Saturday, November 21, 2015

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-28


The sudden pounding on the front door causes Phil Tupperman to nearly jump out of his skin. He had been going about his daily routine. Thankfully it's a Tuesday. If he'd have been dusting the figurines he'd have broken an entire shelf. He pads fearfully to the door, hearing a muffled voice outside calling him.
"Philsy, it's Halloran. Let me in."
He rushes to the door and undoes all the locks. Finally getting the door open, he sees Bruce Halloran filling the doorway, a six-pack of Abita Turbo Dogs in his thick grip. Thrown off by the sight of alcohol, he looks from the six-pack to Halloran, who says
"Are you going to invite me in, or am I porch people now?"
Phil hastily steps aside, stammering "y-yes, yes--come-come in."
Halloran breezes past Phil and off into the kitchen. Trying to quickly relock the door, Phil nearly dislocates a thumb before he can go running after his guest. Inside Halloran is shifting through the drawers. Phil can only stand and watch, completely uncertain of what to do. He asks,
"W-what...what are you looking f--" He stops, and then says dryly, "the bottle opener is on the side of the refrigerator."
Halloran reaches out his arm, which seems to pull the rest of him to where the opener was magnetically stuck for several years. He wrenches it away from it's perch and puts it to use. The bottle top goes flying into the air, landing exactly on the lip of the Moderne light fixture above the Formica table. He takes a deep, long swig from the longnecked bottle, nearly draining it entirely. He comes up for air and lets out a sonic boom of a belch that startles Phil to the point of blanching.
In the next house, Phil's as-yet-unmet neighbor is sitting in her own kitchen reading the newspaper. She hears a deep, low rumble go through her house and looks up for a moment. Nothing. She goes back to reading.

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