Sucks to Your Creatures Born of Ass-mar Fridges II: Revenge of the Tauntaun Afterbirth

I thought it was over.  With the defeat of Captain Ron, the evil multi-tentacled beast of the rice bowl, I thought I was safe. 

I had breathed an exhausted yet satisfied breath that my days of fighting unspeakable creatures born of the very bowels of hell, and not just the bowels but really the large intestines and rectum portion with a bout of proctitis-bowels of hell—or my broken fridge—were over.

I was quite looking forward to retirement.  Quite.

I thought we were safe.

I don’t mean me and you, I’m speaking of myself and my trusty blade, The Quiet Storm, the pizza cutter I bought on sale with which I slew Captain Ron!

But no… my ordeal was far from over.

Well not far, really, this is one of those sequels that picks up literally seconds after the first installment ends.

So there I was, in my kitchen, hands gripping the cheap yellow drawstrings of the garbage bag, the humiliated Captain Ron breathing his last in his Gladbag grave, when behind me the fridge shuddered violently.

I froze, eyes darting to the counter where I’d laid down The Quiet Storm.  I must move slowly, I must not panic.  Whatever may still lie in that fridge may react to sudden movements.  I couldn’t recall if I’d closed the fridge or not.  When I was backed up against the wall I think it was closed, but everything was happening so fast.  It could have been open.  It could have opened while I dispatched Captain Ron.  I couldn’t be sure.  Reaching too quickly for my blade may have been the last thing I did.

Slowly I let the drawstrings flutter from my hands, and even more painfully slow I began to turn, my hand reaching toward The Quiet Storm as I moved to face the fridge.

Nope, still closed.

That’s convenient.

Oh shit, it shuddered again!

That damn fridge rocked with such force it shook my fragile home.  Goddamnit, this place is a hundred years old, it’s all duct tape and safety pins holding it together,  probably some gum in a few places, and I’m pretty sure my Bigfoot Powerwheel is holding up a corner of the foundation.  It can’t handle that kind of stress against its delicate infrastructure! 

I could see the door shift as the fridge rocked.  The seal never was very good on that door.  Well, it was, but then I switched which way the door opened, and it was such a pain in the ass—that’s never as easy as it should be, so I ended up just kind of half-assing it.  It doesn’t sit closed right, whatever, I never had a problem with it.  Not until evil mutant shit started gestating in there anyway. 

I didn’t have much time.  Another few rocks like that and the door would be open, and whatever lie within would unleash itself on my world.

Unless I unleashed myself first.

I feared this foe could be even more deadly than the diabolically deadly now dead Captain Ron, and so I took the last moments I had before the door literally fell off, and grabbed my trusty drinking helmet.  Granted, my former roommates had hit me in the head repeatedly when I wore this helmet, and it still really hurt, but I felt safer wearing it even if it provided little to no actual protection.  Plus, I have a cool Superman sticker on the front of it, so it looks pretty badass.

I rounded the counter and stood face to face with my new fridge-born foe.

Who was still in the fridge, actually.  Yeah, door was still on.  Closed up pretty tight.

Oh shit, its shaking again.

I reached out and hooked The Quiet Storm on the door handle.  I didn’t want to do this, but I knew I must.  With each rocking of the fridge that beast in there grew stronger.  I had to strike first before it consumed us all.

And by us, again, I mean myself and The Quiet Storm.

As the fridge shuddered again I pulled open the door, unhooking The Quiet Storm from the handle as it swung open against the wall.

All was quiet inside, which was a little weird.  I expected mutant bats born of a bowl of soup with little glowing chicken chunk eyes to come flying out at me, or some left over sautéed green beans my mom gave me to have merged together in the congealed butter to form some kind of green bean centipede that would crawl all over my walls and then eat my fingernails one by one.

But the fridge looked empty.

And then I saw it.

The crisper drawer.

Damnit, I should have known!

And you should have too if you’d been paying attention at all, I totally set this up in Sucks to Your Creatures Born of Ass-mar Fridges I.

The crisper drawer!

The drawer started convulsing, shaking, rattling against its track.  Whatever was inside was fighting to open it, and if you’ve ever been stuck in a drawer you’ll know just how difficult it is to open one from the inside.  You have to start from the back and run forward, throw yourself against the front, hopefully with enough force to push it out a bit, and after a few hours of this maybe have enough room to climb out, but the backs of crisper drawers always slant up so you can’t get back far enough to really get some good momentum going.  The inside of  a drawer is not someplace I’d like to be trapped again, I’ll tell you that much.

It certainly wasn’t anyplace this creature wanted to be trapped either.

The drawer started shaking more violently, trying to tear itself free.  And then it stopped.  And it waited.  I crouched, The Quiet Storm ready.

Then the fucking thing exploded.

I was thrown back against the counter, dazed but ready for what might spill forth.

Looked like it was just a bag, just a produce bag.  It kind of sat there.  The front of the drawer was gone, well I guess the drawer was hanging there, still partially attached to the track.  But the bag wasn’t moving.  Inside it looked greenish.  A dark green sludge, I’d have to say.

