Two New Chapters!

That's right, fellows. Feel free to check them out if you'd like.


Blood and Soda:
http://runningnakedwithscissors.blogspot.com/2005/08/blood-and-soda.html

That:
http://runningnakedwithscissors.blogspot.com/2005/08/that.html

New Chapter: The Wooz

New Chapter. Chork it out, ya'll. It resides at the bottom. Go dive for it.

Or cheat and use this handy link i provided for you:
http://runningnakedwithscissors.blogspot.com/2005/08/wooz.html

Back to the Story

It's time to bring back the story. I tidied up the old chapters and even wrote a brand new one. I went on a little hiatus last winter on account of the fact i had to focus on some school projects and then summer started and i got involved with other things and suffice it to say it's been a long while. But i pulled it back up, and now i'm ready to go. This is obviously a work in progress, as the point of this blog is that one can keep up with the progress of my work.

Uh... so... leave comments if you have them. Those are appreciated. And stuff. Ok. That's it...

And I have gotten the chapters to read in order from top to bottom, but in doing so i had to lie and cheat on the times. So don't believe anything you read date or time wise on this blog. It's all a lie. It's all a big fat lie. Until someone can teach me how to reformat this silliness.

Linda

…carved a line across the Kwik Trip floor like a Patton tank through the battlefields of WWII France. Her hips lumbered from one side of the aisle to the other grazing a can of Dinty Moore beef stew to her right and a jar of Planters Honey Roasted peanuts on her left. She paid no attention to the jar of peanuts that rattled precariously in her wake as it returned to its previous steady state. Her quarry was in sight and she would not allow anything, noise or otherwise, distract her from her objective. At the end of the aisle and against the back wall of the store the do-it-yourself soda fountain beckoned to Linda; begging her to indulge in a carbonated, sugar laced beverage.

Linda Guildson was not a delicate female by any stretch and, in early morning sun, cast an imposing shadow. A soda pop was most likely not on her physician endorsed diet. But her doctor would just have to wait another day – what’s another day? Anyway, this was her afternoon ritual – one of only 250 vices that she has developed over her 25 years on this planet.

Bobby

…summoned up another batch of saliva and deliberately worked it into the soggy wad of today’s newspaper headlines swishing around in his mouth. Peering over the top of the counter, he carefully gauged the speed and direction of his target. Slowly he raised the straw to his lips – no sudden movement to draw attention and spook his prey. His tongue expertly positioned the sloppy wad of goo into the straw and he carefully pursed his lips around the end of it. Breathing through his nose he filled his mouth with air and violently released it through the straw launching the wad through the air on a line. To Bobby’s delight, his target turned just in time to receive the wad directly between her eyes. The spray temporarily blinded her and the cup she had just finished filling with Mountain Dew fell to the ground. Bobby could not contain himself and let out a wild hoot. The kids at school are going to flip when they hear about this.

Bobby Phillips had worked at the convenience store for just about 4 weeks. Taking this job was not so much for the money but for the access to the porn magazines stored behind the counter. His store issued uniform was originally white but now showcased his knack for dribbling and his misgivings with respect to personal hygiene. His white paper hat was two sizes too small and clung precariously to the side of his head fastened by his oversized right ear.

Frank

… carefully rapped his arthritic fingers around the handle to the Kwik Trip door. His aged face grimaced with a shearing pain that shot through the back of his hand as the muscles tightened around the cold steel, and the bones ground one another into dust. He inhaled deeply, braced himself, and pulled. Ooh, goddam. The muscles in his jaw were exhausted from clenching his teeth so tightly, and when the door finally opened and he stepped inside, the blood rushing back into his hand felt better than… well, better than a cigarette, and Frank needed a cigarette. Peering through his spectacles at the counter, he spotted the box of Camel Cigarettes which he had been smoking since he was 23 shining through the glass that was the only thing standing in his way. Well, not the only thing.

