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
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
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
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
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.”
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