“Poor Harold?”
He may not kill you- But unlike Kim Kardashian
- refused to give up to him a tender young rodent she had captured
- a magic thingamajig
- make up for it by bribery
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“Poor Harold?” the vinegar woman hooted. Her rosy face and rolling gait spoke of many pints, most of them not vinegar.
After almost a minute of wheezing, hacking laughter, she finally drew herself upright and caught her breath. “Oh, he’s poor alright. He’s a poor Harold, he’s a poor driver, he’s got poor hygiene, and oh yes, he’s got no money. Get it, he’s POOR!” The exclamation’s attendant blast of her awful breath made me wish the wind would shift and engulf me in the smoke from the cooking fire. That only smelled like someone was cleaning out a coffee pot with a goat.
“You run off and tell the ‘thorridies whatsoever you choose,” the vinegar woman resumed. “Harold’s fine. I expect him back in a tick. He may not kill you on sight, but he’s going to be in a mood I can promise you that. Doesn’t care for being set on fire, although I tell him and tell him how it helps with the fleas.”
I glanced around in case Harold was sneaking back to the campsite. In that moment, Svetlana vanished. I heard the van’s motor start. Vinegar woman’s jaw swung slack as she spun to see what was happening, and I sprinted to join Svetlana in the van.
We were a mile up the bumpy road before we realized we were not alone. A sleepy female voice from the back of the van inquired about dinner.
I looked at our fellow traveler. A young woman with olive skin and long dark hair, her makeup overdone and her eyes empty. She reminded me of someone from television. But unlike Kim Kardashian, this woman was chained up in the back of a seedy van. I asked her who she was. While Svetlana’s driving tested the structural integrity of the stolen vehicle, I listened to the other woman’s tale. She never told me her name, only that she was being punished (by Harold, I wondered?) because she refused to give up to him a tender young rodent she had captured. Now she was cursed to wear a magic thingamajig. She had tried to tell him she was sorry about not sharing, tried to make up for it by bribery. But he wouldn’t lift the curse. He didn’t even want the rodent anymore.
“Here,” she concluded, “do you want it?” She held out her hand, on which rested a snake’s head. The rest of the snake formed a spiral around her arm. The reptilian tongue flicked.
bonus points for using them in order