A hairy arm and hand covered in grease, rested on top of the counter and left yellow-orange finger prints smeared across the surface. Then there was an enormous welp and Frank noticed the owner of the greasy hand was almost doubled over in laughter, grasping a little red straw in his other hand. Frank glanced to his left and stumbled upon quite the vision. A rather large woman, standing in a rather large puddle of Mountain Dew, lifted a rather large hand, with five rather large fingers, to her rather large forehead, and wiped off a rather large spitball that was still oozing with saliva. Holding back tears with incredible effort, she ran, as best she could, past Frank and out the door.

Beth

… sat with the door to her station wagon wide open. She lifted her index finger and pushed her horn rimmed glasses back up her nose. She was sweating so profusely the lens fogged up so often, it was practically pointless to our bifocals, and they refused to stay on the bridge of her nose she was forced to fight with them every few minutes. As her right hand was occupied with her glasses, she ran the left through her dark brown hair. People persisted to call it black, but it was dark brown for God’s sake. Dark brown. She took a deep breath, staring at the Kwik Trip door through the cracked windshield and finally summoned up the courage to step out of her car and walk to the door. First step… made it. You’re fine, Beth, you’re just fine. Just stay focused on the door, and you’ll be all right. Suddenly the door burst open on its own, and a woman came stampeding out, hurdling down the walk. Beth quickly spun around, closed her eyes, and started groping for the car door handle. She wretched it open and dove inside. Shaking, and fixing her spectacles once more, she looked behind her to see the woman that had nearly pummeled her claw her way into an enormous white van. By the looks of it, it was one of the first vans ever made, so square that the one could cut off a limb walking too close to the corners. Beth looked at the clock on the dash board. The green numbers blinked 12:00. 12:00. 12:00. She had never actually set it. The buttons next to the glowing time piece were always too small to push with her finger, and she was much too scared to try and use a pencil or toothpick to do the job, both of which were much too pointy and not worth the risk. She guessed it was around 10:30. It took her a while to recover from her near death experience, and it took her a little while longer to remember why she was out in the middle of the night like this. Then she remembered.

Beth Richards was not known for spontaneity. Nor was she known to have much of a life. Nor was she known, really, by anyone. No friends, no family… that spoke to her at least. She also suffered from severe paranoia. She had come to Kwik Trip, just for a simple pack of gum, but something deep within her was warning her this was going to be no ordinary trip. First she had craved gum in the middle of a Tuesday night, and then a woman had almost stomped her flat.

Morris

…turned the wheel of his ’92 custom Lincoln Continental into the Kwik Trip parking lot. His eyes looked down at the 9mm Beretta he cradled in his left hand and marveled at its shear beauty. I hope it doesn’t go off in my lap … get me right in the nads. “Ha!” He let out a hoot. As his car careened into the parking lot he looked up just in time to avoid a tremendous figure of a lady moving faster than anyone that size should move. Quickly he jerked the steering wheel to the right and missed her by inches. She appeared consumed in thought and was apparently oblivious to the fact that her life had dangled by a thread held by a psychotic twenty year old loser.

“Crazy bitch!” he screamed from the confines of his pimp mobile. He navigated the boat of a car into a vacant spot in front of the Kwik Trip, turned the car off and took a moment to collect himself. If I’m going to pull this off, I’ve got to be calm, cool and collected. Like that dude from that movie “Natural Born Killers” the way he walks into that diner in New Mexico with his girl. That’s the coolest. Man, he knows how to get it done. Now I gotta take a deep breath and get this done. He filled his lungs with pine scented air freshener, exhaled long and slow and pulled the door handle. As he stepped into the parking lot he stowed the Berreta into the front of his pants and pulled his Iron Maiden t-shirt over the top. He slammed the door and stared up at the lit Kwik Trip sign and paused. His spiked blonde hair held it’s own against the stiff March winds. Atop his slight frame was a head that seemed two sizes too big and round like a beach ball. His legs spanned the distance from waist to ground like toothpicks. His blue jeans, faded and filled with holes appeared 10 sizes too big and clung to his hips with the help of a clothesline that bunched his pants into the 9mm Beretta pistol held in place with an enormous clothespin scribbled with magic marker.

