Monday, July 30, 2007

The Escape

(This story begins on 7/18/07)

Authors don’t usually admit when they lie, do they? Well, I want to set the record straight about something. Yes, Softy was truly Dusty’s husband. But he is not in another world. There is no other world. When you die, you get buried, or thrown to sea, or cremated. Then eventually your molecules disperse and you become part of everything else. And you don’t look down and smile or cry. Forget that.

Having said that, my sources tell me that Softy is not dead, but actually had faked his death to get away from Dusty and her (in his words) fetish. He did not plan his escape in advance; rather, it just spontaneously happened one day.

Softy was Mr. Neat. He couldn’t stand dirt. Maybe their marriage was made in heaven, but it certainly didn’t work on earth. And he didn’t like cold canned food either.

Dusty had tricked Softy into marrying her but feigning that she was going to have a baby. They had never even slept together, but because he had thought about sleeping with her (as an older horny male virgin he thought about sleeping with everyone with a pair of legs), he felt that he must be responsible.

It soon became apparent to Softy that he needed his own place so he constructed a clean little shack behind the bunny refuge, as he liked to call it. He had a cot, a little refrigerator, a hot plate, and a small chemistry lab.

I mentioned that Softy sold pillows. What I didn’t mention is that he had a degree in chemistry and was forever trying to make a softer foam for a softer pillow. He never told Dusty what was in the shack. He just pretended that he needed to work there on his pillow sales leads and actually would spend all his time in the shack experimenting, eating, or sleeping.

One day he discovered that by adding sodium hydrophotate (don’t look that up, it hasn’t been discovered yet) to a conventional foam he could created an immense explosion by adding some ammonia in with the hydrophotate. First he tried it with a drop of ammonia, 2 drops of hydrophotate, and about a teaspoon of foam. Even with those small quantities, the explosion was louder that the loudest firecracker he had ever heard.

That’s when the idea came to him. Suppose he blow himself up and disappear? He’d be free forever and perhaps he could even find a more suitable mate.

Being the bright guy that he was he devised a clever set up. He first mixed together the foam and the hydrophotate. Then he put the mixture on the floor. His floor sloped, so he put the mixture at the lowest point.

He broke the glass on his clock and attached a string to the minute hand. The other end of the string was attached to an open bottle of ammonia. When the minute hand circled the clock the ammonia would be pulled over, and presto, his shack would disintegrate all over the town of Dustland. He would be dust, so to speak.

This was all fantasy until he started to hear Dusty calling him. It was their anniversary and she wanted them to have a “happy hour,” a glass of bunny ice cubes and dirty water for old times sake. He couldn’t go on another day. Without much conscious thought, he set up the “experiment” and gave himself 15 minutes to disappear. He packed a knap sack with a few essentials, and headed off to the nearby mountains to hide until things cooled down a bit. He left quickly, waiting behind a nearby tree (not too nearby) to make sure the explosion occurred. When he realized that he had not wound the clock for a while he wondered if the explosion would occur. 15 minutes passed and nothing happened. He decided to wait a few more minutes, and that was sufficient. When the explosion occurred he was thrown about 30 feet, flipping over in the air in every imaginable direction, but remained unharmed. He rushed off into the mountains and was freed from his crazy Dusty.