As I watched, it pushed itself forward, the sludge rolled itself inside the bag.  It crept closer to the edge and then dropped out of the drawer, hitting the ground with a splat.

I’d gotten back to my feet and crouched again.  Crouching is good when you don’t know what’s coming, gives you option, a range of movements.  You can spring, you can dodge.  My favorite is to curl up in a ball and cry, but the important thing is you have options.

We stared each other down for a moment.  I stared at least.  I think it stared, but for a sack of sludge I wasn’t sure where the eyes were, if it had eyes.  It might work off sonar or be telepathic.  I really didn’t know.  But we stared.  Somehow.

Then it kind of splooged forward. 

And then I smelled it.

What if one had taken afterbirth, let it sit out in the sun then stuffed it inside a dead womp rat, made a tauntaun eat that, killed the tauntaun, left that out in the sun, put it in a blender, used it to fill up a water balloon, then thrown it at a bum who’d been on the street wearing the same clothes since the Carter administration.  Then you gave him twenty dollars for his coat.  That coat.  It smelled something like that.

Oh sweet baby Jesus, it took every ounce of whiskey in me not to pass out at the stench of that fucking thing.  Every splooge-step forward that thing took was like a little tweeter fart packing more stink than a drunken grandfather after Thanksgiving dinner.  It was like getting slapped in the face with a sweaty FUPA.

I hit my knees as the world around me began to spin.  My vision narrowed, my ears bled, I think one of my balls shriveled up and died on the spot.

The Quiet Storm was no match for this beast, he would only rip open the bag and unleash the full stench potential of this planet killer splooge.  He  quietly apologized, and I thanked him for his faithful service.  Then I threw him in the living room because he was fucking useless to me.

The afterbirth advanced on me, one splooge step at a time.  My vision failing I hit the cold linoleum with the thought that I would die on this filthy kitchen floor echoing in my tiny little brain.  As I shook my head in a futile insistence on consciousness, from the corner of my eye I spied the shattered cabinet door from my previous epic battle with Captain Ron and the Johnny Lawrence tentacle.  It was a glimpse, however, of what lie behind this shattered particle board that me a last burst of coherent thought.

Scrubby Bubbles.

I threw myself forward with the last decigram of strength within me and my hand wrapped around the aerosol can of universally awesome and versatile surface cleaner.

The afterbirth was almost on me.  It splooged forward again, one more splooge and it would have me.  I could have just moved my foot, but its more suspenseful this way.

No!  What if the Scrubby Bubbles couldn’t make it through the bag?  My failing eyes darted to the living room.  The Quiet Storm was watching Code Monkeys with my Netflix machine.  I tried to call out for it but it was too engrossed in Dave microwaving his poo again to hear.  Plus, it was a pizza slicer, so I doubt it could have made it out to the kitchen on its own to help.  Or hear me.  There’s that too.

I had to take a chance.  I didn’t have much time, and nothing to lose.  The afterbirth would get me either way.

It splooged forward, now only an inch from my delicate naked foot.

I held the can of Scrubby Bubbles out, and took aim, closing one eye and staring down that little green spray nozzle that I couldn’t actually have seen since my finger was covering it, and in the second before I fired I saw the produce tag on the bag.

Romaine Lettuce, it read.

Büsseldorf!  That bastard!  He was the only one who would buy Romaine.  He moved out a year and half ago!

That filthy, unholy afterbirth was almost on me—the stench was unbearable!

But I had the solution.

Zeh final solution.

I fired.

This son of a bitch didn’t shriek, not like that pussy Captain Ron.  No, after twenty minutes of constant spraying, when the can finally ran dry, that afterbirth died like a man.  It shuddered, and it splooged no more.

I also managed to burn a hole in my floor. 

Gonna have to find some newspaper to cover that up.  Oh—got it, traffic cone—stole a shit ton of those over the years, I can totally cover that hole up.

What was left of the beast I scraped up with a dust pan I probably stole from my parents and added it to the bag with Captain Ron’s remains.

I thanked the Flying Spaghetti Monster that day that I’d not gotten mad but got Glad, I can tell you that, with two beasts contained in one simple, yet flexible and remarkably strong bag.

But this tale is not over!

Still shaken from the ordeal, as I was racing down the stairs with the bag of fridge-born death remnants, I lost my footing.  Ass over teacups was how that went, with the bag flying somewhere.  I was too busy rolling down the stairs in a very painful fashion to notice what exactly the bag was doing, but I will say I was quite impressed when I regained consciousness with the strength of those flex-fit bags. 

Worth their weight in gold they are.  Which isn’t that much really, I mean, how much does a garbage bag really weigh?  Still, I’d pay for that in gold.

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About mattS

Couch potato, burrito aficionado, whiskey sour drinker, handyman, writer of interesting things.

Posted on August 10, 2011, in Fiction, Historyish, Personal, What Was I Thinking? and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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