iguana attacks
Iguanas are known for being bloodthirsty. You've heard the stories. "Harmless" iguana jumps out of toilet to gobble suburban baby. So naturally, when one spots such a beast one gives themself over to pure unadulterated hysteria, full tilt. And when such a victim is Jessica "Teal" Willis, well...
Saturday afternoon started off like they all should. Vegan is slapping meat patties together for the grill outside. Jakie is tinkering with pulleys and beer parts. Tom is missing. I am on surveillance, on a dirty portion of the couch, trying to figure out that smell. Katie Ray arrives in a cloud of perfume and body lotion and distracts me from my duty. Shannon arrives next a harem of boys on bikes in tow. Ian and Jessica arrive next. Jessica strolls in, swinging a boxed cheesecake from its twine. She smiles sweetly, for there is no way she can foretell the event that will chage things forever.
Fast forward a few hours. We are all outside. The patties sizzle on the grill, techno music blares from the speakers, Katie Ray smells like the rest of us, and Vegan has mustard and ketchup and bits of meat collected at the corners of his mouth. Jessica Willis is a bundle of succulent flesh, seated next to me on the cooler. Her diligent boyfriend Ian steps away to retieve some very necessary item. Jessica is left open, her milky skin glows in the moonlight. The iguana acts quickly.
He had been watching the whole time. From his niche deep inside the cracked wall, he had eyed us all as we gathered coolers together in a protective circle, the strong men gathering on the outside while the soft-fleshed women sat safely inside. He had escaped weeks prior. His owners were fat and had beat him, prodded him, and forced him to listen to Puerto Rican hits. He wasn't going back, but he was hungry. He had watched us laugh, noticed Maggie toss her blonde hair, saw how Jakie gave up his seat to older women. Tears came to his eyes. He didn't want to be bad. But he could smell the meat, and then he saw his opening.
I first noticed something was wrong when Jessica's body convulsed. While convulsing, she managed to turn her full mouth to my ear. Her screams penetrated my soul. Before I could shriek back, cool liquid spread over my skull and shoulder, and claws dug deep into my flesh. Then I looked down. My blood curdled. There was an unidentifyable reptile lump coiled around Jessica's soft foot. Jessica was dead and I was drowning in her blood. Then I smelled beer and I came to.
As it turns out, Jessica wasn't dead. Her blood upon me was in fact half of the the drink that she held in her shaking hands. We assembled a rescue team to wrench the jaws of the iguana from her luscious ankle, and handed her over to Ian. Ian held her close. The iguana was sent back to its fat Puerto Ricans with no supper(excuse the misplaced modifyer). We went forth with the party. The death count is as follows: one innocent soul, two chairs, half of a cheesecake, and one sorely-missed broom(Chris Mitchell, you will die).
The next day we met at the Pourhouse and counted our bruises.
Love,
Anna Montana
Saturday afternoon started off like they all should. Vegan is slapping meat patties together for the grill outside. Jakie is tinkering with pulleys and beer parts. Tom is missing. I am on surveillance, on a dirty portion of the couch, trying to figure out that smell. Katie Ray arrives in a cloud of perfume and body lotion and distracts me from my duty. Shannon arrives next a harem of boys on bikes in tow. Ian and Jessica arrive next. Jessica strolls in, swinging a boxed cheesecake from its twine. She smiles sweetly, for there is no way she can foretell the event that will chage things forever.
Fast forward a few hours. We are all outside. The patties sizzle on the grill, techno music blares from the speakers, Katie Ray smells like the rest of us, and Vegan has mustard and ketchup and bits of meat collected at the corners of his mouth. Jessica Willis is a bundle of succulent flesh, seated next to me on the cooler. Her diligent boyfriend Ian steps away to retieve some very necessary item. Jessica is left open, her milky skin glows in the moonlight. The iguana acts quickly.
He had been watching the whole time. From his niche deep inside the cracked wall, he had eyed us all as we gathered coolers together in a protective circle, the strong men gathering on the outside while the soft-fleshed women sat safely inside. He had escaped weeks prior. His owners were fat and had beat him, prodded him, and forced him to listen to Puerto Rican hits. He wasn't going back, but he was hungry. He had watched us laugh, noticed Maggie toss her blonde hair, saw how Jakie gave up his seat to older women. Tears came to his eyes. He didn't want to be bad. But he could smell the meat, and then he saw his opening.
I first noticed something was wrong when Jessica's body convulsed. While convulsing, she managed to turn her full mouth to my ear. Her screams penetrated my soul. Before I could shriek back, cool liquid spread over my skull and shoulder, and claws dug deep into my flesh. Then I looked down. My blood curdled. There was an unidentifyable reptile lump coiled around Jessica's soft foot. Jessica was dead and I was drowning in her blood. Then I smelled beer and I came to.
As it turns out, Jessica wasn't dead. Her blood upon me was in fact half of the the drink that she held in her shaking hands. We assembled a rescue team to wrench the jaws of the iguana from her luscious ankle, and handed her over to Ian. Ian held her close. The iguana was sent back to its fat Puerto Ricans with no supper(excuse the misplaced modifyer). We went forth with the party. The death count is as follows: one innocent soul, two chairs, half of a cheesecake, and one sorely-missed broom(Chris Mitchell, you will die).
The next day we met at the Pourhouse and counted our bruises.
Love,
Anna Montana
posted by Shannon_M_Hayes at 10:58 AM
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