Post by Do I make you Randi, baby? on Dec 29, 2005 3:03:44 GMT -5
Randi Justice: I didn’t order anything to be fed-exed.
Randi said as she frowned at the Fed-Ex man standing in the doorway of her Studio apartment in Calgary. Her soft auburn hair fell like a frame around her face hanging loosely onto the bare shoulder blades. She yawned as he scanned his clipboard once again. Randi admired him the way a lioness admires an antelope grazing alone. He was the type of Youngman who hated his meaningless job and his pathetic life even more. She admired him, however, for wearing such a ridiculous uniform day in and day out. The Fed-ex man shook his head.
Fed-Ex: It isn’t an order. It appears to be a late Christmas present.
Randi arched an eyebrow curiously as she snatched the present from his hands and quickly signed the clipboard. The young fed-ex man groaned with disappointment and exited the doorway. Randi shook the box like a seven year old during Christmas or her birthday. It was soundless. She sighed as she searched the box for a name tag or return address. As she turns it roundly in her hands, she discovers the familiar white address label. In bold Times New Roman letters, From: Mrya Hanson-Justice 1944 Culpepper Lane Bakerton, Michigan To: Randella “Randi” Lynn Justice Doringworth Apartments Apt. 16 2315 Marshall Street, Calgary, Alberta.
Randi: You’ve moved, ma.
Randi sighed as she took a seat in a leather easy-chair beside the entertainment center. Her mother was a woman of mystery and idiocy. A woman who abandoned her children and husband after her long battle with alcoholism, barely ever called, wrote, or remembered her children. However, randomly she would send gifts, give calls, or forward presents, perhaps to makeup for her lack of concern the other 364 days of the year. Christmas 2005, was her one day of love. Randi ripped the box open to reveal a Cashmere, hot pink sweater with matching pink and white striped scarf and beanie. Randi grunted an oh so familiar disapproval and swelling of disgust as she tossed the box aside.
Randi: Dumb bitch.
She leaned back into the easy chair scanning her lonely bachelorette pad. The white walls and carpet with black leather furniture, black rugs, curtains, and shelving looked so plain and saddening. She lifted herself from the easy chair and admired the black and white photographs on the wall. In a large collage picture frame, pictures of Randi, her father, and her brothers formed a feeling of sadness and happiness combined. She reached slowly towards the pictures sighing in the process. Valor had kept her from celebrating Christmas with them. She had fought her match and won, for them. But had they watched? Would her father disapprove of her sultry attire? Suddenly the phone rang.
Randi: Yo?
Voice: Did you get a present as well?
The voice soothed Randi’s slight discomfort. It was Devon, Randi’s closest sibling. Devon was the youngest Justice son and only a year older than her. He was an artist in SoHo, New York who was paralyzed from the waist down in a skiing accident several years ago. Sadly after his accident, Devon moved back to Calgary to live with his partially blind father and be nearer to Randi.
Randi: Yeah, a sweater, scarf, and toboggan set. Of all colors, pink! Oh, and it is Cashmere, therefore, I can’t wash it regularly or it will peel.
Devon: Don’t fret, Randi, I got a new pair of skis. I suppose she neglected to remember that her baby boy is no longer able to walk ever again. I suppose it is the thought that counts, though.
Randi: Yeah, well this time, Myra wasn’t thinking very much. I don’t even know why she bothers sending anything. I mean, does she honestly think random “How do you dos” and “mommy cares” will make up for the 15 years she purposely missed of our lives?
Devon: I’m curious to know what she got Matt and Charlie.
Randi: Well, we all know mom fails to recognize the fact that Matthew is homosexual, so he most likely received tools, and Charlie, the successful pharmacist married to the Broadway producer probably got cash. How ironic? We each get gifts that contradict everything that we are.
Devon: Pop and I caught the pay per view Sunday. I made him cover his eyes during your little entrance.
Randi: Heh, at least it’s cleaner than the one I did in XIW.
Devon: Yeah, well, pop may be slightly blind, but he can still see his baby girl’s tanned ass on television, he wasn’t thrilled but he understood. Congratulations Queen Randi.
Randi: I’m coming over there for a bit. It sucks ass here staring at my dull life. If it wasn’t for the mural you painted on the far wall, I would have the plainest living room ever.
