Short Story For Creative Writing

This story for Creative writing had certain restrictions. It's called:

Abraham

Greg was seriously tinkering with the idea of just hurling the antique cherry wood table upside down, letting the white and blue tablecloth, turkey, mashed potatoes and all the other delicate fixtures of this godforsaken little dinner party go soaring right into the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Rezvani. He could then bolt for the door, knocking down all the old artwork and expensive vases; leap over their decaying greyhound dog, and busting through a window on the first floor. Greg could picture the homemade chunky gravy scalding the aged skin off of Mr. Rezvani who insisted one called him ‘Carl’, and Mrs. Rezvani, also known as the adored ‘Petunia’, bawling her eyes out over her now disfigured but loaded husband.

One week ago, in Rezvani Antiquities and Repairs on Lafayette Street, Southern Georgia, Greg was searching for an old fedora to wear to an upcoming costume party. While there, Greg was haphazardly was talked into buying five dinosaur era books, a set of china with little fern green trim, a cuckoo clock that was apparently from the Black Forest in Germany, and a pez dispenser glorifying Mickey Mouse’s head, circa 1940. This was not the first time Greg had been to this store; in fact he had dug himself quite a hole in the two months he had been coming here. Mr. Rezvani—Carl, had allotted him a credit at their store, and Greg had taken full advantage of their disproportionate liking to him. In return Greg had taken a fondness to the couple, in their own unusual way they were like his parents—but crazier.

Carl walked over and patted Greg on the back insisting, “Petunia and I really have taken a gander at you and decided we want you to come have dinner at our house again—but this time it will be just you, me and Petunia, one week from tonight.”

Greg recalled the last dinner at the Rezvani’s house—Petunia all dolled up in a feather brigade of black velvet and silver lining on her 1930s dress--she had stumbled down the spiral staircase of their classic southern Georgia plantation home. Everything, antique, everything perfectly put, and everything utterly expensive. After crashing into a vase, but saving it before it fell, it was noticeable that she was already plastered and weeping—black mascara streaming down the crinkles in her rotting skin. She was screaming “PIGS, FILTH, and MUD!” Petunia reminded Greg of his evil dead grandma Penny, and naturally Greg couldn’t help but have a sense of deja vu as Petunia stumbled into Greg planting a sloppy wet one on his cheek. Twenty minutes later Carl lugged Petunia upstairs kicking and screaming and slipped her a white pill of some sort to calm her down.

Carl was waiting intently for Greg’s reply, “Sure Carl, I’ll be there—7:00pm like last time.” The only reason Greg went to these dinner parties, was due to how much shit he had acquired on credit at the Rezvani’s store. He needed a way out of this dinner party, but lacked the courage to just decline to these genuinely nice people. They had been nothing but kind to him in the short time that he knew them, and Greg even considered the Rezvani’s as one of his closest friends. The fact of the matter was that Greg didn’t have the money to pay off his credit; and he really didn’t want to give back all those cool trinkets he had collected.

So tonight, Greg sat staring at that gravy again, moved the dry turkey over on his plate some, and looked up at Petunia and Carl. Petunia had taken a turkey leg and was waving it around in the air, grease dripping everywhere, declaring that she was the new proud owner of a red sports car; Carl reassured her that she wasn’t and kept petting her like she was some sort of wild animal that could turn rabid any moment. Another sip of that bourbon and Petunia just might think that she is Donald Duck. Greg needed an out, and told Carl that he had to pick up his brother at the airport at nine o’clock. Carl stared suspiciously at Greg, asking what flight number, time of arrival and airline his beloved brother was flying with. Tittering, Greg didn’t even have a brother, but said that his older brother Jameson was coming in at Douglasville International Airport, at eight thirty, flight 783, one way on British Airways and not to be late picking him up. Carl stood up with glee, almost dancing, “What a bizarre coincidence, our friend Mr. Capricorn A. Lemieux and his daughter Rose Mafferty Lemieux are on that exact same flight! They are bringing chocolate from Germany! We shall all go together to pick up your brother Jameson and our friends. What a spectacular evening this has turned out to be!” Petunia threw her turkey leg to the floor and demanded her new red sports car be taken. Carl shook his head.

Greg cursed under his breath, smiling on the outside; the prehistoric greyhound looked at him with worry and sadness. Greg threw a piece of turkey to the dog and asked what his name was. Petunia and Carl stared at each other bewildered as if they didn’t even know a dog was living with them. The dog stared back. Petunia shrieked like a banshee at the poor animal, “SPARKY COME HERE YOU DUMB DOG COME AND GET SOME DOOGGGG FOOD.” Carl petted Petunia as if she was the dog, and said politely that they hadn’t named the dog yet, because they had just gotten him. The dog sighed morose fully, lay down, putting his head on his paws, glaring up with understanding at Greg. That was it, Greg realized, that poor damned dog just did it for him. These people were nice, they were loaded, they let him take anything out of their antique store on credit, but for Christ’s sake they were fucking batty. In one swift motion Greg knocked the entire table over.

Carl Rezvani blinked once, twice, getting the cold muck of brown chunky gravy out of his eyes, that was now dripping down his black vest, seeping onto his gold pocket watch. Greg had decided after all that he would destroy that antique cherry wood table--turkey, potatoes, gravy and all. Greg bolted towards the door, but was stopped by the extreme chains and ropes over the door. He was trapped. Carl exhibited a clown-like grin, saying “Wait just one damned minute Greg, we’ve both got something to tell you.” Greg swallowed hard, and looked over at Petunia who had stopped weeping and was now showing that same carnie grin. “Greg, we aren’t really Mr. and Mrs. Rezvani—but our names really are Carl and Petunia, except she’s Carl and I’m Petunia. We escaped from Inner Harbour psychiatric facility in Douglasville, Georgia about two months before you came into the store. We scared away the real Rezvani’s, even though we were going to hack them up but decided against it as long as they promised never to come back; I mean they were really nice old people—we took over in their place, before we even met you. You seemed like such a nice person, and well we wanted you to play the part as our son who would eventually take over the store. Now doesn’t that sound like a wonderful idea?”

Greg looked at the dog; it had gotten gravy all over its silky silver coat, and was devouring the remains of the dry turkey. “What would you do if I didn’t go along with your plan?” “Hack you up,” said Petunia and Carl simultaneously. “Can I keep the dog and name him Abraham?” Petunia grinned sheepishly, “Sure, why not.”