What did Moither inspire?
verb; meaning "to bother or bewilder;
to talk in a rambling or confusing manner"
They say you'll know it.
The moment it hits you.
You'll feel it in your bones.
Well I didn't feel anything until I woke up with the moither of all headaches.
Mother of all headaches. Moither...? That word... Who are you again? There was a duck. Duck shaped creature. With a mirror! And it knew the secrets of the dark corners of the universe. It promised me rides across desert sands on stilt legged llamas before our wedding in the tsar's palace. Where's my duck?! You took it didn't you?! You, you... who are you again? These walls are so lovely. They're soft. And cushiony. Like limestone brocade on the angel toast. Have you even been to the land of plump bunnies? Where they tell you such buttermilk flowing stories tainted with honey? You must join me there again someday. Someday, someday. Again we shall ride on the backs of porpoises across the dandelion fields of delighted delirium. There we shall be reunited again my beloved duck...
My duck. Where is my duck? Are you she? Oh my duck. Oh my head. Where have you gone sweet poultrice. And where is the mind I once knew so well as though it were my own. All this mumbling and moithering and no friendly thought to know and hold as my own. Come find me my ducky darling.
Wh...who are you?
Can you hear me? Can I hear you?
Why does the room grow dark once more. Has it done so before? Who are you?
Duck? My duck? Is it you silhouetted once more upon the window frame?
There! A voice! I hear it again! It is she! She says her name! Yes! Duck!
CLANG
Noël Coleman
The worst part about being a superhero is-
Well, maybe there isn’t one specific thing. At the moment, there might be a tie for
second place between the pain in my fractured shoulder (I’m guessing here, I’m a costumed
streetfighter not a doctor) and the pain the gun in PajamaMan’s hand is promising.
PajamaMan.
Who even names themself that? What was she even thinking? Oh, today I think I’ll become a world-famous
supervillian. Striking fear into the
hearts of babes with but an utterance of my name! Now, if only I had a name suited to that very
purpose. Ah, yes, Pajamas. Dreadful flannel and gaudy matching patterns
–
It’s perfect!
It’s not. It’s not perfect.
Figures I’d get the most pathetic villain as my
self-proclaimed arch-nemesis. For the
record, I did not approve that. I have a
much cooler arch-nemesis.
Somewhere. Probably. Well, I will have one. I’ll find them as soon as I get away from
this idiot.
“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?”
“Why bother? You’ve been blah-blah-blahing for the
better part of eternity.”
“I am not moithering. I AM TELLING YOU MY EVIL
PLAN.”
“WHY? Just shoot me! Why does everyone insist on
telling me their stupid plans? I. DON’T. CARE.”
“YOU’RE THE SUPERHERO. YOU HAVE TO CARE.”
“DON’T TELL ME WHAT –“
“KEEP IT DOWN!
MY STORIES ARE ON.”
PajamaMan turned towards the open door and threw her
arms up. Obviously because the person
shouting could see her. From the
couch. Which is downstairs. I told you, she’s not really awesome at this whole
villain thing. “Oh MY GOD”
I could feel it.
This was my opportunity to escape.
I did kind of want to know the plan, but I would have fallen asleep and
missed it anyway. Which meant it was
time for me to appeal to our audience, “Mom! Chelsea has me tied up.”
“Shut up!”
“And she’s torturing me again!”
“That’s nice.
Quiet while the Buchanans are on.”
“Sure thing, Mom.”
My sister closed the door and pressed her back against it before the
words were out of her mouth. Those
stupid pajama pants with the cuffs always falling down were fraying at the
bottom. I mean, at least keep your gear
in good condition. Even if it’s only as
protective any weird cotton flannel blend can get. I’m pretty sure the strips of fabric under
her heels used to be the same bright stripes as the rest of those ugly
pants. Why do they even say Pink? They
are honestly ever color on earth EXCEPT PINK.
“Why would you do that?” Oh my, PajamaMan sounds
annoyed. Poor thing. Maybe she would prefer being tied to a chair
with a gun pointed at her.
“Do what?”
“Involve Mom. We agreed.”
“We also agreed no guns. Care to explain our third
wheel?”
PajamaMan looked down at the gun, almost shocked
that it had somehow appeared in her hand at some point. Ironic, since she’d been waving it in my
general direction for emphasis during that moithering speech. I’ve never seen her face change so fast. It was immediate. One moment there was shock, the next a mask of boredom. The facts are my sister was never a good
supervillain, but an actress… That’s a different story. Give her a good old fashioned villain role
and the words slipped out as easily as the well-timed expressions. It was the
following through that gave her pause.
There’s a big leap between a performance in the bank lobby with a few
thugs and actually getting away with a robbery.
The difference being she had never managed the latter.
The current expression was lidded eyes and pursed
lips. The rest of her face was blurred behind
the pistol being carefully aimed between my eyes. So shoot a guy, it’s hard to focus.
She pulls the trigger. Because apparently she can read minds as well
as she can aim.
I may have screamed.
She claims I screamed.
I did not. I let forth a manly howl. Of manliness.
“It’s a water gun, Captain Commonplace.”
“WHY-“
“BUCHANANS!”
“SORRY” She shouted back without bothering to look
towards the door. “Oh, not you, brother.”
I managed to break out of my stunned silence at the
moment she broke into a smile. “Why
would you DO that?”
“Call you Captain Commonplace?” That’s it. I’m tying her to this chair as
soon as I get out of it. Finding a
better nemesis can wait.
“No – That’s – We’re – This is completely off track
now.”
Chelsea had moved from the door at some point during
my breakdown. Her PajamaMan mask lay on
the ground near the doorway, and she had already begun fooling around behind
the chair. At least I was getting
untied.
“Alrighty then, my Adequate Avenger.”
“Cut it out.”
“What? You need a name.”
“You aren’t exactly ace at names, PajamaMan.”
“Hey! My cover is PERFECT. I fight crime in pajamas.
They expect some weird guy and get a -“
“Weird Girl? In dirty rainbow sweatpants?”
“Better than you… oh.”
I know that oh.
That’s the my plan is going horribly wrong and I’m trying to silently invoke
my little sister rights oh.
“What. Did. You.
Do.”
“We sort of kind of have a problem maybe.”
“Explain, Chelsea.”
“I may or may not have… uhh,” She was stumbling.
This was really bad. This was worse than bad. I turned until my chin somehow
managed to rest on my left shoulder (maybe not fractured, but it still hurts
and she’s totally not getting any sibling rights because of that). I tried to catch her eyes. She seemed more occupied with the ropes
wrapped around my wrist. I shuffled around to draw her eyes up. It didn’t work, but she finally spoke up.
“Well, I can’t exactly untie the ropes.”
Lovely. This
is perfect. I should not have drunk all
that coffee. “I’m going to kill you.”
“How? Gonna go all Jackie Chan Black Widow with your
chair?”
This. This is
the worst part about being a superhero.
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