Randi admired a large mural against the wall to her bedroom of “The Garden of Earthly Delights” by Bosch (look it up it scary and sexy.) The room still felt so lonely and estranged from the rest of her life. After hanging up with Devon, Randi felt as if the lack of intensity in her apartment was a reflection of her dry, cold personality. She grunted at this thought, the way a sexy pig would have grunted, and snatched her jacket and keys off of the white marble countertops. Nearly an hour later she sat out front of an average sized suburban brick house in the middle of a cul-de-sac with the brisk sounds of Nirvana teasing the listeners’ ears. She shut the car down exhaling a steamy breath. Sighing deeply, Randi made her way for a brisk and brief visit with her brother and father.
Knocking lightly on the hard oak door, Randi heard the calling of her brother Devon’s voice as he made his way in his chair to open the door. As it creaked open, Randi looked upon a young blond haired, handsome but stonerish man in a silver and neon green wheelchair. His hair was tousled and his face was unshaven. She bent down to hug him tightly.
Devon: You freaking scared me! I had a joint rolled and everything in the kitchen…you’re family, yo! You should just walk in…don’t knock…pigs knock.
Randi tossed her leather jacket upon a nearby chair and followed Devon into the kitchen where the apparent scent of marijuana lingered in the air with the sweet smell of Vanilla Bean incense. Devon placed the joint to his lips, lit, and inhaled.
Randi: Is pop home?
Devon: Hell, no. You think I’d be toking up with him here?
Randi: Never stopped you when you were younger.
Devon snorted a laugh as he offered the weed to Randi. She waved it off with her left hand admiring her father’s cleanliness.
Randi: Pop sure keeps this place clean.
Devon: Yeah, I help around too. Not much to do when you are an unemployed starving paraplegic artist. He usually has to dust shelves and stuff I can’t reach.
Randi: So pop was a little disappointed because of my attire Sunday?
Devon: (inhaling again) Nah, pops is always proud of you…even if you are dressed like something from Merry Triple X-mas. He must’ve said ‘Hell Yeah’ when ole biggun came out there to aid you.
Randi: Oh, you mean Apolo Young?
Devon: Apolo Young? The Canadian Juggernaut? Apolo Young is working for you?
Randi: Working with me. Let’s just say we have this very interesting partnership building. Not only is he going to pound a mudhole in the asses of Valor, but he’s going to be my personal mammoth of a bodyguard. There’s no problem too big or too small, Apolo Young can’t handle. Randi snaps her fingers…The Canadian Juggernaut comes running. He’s at my beck and call. It’s nice to have that kind of reliable security, besides, he knows if he doesn’t obey me when I need him the most, I’ll shove my boot so far down his throat it will come out his ass.
Devon: Damn.
Randi and Devon sat briefly for a few moments talking before Randi said her goodbyes to him. Devon let her out waving her off safely as she crunched her way through the snow to the Dodge Charger. Once inside the “warmth” of a car that had been sitting outside in the freezing cold weather for an hour, Randi sat in thought for a few moments. It seemed as if visiting with Devon had brought on all sorts of queer ideas and thoughts.
Randi started the Dodge Charger smiling to herself as the sound of “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas leaked from the sound system.
----------------------------------------------------10:30 p.m. The Brat Pack an 80’s themed night club in the downtown---------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside the local nightclub, college students on holiday danced around dressed in modern time clothing to the twisted sounds of industrial synthesized 80’s tunes. Randi looked on from the back bar area from a rear barstool. Three empty shotglasses, two empty Budlight longnecks, and an ash tray of cigarette butts looked back at her as she ignored the yells and screams of drunken peers looking for random drunken peers to grope in the gyrating mass of patrons. Slyly, a badly dressed smooth talker ‘Ferris Bueller meets New Kids on the Block doing the Safety Dance’ slid next to Randi.
Man: You know, I must have died and gone to Studio 54, because there is one fly female sitting here all alone.
Randi narrowed her eyes to an intense negative look of hatred as the man scooted his barstool closer to her. “Heat of the Moment” began to play, and the man began to sing in a very off key high pitched mass of torture. Randi ushered the barman to pour another shot of tequila for her.
Man: You know jive lady; tequila makes her clothes fall off! Two tequilas please!
The barman ignored his drunken pathetic request and smiled graciously at Randi.
Man: So, the word of the night is legs, let’s go back to your place and spread the word.