Morris let his gaze fall down to the “We’re Open” sign on the front door and walked confidently up to the door. If he could pull this off his status in the Dribbling Gringos was assured. He had already lined up an appointment for tomorrow night at the local tattoo parlor for his bumble bee under his right eye, the signal to the world that he had completed his initiation and was now a full fledged DG. He extended his hand and pulled the door open. Walking through the door way, he quickly surveyed the store. The clerk, an old man and an inconspicuous woman were the only folks in the store and they were all at the front counter. These are the people that will witness the brilliance of Morris Crenshaw.

Walking the 10 feet up to the counter, he reached into his pants to pull the gun. But rather than retrieving it his hand relieved the pressure of the safety pin holding the gun against his belly and sent it crashing through his spacious pant leg and to the tile floor below followed closely by his trousers. He picked the weapon up and, embarrassed, waddled to the counter where he quickly raised it to Bobby’s head while trying to keep his Scooby Doo boxers hidden with his free hand.

“OK, everyone on the floor or the faggot gets it.” Morris screamed, but listening to himself he didn’t have the confidence in his voice that he did when practicing in front of the mirror the last couple of nights. And his voice cracked. Dammit, I’m 23 years old! My voice shouldn’t crack anymore. “You!” he said poking Bobby’s head with the gun. “You! Gimme everything outa the register. Now! Or I’ll put a hole in your head that shouldn’t be there.” Dammit, where did that come from?! Definitely not as easy as in front of the mirror.

Just then that lady that he nearly hit on the way into the parking lot barged in the front door, face red, screaming at the top of her lungs, spit flying everywhere. Once again, completely oblivious to everything going on around her.“Bobby Drugan, I’m not gonna just sit back and take this. I’m reporting you to your manager but not before I give you a piece of mind.” Her momentum brought her right up to Morris, who’s hand was still clutching the gun which was still resting against the temple of Bobby whose expression was somewhere between dead man walking and little-boy-with-hand-in-cookie-jar.

32 Seconds

… had passed, and no one had said a word. Frank’s cheek was pressed hard against the cold linoleum green and white checkered floor of the Kwik Trip, and his glasses were digging into the bridge of his nose. His eyes were plastered shut, and he shook uncontrollably. Never had he been so scared in his life, and the silence was eating away at him. No one knew what to do. He wanted badly to open his eyes and look around, but his eyelids only allowed him a tiny sliver of vision. The bright flood lights hanging over the pumps outside were shining from the parking lot through the window behind the desk hit the tile at just an angle that it diminished vision even more so. He could only see the face of the girl who had also been in line with him. Her cheek was pressed against the tile and her eyelids were closed so tight, they looked almost fused together. It seemed as though she was rather scared, and by the smell of urine from her person, she probably was. Not two feet from the girl two nervous tennis shoes wiggling back and forth peeking from under a pair of jeans bunched around two skinny, pale ankles, and a clothes pin lying on the ground next to them. Frank couldn’t help but close his eyes as his body shook, trying to suppress a burst of laughter. What a dumb ass, he thought. Then he noticed another pair of shoes. Actually, more like a pair of canoes, they were big enough, and he noticed the tree trunks that were sprouting from them were shaking just as hard as Frank was himself.

Obviously, their owner had just realized the man she had almost crushed was holding a weapon to the clerks head. In a way, though, it made her happy. Well, Bobby’s look of horror made her smile at least. That stupid bastard deserved a bullet through his noggin. Her head slowly nodded up and down stretching and scrunching the mounds of excess fat hanging from her chin, and her smile grew wider, showing rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. Those teeth were her instruments; she needed to keep those chompers in good condition. She started to walk backward, toward the door. “Looks like you have everything under control.”

“Get on the ground!” the kid with the gun screamed, sounding more fearful than under control, and he swung his arm to point the barrel at her face, but the handle slipped, sending the gun flying toward Linda’s head. Her eyes bulged but she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She had nowhere to move to. The Berretta grazed her cheek and soared toward the floor. When it hit the ground, it went off. Linda felt the searing pain as the little lead bullet bit into the back of her thigh, taking her down like an elephant on tranquilizers.

