“That wasn’t half bad,” said Scarlett cheerily, two weeks later as she walked out of the gymnasium with her friends. “I never thought roller hockey was worth watching, but after that faculty-DJ game, I’d have to say my time wasn’t wasted.”
“DeMartino didn’t die,” Kristen glumly reminded her. “I lost fifty bucks on that.”
“Barch punching Rock-and-Roll Randy’s lights out was awesome,” said Tananda. “I almost liked her.”
Angel leaned over to speak to Scarlett’s right shoulder. “What did you think of it, Roger Rat?” she asked.
“I can’t hear you,” Roger grumbled, clutching Scarlett’s sweater. “I’m deaf from all the damn screaming. And I’m not a rat!”
“If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck,” said Tan, “then it must be a rat.”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” said Roger. “I mean, seriously listen to what you’re saying, ever?”
“Yeah, but it’s probably not as interesting as listening to you scream when I towel-snap your butt into next year.”
“I should have taken pictures of the game for Elaine,” said Scarlett. “It would’ve cheered her up, especially that free-for-all at the end that the cops had to break up.”
Kristen swallowed a mouthful of chocolate candy. “How’s your aunt doing since she left Cedars of Lawndale?”
“Better. She gets around a little, but she needs a lot of rest.” Scarlett was silent for a few moments. “She apologized to me for not telling me the truth about my dad and mom, but I said it was okay. She couldn’t have told me the truth before now. I’d never have believed it. She was going to wait until I was out of high school to tell me, ‘cause she was afraid it would mess up my life.”
“Not like the truth messed up your life anyway,” observed Tananda.
“Well, that’s different,” said Scarlett.
“Oh? Exactly how?”
“Anyone else going to the homecoming game?” asked Woot. “I’m going to ask Bob.”
“Bob?” said Roger. “The moron with the sleeveless shirt and green-dyed hair and a safety pin through his nose? That Bob?”
“What?” yelled Woot.
“Care—ful,” whispered Scarlett to her tiny companion.
“I’m just saying,” Roger hastily added, “it sounds like he’s . . . um . . . intriguing!”
“That’s what I like about him, too,” said Woot, calming down. “And he can crush a beer can on his head with one hand!”
“There’s some kind of moral here, I’m sure,” Roger muttered.
“Not likely,” said Scarlett.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Angel. She reached in a pocket and pulled out a crumpled letter. “I forgot about this! Look what I got today! They liked our ideas!”
“Sick, Sad World?” said Scarlett. Everyone crowded around Angel to read the letter, aided by a streetlight’s illumination. On a sheet of light gray letterhead with the oval SSW logo at the top, they read:
Thank you for your submissions and congratulations! We have decided to accept the following story ideas that you submitted for SICK, SAD WORLD!
2. Flying steak knives! (We know you said “magic swords that turn into steak knives” but there are far more steak knives than magic swords, so we are going with the steak knives.)
3. Psychic detectives chasing cross-dimensional villains! (We might turn this one into “psychic Nazi hunter” and combine it with #1. Close enough.)
4. Rats on Ritalin! (Your original idea with the talking mouse was almost there, but the drug angle was perfect. Thanks to Roger, whoever he is, for that one.)
5. Delinquent quintuplets! (Taken exactly as you had it.)
6. Soccer moms with axes to grind! (Nice idea, though we had a few questions: Is this “Rhonda” a real person? She’s not really a mother, is she? We were a little concerned about that. Does she live anywhere near our corporate headquarters? Can you warn us if she does?)
And thanks to those former members of Lawndale’s Blue Belles, once featured on our show, who were kind enough to hand-deliver your story ideas last weekend to our staff. We appreciated their explaining in detail what would happen if we accidentally and not-on-purpose made use of ideas similar to the ones you submitted, which would of course never happen, and thank you for releasing our attorneys unharmed.
We will forward the list to our accounting department, which will contact you with payment details in the near future. Please do not hesitate to stop by our offices again, although we do ask that you not bring flaming swords into the main lobby and security areas next time. And please call ahead—several days ahead. (Please don’t be put off if you arrive during a company holiday and no one is available to see you!)
Once again, thank you for all your hard work, and keep those great ideas coming!
SICK, SAD WORLD EDITORIAL STAFF
The cheers were deafening, louder than when the Lawndale Leopards had defeated the Oakwood Knotholes in sudden death overtime the week before, and even louder than when Ms. Barch punched out Rock-and-Roll Randy. Roger clapped his paws over his ears and bore it as best he could.
Later that evening, when Scarlett and Roger were back in Scarlett’s room and feeling a bit slow from all the pizza they had consumed after the game, Roger lay on his back in his cage and sighed. “Phil promised to come by later this week and visit,” he said. “He’s living in a tree off Glen Oaks Lane, driving some homeowner crazy over there. Guy sounds like a nutcase, yelling about his father and how squirrels are taking over the world. Phil says knocking over garbage cans is a lot more fun than working at Pizza Forest. He hated that place. Mean kids.”
“That’s good,” said Scarlett. She was lying on her bed reading Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d’Arthur while eating a cinnamon-apple muffin.
“Shame about Marcello. Hope Adele likes living in a federal dog pound for the rest of her life. Maybe Bruno can take her for walks.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You hear anything from Rhonda?”
“Yeah. She says the witness protection program is for the birds. They changed her name to Jordana and now she works at some roadside museum across the road from a paintball place. She can’t talk about her former life because Bruno or his old cross-dimensional associates might come looking for her, so she says she makes up stuff about based on her favorite movies, like Jaws or whatever. People think she’s crazy.”
“Can’t imagine why they would think that.”
After a beat, Scarlett added, “She said she’s got a boyfriend.”
“What? No way.”
“Yes, way.”
“Rhonda? Psycho axe-wielding Rhonda? Rhonda who used to tell people she chopped up her family because they wouldn’t let her watch Wheel of Fortune? That Rhonda?”
“Yeah. She said he runs the paintball place. He’s an old Vietnam vet named Jim. He lives part-time at a VA psych hospital. She said he was her soul-mate.”
Roger was quiet for a half minute, then said, “That frightens me.”
“Merthin cast her horoscope and said she’d be fine.”
“Some old fart stuck in a laptop said it was ‘fine’ that Lizzie Borden was dating Rambo, and you believe him?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Roger sighed heavily. “Never mind. Hey, maybe they could take Brian Taylor for a special tour of the paintball place sometime, when no one else is around. They could give him a five-minute head start before they . . . you know . . . oh, well. It was just a thought.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Scarlett finished her muffin and licked her fingers as she read.
“You know,” Roger said at last, looking anxious, “I am a little worried about that cross-dimensional wormhole in the back of the Chinese place. I mean, you don’t know what could come crawling out of there next time.”
“Not a problem,” said Scarlett, turning a page. “Aunt Elaine gave me an idea for a way to fix it.”
“Fix it? What do you mean, fix it? What did you do?”
Scarlett sighed and put a finger in the book on the page she was reading, then closed the book and looked up. “I fixed the gateway so it would only do funny stuff, nothing bad anymore. No bad people can come through it, only funny or silly ones.”
“What are you talking about? Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, people dressed like calendar holidays, or a hurricane that makes everyone sing and dance, stuff like that. Stuff to make life around here more interesting.”
Roger rolled over and gave Scarlett a narrow-eyed look. “You’re pulling my leg,” he said.
“Of course,” said Scarlett. She returned to her book with an ill-concealed smirk.
Roger finally shook his head. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he muttered. He lay down again and closed his eyes, then added, “I hope.”
Last updated 8/12/07