hours in the quiet that night tends to bring.
Dinah enjoyed watching her husband sleep. While he slept he was hers wholly. She would pretend to share all her hidden secrets with him imagining him listening intensely, absorbed by her every word, a captive denizen in the city that was her life. And he was more than a passive listener; he was that city’s protector. He protected it from the dangerous world, a modern knight slaying modern dragons defending the city with his blood and if need be, his life. And that city was sacred. The city was only for her and him. No one else was permitted entry.
Some nights, when the moonlight shone through the window, she would dance for her husband, being careful to step softly so as not to awake him, letting his breath be her music. The moon was bright that night. Dinah felt an urge to dance but then there was a knocking at the front door. She held her breath and slowly removed herself from the bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband.
The knocking grew louder and more regular, quickly transforming into banging.
Frightened whoever was knocking would be mistaken for an intruder by her husband Dinah ran to the front door stumbling over her husband's clothes and shoes which haphazardly littered the floor. Without hesitation she flung open the front door to confront the knocker for visiting her and her husband on such an evil hour of the night.
“Yo Dinah, can I have your V.W. van,” asked Peter with the air of someone who thinks he is loved by everyone or, in other words, a complete delusional boob.
“Wha?” gasped Dinah struck by the vision of Peter as if he was a dog cramping on her fresh cut lawn and not a cute little dog with fluffy fur and adorable floppy ears but one whose appearance could only be improved by ample use of a flamethrower set at the highest possible setting.
“Just need it to...” Peter paused to think of a plausible reason to use her van, “get down the street. My van died and I have to go... get all the stuff inside it... go to San— no, moved to— no… move to a... a place...yea… down the street... yea.”
Dinah stared blankly at her ex-lover (one of many) unsure what drug he was on but fairly certain at one time in the past she had enjoyed a trip with him on exactly that same drug. She struggled to remember what it was.
“Come on,” coaxed Peter.
Dinah looked up towards her bedroom where her husband slept. She could hear him breathing as if his fat, moist lips were inches from her ears. If he wakes up, she thought to herself, I won't help Peter. “Sure, let me get dressed,” said Dinah loudly. And to clarify, by dressed she meant putting on her SF Giants hat and a slightly less dirty, and of course tighter, tank top. “I’ll help you move.”
“You can just let me have it,” offered Peter. “I don’t wanna have you go to this much troub–.”
“I'll be back,” interrupted Dinah. She then stormed back into the house.
Peter slowly whistled the theme to “Miami Vice” while he waited. Dinah bumped around the house loudly, Peter noted, and he feared he had interrupted an argument between Dinah and her husband. Peter had only met her husband a few times but remembered him well. He was big, dictatorial, dimmed witted, and, of course, in love with guns. And his love was not a mere infatuation like teenager boys get with any girl in a tight tank top; that described his love for Dinah. His love for guns was bona fide torrent of unadulterated love unseen in the annals of love for inanimate objects (yes, this includes some cats). He loved gun, all sorts of guns, small ones that looked as though they could barely penetrate the skin to medium size ones perfect for pistol whipping a wife’s ex-boyfriend to large ones suitable for attacking armored cars or light tanks. Then there was his love for swords. That love was unparalleled even in the annals of love for animate but non-human entities (yes, this includes some cats). As Peter remembered he had a whole wall covered with swords. Bits of torn clothing adorn the tips of the blades taken unwillingly from people who strayed too close to the sword wall. He told Peter once swords were the only proper way to kill a man, at least if he was unarmed. Dinah’s husband was also was given an early discharge from the military after an experiment they performed on him that went horribly wrong. Her husband seldom talked about it but it had something to do with inducing uncontrollable hatred towards, well, just about everything. Peter wondered why he had not remembered these critical details about Dinah’s husband before he had knocked on their door at such an evil hour of the night. Trying to seem fearless Peter strolled slowly off of the front porch and wandered towards his gang still whistling as if in a former life he was something annoying that whistled.
Dinah shot out of her house and ran to her V.W. van which husband made her park in the street so she would never hit his car while she park. “Lets go,” she commanded.
The van was already filled with John and Mike, who was busy looking at the ignition wires trying to remember how to hotwire a V.W. van.
“Move over Mike,” sneered Dinah, “I got the keys so you don't have to lower herself to stealing a friends car.”
“We would have returned it,” angrily snapped Mike. “That means it counts as borrowing not stealing. The Man just never seems to understand that.”
John shoved Peter's V.W. van's licenses plates into his backpack thankful they did not have to steal Diana’s van. They could now use those plates to steal another V.W. van if he had to.