Roscoe

… felt free for the first time in three years. He happily trotted down the side of the road, his claws clicking on the gravel in a light rhythm. His tongue flopped loosely down the side of his face, and thick globs of drool rolled of its pink tip, landing on his brown and white speckled fur coat. He felt like he could keep trotting along forever, and his stubby little legs would never tire. His two long eyes lightly grazed his cheeks as they swayed back and forth in the light breeze. He heard a roar from behind, and the hair on his back sprung to attention. He froze on the instant, and slowly turned his gaze to great the unwelcome visitor. Its bright eyes shone in the distance and it roared faster and faster towards Roscoe’s awaiting self. His teeth were bared and drool was pouring from the corners of his mouth. A low guttural growl erupted from his throat, and he began to bark ferociously at the trespasser. It came closer and closer but Roscoe held his ground and barked louder, and it drove past him, and into the night. The hair on his back lowered, and Roscoe began to trot again, his proud chest puffed up and out, and his nose high in the air.

Wait… whoa… what’s that smell!? Roscoe froze again, but kept his nose in the air. His nostrils flared out… and back in… then out again… then it hit him. Roscoe took off down the road, faster then he had ever run before, and he bounded over a curb, and landed on the pavement at a bad angle, he slid a little, cutting the bottom of his front paw. He didn’t care; he kept on running towards the smell. There it was. He slowed his pace, and stared up at the beauty of the large green dumpster that housed the vast amounts of treasure that someone like Roscoe lived to plunder. Now, he just needed to get inside. That is when he noticed how tall this treasure chest really was, and he backed up to get a good look. His back paws slipped, and he fell so he was sitting on the street, but his front paws were resting up on the curb. Running start. He needed a running start. He took two steps back, and bounded toward the dumpster. But suddenly an enormous shot rang out into the cold night air, throwing him off guard, and instead of soaring up and over into the garbage, he soared right to the ground and rolled right into a tall silver object he hadn't seen before. It tipped to one side and hit the ground with a dull thud. Roscoe lifted himself up and slowly crept over to it, his nostrils flaring. When he got no closer then two inches from the little shiny cylinder and it didn’t make a move he decided it was safe. Well, this is better then nothing, thought the basset hound and he picked it up in his mouth and trotted away.

Todd

… watched with disappointment as the dog trotted away. He had hoped he would have caught an unsuspecting Kwik Trip employee stumble upon his strategically placed firework stash on a routine garbage dumb just in time to watch it explode into a thousand fascinating colors, but, A dog will have to do, he thought, and pressed the little red button on the standard remote control courtesy of the “Hilda’s Humungous Heat Wave” value pack.
Roscoe stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes focused down his snout to where the cylinder was clenched. Sparks began to spurt from the end of the cylinder. Unimpressed, and even startled by the wide array of colors, the hound quickly dropped his prize. His mouth burned and ashes covered his whiskers. There was only one thing to do and with a whimper Roscoe ran blindly and furiously away from that spot stopping to find himself at the front door of the Kwik Trip leaving Hilda’s Heat Wave spinning violently behind with a sour taste in his mouth.

Wild Thing

… wasn’t just a great song. It was genius. And it was the only thing on earth that Daniel Willards ever blasted on his head phones. Daniel never fancied his own name. He preferred to call himself ‘The Big Woozat,” but he had people call him Wooz for short. Wooz was an inventor, of sorts. At least, he claimed to be. He sat in the back of his van. He called it the Wild Thing, named after the greatest song of all time, of course. Side doors open, letting in the night air, which gently brushed at his hair now and then. His hair was long. It fell down past his shoulders in thick curly locks of bleach. His side burns were thick and dark. His normal hair color, possibly, but no one, even The Wooz himself, knew for sure. His fist clutched an over sized blue pen which hovered over a notebook filled with doodles, scribbles, and his many, many, self proclaimed extravagantly brilliant ideas. He looked out through the rear window, across the vacant parking lot lit only by dim, orange street lights and the fluorescent glow pouring from the nearby Kwik Trip.

