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Lunch With Red And Goldie
by Marvin Pinkis

The commissary buzzed with characters scurrying about under the monitors’ scrutiny. It took little for those doomed souls to stay in step. A banner suspended from the ceiling reminded: “Myths are made. Myths can be shattered.” No room for rebellion.

“What an ordeal,” moaned a cute moppet sporting a head of yellow ringlets and plopping into a booth.

“Park yourself, Goldie,” said the booth’s other occupant, draped in a crimson cloak. “Another bout with your ursine friends?”

“No kiddin’. You look done-in yourself. Been running with, or from, carnivorous lupines?”

“Yeah, we just stay away from preditors, can we?” replied the cloaked one.

“It’s our fate, I guess,” retorted the curly-head.

“Maybe, but it’s not a fate of our making.” (Cloak).

Her companion noted, “Red, you’ve been at this game for who knows how long. Don’t you ever wish for a different world?”

“Sure when I reflect on what I have to deal with. Dense scary woods. A senile grandmother. An alien specie in drag. Living in fear of the woodsman showing up late. Recently, he’s made it in the nick of time and I smelled booze on his breath. Also, he’s intimated that a girl can more convincingly show her gratitude for saving her skin besides a scripted glance of relief or a nosh from Grandma’s basket.”

“You think you got it bad?. How about endless breaking and entering, sipping soup of all temperatures, destroying chairs, testing mattresses? And, let me tell you, waking up to the sight of a trio of hirsute beasts, even after many times, continues to scare the hell out of me. One time, when I bolted out of the bed to get away, the biggest one blocked the door. I got by and complained but a fat lot of good that did. Who knows what those crazies are capable of. It isn’t human.”

Red asked, “What line of work were you in before this?”

Goldie replied, “I was nothing. This is all I know. I answered the ad in the paper and here I’ve been.”

The Cloak spoke. “I know. I feel so one-dimensional.”

“Somebody always has it worse. Look at these unfortunates around us. Some I don’t recognize. Like, who’s the dark-haired broad with looks to kill? And who are those little guys sticking like glue to her? Must be a half-dozen. Can’t she make it with guys her size?”

“Could be a need to feel superior. They do dote on her,” said Red.

“Right, and check the girl over there. Her hair must be twenty feet long. Bet she lives in a tower somewhere. And, ain’t that something, but there’s a little runt with her too.”

“Interesting folks. Well, there’s the lunch whistle. Back to the stuff of which legends are made. Or, at least, bedtime stories. Here comes the next crew. Get a load of the girl with no pupils, frizzy hair and always the same 1930’s red dress with her goofy-looking dog.” (Red again).

“And, there’s that little Nancy brat. Can’t she do anything with her hair? Let’s get outta here. These people aren’t for real.” (the other one).