DICE FICTION
Baby Rolls the Dice
And lands face-first in doo doo doos
To bring yourself up to speed on all this nonsense, check out the prompt from Mark Suroviec, M.Ed. below.
I rolled 5, 3, 3:
(5) Baby Loan Shark doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo (3) is kidnapped from the Taylor Swift Concert because of a mistaken ID (3) and is stuck in an elevator with (author’s choice) for eleven painful hours.
Crap! I demand a rethrow!
I squinted through the grime-coated window to the view beyond. The day was bleak. Perfect. It matched my mood. Come to think of it, it perfectly matched my appearance.
They call me Baby Shark because I have my own money-lending business which, I admit, is usurious, and because my old face is grey and resembles an ugly baby that hasn’t quite grown into its skin. My incisor teeth are long and sharp, too, which helps complete the picture.
In all fairness to me, I think my pallor is a result of being cooped up in this airless room day in and day out. The only chance for exercise is when my useless morons have used their meagre skills to extract past-due loan monies and I have to go and finish the job for them.
I’m even getting too old for that. High kicks and waterboarding are way too strenuous these days. Still, a shattered kneecap does the job nicely. The trouble is, someone else’s shattered kneecap usually means a tweaky hip for me for the next few weeks.
Yeah. I’m past it which is why I spend too much time gazing through a crap-incrusted pane of glass to gaze at an overgrown car park, home to not much more than a burnt-out shell of a 1960s Ford which has been there since 1962.
If I am a Baby Shark, where is the ocean in my crap-obscured view?
I’m even growing tired of my glory-day memories; playing bass guitar in a rock n roll band. I didn’t look like a baby shark then. More like a lithe and sensuous siren. Black leathers and music are sexy partners; bass guitars are heavy—great for swinging around to clear space when you need to make a fast exit from a venue.
Without even realising it, my decision had been made! I was going to reclaim the vestiges of my youth.
It took me three and half hours to struggle into an online-purchased leather outfit, plus two more hours to apply a thick cake of putty filler, blue eyeshadow, and ruby red lipstick to my dial. Pallor dispensed, I teased up my straggly hair and artfully covered the thin bits where scalp was prone to exposing itself.
Following a two-hour lie-down, I was ready to rumble.
It took me ages to find a gig in our dump of a town. Finally, on the better side of the burbs, I stumbled upon a large crowd pushing and shoving their way into an auditorium.
For some unfathomable reason, people were reluctant to talk to me but I soon discovered I was heading into a concert headlining a sheila called Taylor Swift. I’d never heard of her but the youngsters and their high-pitched, under-dressed mothers were all in a tither.
After some fast-talking and an exchange of a large wad of cash, Security at the door finally let me in. They kept going on about there being a problem, and some rubbish about earlier “incidents”.
While they were still dicking about, I pushed my way past and found myself crushed in a bunch of sweaty kids, screaming and yelling about someone called, Tay Tay.
Tay Tay this and Tay Tay that.
I was confused. I thought we were here for some unknown named, Taylor Swift. Go figure.
Eventually, the headline act appeared and all hell broke loose. The screams and cheers were deafening and so was the music. Cheez. I thought my crew had been loud in the day but it was lame compared to this lot.
I thought the singer was okay considering she looked a bit tizzy for my liking and after she sang one particular song, I started joining the hullabaloo.
“I’m the problem, it’s me,” I yelled, repeatedly.
The phrase was so catchy, I pranced around to music in my head, flinging arms in the air, dancing and wailing right into the intermission.
The large auditorium gradually fell quiet as people flowed out to grab a drink or a cigarette.
I was drunk with euphoria.
“I’m the problem, it’s me,” I screamed, leaping onto seats, and twirling through the empty aisles.
I must have suffered an episode because I don’t remember being grabbed by Security to be forcibly removed from the venue.
I came to in the back of a van smelling vaguely of feet and fannies, still whimpering, “I’m the problem, it’s me.” My hands were tied in front of me and my ankles were firmly taped together with duct tape.
I was still hovering on the peripheral of consciousness when the van suddenly stopped and I was manhandled by two goons through the foyer of some sort of hotel establishment, which was strangely bereft of employees, then into an elevator.
“For chrissake shut the ugly old bag up will yah,” moaned one of the goons.
“I’ll fix ‘er when we get upstairs,” replied another.
“I’m the problem, it’s me,” I bellowed, hoping there was someone, somewhere nearby that cared.
“You’ve been a pain in our arses for so long, we ain't havin’ it no more,” muttered Goon One as we began moving upward.
I counted eleven floors until we finally binged.
“I’ve never been to that place in my life before …” I managed to splutter as the elevator door opened and I was dragged straight into a room with a big brass number 13 on its door.
“Don’t give us that,” groaned Number Two as he taped me to a kitchen chair.
“I’m the problem, it’s me,” I stammered.
“We’ll sort this out when the boss finishes her gig. In the meantime, …” Number Two disappeared, returning with a pair of lacy knickers which he promptly shoved into my mouth and then taped shut. It tasted like the undies had come from the laundry basket.
“We know you’re the problem, you old menace, but not for long!”
Laughing, the three thugs left me bound to the chair and departed.
My baby shark teeth and slippery leather duds saved the day!
In no time at all I had chawed through the knickers and tape and slithered from my bonds and in less time than it could take to whisper, “I’m the problem, it’s me,” three times, I was in the elevator heading to the lobby.
Suddenly, the elevator stopped! I heard something snap inside my head and something snap in the elevator shaft all at the same moment.
I glanced at the mirrored wall on the back of the elevator, pleased to discover I wasn’t alone. My travelling companion was a crazy old bag in black leather with teased hair and way too much makeup. She reminded me of someone and appeared to be singing something about problems.
Then I passed out.
They tell me I was locked in the elevator for eleven hours. Reckon they might as well have left me there because now I’m locked in a room with soft walls and a bouncy floor. I suppose it’s nice enough and the people with the pricky things that put happy juice in my arm are okay, too.
At the very least they get a laugh when I perform my favourite song and dance routine for them.
“I’m the problem, it’s me.”
Mark Suroviec, M.Ed. came up with a random idea for random fiction. I still demand a rethrow!
Ann James got to play with prosthetic limbs from Amazon. Not fair. I had to go to a Taylor Swift concert!
Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier) got lucky. It doesn’t happen too often so he had to brag.
Neera Handa Dr also wrote about Baby Sharks but it is so much sweeter than my nonsense.
