plaidphantom.net

In the writing group I go to, we have something known as "Shay's Box of DOOOM!" It randomly gives you a person, place, thing, and situation and you have to write a story incorporating all of them. Being random, one can end up with some pretty odd stories at times. Here are two of mine.

• Person: Chippendale dancer
• Place: Blood bank
• Situation: a failed relationship
• Thing: a silk scarf
• Note: I kinda drifted away from the prompt on this one, partly because it was my first and partly because I thought the whole "Vampirator" thing was too funny.

"Well, back then I was a dancer, too. What? What do you—look, I have to go." I snapped my cell phone closed. I felt the phone buzz as she called me back and pushed the button to shut it off. I could apologize later. I was about to donate blood. She'd understand that.

I stepped into the brick building, took a form from the receptionist, and looked around the sparse waiting room at the other donors. A tall, wispy woman with long, straight black hair and a brilliant blue silk scarf sat in a corner reading a book. I sat down beside her, glancing over the blanks on the forms before turning slightly towards her.

"I must admit, I'm a little nervous," I said to her. "This is my first time here." I glanced at her, gauging her reaction.

"Yeah?" Her voice was flat. "Good for you."

I shifted slightly, trying to achieve a more inviting pose. "Sorry. I tend to ramble when I'm nervous."

She showed no response, turned a page in her book, and continued reading.

Strike two. "So, you've donated before, I take it?"

She set her book down, staring at me. "Look. You are utterly horrible at this. How about you just let it go, hm? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue reading this book, you're going to fill out your forms, and in ten point three seconds you should probably duck or you may very well end up in need of this facility's services."

"What?"

"Eight point seven."

I sat, completely confused. "What?"

"Now!" she shouted, throwing both of us to the ground as the brick wall behind us shattered like a pane of glass.

A booming sinister voice rattled the remains of the building. "NOW WHO WOULD LIKE TO MAKE A DONATION TO THE VAMPIRATOR!?"

The mysterious woman rose from where we had fallen. She seemed taller than I had first imagined.

"Vampirator?" she called out. "That's your supervillian name?"

"WHO DARES MOCK MY NAME!?" some bricks shook off of the remains of the wall.

"No, seriously! That's a horrible name. I mean, you could have had 'Dr. Blood', or 'Count Blood' or even 'Hemoglobin'. But Vampirator? It's not even a word. It's stupid."

"YOU SHALL PAY FOR THIS INSOLENCE!!" There was a hint of annoyance in the voice, much like there's a hint of a breeze during a thunderstorm.

Suddenly a dark form flashed through the still-standing doorway, making a sudden turn to charge the one who had annoyed her. With cat-like grace, she stepped to the side to let the Vampirator slam into a brick she had tossed in the air. He fell to the ground, a pile of cape. She stepped over to him and kicked him lightly.

"You dead?" He groaned. "Good. Now, we are going to leave these poor people alone, and you and me are going to have a long talk about crime, punishment, and the appropriate use of loudspeakers." He whimpered.

---

• Person: Inuit chef
• Place: Wal-Mart
• Situation: giving blood
• Thing: a barn door
• Note: I'll admit it; I really, really love this one.

"Sacre bleu!" shouted the irascible man, stamping his foot on the ground. "I am the world's premiere connoisseur—not to mention consumate master of—the cuisines of the northern tundra! How dare you deny me like this!"

The young volunteer attendant sighed and tapped his pencil on the table. "I'm sorry sir, but according to our records you've given blood in the last week. We don't allow anyone to give blood unless it's been eight weeks. You need your blood to live."

"Bah!" shouted the chef. He spat on the ground. "Pierre needs no blood. Food is my life, my heart, my blood, my soul. La nourriture est mon âme."

"That may very well be the case," said the attendant, rolling his eyes, "but I can't change our policy for you." Pierre muttered something French under his breath. The attendant cleared his throat. "Sir, I know you aren't French. You've lived here in Alaska longer than I have."

"France," barked Pierre, "is no mere matter of geography. It is a state of mind."

A burly man in a blue vest knocked on the door and stepped into the room. "Is there a problem?"

Pierre looked up at the man. "Ah, siccing your guards on me? No matter. Pierre shall return, and next time there will be reckoning!" he rose, tossing his cape around him, and strode out of the van and out to the Wal-Mart parking lot. He walked past one of those small barns that occasionally sit near the entrance and slammed its door, trapping a member of the cart crew inside when it latched shut. The door greeter ran out to help the boy as the master chef Pierre strode back to his restaurant on the other side of the parking lot.