Randi grunted in pure disgust as she rid of her full shot.
Man: Why so quiet, dollface? Cat got your tongue? You can always borrow mine. Here let me stick it in your mouth for you!
The man leaned in to slide his tongue between Randi’s lips as she extended her arm out catching a full hands’ graps of his pants crotch. She squeezed tightly sinking her perfectly manicured nails into his stonewashed jeans.
Randi: Listen here, Vanilla Ice, if you don’t back the **** up off of me I will be forced to break a nail as I pound your mother ******* face into this wooden bar counter. Or better yet, I hear homemade vasectomies get infected really easily. I’d hate for you to develop gangrene around your testicles.
Man: Hey, hey , hey lady! I was just funning you, that’s all. I wasn’t really going to…could you just let go..you are killing my boys.
Randi: Go!
As she released her grasp, the man fell back against the cement floor. Shaking he regained balance and disappeared into the crowd. The barman turned to face her and poured another shot.
Barman: It’s on me tonight, Randi. I’ve been waiting for someone to kick Lenny’s ass out of here for years. I’m glad he messed with the wrong bitch tonight.
Randi: No problem, Dave, that’s why I’m here. To rid the world of creepos.
Barman: Nah, it shouldn’t be your problem. You already are kicking enough ass in this world. And now the Queen of the winter dance? Did you feel like you were in highschool all over again?
Randi: Ha! You bet, except I didn’t end up with carpet burn on my forehead this time. Made me feel good though. You know watching the other three little divas fall on their asses as they got tossed outside the ring. And when Apolo came down the rampway, poor dumb Brittney Bailey almost **** her thong. If her eyes would have bugged out anymore she would have looked like a playboy version of daffy duck getting hit with an Acme safe. Doesn’t matter though, the women of Valor aren’t the only ones that will be needing to watch their backs. After Sunday, the people of Valor may know a little more about the mysterious she-devil and her gigantic manservant.
Randi tossed a twenty onto the barcounter and slinked off the stool. The quick rush of drunkenness overcame her as she began towards the door. Once outside, the Dodge Charger halted quickly by the bar entrance as Randi slid into the passenger seat. As she slammed the door the car drove off quickly with Randi in shotgun and a mysterious unseen man driving her into the brisk of the night.
Randi said as she frowned at the Fed-Ex man standing in the doorway of her Studio apartment in Calgary. Her soft auburn hair fell like a frame around her face hanging loosely onto the bare shoulder blades. She yawned as he scanned his clipboard once again. Randi admired him the way a lioness admires an antelope grazing alone. He was the type of Youngman who hated his meaningless job and his pathetic life even more. She admired him, however, for wearing such a ridiculous uniform day in and day out. The Fed-ex man shook his head.
Fed-Ex: It isn’t an order. It appears to be a late Christmas present.
Randi arched an eyebrow curiously as she snatched the present from his hands and quickly signed the clipboard. The young fed-ex man groaned with disappointment and exited the doorway. Randi shook the box like a seven year old during Christmas or her birthday. It was soundless. She sighed as she searched the box for a name tag or return address. As she turns it roundly in her hands, she discovers the familiar white address label. In bold Times New Roman letters, From: Mrya Hanson-Justice 1944 Culpepper Lane Bakerton, Michigan To: Randella “Randi” Lynn Justice Doringworth Apartments Apt. 16 2315 Marshall Street, Calgary, Alberta.
Randi: You’ve moved, ma.
Randi sighed as she took a seat in a leather easy-chair beside the entertainment center. Her mother was a woman of mystery and idiocy. A woman who abandoned her children and husband after her long battle with alcoholism, barely ever called, wrote, or remembered her children. However, randomly she would send gifts, give calls, or forward presents, perhaps to makeup for her lack of concern the other 364 days of the year. Christmas 2005, was her one day of love. Randi ripped the box open to reveal a Cashmere, hot pink sweater with matching pink and white striped scarf and beanie. Randi grunted an oh so familiar disapproval and swelling of disgust as she tossed the box aside.
Randi: Dumb bitch.
She leaned back into the easy chair scanning her lonely bachelorette pad. The white walls and carpet with black leather furniture, black rugs, curtains, and shelving looked so plain and saddening. She lifted herself from the easy chair and admired the black and white photographs on the wall. In a large collage picture frame, pictures of Randi, her father, and her brothers formed a feeling of sadness and happiness combined. She reached slowly towards the pictures sighing in the process. Valor had kept her from celebrating Christmas with them. She had fought her match and won, for them. But had they watched? Would her father disapprove of her sultry attire? Suddenly the phone rang.
