7 Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat!

Flies, ants, sourbugs, centipedes – all smashed.
“Yahoo, baby Drew!” Granny Guss shouted for joy. “Send ’em a message! Send ’em a message!”
Uncle Joe wandered into the room and with a kick sent a wastebasket flying, because it was in the way. Everything seemed to be in Uncle Joe’s way.
“I wish my name was Drew,” he mumbled.
Baby Andrew’s father, John, emerged from nowhere and heard Granny Guss get in the dig that he was late. “Well look who’s here.” He had half a mil cash and a clean-as-a-whistle Saab convertible, and had stopped saying, “Aww, Maaaa,” ever since. His brother JoJo, Kar’s husband, knew that he, too, was late for something. When it dawned on him, he slapped his forehead. He was supposed to pick up the cake. Aunt Kar cursed. It was an admitted failing. She watched herself constantly in order not to edge baby Andrew closer to the Guss family’s infinite downward spiral, but the profanity beginning with “D” that she expressed was inexorable. She was furious that the christening cake evidently sat in The Rustic Bakery in Larkspur, not on the dining room table in the sordid San Anselmo home anathematized by Alder and Yolanda neighbors.
“D___, d___, d___!” she cried.
It was a mistake to repeat the imprecation three times, because a fire thus was lighted under Drew’s mother. She was up, up, and away with another litany of numbers as she walked worried circles.
“Sorry,” JoJo slurred, pro forma.
Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat!
“Gee haw!” Granny Guss yelled in spite of her chronic torpor. “Get over here and sweep them dead critters off baby Drew’s and my carpet, boy.”
“Aww, Maaaa,” John complained, the old habit not quite extinct.


One Response to “7 Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat!”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    This is great! Keep it shakin’, Cool Shake! What a scene.

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