Dinah started the van up, put it into reverse then floored the gas, slamming the van into her husband's mint condition 66 Mustang with a bunch of fancy modifications to the engine that in fact does very little to enhance its performance but sound really impressive to say to someone as long as the other person you are saying it to is a gear head and, at least, slightly drunk. They also sound better when saying if you have two plugs of chewing tobacco neatly placed in your left cheek. If you put the two plugs of tobacco in your right cheek, however, you might end up sound a bit like a sissy. After being hit the mint condition 66 Mustang with lots of fancy modifications’ alarm went off as it began crying to its master for help, it only being a defenseless car.
Peter, who was still casually whistling the theme to “Miami Vice” in the front lawn, scrambled to get into the V.W. van. He knew a not good situation when he was in one, and he was now in one.
Diana’s husband’s house lit up with 2500-Watt security lights her husband had placed every two feet. Any unfortunate insect that drifted into a light’s beam was quickly baked to a crisp. Their chard remains littered the dead grass that was the front lawn. A threatening voice then thundered from deep within the house.
Dinah shifted into to first and attempted raced away not caring if Peter had made it into the van yet.
“Hey! Dinah,” encouraged Mike, “drive faster, Peter is not in the van yet.”
“No, no!” contested Peter whose feet were still dangling out of the van, “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
“You should never leave a love one like that,” rambled John, “you should embrace those who love you. Life is to short. You—”
“Let me guess. Susan dumped John?” asked Dinah.
“I always thought it would end with a murder-suicide,” replied Mike.
“I thought she would just make him disappear,” said Dinah. “Nothing bloody, just gone.”
Peter finally managed to get all his appendages into the van then slammed the door shut. “To San Francisco!” he yelled.
The V.W. van promptly died.
“Damn, it always does this!” yelled Dinah.
“Always does what?” asked Mike as he was rummaging through the contents in the glove compartment. He found a condom package, opened it then pulled the condom over his head in a child-like manner.
Dinah ignored Mike, being use to his odd behavior after countless hours in bars at 1:30 in the morning when he would do all sorts of unspeakable things with condoms, as she tried to initiate sustained combustion within the engine.
“Dinah,” yelled Peter, “I know you are enjoying our little get together but movement would be good—”
“Here he comes,” said John with a distant voice.
“Sword or gun?” asked Peter nervously.
“It looks like he is got his shotgunsword,” responded John with an utter lack of emotion.
“Shit,” screamed Peter, Mike and Dinah.
Dinah’s husband loved gun and swords (as previously discussed) so much he invented his shotgunsword which was, well, a sword and gun fused together in a marriage which was as unholy as marriage of projectile weapon and sharp pointy thing can get. He loved it so much he slept with it until he accidentally set it off not once, not twice but three times. After the third time he decided, instead, to sleep holding a colt 45. Everyone knew of his shotgunsword from the countless videos he had uploaded to Internet showing him doing everything from cutting meat with the blade part to creating the meat with the shotgun part.
Now, Dinah’s husband stood on the front porch only wearing dirty underwear and flips flops, clutching his beloved shotgunsword anxiously.
“Peter,” said Dinah with a smirk, “Is this a good time to tell you that I often scream out your name during sex just to piss him off?”
Peter moved behind John.
Dinah’s husband yelled some unintelligible words then ran towards the V.W. mini van pointing is shotgunsword menacingly towards it.
“Time to move!” screamed Peter.
The shotgunsword went off with a mooted bang that seemed rather timid given it fearsome appearance. Numerous little holes suddenly appeared in the side of the VW. Mini van as if created by magic. But, it was not magic that had created the holes; it was buckshot. And Peter was not fond of buckshot. Buckshot was just not his thing. “Go!” screamed Peter at Dinah. “Go or we’ll all be dead!”
“Quit yelling at me,” said Dinah, “it is not me he’ll kill, only you guys.”
“She has got a point,” said Mike still wearing a condom on his head.
Dinah’s husband then began slashing the V.W. minivan with the shotgunsword. The sound of melt against melt echoed painfully within the V.W. minivan.
John said, “Lets open the door and reason with him.”
Everyone stares angrily at him waiting for the next annoying thing John would say.
“He is in love and a person in love can always be reason with,” John said with a whimper.
“I am drowning in a pool of idiots! I am drow—” screamed Peter.
But Peter’s diatribe was cut (pun intended) short by the sudden emergence of the shotgunsword’s blade as it thrust through the side of the V.W. minivan just missing Peter’s head by three feet (which is closer than is sounds when it is your head which the sharp pointing thing came within three feet of). Peter’s mind had had enough and he promptly fainted, collapsing to the floor like an over-stuffed jacket you put on in the dead of winter when visiting a friend’s house due to the fact you have no understanding the concept of central heat because your parents, in all their infinite wisdom, never turned on the heat (even when your house got so cold you could see your breath while watching TV) so once entering your friend’s house you are so stifled by the heat you, with great haste, rip off you over-stuffed jack, toss it on the ground only to find the t-shirt you were wearing had an inappropriate comment about what your gracious host could do with himself which you did not intend for him ever to see because you had no concept of central heat.
