Raindrops Keep Fallin' on my Head

Hundreds of thousands insignificantly small drops of water fell from the sky in a pattern not even a drunken clog-dancing centipede could've managed. I heard each thunk loudly as it hammered as a nearly uniform, incessant roar against my cheap apartment's roof. Blinding flashes of light shone through the windows in Speedy Gonzales-quick strikes, only to be followed by a deep basso rumble and my entire home to shudder with fearsome power of nature's wrath.

And people ask me why I'm not a hippy.

Nature stomped and stormed outside, and leaned against the wall, feeling tremors run along the aged wood in time with the bass-deep roars of thunder outside. Then someone knocked on my door.

I jumped a few inches, which is very difficult when sitting indian-style, but I managed regardless. I padded over to the door and opened the door without checking to see who it was.

Generally a bad policy, because I opened the door to a sharp sting across my left cheek. I stumbled, and managed to grab onto an end table to recover my balance. The table's contents, mostly glass and other assorted breakables, tumbled with a knick-knack-patty-crack and near-invisible glass shards littering my carpet. I cursed my luck as I saw my shoes across the patch of glass. But, one mountain at a time, I turned back to the leggy blond at the door.

“Hi Jill, glad to see you too.”

In response, she slapped me across the other cheek, and I began to consider an update on the Wikipedia page for whiplash. I looked up, a blood dripping slowly down a cut from my cheek.

I wiped at it absently, “New ring?”

“New boyfriend.” She smiled sweetly at me, and I could see the purplish venom ooze from one dimple. There should definitely be rules against venomous dimples. They're too cute to be evil. Regardless, lovely Jill had them.

Jill stood, in a grand height of 6' 1”, probably about 6' 5” in her heels, and wore a black business suit, blazer-and-skirt, and dark stockings. Her keen features and piercing brown eyes sparkled as she grinned maliciously at me. And her perfect skin made dimples, which is just plain wrong.

As far as the women-of-talents aspects go, she had a cup-size to rival cauldrons, and enough curves to qualify as racetrack. Her blond hair was long, streaked with all the colors of cotton candy between golden locks, and had an engagement ring on her finger that could not only pay my apartment's rent, but flat out buy its entire note.

And probably have enough left over to refurnish...

And redecorate...

And maybe just enough to hire a butler whose sole job was to open my bank account, count the digits in my balance, and laugh at me.

Well, it could be worse, I suppose. She could be bitter about that whole photo-shoot thing.

Another slap reminded me that she was probably bitter about that whole photo-shoot thing. I was feeling a little slap-happy when she jerked me up and promptly let go of me in the same motion. I dropped to my cheap carpet, and prayed to the patron saint of women-scorned that I missed the broken glass.

By some act of God, I missed the broken glass.

What I didn't miss, however, was my steel-toed boots. And while those boots were made for stompin', I never intended for them to be on the giving end. Because I hate receiving.

And what good gorgeous supermodel shows up to a freelance photographer's dinky two-room apartment without some muscle. Clearly not this one, because the three bears for my angry Goldy-Locks appeared in the door.

I got up, wincing. “Well, we've got Eaney, Meaney, and Miney... Where's Moe?”
Pretty soon, I'd need a crane to remove my foot from my mouth, because Moe followed shortly on their heels. Where Eaney, Meaney, and Miney were big, bad, and angry; Moe was big, bad, angry, and armed.

“N-now wait a minute,” I sputtered, backing up into my kitchen counter, “let's not get violent over something like this.” I looked at the big man's big hammer. It was a sledgehammer, it even had the little Home Depot sticker still on it. “Let's be civilized.”

“Civil...” Jill purred, resting her entire six-and-change height on Moe. Moe clearly broke some standard for human height, considering Jill in heels didn't even reach his shoulder. “Yes. Bobby. Please do my good photographer a favor and speak civil talk with him.”

I sighed in relief.

“Start speaking civilly with his kneecaps, I always loved the crunch those made.”

I inhaled my sigh, backpedaling from relief to horror nearly as fast as I had the other way around. Moe, or Bobby, stepped forward, slabs of muscle tensing as he raised the sledgehammer in the classic “Off With His Head” pose.

And the patron saint of women-scorned did not let me down yet again. In a crunch of cheap drywall, Bobby wedged his sledge into the ceiling. Bits of white fell into his eyes and hair, and he stumbled back a half-step, clawing the white flakes away with fingers as thick as my arm. I took this opportunity to snatch at the closest weapon my hands could grasp on my kitchen counter, and whirled to face Eaney, Meaney, and Miney.

With a Canon Digitalshot.

Granted, the false-bulb and zoom on this thing probably cost more than even mightier-than-thou-Jill's ring, but weapon it ain't.

So I employed a tactic pulled straight out of Loony Tunes. As soon as goons A through C were close enough to start removing limbs and subsequently feeding them to me, I flashed them right in the face.

And a king's-fortune-come-flashbulb makes a fancy flash.

