Normally I don't go to the park. Children screaming, dogs barking, Frisbees flying, the smell of grass irritating my allergies. It's just an all around bad deal. Of course, as with anything, there are exceptions to the rule.
Like, oh, say, right now.
I am a writer; it's my trade of choice. Unfortunately I have had no ideas in over twelve months, so I am basically a starving artist. My crazy gypsy friend read her tarot cards a while back and suggested that I go to the park to clear my head. She said that if I went to the park, 'the ideas will just fly into your head, as the Suicide King predicts.'
I have nothing left but one old purple computer chair and fifty-six empty notebooks, so I figured I might as well.
So here I sit, on one of those uncomfortable plastic park benches. I never understood why a city would install plastic park benches in a park. They aren't even biodegradable. Beside me is an extremely old and even more extremely fat man feeding pigeons, and when I say 'feeding' I mean 'throwing food around', and 'pigeons' means 'squirrels.' I checked the bench twice for the cliché of a wet paint sign. There were none, but I am still wary.
I listen to my CD player constantly as I gaze around at the gray sky and brown grass. My current track is 'Vangelis' by Chariots of Fire. Awesome, one of my favorites, in fact. Occasionally I glance over at the man 'feeding' the 'pigeons.' He is rather old and I fear he might die on my watch.
One of the times I glance over I realize that the old man has been replaced by a tired looking mother hauling around a set of twins in a cart. Upon recollection I realize that she has been sitting there the last two times I looked over, having taken the old man's spot nearly ten minutes ago. I clearly needed more mind clearing than I previously believed. I blink and turn off my CD player, reaffirming my spot in the cosmos.
She is whispering sweet nothings to her children, who coo contentedly. They are sitting in what appears to be a twin stroller that has clearly seen many owners.
I allow myself a brief moment of nostalgia, thinking of my own mother. It really is too bad I was left randomly at the hospital; I bet she would have been a nice lady. I go off on a tangent, imagining her. My imagined mother is an amazing redhead who wears green cowgirl boots and talks for long hours about the wonders of sliced bread.
I snap back to reality once again, listening half heartedly to the woman talk to her children, who continue to coo irritatingly.
"Aww, who's an old hag."
I rubberneck around to stare at the trio. I blink multiple times, my eyebrows skyrocketing towards my hairline. The woman is still murmuring to her children, and the voice didn't sound like hers.
I glance around as sneakily as possible, and see no one.
I look back to the children now, but neither of them looks old enough to talk.
"I know, right, she's one freaky old bitch."
I once again blink rapidly; my most tried and tested method to express shock. Those words clearly came from the mouth of the child sitting nearest the mother.
The top one lets out a screeching giggle. "Perfect, freaky old bitch indeed!" His arms flail around wildly. "I love it!"
The mother sits back, totally oblivious, and pulls out a thin paperback of Where the Red Fern Grows. As she begins to read I stare at the infants, utterly confused.
"All right," says the one whom I assume is a girl, as the voice sounds feminine. "Let's get down to business. How is this going to go down?" She flails around momentarily, slapping herself in the face and looking rather frustrated.
"I say we need more ammunition for our .22's."
I gape. It is incredibly rare, but for this I gape. A fish has nothing on me at this moment. I pull my headphones away from my head a bit, but the sound continues, so I know it isn't from them.
"No, man, we have plenty to take out the president."
Now I am utterly shocked. I turn to the young mother. "Can you hear that?"
She is confused for a moment. "You mean the fountain?" She indicates it with her book holding hand.
"Think that freak can hear us?" the male baby coos.
"Nah, the ditz doesn't know anything."
I point blankly at her children with wild eyes. She gives me a quick once over, clearly assessing whether or not I am insane.
"I hear them talking to each other," she says in an irritating voice that all people seem to take out only when they are talking to children. She gives them each an award winning smile, performing a nose rubbing motion by shaking her head back and forth quickly. "Isn't that right, baby-boos?"
One lets out another screeching giggle, and the female says, "Aww, who's an idiot?"
"No, I mean-" She once again begins to look at me like I am crazy. "Never mind, it must be these headphones. They're new, haven't worked out all the kinks yet."
She accepts the answer and turns back to her book.
The children go back to their discussion. "I say we take out that freak face too."
"Why? Ugly isn't an intended target." The other manages to wriggle down far enough to kick the lower one in the head. "Duh."
