A Silly Story
The other day, Alex and I swapped first sentences. From the sentence he gave me, I wrote this silly story:
Wet shoes; there could not be anything more catastrophic than wet shoes. Among the countless contingencies Stephen had run through his mind, the only one he had not sufficiently prepared for was this: sopping wet trainers, dripping with that foulest of liquids, dog piss.
“Spanky!!!” he yelled with a fury which hell hath not, “come here now!”
A familiar long brown stumpy-legged figure slunk past his bedroom door.
“Oh no you don’t!”
Stephen hurtled out of his room and caught the guilty dachshund before it could make it out the doggie door. However, upon catching the offending animal he realized he had no concrete plans for revenge.
“Don’t you ever pee on my shoes again!” he said, wagging his finger in Spanky’s face, then slapping it on the rump to emphasize the point.
This done he put down the chastised dog and searched about for a replacement pair of tennis shoes. This was difficult because these particular shoes were coated with a thin film of radioactive material intended to make his every footstep traceable by Geiger counter. Stephen possessed these remarkable shoes because he was a super-spy.
“Super-spy” is of course not a title actually created by the CIA. Stephen had earned it by a combination of hubris and whimsical eccentricity which had given him a reputation for brilliance that he did not strictly deserve. This had been all well and good until he encountered Vanessa.
Of course she was his nemesis, and of course they fell in love. All that came with the territory. What he did not expect was that instead of resolving their complicated affair after a climactic firefight/sexual encounter in Naples, they ended up settling down in a small house outside of Denver with a dachshund named Spanky.
Stephen stormed out the front door wearing an ordinary pair of tennis shoes. He’d have to come up with an alternate solution for retracing his steps across the laser-light security system. He’d just reached into his pocket to check his pda when his house exploded.
After a few minutes of oblivion Stephen came to with his face buried in his own flower garden. He silently thanked the heavens he had decided not to plant roses. As his thoughts cleared one fact impressed itself into his consciousness.
“Spanky!!!!!!!” he cried in remorse.
He turned back to the smoking wreckage, but nothing stirred. No stumpy little legs, no long Oscar-Meyer body, no floppy idiotic ears. Gone.
“How stupid could I be?” he thought. “I should have expected her to wire my shoes with micro-explosives. It would have worked too, if Spanky hadn’t been there. Good ol’ Spanky.”
Stephen stood for a moment in silence in honor of his heroic dachshund, then slid on his sunglasses and tightened his bulletproof vest. Just another day in the life…