Quite blinding, too.

Mountainous men tumbled backward, also clawing at the ethereal haze trapped in their vision. But ultimately, this was a stall tactic (and a miserable waste of film), and Jill was likely to figure it out eventually. So I took the greater part of valor and rushed from my home, darting between groaning goons, sexy super models, and gashing glass.

Outside I quickly found the fastest route to the nearest elevator, and pressed the button for the elevator to come save me from my sins.

And I waited patiently...

By slamming my finger on the button in rapid, hasty strikes. Jill was the first out of the apartment, and she sauntered toward me without haste. Her wicked smile danced in her eyes as she flourished a hand toward me. Her fingers played in the 'come-hither' motion, right in tune with two-times your daily recommended dosage of hired muscle popping out of my apartment and charging at me. Instead of screaming like a girl and breaking down in panic, I screamed like a girl and bolted for the stairs.

Here's a little fact about hired goons, they're dumb as rocks. I slammed the stairs door and bolted up the stairs, taking a half-flight up and hiding on the next set of steps. All of the Eaneys burst through the door like men-on-missions and strode down the stairs, ready to intercept me at the lower levels. I felted assured in my safety, and silently crept up the last half of the stairs, got out on the next floor up, and pressed the elevator button. To my surprise, the doors slid open nearly immediately, and I stepped inside, indicating the lobby. The elevator made it one story down before the doors opened again. And I stood in a small elevator face-to-face with Jill-and-Bobby. She smiled, evil dimples showing, “Going down?”

“Nope,” I replied cheerfully, slamming the 'Door Close' button. A beefy hand caught the door and forced it to stay open. Jill purred, “I think you're going down.”

Did I ever mention I hated it when she was right?

So I rabbited for the second time that day, and sprinted down the hall. Bobby turned to snatch at me, but I was already sprinting out of his reach. I made it to the end of the hall and bolted for the stairwell. I burst through the door, running down the stairs with wild abandon. Above me, I heard Bobby roar with enough volume to rattle my cage, and take entire flights of stairs in big, bounding leaps. At the rate he was moving, he'd catch me halfway down to the ground level. I kept running, sure I could think of something before the time came.

With a massive bellow, Bobby thumped to the level just above mine and dove for me. I ducked as low as I could, and Bobby sailed right over me. But big men don't fall as hard as the saying would like you to believe. He landed, taking the shock on his massive arms and legs, and began to slowly get up. I frantically looked left and right, and met eyes with a “In Case of Fire, Break Glass” sign.

“Bah, I've already broken glass today, and I'm going habitual.” I rammed my elbow into the glass and nothing happened. I tried again... Nothing. Bobby was almost standing upright. I blinked and tried the handle on the emergency door. It worked.

I found a red fire extinguisher inside grabbed it. Bobby was slowly rolling his shoulders. I guess the fall really did take something out of him. I let out a mouse-high battle cry and leaped from nearly the top step in the flight of stairs, swinging the fire extinguisher with all my might. The metal cylinder connected with a metal “fwtang” and sent both me and Bobby falling over. I landed against the opposite wall as Bobby, but I bounced up quicker. I found the red-weapon-of-choice to be bent into a nearly 90 degree angle. I looked up at Bobby, who was still gathering his wits from where I had brained him with the fire extinguisher. I bolted down the stairs, but didn't even get all the way to the next level when he got up and growled at me. I looked at my weapon and grinned, “G'day mate!” I gave him my best accent and smile as I flicked the red steel-cased cylinder at him. There was a satisfying sound as the thing rebounded off his head, and he landed at the same time as the metal life-saver. I panted, “Fire Extinguisher, that's Australian for 'Headache!'” Then I took the stairs at a jog back down.

When I arrived at the bottom, I pushed open the door to my bright and shiny freedom. And immediately remember that there was a thunderstorm going on. Damn.

And I stood face to face with Jill. Double Damn.

And she had a gun. Damn with sugar on top.

I dropped right as she fired off a pair of nervous shots, and they hammered into the concrete walls of the stairwell. I glanced up at her, and the wicked smile finally grew a shade brittle, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. Which quickly abandoned me as she lowered the gun to level-off right between my eyes.

Then, without mercy, I took her picture right between the eyes. She stumbled back, firing two erratic shots as she stepped back. Thank God for the fashion industry, because she fell backwards in her oh-so-stylish heels and and landed butt-first on the gravel, gun skittering away.

Then the most unexpected thing happened...

She started crying.

I let her. I fished her cell phone out of her blazer pocket, used her minutes to call the police, and let them arrest her. All while she was crying. And it felt good.

After a few minutes with the policeman filling out the report, he finished up and asked, “So, why did she go ballistic on you?”

I looked at my camera, laughing, “I took her bad side.”

The cop joined me in a laugh, and then drove off. I felt rain plaster my hair as I looked up at my apartment build. Then I strolled off, singing.

“Raindrops Keep fallin' on my head...”