Tales of the Storage Space, Part 25

Atta’ girl! 

Frank pulled his misty-green punch, intended for the guy with the misty-green sword that was only a stage prop, and used it to highlight the open water bottle that butcher Irwin had left behind.  Karen should probably get some fluids in her first after all that blood loss, before she went for the French fries.

The only-a-stage-prop sword, blunt as hell and inexpertly swung, hurt like hell.

But how could that be?  What the fuck!  Frank knew he was dead.  Nothing could have made that clearer than watching that fucking butcher Irwin carve his body up with a fucking chainsaw.  Frank looked down.  The only-a-stage-prop sword had cut him in half at the waist.

How was that possible?  What the fuck were the physics of being a green mist?

Frank headbutted the other guy, but his head just passed through the other guy’s head…

Switzerland.  1898.  Yearning.  For a woman.  A flurry of men in top hats, women in long skirts, and horses whinnying and clamoring over cobblestones.  Couldn’t find her.  Agony.  Fucking bonkers.

Then Frank’s head came out behind the other guy’s.  And the other guy seemed to wither and finally slink away, out of Karen’s storage unit, like a green snake.


Frank swirled around Irwin’s open water bottle again, doing all he could to attract Karen’s attention to it.

No fan of that fuck Irwin.  Had appreciated the other green mist’s sharing Frank’s outrage when Irwin cut up Frank’s body.  But Irwin had done two things right.  He hadn’t noticed Karen wedged in the back of her storage unit, or who the fuck knows what he would have done with her.  Good thing he hadn’t bothered to clean up Frank’s blood inside her storage unit, just the hall.  And he’d left his water and lunch just inside her storage unit.

Karen’s outstretched hand shook and dropped.  She couldn’t reach the water.  Fucking A!

The physics of being a green mist…  Could Frank move it closer?  He balled himself up and tried.  Nothing happened.

Karen’s eyes closed again.  She was going to fucking die.

He had to.  He fucking had to move that water bottle.

A monster truck rumbled over a monster pothole just outside, reminding Frank for a moment of how his crazy partner Alex drove.

Karen’s eyes fluttered open as the water bottle moved an inch closer to her.  Had Frank done it or the truck?

Karen reached, shaking fingertips threatening to knock the bottle over when she made contact, then passed out again.

A thought cut through Frank far more painfully than that blunt sword.  It was:  Karen, how could I?  Frank fucking had to move that water bottle.

Something happened Frank didn’t understand at all.  For a moment he wasn’t in Karen’s storage unit anymore.  He was home, inside her, the first time they made love.  Then he was back in her storage unit.

The water bottle, the French fries, and even Irwin’s sandwich were within Karen’s reach.  Slowly, very slowly, she managed to eat and drink some.  Woozy as hell, she got confused and dipped a French fry not into the ketchup but into a huge glop of Frank’s blood on the floor.

Frank wasn’t sure what to think, watching her struggle to get that French fry dripping with clumps of his blood into her mouth.  Much-needed protein?  What the fuck.  Wasn’t doing him any good any more.  He swallowed heavily, then thought, eat up, baby.  It’s the very least I can do for you.

She wrinkled her nose and licked her lips thoughtfully, before her eyes widened in horror.

Uh oh, thought Frank.  She’s figured it out.  It’s okay, he thought at her desperately.  It’s okay.  He had trouble with the next words; they weren’t words he thought often, no matter what he felt.  But they burst out of him:  “I love you!”

The word he then saw burst out of her, however, was the only word capable of destroying a love even death hadn’t ended.  It was, “Martin!”

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