Randi: Yo?
Voice: Did you get a present as well?
The voice soothed Randi’s slight discomfort. It was Devon, Randi’s closest sibling. Devon was the youngest Justice son and only a year older than her. He was an artist in SoHo, New York who was paralyzed from the waist down in a skiing accident several years ago. Sadly after his accident, Devon moved back to Calgary to live with his partially blind father and be nearer to Randi.
Randi: Yeah, a sweater, scarf, and toboggan set. Of all colors, pink! Oh, and it is Cashmere, therefore, I can’t wash it regularly or it will peel.
Devon: Don’t fret, Randi, I got a new pair of skis. I suppose she neglected to remember that her baby boy is no longer able to walk ever again. I suppose it is the thought that counts, though.
Randi: Yeah, well this time, Myra wasn’t thinking very much. I don’t even know why she bothers sending anything. I mean, does she honestly think random “How do you dos” and “mommy cares” will make up for the 15 years she purposely missed of our lives?
Devon: I’m curious to know what she got Matt and Charlie.
Randi: Well, we all know mom fails to recognize the fact that Matthew is homosexual, so he most likely received tools, and Charlie, the successful pharmacist married to the Broadway producer probably got cash. How ironic? We each get gifts that contradict everything that we are.
Devon: Pop and I caught the pay per view Sunday. I made him cover his eyes during your little entrance.
Randi: Heh, at least it’s cleaner than the one I did in XIW.
Devon: Yeah, well, pop may be slightly blind, but he can still see his baby girl’s tanned ass on television, he wasn’t thrilled but he understood. Congratulations Queen Randi.
Randi: I’m coming over there for a bit. It sucks ass here staring at my dull life. If it wasn’t for the mural you painted on the far wall, I would have the plainest living room ever.
Randi admired a large mural against the wall to her bedroom of “The Garden of Earthly Delights” by Bosch (look it up it scary and sexy.) The room still felt so lonely and estranged from the rest of her life. After hanging up with Devon, Randi felt as if the lack of intensity in her apartment was a reflection of her dry, cold personality. She grunted at this thought, the way a sexy pig would have grunted, and snatched her jacket and keys off of the white marble countertops. Nearly an hour later she sat out front of an average sized suburban brick house in the middle of a cul-de-sac with the brisk sounds of Nirvana teasing the listeners’ ears. She shut the car down exhaling a steamy breath. Sighing deeply, Randi made her way for a brisk and brief visit with her brother and father.
Knocking lightly on the hard oak door, Randi heard the calling of her brother Devon’s voice as he made his way in his chair to open the door. As it creaked open, Randi looked upon a young blond haired, handsome but stonerish man in a silver and neon green wheelchair. His hair was tousled and his face was unshaven. She bent down to hug him tightly.
Devon: You freaking scared me! I had a joint rolled and everything in the kitchen…you’re family, yo! You should just walk in…don’t knock…pigs knock.
Randi tossed her leather jacket upon a nearby chair and followed Devon into the kitchen where the apparent scent of marijuana lingered in the air with the sweet smell of Vanilla Bean incense. Devon placed the joint to his lips, lit, and inhaled.
Randi: Is pop home?
Devon: Hell, no. You think I’d be toking up with him here?
Randi: Never stopped you when you were younger.
Devon snorted a laugh as he offered the weed to Randi. She waved it off with her left hand admiring her father’s cleanliness.
Randi: Pop sure keeps this place clean.
Devon: Yeah, I help around too. Not much to do when you are an unemployed starving paraplegic artist. He usually has to dust shelves and stuff I can’t reach.
Randi: So pop was a little disappointed because of my attire Sunday?
Devon: (inhaling again) Nah, pops is always proud of you…even if you are dressed like something from Merry Triple X-mas. He must’ve said ‘Hell Yeah’ when ole biggun came out there to aid you.
Randi: Oh, you mean Apolo Young?
Devon: Apolo Young? The Canadian Juggernaut? Apolo Young is working for you?
