Little Jimmy had tortured pillows most of his childhood and their screams no longer kept him awake at night. He slept well although sometimes with a slight cough. He knew something was amiss or remiss but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it so instead he picked his nose. The pillows were conspiring. Little did he know, well, that’s not entirely true in the cosmic sense of the phrase but only in the narrow interpretation regarding the conspiring pillows. He know only little of their conspiring because he had confused the word “conspire” with the word “perspire” and wrongly assumed the pillows had just been a little overactive. This would have been a mortal mistake on another day, in another time, in another town, on another planet, in another solar system yet Little Jimmy was lucky if he was anything and so on this day, in this time, in this town, on this planet and in this solar system, it turned out to be merely a throat-clenching, ear-splitting clash with feathery death at 2pm EST.
Full-out pillow assault can be devastating in the complete and utter ferocity and total lack of concern for lamp knock-overage. Nearly silent goes without saying, but deadly nonetheless. The telltale low fump-fump-fumping sounds of pillow creeapage can easily be mistaken for an approaching (and harmless) Snuffalupagus yet these lost moments can mean the difference between a life as a senseless and unmoving vegetable and a quick and painful death.
Maybe not so quick. Not quite rapid either. More of a leisurely-paced death if you will, sort of like paddling a canoe upstream. Basically you keep looking at the shore and wondering if you should just turn about and go the other direction even though that’s over a horrendous waterfall followed by certain wet rock crushage.
At any rate Jimmy was outside the door to the rumpus room where the pillows had amassed. He grasped the doorknob tightly then paused preternaturally. Then he released his tight grasp of the doorknob and paused naturally. Then he had to go to the bathroom and so let go of the doorknob entirely and headed to the john or the loo, he couldn’t remember which. There was an audible sigh from the amassed pillows and someone hiccupped. The pillows all looked at one another accusingly but responsibility was never conclusively determined. There were theories, dozens of them in fact, but as stated plainly once earlier, it was unresolved. No one ever knew which pillow hiccupped that day.
The pillows cocked their ears as Jimmy’s shoes could be heard approaching the rumpus room door once again. “Wait…” a young and inebriated throw pillow named Lester intoned, “something is wrong, horribly wrong. I can smell sub-machine gun oil!” but it was too late. The door flew open and Jimmy sprang through like Marky-Mark in Planet of the Apes (the remake) and within three seconds took out forty-two matched-set pillows in a thundering staccato blast of lead. The pillows went down. Some pillows attempted to play dead by hiding beneath their fallen comrades, as… if… they… could. Silly pillows, the bullets just went right through.
Jimmy was stunned. Forty-two pillows in three seconds was a new American record and only two pillows shy of the world record. Recovering from his stunnage in short order allowed Jimmy to take verfication video as the few pillows still alive twitched in the throes of blue-steel, machine-gun death.
Somehow, without regard to author-writer credibility Lester the inebriated throw pillow had made his way to the chandelier which hung perilously and in another logic-defying instance, directly above Little Jimmy’s head. Letting go of the chandelier chain in slow-motion, Lester leapt sacrificially downward and bopped Jimmy lightly on the head, then continued his descent to land and lay writhing on the floor. Jimmy’s head was fine but Lester’s was spinning like a crazed ferret on the teacups at Disney World but he couldn’t tell whether it was the fall or the seventeen vodkatini’s he had consumed at Diego’s Bodega. It mattered not. Jimmy riddled Lester with one quick burp from the Uzi.
“Nice try my fluffy little friend” said Jimmy sarcastically or sardonically, he wasn’t sure which. Then Jimmy shot Lester a few more times for good measure and to empty his magazine and to make the gun lighter to carry but mostly because Little Jimmy was a big butthole.
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