Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Frances and the Misty Cloud of Revenge

Once upon a time there was a girl named Frances. She was nine years old and was a rather smart girl. But, like many smart girls, she often kept to herself, lost in her own thoughts. This made many of the other kids want to tease her, which Frances did not like at all. And there was one particular thing she did not like most of all - when people made fun of her name.

One fine Wednesday, Frances was on her way to school when one of the bigger boys, Phil, saw her from across the street. He started to taunt her:
Phil: "Yo, Frankie! How you doin' Frankie?"

Frances: "My name is France-ess, not France-iss! Stop calling me Frankie!" [Perhaps too subtle a distinction to yell across the street...]

Phil: "Whatsa matta Frankie, you don' know your own name?"

Frances: "Stop calling me Frankie!"

Phil: "OK, Frank. Sheesh. Touchy today, aren't we Frank?"
Well, poor Frances had had enough, so she stormed off to school, trying to ignore the continuing stream of babble coming from Phil across the street. By the time she got to school, she was practically in tears. She found she couldn't concentrate in math class even though they were doing geometry - her favorite subject. She asked if she could go see the guidance counselor and was given a hall pass.
Guidance Counselor: "Frances, honey, you look upset. Is there a problem?"

Frances: "Yes. A boy is making fun of me."

GC: "Really? What is he doing?"

Frances: "He's calling me 'Frankie'."

GC: [blank stare]

Frances: "You know, cuz my name is Frances."

GC: [nods, blankly]

Frances: "Cuz, like a boy named Francis would be called Frank or Frankie, but not a girl named Frances."

GC: "Oh! [chuckle] Yes. That's terrible!"

Frances: "Yes. I hate being called a boy's name. I can't get him to stop, and I don't know what to do!"

GC: [Eyes light up - at last a question she's trained to answer!] "You should tell an adult!"

Frances: "Ummm..."

GC: [on a roll now] "Yes. When a bully is teasing you, you should always tell an adult rather than taking matter into your own hands."

Frances: "OK. So what should I do, then?"

GC: [confused, but with conviction] "Tell an adult."

Frances: "Ah. I see. OK, thanks."
Frances returned to class while mentally checking off education major with a minor in sociology from the list of things she might consider studying in college.

But it festered. It festered like an open wound in a pile of week-old ground beef in the hot July sun. But, trying to make the best of things, she resolved to tell an adult.

On the way home, she stopped at Phil's house. She knew he'd still be in detention, so she was hoping to speak to his mother. She rang the doorbell, and a very large woman wearing a Hawaiian print mumu answered.
Frances: "Excuse me. Mrs. Phil's Mom?"

Mrs. Phil's Mom: [in a voice that sounded remarkably like McGruff the Crime Dog, if McGruff had been a 3-pack a day smoker] "Who wants to know?"

Frances: "Well, I go to school with Phil, and he's been making fun of my name. You see, my name is Frances, and he"

MPM: "Frances? OK, pleased to meet ya, Frankie. Now what is this about my little Phil?"

Frances: "Well, that's just it. He's been calling me 'Frankie', and I hate that."

MPM: "Do you now, Frankie? Well, I'd say it's time you grew yourself a set and stopped being such a pussy. Now get the f*&^ off my porch before I sick the dog on you, Frankie."
Well, this whole 'tell an adult' thing was simply not working out as advertised. Frances would need another plan. And she knew just the thing.

That Saturday morning she got up bright and early, stopped at the grocery store to pick up a couple cans of sardines, then swung by the hardware store to get a couple humane small animal traps. She then hiked up her favorite trail into the woods to her favorite serenity spot - the one that always smelled faintly like skunk due to the couple of skunks that lived under the old tree stump. It was fall, and Frances knew that this year's litter had grown and moved out already, as she visited her serenity spot a lot, but Maw and Paw skunk would still be hanging around.

She set the two traps on the ground near the stump, then opened each can of sardines and placed it carefully in each trap. Then she sat around for a while thinking serene thoughts in between her meticulous scheming. Finally, she went home for lunch. Revenge is hungry work.

The next day, she returned to her serenity spot with two large tarps. She found a skunk in each trap, and they were kinda not all that happy, excepting that they were also kinda lazing around with their bellies stuffed with sardines (a skunk's favorite food), so they weren't too argumentative when she covered each trap with a tarp and gently carried them home.

She stashed them behind the garage because her hillbilly neighbors always dumped all their dog's poo at the back of their yard, and thus the area behind her own garage always stunk so bad that no one went near it. She thought how the freedom from an HOA always came at some cost. Then she went about her bidness.

At 3am, she got up and silent snuck out - retrieving the skunks as she went. She tossed them some bacon coated with peanut butter (a skunk's second-favorite food) to keep them busy as she hustled off to Phil's house.

She was in luck - Phil's mom had not locked her car for the night. She had noticed that the car was unlocked when she had visited before, and she was very happy not to have to resort to the slim-jim she had gotten on eBay, as she didn't have a lot of practice opening 1976 LeBarons.

Frances eased the skunks into the backseat - enticing them out of the cages with some more peanut butter bacon (skunks, oddly enough, have a diet very similar to Elvis. Fat Elvis.), and then gently closing the door. She then proceeded to the next phase of the plan - she killed the electricity.

This was easy, because the main breaker panel was on the side of the house, and nobody ever locks those. Sure, they come with a little padlock loop, but no one sells a rust-proof padlock that small. So you can lock it and have the padlock rust closed and never be able to open it again, or you can leave it unlocked and hope the neighborhood kids don't play a prank on you.

Wrong choice in this case.

Frances went home and snuck back to bed. She arose a half-hour early, made some excuse about having to look at new stories for the school paper, and headed to school. On the way there, she stopped at a payphone and dialed up Phil's house. She let it ring three times - just enough to wake them up.

Phil: "OMG, Ma! The power is out and the alarm didn't go off. I'm gonna be late!"

MPM: "WTF are you making such a racket for?"

Phil: "Ma, if I'm late one more time, I'll get a week's detention!"

MPM: "Damnit, Phil, your daddy was right. You'da made a better abortion. Git dressed, and I'll drive you to school."
Phil got dressed as fast as he could, and they both ran to the car and jumped in without looking. As his mother started the car, Phil tossed his backpack into the back seat. Then, he looked at his mother and queried, "Do you smell bacon?"

The looked into the back seat and simultaneously let out blood-curdling screams. Screams that were answered with a misty cloud - a misty cloud of revenge.

Needless to say, Phil was late to school.


ellie323 said...


Manly Lesbian said...

Are you getting into the catnip again?

CherkyB said...

The "Frances" series of children's stories is a favorite of HannahC's. They are what I have told her at bedtime for the past number of years when she insists on a bedtime story, and I'm tired of thinking up more and more horrible versions of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Unfortunately, most of the Frances stories were never written down and, having only ever been told once, live on in title only. "Frances and the Flaming Bag of Retribution", "Frances and the Fire Ants", and "Frances and the Peanut Butter Boots" being the only ones I can remember at this point.

Thus, at HannahC's insistence, I have begun to try to document these literary masterpieces. You, my dear readers, are graced with only the second telling ever of "Frances and the Misty Cloud of Revenge", the first being about a half hour prior when the story simply sprung forth on-the-fly, nearly fully formed, from the resident literary genius of the household.

Anonymous said...

" from the resident literary genius of the household.

Maxie C.???

Anonymous said...

How bout Frances and the flaming bags of dog poop left on the neighbors porches?

CherkyB said...

That one is called, "Frances and the Flaming Bag of Retribution," and I already listed it.

gordy said...

I don't know if misty cloud is right, its more like an oily squirt.