Five words: ambidextrous / carnivorous / cataract / existential / Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
Location: Wichita Falls, TX
Prop: Duckbill Platypus
Theme: ‘Hawaii 5-0′
Read the Rules
Clocked in at : 1 hour, 22 minutes

Note: Sorry it took me so long. But I finally did it. I grabbed these prompts a while ago and went to town. Hope you enjoy it.

Writing Challenge #2

It was a day. Not the middle of the night. Not dusk. Not even dawn. It wasn’t even a special day. It was just a day. A day in Wichita Falls, Texas, a town equidistant from both Dallas and Oklahoma City that neither wanted to claim. Bad things happened in Wichita Falls, the kind of things that made god-fearing Baptists tremble in their knickers and stay the hell away.

That being said, it only goes to reason that our protagonists, two stoners residing in Wichita Falls, could be good guys only in the sense that they weren’t as perverse as a lot of other people. We’ll call our protags Meth and Farah.

Meth and Farah were a wild pair. They wore their sun visors crooked and their fanny packs loose. Each was prone to spontaneous attacks of coughing and wheezing, due to their joint disease of Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. Both having come down with it during their days of youthful stupidity when they got high by sniffing construction sites, and, when they could sneak it, sometimes construction workers, Meth and Farah took great pride in the fact that they were afflicted with a disease that just happened to be the longest word in the dictionary, no matter how fake it was.

On this completely boring and ordinary day, Meth and Farah were just sitting down to an existential conversation with their duckbill platypus, Quirko.

They’d gotten Quirko on a whim, or as whim as something can be when you have to buy it on the black market and sneak it into the country. But they had to have it. Being ambidextrous, Meth found that no matter what he was doing, whether he was eating or writing or engaging in any other activity requiring only one hand, he had no idea what to do with his spare, every bit as skillful, appendage. Left or right, it didn’t matter. Even if he took turns with his hands, whichever hand was momentarily free felt sinfully idle. Knowing if he didn’t find something to occupy his extra hand, the devil would possess it, Meth resolved to find something to do with his free hand. Like a bolt of lightning, it hit him from the dull gray sky one day. A duckbill platypus would keep his hand busy. So he’d smuggled in Quirko, and now whichever hand wasn’t eating, wanking, or brushing his teeth was caressing Quirko’s bill. He’d rubbed several spots raw, but Quirko seemed fine with it.
Of course, the possibility that Quirko had massive head trauma wasn’t lost on Meth or Farah. It wasn’t long after they’d gotten him home that they noticed that Quirko seemed to have something wrong with his eye. After extensive internet research, they determined it a cataract, but unable to take poor Quirko to the vet, seeing as how he was an illegal alien and all, Quirko finally went blind in the eye. So now he always walked in a circle and spent a large part of his day smacking face first into furniture.

As they were sitting down for their deep, insightful conversation with their blind, illegal, rubbed-raw duckbill platypus, there was a clatter on the front lawn. Since it was November, and not Christmas, it was too early for Santa. Meth and Farah rushed to the front door. Quirko followed them as far as the hallway before his usual head-wall collision knocked him out from several minutes.

Drawing the door open, there was a sudden blast from outside. A blast of sound. There was a strange music in the air, almost like a 1970’s theme song. Suddenly, a man rolled onto the front lawn, wearing white pants and a flower-patterned shirt. Pulling a gun from his waistband, he held it on Meth and Farah, who both thrust their hands into the air.

“You’re them,” the flower-shirted man yelled.

“We’re who?” Farah shouted back.

“The bad mobster-type people who are always up to no good.”

“Dude, that’s this whole shady town. But I think you’re in the wrong story,” Meth said, laughing. “Where’d you get that shirt?”

“Where’d you get that fanny pack?” the flower-shirted man returned.

“Hey, I know this music,” Farah finally realized. “I know what you’re trying to do. You screwed it up. Jack Lord dressed smooth. You look like Don Ho at a luau.”

The flower-shirted man aimed his gun at Farah. “That role should have been mine!” he shouted maniacally.

At that moment, Quirko finally made it out the door.

“Ahhhhh, carnivorous duck,” the crazed, flower-shirted wanna-be actor screamed and shot in Quirko’s general direction.

He missed, but barely. Meth and Farah tackled him, and then tickled him, because everyone knows that stoners are gentle peace-lovers.

The flower-shirted man loved it so much, he gave up his dream of acting and moved in.

And they all lived happily ever after, coughing, wheezing, walking into walls, and wearing ugly clothes.

The End