Doug Donnan
Executive
Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!
"Going
Viral"
by
Doug Donnan
Doug Donnan
"Listen
Marianne," her husband all but whispered as he peeked through a pinch of
the
condo's tightly
closed and tethered tight front window Venetian blinds. "If you aren't
feeling so good
right now, maybe we had just better play it safe huh? We can call Doctor
Broadbeem and give
him your symptoms over the phone. It probably doesn't have
anything to do
with the ebola virus. We simply can't go on this way
much longer anyway
sweetheart,
all cooped up in here like a couple of frightened zombies. What you probably
have
is the same damn thing that I have... Cabin Fever!"
"If
you want to go out there Charles," she announced frigidly from her
position on the
sagging,
yellow floral couch that her mother gave them as a heartfelt wedding present,
"You
just go right ahead. If I can take care of all those sick people over in Africa
without
you, I guess
I can manage quite nicely around 'here' at this damn Whispering
Heights rest home
without you... as I fight for my damn fool
life."
Marianne
Clayhammer elevated her pointy pink chin as might some ancient Egyptian
child king who was
dissatisfied and disgruntled that he couldn't have some grandiose
golden gong
instead of a pointless point placed atop his particular Pharaoh's pyramid.
She was both sick
'and' tired.
"Now, there
there my little Love Bug'," he tried to calm her bite with one of his
silly
surreptitious
bedroom pet names. "Now it's starting to rain
out there, it looks like most
of the
pandemic Papparazi press and police are pulling out from their positions around
our
driveway.
So
let's try and give ol' Doctor B a buzz, so to speak, and see if we can't
just--"
"JUST
GO!" she cut in rudely with a shout and a pissy kick of one of pink bunny
slippered
feet. "Go find your damn friends. Go on out and paint the damn town till
all
hours. Go drinkin' and gamblin' and whorin'. I don't care Charles...
comprende-vu?"
"Now
'Bunny Crotch'," he tried. "You're just a little piqued from being
trapped inside
the
condo for the last week or so. Maybe if we try and take your mind off all this
ebola
business.
Maybe we can calmly discuss everything over a V8 and a game of Trivial Pursuit.
We can
play right down here on the fluffy shag carpet my little 'Love Muscle'.
Wouldn't
that be--"
"SCREW
YOU!" she screamed with a face as red as a Folger's coffee can. She took
dead
aim and threw a copy of her latest hardback Stephen King tome 'The Dulling'
directly
at his
bulbous, jug-eared, thinning, salt and pepper head.
"LEAVE
ME ALONE! ... GET OUT! ... GO!"
"But
'Cinnamon Chest'," he peeped as he ducked just in time to avoid serious
cranial injury
from
the thick thrown thriller. He began to move sand-crab-like for the eggshell
enameled
Condo's
front door. Marianne Clayhammer, the heroic ebola nurse slowly advanced for him,
her
bunnies skimming over the grassy beige carpet like little pink Louisiana bayou
fan boats.
She
was now brandishing, with two choking, pale knuckled hands above her frizzy red
head,
a
black, leather bound Funk and Wagnalls. Her bloodshot, shrew-like eyes
resembled small,
oval,
glove compartment road maps.
She
was now 'much' more than simply pissed off.
"YOU
BASTARD!" she rushed at him like a rabid hyena in a baby-blue bathrobe.
* * *
As it
turns out, and as fate and luck would allow, Charles Clayhammer managed to
escape
his
menopausal wife's wrath. She hasn't seen or even heard from him in well over a
month.
But
she isn't terribly concerned about it. Doctor Broadbeem says the hot flashes
and temper
flare
ups will subside soon enough if she just stays close to home and takes the
pills. She'll
catch
up with that bastard Charles one fine day.He can run... but he can't hide!
___ The End ___
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