The Plot Thickens (although it was always quite thick)
Out in the hallway, Timothy paced back and forth like an agitated water-buffalo waiting for his wife to return from a spending spree at Water-B-Mart. How could Yolanda be uninterested in Home Improvement? How could she criticise his pretzel/creaming soda enjoyment? How could she call backgammon 'MOOOOO!' and yet not remember how to play it?
He stopped pacing, trying for a moment to understand Yolanda.
After a few seconds, he gave up, and returned to pacing.
Yet a few seconds later, he stopped again, and rubbed his bruised knee, which was beginning to get quite sore.
"Timothy?" a voice came from behind him.
"Wah!" Timothy screamed, jumping into the air and performing an amazing aerobatic feat as he swung around, and landed facing Yolanda, who had approached him from behind. "Oh, its you, Yolanda" he said, calming down as he realised it wasn't the tap-dancing diplodocus his over-active imagination had dreamt up when his name had been spoken a few sentences earlier.
"Yes, it is me," Yolanda said, tears welling up in her already tear-filled eyes.
"What's the matter?" Timothy asked, realising for the first time that his storming out may have upset Yolanda's feelings.
"I'm sorry," Yolanda admitted, "I'm sorry for criticizing your tastes in food, I'm sorry that I disagreed with your 'Home Improvement TV-athon', I'm sorry for forgetting how to play 'MOOOOO!', I'm sorry for having a singing voice resembling a rhinocerous, I'm sorry for being unable to help you find 'The George', I'm sorry for...."
"'The George'!" Timothy exclaimed, remembering for the first time in over three blogs his beloved pet rock, "Where is he?"
"I'm sorry for my loud flute music," Yolanda continued, oblivious to Timothy's outburst, and determined to finish her monologue, "I'm sorry that I'm a weed-smoking hippie who yet sings to God, obviously contradicting my own beliefs, unless of course I were a Rastafarian, which I'm not, actually I belong to my own denomination, but thats besides the point, I'm sorry for...."
"'The George'!" Timothy repeated, hurrying back into his apartment and searching it once more.
"I'm sorry for my pink eyeshadow," Yolanda continued as she followed Timothy into his apartment and watched him searching, "I'm sorry that I only said 'Hooooooowl!' earlier, when I could have said something far more deep and meaningful, I'm sorry - Hey, what's this?"
Interrupting herself, Yolanda reached over and picked up the note she had noticed pinned to the notice board notice-ably.
"It looks like a ransom note" she said, thoughtfully.
"What?" Timothy cried, "What does it say?"
The note was badly written, surprising given the fact that it was made up of letters cut out of magazines, in the classic ransom note style of cheap hollywood movies.
It read:
He stopped pacing, trying for a moment to understand Yolanda.
After a few seconds, he gave up, and returned to pacing.
Yet a few seconds later, he stopped again, and rubbed his bruised knee, which was beginning to get quite sore.
"Timothy?" a voice came from behind him.
"Wah!" Timothy screamed, jumping into the air and performing an amazing aerobatic feat as he swung around, and landed facing Yolanda, who had approached him from behind. "Oh, its you, Yolanda" he said, calming down as he realised it wasn't the tap-dancing diplodocus his over-active imagination had dreamt up when his name had been spoken a few sentences earlier.
"Yes, it is me," Yolanda said, tears welling up in her already tear-filled eyes.
"What's the matter?" Timothy asked, realising for the first time that his storming out may have upset Yolanda's feelings.
"I'm sorry," Yolanda admitted, "I'm sorry for criticizing your tastes in food, I'm sorry that I disagreed with your 'Home Improvement TV-athon', I'm sorry for forgetting how to play 'MOOOOO!', I'm sorry for having a singing voice resembling a rhinocerous, I'm sorry for being unable to help you find 'The George', I'm sorry for...."
"'The George'!" Timothy exclaimed, remembering for the first time in over three blogs his beloved pet rock, "Where is he?"
"I'm sorry for my loud flute music," Yolanda continued, oblivious to Timothy's outburst, and determined to finish her monologue, "I'm sorry that I'm a weed-smoking hippie who yet sings to God, obviously contradicting my own beliefs, unless of course I were a Rastafarian, which I'm not, actually I belong to my own denomination, but thats besides the point, I'm sorry for...."
"'The George'!" Timothy repeated, hurrying back into his apartment and searching it once more.
"I'm sorry for my pink eyeshadow," Yolanda continued as she followed Timothy into his apartment and watched him searching, "I'm sorry that I only said 'Hooooooowl!' earlier, when I could have said something far more deep and meaningful, I'm sorry - Hey, what's this?"
Interrupting herself, Yolanda reached over and picked up the note she had noticed pinned to the notice board notice-ably.
"It looks like a ransom note" she said, thoughtfully.
"What?" Timothy cried, "What does it say?"
The note was badly written, surprising given the fact that it was made up of letters cut out of magazines, in the classic ransom note style of cheap hollywood movies.
It read:
If you eva wan 2 C ur belovd pet RoK, the GeORge, aGIn,
BriNg uR trAVel EditiOn maGnETic deLuXE BackgaMMon BoRD
tO the AmusemeNT park @ 769 Fun-Fun StrEEt
by SeVEN pM on THURsDAY
SIgneD,
BEVEN, (aka RoK naPPer EXtraOrdINare)
Timothy and Yolanda put the note down, and stared at their watches.
The time was six thirty, and it was Thursday.
posted by Lark Victory | 8:36 PM
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