"It should be. The Ho's got that idiot look. I don't want any stupidity in my perfect race." She pulls far enough away to escape the flailing legs. She turns around just enough to whack the other in the knee, hard enough to make him cry out momentarily.
"I'm not stupid."
All three of them look at me. Two faces are shocked and the third is once again trying to see if I'm insane.
"Oh crap! That Bitch can hear us!"
"Shut up, it must be a coincidence." He glares at me. "Right, idiot?
"I'm not an idiot," I say, directly to the child.
The woman begins to put her things away. She throws her book haphazardly into the stroller. She gives me a confused glare and starts to walk away with her children.
I jump up, intent on following. "Hey, wait, I have to tell you something."
"Go, old lady go! Run away from the idiot!"
She begins to pick up the pace, almost as if she can hear them.
"Wait, please, I'm not crazy. It's just I think your children have something medically wrong with them." I mentally pat myself on the back, congratulating myself for the good save.
She stops, clearly worried, "Oh? Are you a doctor?"
"Yes." No, but I wrote a short story about one once. Dr. Mitch C. Crick, expert on female anatomy.
She turns to me nervously. "Oh, please, what's wrong with them?"
I had not thought this far ahead. "They… have brain cancer." I say the first thing that pops into my head, and it isn't a good thing. I know nothing about cancer, brain or otherwise.
She looks confused. "How can you tell?"
"Told you that ugly thing is an idiot."
"Um, their noises, the sounds they make. How old are they?" I'm grasping at straws, and she can see it.
I nod earnestly. "Oh yes, their development is not right for their age…" I trail off rather lamely.
"I just took them to the doctor. He didn't mention anything." She now clearly believes I am insane, and I can see her trying to find an escape route. Her eyes dart around quickly, glancing twice to a pack of college students playing a version of football nearby.
"He's not a neurosurgeon." I pause; did I even pronounce that correctly?
"… Yes." It takes every fiber of my being not to make that a question.
She clearly doesn't believe.
"Come on, hag; just leave the crazy idiot to her own devices. We have places to blow up, people to kill."
"Don't kill them!" I slap a hand over my mouth, now knowing all is lost.
She turns sharply on her heel and makes a beeline for the edge of the park. I follow as quickly as I can, barely managing to keep up and close the distance between us.
"Wait! Please, I swear to God I'm not insane. Your children are planning murder! That's it, I swear."
She picks up speed and begins to scream at the top of her lungs. "Rape!"
"Rape? The heck?" This is a little bit of an awkward moment, as I don't posses the equipment for rape. Before my thoughts can further express themselves I am tackled by a man easily two feet taller than me, and a hundred pounds heavier.
We fly into the bushes and he makes an unintelligible grunt as I begin to suffocate from his pressure. "Ca-can't breathe."
He pulls back slightly and I am momentarily relieved. However, I soon find out he has pulled back only so that he can hit me in the face. Multiple times. It would appear that men are allowed to hit ladies now, or perhaps I should take my sister up on her offer to teach me to wear makeup.
As I feel the worst pain in the history of mankind the woman is still screaming bloody murder, literally. As in, she screams the words 'bloody' and 'murder.' The children are giggling wildly.
"Oh, this is too good."
"Absolutely perfect, if only they were all this easy."
I mange to escape the pummeling briefly, only to be caught once more by the Neanderthal of a human who caught me.
"Rape!" The woman screams once more, just for good measure. Then I black out.
I wake up moments later to twelve burly men jumping me and shoving me into a strait jacket. This is surprising to me, mostly because I didn't know they still used strait jackets. I make a feeble physical struggle and find it useless. I immediately go for the next thing, my superior intellect.
"What the hell? Don't you people understand? Those babies are going to kill the president! And other stupid people!" I manage to move away from the hands trying to cover my mouth, and jump to my feet. I find it awkward to move without the use of my arms, but barely manage to begin to run away from the scene.
"We have to stop them! I don't want to die, that would suck!" I am immediately taken down by a tackle to the back of my knees. I feel a sharp pinch and a burning sensation. "What is this, the Spanish inquisition? Is that a sedative?" My tounge begins to feel heavy.
"This isn't happening," I manage to mutter. "It's my crazy gypsy friend! She said the king committed suicide! I don't even go to the park." Those are the last words I am able to say before I slip into a drug induced slumber, dreaming of .22's and green cowgirl boots.
Quick Note: That's all there is, there isn't any more. I had my editor look at this, any remaining mistakes are of course my own. Please drop a review and tell me what you thought.