GWJ Writer’s Throwdown: Aug 2012

Surveillance

“What’s up with the binoculars? You stalking the neighbours or something?”

“Surveillance. He’s up to something.”

“Mr. Lonsdale? He’s like the least suspicious dude on the planet. All he does is water his garden and talk to people about the weather.”

“He left the house twice today.”

“So? Leaving the house is a thing that normal people do sometimes. You spent the entire day inside staring at the neighbours through binoculars. Mr. L isn’t the weird one here.”

“You don’t get it. He left the house twice. As in he left once, and then left again a while later without ever re-entering the house.”

“You probably just didn’t see him come back. Maybe you were in the bathroom or something.”

“No. I was watching the whole time.”

“Maybe he went in through the back door.”

“Not unless he cut through the Robertsons’ yard and climbed the fence, if he came from the road I would have seen him.”

“Ok, so how do you know he didn’t climb the fence?”

“He’s in his eighties, and that fence is probably three meters tall.”

“He could have used a ladder.”

“You’re saying a frail old man cut through his neighbours’ yard and used a ladder to climb over the fence instead of just walking down his own driveway and going in the front door. And I’m the weird one.”

“You have a better explanation?”

“Clones.”

“Clones?”

“Clones.”

“You actually think Mr. Lonsdale is secretly cloning himself. The guy can’t even set the time on his microwave, he asks Dad to do it every time there’s a power outage.”

“It’s either clones or he has a secret tunnel under the house.”

“Clones and secret tunnels. You’re insane. I’m going to make dinner. What do you want?”

“Hot dogs.”

“We’re out of hot dogs.”

“Go to the store. Buy more hot dogs.”

“I’m not buying any more hot dogs! They’re the only thing you eat. You’re going to get, like, butthole poisoning or something.”

“That’s not a real thing. Anyways hot dogs aren’t really made from pig buttholes, Dad just says that to gross us out. I looked it up.”

“Whatever. We’re not having hot dogs again, with or without buttholes. I’m going to thaw out some of the salmon in the freezer.”

“I’m allergic to seafood.”

“For the last time, you don’t have a seafood allergy. The only reason you threw up that time is because you ate way too much shrimp cocktail at Aunt Carol’s wedding reception.”

“I still don’t want salmon, it’s weird. Fish aren’t supposed to be pink inside.”

“I’m cooking it anyway. If you want something different you can pry yourself away from the window and make it yourself.”

“Fine, but if I barf again it’s your fault.”

“I can live with that.”

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