With the cake thought, Vicky was trying to eclipse black boy pet-eating monster thoughts. A trip upstairs to the instrument tray was warranted. As Vicky grasped the business end of her banister, Big Tobacco ceased all movement and appeared as a doorstop. This broke Vicky's heart-something about a porcelain cat plummetting to a certain death out of Vicky's girlhood window. She steeled herself as a state of wild expectancy activated several brain function mechanisms in Vicky's dome, but not the eye-hand coordination one. She placed the snow globe of St. Petersburg she'd carried from the study onto the former location of her Frank Gehry side table. Crash. Mess. No time. Up the stairs to fetch a scalpel.
Vicky was back down in the foyer before she was ready to be, and just in time to be walloped by the Damien Omen II door chime cycle from hell the boys had re-initiated. Credit that cachophonous misfortune to the former Mr. Vicky. Open door, smile, allow entry, look for weapon bulges, invite further in, wait for signs of aggression or darting eyes.
Darn it! She had forgotten the most important thing and it was too late! Locking up Biggie T. Peripheral to her right side field of vision, Big Tobacco was still door stopping, but now displaying the added feature of a very naturalistic barking noise. All at once the uglier boy dove in the dog's direction like a defensive lineman performing his 100th quarterback sacking. As you do. Somehow Biggie T. grasshoppered out of harm's way just in time, with a high-pitched wail.
"Oh this is all I need," Vicky growled internally, "little bastard." She herself then leapt boyward, and things then happened so fast she didn't realize it was she who straddled the narrow shoulders of pet-eating Monster #2 as she checked the position of his accomplice, with her scalpel hand raised high. Accomplice Monster #1 yelled, "What the fuck, bitch?!" as he shot her a three-layered (horror-disgust-contempt) napoleon of a facial expression which Vicky felt constituted nothing less than unbridled hostility and the promise of certain attack.
With that, Vicky plunged her scalpel into Monster #2's screaming tongue.
Who accounts for blood squirting on walls in a situation like this thought Vicky. Not Big Tobacco, who was already shitting a lung in private somewhere. And why does it smell like suntan lotion? Is that what monsters smell like? And finally, if monsters lunge for my dog, should I have a cocktail at 3:10pm? The poor woman was jolted from her reverie by Monster #1, who was now hightailing it in an easterly direction and had to be stopped. How could he leave his accomplice writhing in pain on my rug, she wondered. Kids today.
Stay tuned for more.