To Run from Molasses

Vote by January 12, 2014!

molasses75x99In episode 7, readers voted that the lights went out.

Episode 8

It was dark as hell. The street lamp helped me visualize my surroundings in hopes I wouldn’t stub my toe on any furniture, though I couldn’t make out half the stuff I was already running into.

“What in the world is going on?!” Jemma yelled out.

“Honey,” I singingly said, “It’s just the lights. Um, Tony, turn them back on.”

“The bulb must’ve blew,” Tony dumbly stated.

“No, I corrected him, “then the other lights would still be on-I figure it’s the fuse.”

“Oh. So, I’d need to go to the fuse box to fix that, right?”

“Very good, Tony!” I mocked, “Now, how much is 2 plus 2?”

“Knock it off!” Tony barked.

The lights came back on about twenty minutes after Tony and I had attempted our best MacGyver skills, while Jemma snored in the corner somewhere. The truth is, we were both exhausted, outdone, and just fed up. I told Tony I needed sleep and for him to “promise to deliver the money tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he agreed.

And as I sunk deep into his shabby futon and glanced once more at the crap he lived in, I could’ve sworn my brain laughed at me and said ‘yeah, right’ sarcastically in the distance of my mind where logic and common sense used to reside.

“Rise and shine,” Jemma cheerfully rang.

“Good morning.” Tony said.

They both raised their orange juice glasses in my direction and looked like something out of a 50’s advertisement.

“Morning,” I groaned, “I’ll have a glass too.”

“It’s a mimosa, dear,” said Jemma.

“At this time?”

“It’s 2:00.” They simultaneously claimed in addition to offering me a chuckle or two.

“Oh, God.”

“Dear Sir, I made reservations at the finest restaurant in town.” Tony said in a bad British accent as he crossed his arms and gently pulled at his sweat-stained collar.

“Yeah, honey, we were just catching up on old times and figure it might be fun to hang out somewhere, but if you don’t want to come, then we can go without you.”

“No, no,” I fully awoke, standing upright and said, “I’m coming too. Now, Tony, this restaurant of yours wouldn’t happen to be a McDonald’s would it?”

“Oh, no.” His phony accent transitioned into French, “This restaurant is magnificent. The people around this neighborhood call it The Salad Bar.”

“Well, of course” I played along, trying to deny the fact that my jealousy was kicking back in, “I’m gonna wash up, then we’ll go grab a bite.”

The adjective ‘filth’ wasn’t worthy to describe the bathroom in which I had just stepped into. Wet towels were everywhere, the shower was missing handles, both the shower drain and the sink drain had multicolored hair clumps stuck within them. At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette. I hadn’t had one since we stopped for gas and crept behind the station to smoke a bit. I was craving one so goddamn bad. I felt around my jeans and blouse for a ciggy.

What happens to me next?
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