Randi: Working with me. Let’s just say we have this very interesting partnership building. Not only is he going to pound a mudhole in the asses of Valor, but he’s going to be my personal mammoth of a bodyguard. There’s no problem too big or too small, Apolo Young can’t handle. Randi snaps her fingers…The Canadian Juggernaut comes running. He’s at my beck and call. It’s nice to have that kind of reliable security, besides, he knows if he doesn’t obey me when I need him the most, I’ll shove my boot so far down his throat it will come out his ass.
Devon: Damn.
Randi and Devon sat briefly for a few moments talking before Randi said her goodbyes to him. Devon let her out waving her off safely as she crunched her way through the snow to the Dodge Charger. Once inside the “warmth” of a car that had been sitting outside in the freezing cold weather for an hour, Randi sat in thought for a few moments. It seemed as if visiting with Devon had brought on all sorts of queer ideas and thoughts.
Randi started the Dodge Charger smiling to herself as the sound of “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas leaked from the sound system.
----------------------------------------------------10:30 p.m. The Brat Pack an 80’s themed night club in the downtown---------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside the local nightclub, college students on holiday danced around dressed in modern time clothing to the twisted sounds of industrial synthesized 80’s tunes. Randi looked on from the back bar area from a rear barstool. Three empty shotglasses, two empty Budlight longnecks, and an ash tray of cigarette butts looked back at her as she ignored the yells and screams of drunken peers looking for random drunken peers to grope in the gyrating mass of patrons. Slyly, a badly dressed smooth talker ‘Ferris Bueller meets New Kids on the Block doing the Safety Dance’ slid next to Randi.
Man: You know, I must have died and gone to Studio 54, because there is one fly female sitting here all alone.
Randi narrowed her eyes to an intense negative look of hatred as the man scooted his barstool closer to her. “Heat of the Moment” began to play, and the man began to sing in a very off key high pitched mass of torture. Randi ushered the barman to pour another shot of tequila for her.
Man: You know jive lady; tequila makes her clothes fall off! Two tequilas please!
The barman ignored his drunken pathetic request and smiled graciously at Randi.
Man: So, the word of the night is legs, let’s go back to your place and spread the word.
Randi grunted in pure disgust as she rid of her full shot.
Man: Why so quiet, dollface? Cat got your tongue? You can always borrow mine. Here let me stick it in your mouth for you!
The man leaned in to slide his tongue between Randi’s lips as she extended her arm out catching a full hands’ graps of his pants crotch. She squeezed tightly sinking her perfectly manicured nails into his stonewashed jeans.
Randi: Listen here, Vanilla Ice, if you don’t back the **** up off of me I will be forced to break a nail as I pound your mother ******* face into this wooden bar counter. Or better yet, I hear homemade vasectomies get infected really easily. I’d hate for you to develop gangrene around your testicles.
Man: Hey, hey , hey lady! I was just funning you, that’s all. I wasn’t really going to…could you just let go..you are killing my boys.
Randi: Go!
As she released her grasp, the man fell back against the cement floor. Shaking he regained balance and disappeared into the crowd. The barman turned to face her and poured another shot.
Barman: It’s on me tonight, Randi. I’ve been waiting for someone to kick Lenny’s ass out of here for years. I’m glad he messed with the wrong bitch tonight.
Randi: No problem, Dave, that’s why I’m here. To rid the world of creepos.
Barman: Nah, it shouldn’t be your problem. You already are kicking enough ass in this world. And now the Queen of the winter dance? Did you feel like you were in highschool all over again?
Randi: Ha! You bet, except I didn’t end up with carpet burn on my forehead this time. Made me feel good though. You know watching the other three little divas fall on their asses as they got tossed outside the ring. And when Apolo came down the rampway, poor dumb Brittney Bailey almost **** her thong. If her eyes would have bugged out anymore she would have looked like a playboy version of daffy duck getting hit with an Acme safe. Doesn’t matter though, the women of Valor aren’t the only ones that will be needing to watch their backs. After Sunday, the people of Valor may know a little more about the mysterious she-devil and her gigantic manservant.
Randi tossed a twenty onto the barcounter and slinked off the stool. The quick rush of drunkenness overcame her as she began towards the door. Once outside, the Dodge Charger halted quickly by the bar entrance as Randi slid into the passenger seat. As she slammed the door the car drove off quickly with Randi in shotgun and a mysterious unseen man driving her into the brisk of the night.
