Well, this is incredibly late, since the This Is Totally My Idiom blogfest was yesterday. But I'm finally managing to get my entry posted...a day late and a dollar short (you see what I did there? I used an idiom). Anyway, thanks to Delia for hosting!
I couldn't decide on one idiom, so I put a few in there. This is another episode of the Happy Acres saga, and it's really super long, and for that I apologize. I just couldn't find the end of it!
Things had settled back into their usual routine at Happy Acres since I'd triumphantly slain the Zombie King. The souls of each and every one of my friends were safe and sound thanks to me, not that they appreciated what I’d done, since most of them didn’t believed the Zombie King ever existed.
“As King of Scotland, I command you to cease this nonsense talk about Zombie Kings,” Simon said from his perch on the couch, surrounded by his imaginary literary babes. And twirling his icy glass of contraband vodka. At 10:00 a.m.
“I will not!” I said, stomping my foot. I’d had enough of everyone doubting me. “Mia? If anyone here can defend me, it’s you. You know the truth about the Zombie King. I single-handedly rescued you and your zombies from him.”
Mia left the wall where she and her zombies used their newest box of crayons to color a post-apocalyptic mural, and met me in the middle of the room. She took my hand in hers, “You know I owe you big times for that, for defs. The zombies are totes hero-worshipping on you and everything. They’ve so even been urging me to throw you a special cupcake party because you are like their sparkly champion.”
“Are you trying to guilt-trip me for not believing this Zombie King malarkey?” Simon asked.
“Shotgun!” Bill called from his chair.
Mia shot him an ugly glare, but Bill remained oblivious.
“What are you talking about, Bill?” I asked.
“If we’re going on a trip, I call shotgun,” he answered.
“Do not say the S-H-O-T-G-U-N word,” Mia said.
“Why not?” Simon asked.
“Because the zombies do not like it. It makes them mad,” Mia answered.
“Who cares if the zombies get mad. They’re just a bunch of cupcake eating sissies, anyway,” Simon said, taunting her. The literary babes giggled.
“They are not sissies,” Mia said, defending her friends. “They’re sensitive, I keep telling you. They’ve been through a lot, you know. First the whole trauma of being infected. That was not easy to accept. The biting. The dying. It was very icky for them. See? Talking about it still makes them all mopey.”
She was right, the zombies had stopped coloring and were hanging their heads and patting each other on the back.
“Shotgun,” Simon said, a smirk on his face.
“Simon, you’ve been warned,” Mia said, wagging a finger at him. “This is the last one. You are provoking them. You will not like the zombies when they are angry. If you hurt their feelings they will take action. I promise you.”
“What are they going to do, cry on me?” he asked.
“You do not want to know,” Mia said.
“Rip off an arm and beat me over the head with it?” Simon asked.
“That is gross. The zombies are pacifists and do not believe in violence. Unless you provoke them. Then they will resort to cranky behavior,” Mia said, dismissing Simon and heading back to comfort her zombies.
“SHOTGUN,” Simon called across the now silent common room. All eyes bounced back and forth between Simon and Mia.
“Um, Simon. You might want to cool it,” I said, noting that Mia’s lips were set in a thin, firm line.
“We have been over this, you will address me as Your Majesty, or Your Highness. If you must address me at all,” he said, only glancing in my direction briefly, then returning his attention to Mia..
“You’re not the king of anything,” I said. “We’re all kind of tired of your delusions of grandeur.”
“They’re not delusions,” Mia said, her voice quiet and even, a sweet little smile on her lips.
“Thank you, Mia,” Simon said, thinking he’d won a major battle.
“They’re overblown fantasies. Hallucinations. Flights of fancy. Mirages. Castles in the air,” she said, delivering her salvo.
“SHOTGUN!” Simon thundered across the room.
“Shut up!” Mia hollered in her little voice.
“Make me!” Simon dared her.
“Wait a minute, Mia,” I interrupted, attempting to diffuse the situation. “What is it with the shotgun, anyway. Why do the zombies hate that word so much?”
“Are you serious? You totes don’t know?”
“I totes don’t,” I said, noting that her easy distractibility may have saved Simon from being massacred by zombies.
Mia whispered to the zombies, “Plug your ears, I’m going to talk about that word,” then after they had, she said to the rest of us, “the shotgun is the ultimate international weapon of choice for zombie killing. It is their Achilles heel.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because they are already dead. Undead. Not living anymore. But kind of living. The only thing that can make them totally dead is a shotgun. They do not want to be dead. They just want to eat cupcakes and color. And be left in Peace. Is that asking so much?”
After having dealt with the Zombie King, I could totes relate to the zombies’ desire for peace. “No, that’s not too much to ask at all,” I said. “In fact I could really use some of that myself.”
From his chair I heard Bill snort, “That’s what she said.”
Whew! If you made it this far, thanks for reading the whole thing!