Disclaimer: They own them, I don’t. I use them, they don’t.
Author’s note: This was inspired by a joke.
~*~ L ~*~ A ~*~ N ~*~ C ~*~ E ~*~ R ~*~
Fighting the wind as it sent whirling dirt devils up around their faces, Scott and Johnny Lancer blinked against the particles of grit pelting their eyes. Each held a bandana tightly against their mouths, the vicious wind tugging at the corners of the fabric, its formerly rich color muted by a coating of dust and sand.
Struggling against the wind and airborne debris, they finally reached the kitchen door. Grasping the knob and turning it, the latch disengaged from the jam and a strong gust forced the knob from Scott’s grip and slammed it against the wall with a loud bang. Stumbling into the cozy kitchen it took both boys to wrestle the heavy oak door closed.
Sighing in relief to be safe within the hacienda and out of the exceptionally windy and chilly October weather, the brother’s respite was short lived when they lowered the bandanas protecting their mouths and noses.
Scott’s face scrunched up in disgust as he breathlessly inquired, “What is that God awful smell?”
Gagging, Johnny pointed to a pot bubbling on the stove, “I bet Teresa has been tryin’ to teach herself to cook again followin’ one of those recipes she’s all the time clippin’ from Godley’s.
Cautiously approaching the pot as though it was a witch’s cauldron, Scott speculated, “She must be cooking the entrails of some poor beast that was half rotted.” Peering into the vessel, Scott did a double take, and then turned to his brother, befuddlement robbing him of his voice.
Intrigued by Scott’s reaction, Johnny put his bandana back over his nose to filter out some of the stench. Stepping over to the stove, he stared down into the pot and to his amazement the only thing in it was water, a shallow layer covering just the bottom of the vessel. All was silent for a moment, and then Johnny snickered. “I know what it is,” Johnny replied, his gaze lifting from the inside of the pot and shifting to his brother, pure devilment lighting his eyes with mischief.
Arching his right brow until it almost disappeared under the blond fall of longish bangs, Scott took the bait. “What,” he asked, smiling at his brother’s twitchy excitement.
Johnny’s eyes widened, and pooled with liquid mirth, a deep grin appeared at the same time as his dimples and the pink tip of his tongue. Shaking his head and putting on a serious expression, he solemnly intoned, “It’s a pot of Holy water.”
Strangled by a chuckle and snort fighting to get out at the same time, Scott’s long fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he asked from behind his hand, “What makes you think it’s Holy water?”
Reaching out and ruffling his brother’s hair, Johnny danced a little two step jig and crowed, “Cause she boiled the Hell out of it!”
Backhanding Johnny in the stomach, as he pushed him out of the way, Scott slapped a lid on the pot, grabbed two dish towels to protect his hands as he lifted it, telling Johnny, “Open the door so we can get this the Hell out of here before the scent peels the paint off the walls.”
The End
Southernfrau
October 2011