I Married a Monster from..., Part Three

I Married a Monster from..., Part Three(Jeff Blechle) I Married a Monster from Holl…
Part Three
Before dawn, Darrin ties his victims in a knot atop the light post and absconds with a brightly burning halide bulb screwed into his snout.
Later, during an unnamed cow’s funeral, Darrin berates at his sister Jenny’s lack of imagination after spoiling his outré cliffhanger. “You show up at the funeral of your edible victim with cutlery? That’s your big scene opener?”
When Jenny removes her mondo dark glasses and rhinestone eye patches and gold lucre cravat, we sense that she is no virgin angel, not by the depth of that superficiality, let alone that wingspan. Then she realizes her mistake in her half-eaten jelly donut: the world is not her oyster, but a small dead cockroach under the stove signifying her mother’s gory appetite for strange life forces, so she brandishes her sandpaper tongue as a defense mechanism and not a mourner’s left standing, then she speeds her brother in double-time around tombstones while he sheepishly guffaws in the backseat of the hearse, thinking he’s got himself someone to take over the inelegant chore of grooming Pitty Sing.
Onlooking the grand theft auto and horrendous vandalism, mom and dad turn almost human, which, by all accounts, is much worse than turning almost werewolves. Mom turns and accuses the old man of alopecia because (she points) he has parked her car around a tree. Cranky Pitty Sing, who refuses to don his bib on yon stump, is banished and castigated, in that order, and the comely couple pretend they're not mad at each other long enough to fang up for a curious mop-topped beadle. Lip smacking abounds. No sharing with Pitty Sing, whose distant growl is long, low, and threatening. “Rotten pussy!” Never has a stumped cat felt so funny!
After pouring dark scrutiny over Jenny’s mad driving skills, mom dribbles human interest over a suspiciously unassuming dad, “Remember that one day when you almost got off the couch?"
“Yeah, that was almost a real turning point for me.” Dad can't get too mad at her, after all, there's a tire-tracked corpse in her trunk with his juices all over it.
Jenny slams a monstrous tombstone. Forty feet away, she climbs down from a kite-eating tree headfirst with her brother on her shoulders.
“You kids better eat this beadle’s liver before it turns.”
Sniff sniff smack smack. “Yuck. Tastes gamy. No way, Mom.”
Pop goes wolfish, “Jenny! What’d I tell you?”
“Um, not to tell mom what you do in the shed?”
Jenny and Darrin bump fists, and dad hears laughter from scattered mourners that he thought thought he was cool. He smiles like a bloody buffoon and folds his hands in prayer (too bad Pitty Sing’s neck gets in the way), and as mom is about to declaw and neuter the couple with a Spork, beadles descend. Dad sees punishment turn to opportunity and gives mom a hot sneer. "Stop it, Eudora! I am NOT going to keep guessing what foul atrocity resides in your trunk!" Eudora?
After a necessarily philosophical blood and guts holocaust of unprecedented debauchery, which seems to absolve them of moving violations, the family lurches home belching and holding each other’s bellies. Everyone plops down in front of the TV. Pity Sing, foaming and ravenous and cross-eyed and utterly betrayed to pieces by the pious strangling, stretches and yawns and hops off his perch and shakes his question-mark tail down the hallway. He hops onto the dryer and flips off the main circuit breaker and hears the family go bonkers when Family Feud turns off during fast money. Pitty Sing, the little pisser, has been holding it for a long time, since his second quart of Red Bull. And he’s off! Streaming clear pink smacks the soft wet spot, and not a care in the world can stop it. Ears back, squinting, growling. Vengeance! But who will notice? Not Jenny, who drearily suggests they play a rousing game of who can stare at an off TV in the dark the longest without devouring human flesh. They all lose. Bickering sets like cement. Howling bespeaks slapstick. Mom leaves the house through an exploding window high in the foyer. Jenny sprains her hip shredding Darrin’s macramé leggings with that tongue of hers. Slighted beyond rational realism, Pitty Sing starts gushing like a fire hose hammering a flat rock, trying to speak to these apes in their own language: Fanglish. The ammoniac torrent hissing deep into the burnt orange carpet inadvertently shoots a fatherly jolt of onus into the old man’s rectum. He lopes furniture, he mutilates throw pillows, he recklessly thrusts his back paws through the urine-logged floor, approaches three feet tall straddling a joist, cracks his nuts, howls for betterment.
Pitty Sing paws the stop button on his iPhone 19 video recorder. Posts footage on Facebook. Now the li’l angel, judging by his dazed and misaligned countenance, contemplates retributive justice.

Up Next: Dad limp-rages away from an X-rated breakfast, his treat, and eats a tire off the neighbor’s Buick before mom can claw his sausage gravy out of her eyes and call Animal Control.