Ooohh! Here is comes, here it comes, here it comes!!! He looked up from his paper, eyes closed tight… this was the best freaking song ever… “BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH, WILD THANG! BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH! YOU MAKE MY HEART SING! BUH DUH DUH DUH DUH! YOU MAKE EEEVERYTHANG! BUH DUH DUH! GROOOOVY!” He loved that part. He took considerable joy in pursing his lips out ward and over articulating the ‘ooo’ sound on groovy. Back to inventing. A few hours earlier he had come up with the greatest Woozat invention ever. It was an airline. But not just any airline, oooh no. This was an air line with hookers! He giggled at the genius. Every single flight attendant was going to be a hooker. He hadn’t come up with a name quite yet. But he had the poster figured out. It was going to be a picture of a barely clothed babe sitting on a bench in front of a huge airplane. And she would have a lollypop. And she would be wet. Soaking wet. And in bright blue letters it would read… “We’ll attend your flight any day.” And the girl would be winking. Excellent…

Then there was a gun shot. “Shit!” Wooz dropped to the floor, and tried to scramble under the backseat. He hated the city. He hated guns. He loved hookers on airplanes… the thought of which made him giggle in delight once more. He slowly rose to his knees, and peered out the window in the direction of the shot. The shot came from the Kwik Trip? Some kid must have tried to pull something. Wait a minute… He turned his head his head toward the dumpster. He could have sworn he saw something move… there! There it is! It moved all the way to the door of the Kwik Trip. As it stepped into the light, he saw it was a dog. Just a stupid… wait a sec… he squinted his eyes, and strained to see the distance. That is a basset hound. That is… that son of a bitch. How the hell did that thing get away again? He crawled through the open space in his van (he had removed the two middle seats for thinking space) toward the little tiny kennel that sat near the front. The cage door sat ajar and nearly hit the Wooz’s face when he swung it around. He looked inside, knowing what was going to be found (or not found). A little blue blanket was crumpled in the back corner, but no dog.

Daniel Willards stepped out of his great blue van into the crisp night air. His orange t-shirt clung snuggly to his slightly rotund body, and the cord that came from the headphones hiding under The Wooz’s hair fell into the side pocket of is disturbingly short blue shorts, snapping into his disc-man that made a significant bulge in the side of his thigh. His other pocket consisted of everything else he needed; his wallet, change, and car keys, so that they too made for another unattractive growth. He wore tennis shoes, and knee high socks that couldn’t quite reach his knees. He reached down and scratched himself before setting after Roscoe.

Scooby Doo

… did not want to stay up, and was proving to be more of a hassle than Morris would have liked. The issue with those boxers was not something he needed right now, and it was begining to give him a headache. Linda’s deep wheezing between sharp cries of pain was beginning to take its toll on Morris’s brain as well. Someone had yet to make a move, however. Everyone was merely staring at Linda. She sat on the floor rocking two and fro trying to grab on to the wound. The hole in the back of her thigh sprayed blood with every squirm and convulsion, but unable to reach far enough to put a stop to the bleeding, Linda finally sat still and whimpered in her own small puddle thigh blood.

Morris let out an audible sigh. The silence finally gave his pounding head a chance to relax. It was time to size up the situation. He had to think if he was going to leave with any shred of dignity to spare. Old man, on the floor, check. Girl, next to the old man, smells like pee, check. Fat lady, bleeding on herself, check. Counter boy, hitting the silent alarm under the desk, check. Shit!

“Hey!” Morris screamed. “What are you doing!?”

Bobby couldn’t help but grin. “Whoops,” he shrugged. “Might want to leave before you get in twubble,” he said with a pouty lip.

“That’s it smart ass!” Morris yelled, pulling up his pants with one hand and moving to pick up the Beretta. He tripped on the sobbing girl and came tumbling to the floor, right onto Linda’s leg.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Linda shrieked in pain.

Bobby, seizing the opportunity the minute the criminal hit the floor, scrambled over the top of the counter. Eye on the gun he started to run, but his first step landed right in Mountain Dew and sent him crashing down “Oh, you son of a bitch!” along side Morris.

The Wooz

... shielded his head with his arms as he scurried towards the shaking canine that whimpered by Kwik Trips door.