Mike laughed. “Hey, Peter fainted.”
Dinah sighed. She never slept with anyone who was worth sleeping with she thought to herself.
“Dinah!” screamed Dinah’s husband in a barely human sounding voice. In fact his voice was more like a cross between a paper shredder just before it dies because you fed it a thick stack of unsolicited mail still in the envelopes they came in and a coffee machine when it makes that slurping sound.
“I am leaving you,” replied Dinah. “Go away! No… wait… stay here! I’ll go!”
“She made me leave,” whined John. “She threw me out. You should run towards love no run away—”
“Shut up!” yelled Dinah and Mike at John.
“Dinah!” yelled Dinah’s husband in the before mentioned tone of voice as he shoved the shotgunsword through the V.W. Minivan’s side again.
The V.W. minivan knowing a bad situation when it was in one decided it had enough fun playing dead and quickly came to life. Dinah shoved the can into first and leapt forward with the shotgunsword still lodged in the side of the V.W. minivan and her husband still slinging to the shotgunsword.
“Don’t leave someone is pain!” yelled John as slide open the V.W. minivan’s door.
Dinah stopped the minivan, not because she did not want to hurt her husband, nor was it to reason with John, it was because she was often stupid in times of high stress.
Dinah’s husband and John stared at one another for a moment. The Dinah’s husband then returned to attempting to dislodge his shotgunsword from the side of the van. John watched Dinah’s husband struggle for a moment before deciding to help him. He grabbed the Peter’s sledgehammer, which Peter always traveled with for many reasons that we will dwell upon at a latter date, and gave the shotgunsword’s blade a slight tap. This did the trick and the shotgunsword was quickly freed from its captivity. Dinah’s husband nearly fell as the Shotgunsword was released. He held it up as King Arthur held up the sword in the stone.
John smiled warmly at Dinah’s husband feeling proud of himself for helping another man who had just been rejected by his one and only true love.
Dinah’s husband slowly lowered the shotgunsword and pointed it at John’s head. John’s warm smiled changed to something more suitable for the situation. Peter, who had just recovered, pulled a tarp over his head. Mike frowned upon how predictably the situation had unfolded. Dinah was thinking to herself, there is no way in hell I am going to clean up the up coming mess.
Dinah’s husband pulled the trigger only to hear a click and nothing else. The shotgunsword had failed to fire. He held the shotgunsword up looking down its barrels to examine it and it fell asunder. Its blade fell from its difficult marriage to the shotgun, piercing Dinah’s husband’s foot, pinning him the where he stood.
Dinah regained her wits, who was playing twiddlywinks beside the fan with Peter’s balls and floored the V.W. minivan. The V.W. minivan took off quickly disappearing into the distance leaving the pinned former husband to his own fate. As he slowly registered the physical pain of having a sword piercing his foot it occurred to Dinah’s husband that he was no more Dinah’s husband and his beloved shotgunsword had failed him.
“There had to be a more graceful way to have left that moron,” thought Dinah.
Two hours into Dinah’s flight she inhaled deeply the early morning air, daring a rhythm all her own, a rhythm, however, which deteriorated into hysterical breathing as she dwelt on the night's events. Mike soon took over the driving, the van's occupants finding Diana’s driving style becoming more unsettling once she started sobbing uncontrollably. They, being male, were missing critical parts of the brain that would allow them to understand she was not crying due to happiness or sadness, it was all the crying she had not done since she married her husband.
It was early morning and darkness was beginning to submit to the really big star to the east. John and Dinah shielded their eyes from the dreaded sunlight with dirty clothes and towels that littered the van's floor as they attempted to find sleep.
Peter, sitting beside Mike in the noble shotgun position, twisted in his chair trying to find comfort. He wanted to sleep, but he knew his guiding presence was needed while Mike drove.
“Go ahead,” assured Mike, “go to sleep. I am wide awake, not tired at all.”
“I'm not worried about you fall’ng asleep,” grumbled Peter.
“Don't worry,” again assured Mike in a mocking tone, “I won't take any more short-cuts dictated aliens and any super-natural force.”
“Good,” said Peter bluntly. Against his better judgment, he quickly entered slumber with Mike controlling the direction of his fate.
Dinah closed her eyes in the comfort of knowing that the lamest love in the annals of love for human entities (yes, this includes some cats) had drawn to an end.