“Roscoe,” he whispered. “Get over here. Roscoe!” The dog didn’t respond. He just snorted and scratched at his head. The burning sensation still lingered in his nostrils. Advancing on him with arms outstretched, The Wooz was ready to scoop up the beagle when a scream came from inside the Kwik Trip. “Jesus!” he yelled, dropping to the concrete right next to his dog. “What the hell is going on in there?” He peered through the glass door and didn’t know whether to run in and help, run away and save himself, or just burst out laughing. Two men, one an employee by the looks of his uniform, and the other an avid Scooby Doo fan by the looks of his boxers, lay side by side atop what The Wooz suspected at first to be an oversized beanbag. Not until the beanbag screamed, wriggled, and spurted blood from a gunshot wound in its thigh did he realize that it, in fact, was a woman. As he stared at the odd display unfolding just feet away on the other side of the gas station’s glass door wet nose brushed up against his elbow and whimpered.

Roscoe had decided that freedom was not worth his time if all that came of it was a singed tongue. He poked his master’s arm again, hoping that he would carry him back to his warm bed in the van. Master, however, paid no heed to the cold snout nudging against him, but was staring through the curly, greasy, bleached locks of hair that hung in front of his eyes at an object on the floor that seemed to be what the two men were struggling for. That is a really big gun...

Blood and Soda

… ran together and spread over a good portion of the tile. Frank’s hands were killing him. His joints were on fire, and the ground was so hard on his chest it was hard to breathe. So he began to move, slowly pushing himself up until he was sitting cross legged against the front of Bobby’s counter. Having come to the conclusion everyone in this gas station was a complete moron he sat back and watched the three awkward beings slosh around, screaming at each other in front of the Kwik Trip door.

The Beretta lay just inches from Morris’s hand. Bobby had stopped reaching for a few seconds in order to catch his breath. Apparently his daily reaches, up to the cartons of cigarettes and down to the hidden stash of pornography, weren’t nearly enough to keep him in shape.

Linda had fallen back, propped up by the teetering shelf of gum and candy. She had stopped screaming, but a small drop of blood lingered at the corner of her mouth, indicating that she was only biting the inside of her lip in pain. Her eyes were shut tight, GET OFF OF ME, PLEASE GOD GET THEM OFF OF ME! running through her brain in constant loop.

Beth lay on the floor, not having moved a muscle since she dropped. A muffled snivel and sob escaped from under her dark hair, reminding Frank that she was still there. He looked down at her and frowned. He just needed to get out of there. Might as well take the girl with him. His hands were still throbbing, though, and his chest still ached. I’ll just rest a bit longer, he told himself. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Everything slowly began to fade out of focus as the loud screams and sobs were reduced to muffled hums and sighs. He made no attempt to stay awake, but if he had any such endeavor would have most certainly failed. As a result of years of practice, thanks to several naps in the middle of obnoxiously rowdy young relatives during unwanted family reunions, not even the sudden cry “WHO THE HELL IS THAT!?” could awaken Frank now.

That

… was in fact Daniel Willards; The Wooz as he preferred to be called. The Big Woozat was frozen in place, still squatting in front of Kwik Trip’s front door. His eyes were open wide. The display inside had come to a screeching halt. The young man lying in his boxers was glaring at him through the glass while slowly gritting his teeth. It was obvious he was trying to reanalyze the situation.

The Wooz knew in any other situation this young man and his troubled appearance would have done nothing to him but evoke laughter. But he was frozen. There was a look of desperation behind the young man’s eyes. It was not sympathetic, but a dangerous nervousness that could and most likely would, the Wooz thought eyeing the Berretta, lead to a drastic and violent conclusion.

Presently, a deafening shot rang through the air. Thin pieces of plaster floated down from a small jagged hole in the ceiling. Everyone turned to see the Kwik Trip employee sitting cross legged on the floor where the Beretta once lay, which was now pointed towards the ceiling in Bobby’s right hand. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the small paper hat that had once sat atop his podgy skull and puffed and wheezed, fighting to recuperate from the struggle.

“Well, he seems to have everything under control,” the Wooz whispered to himself, and slowly began to stand, picking up Roscoe and tucking the dog under his left arm.