Night Rider Saves the Day
I was laying in bed watching a rerun of Little House on the Prairie. It was the one where Jesse James and his brother Frank were hiding out in Walnut Grove. Frank had been shot and they needed to lay low until he recovered enough to travel. Not surprisingly, the poor hicks in Walnut Grove had no clue who they really were. The boys made up fake names and, in an effort to cover up Frank's injury, told everyone that he was suffering from swamp fever. Not even Doc Baker, the only college graduate in the whole town, could put two and two together. By the time Pa finally figured it out, it was too late. The James' boys had already taken Mary hostage. Good thing they hadn't snatched Half Pint, his favorite kid, or he'd really let them have it. As Mary's rescue attempt got underway, my phone rang. I let the machine pick up as I was too consumed by the drama unfolding in Walnut Grove. When I heard the voice leaving the message, however, I jumped out of bed and scrambled to grab the phone. It was my old friend Deb! I couldn't believe she was calling me after all this time - and with such exciting news. She'd just escaped from prison and needed to stay with me until she could safely exile herself to Mexico. I couldn't have been more shocked than the town folk of Walnut Grove when they realized they had been tricked by those sneaky James boys.
I was thrilled to hear from Deb after all this time. I hadn’t talked to her since she was locked up almost four years earlier for supposedly strangling her 90 pound, wheelchair bound boyfriend in Walmart. According to a few dozen eye witnesses, a loud argument broke out over whether they should spend his disability check on drugs or a Nintendo DS. The fight continued through the store until, allegedly, “all hell broke loose“. I had a hard time believing the blurry eyed, half toothed stories of the eye witnesses interviewed on TV. It was like they’d waited their whole lives to watch someone die in Walmart just so they could get their big five o’clock news break. Get a life people, GET A LIFE! I closely followed Deb's trial on the news. Unfortunately, I couldn’t personally attend any of the trial sessions. That same summer, I was trying to achieve the perfect back yard tan and the court sessions interfered with prime tanning hours (11a.m. -3 p.m.). Every day, rain or shine, I slathered myself in an iodine/baby oil mixture and laid on a bed of tin foil for 4 hours. It broke my heart that I couldn’t testify on Deb’s behalf, but there was already too much time invested in my goddess-like bronze glow. My tanning endeavor had even cost me a nonrefundable tanning membership. It seemed like a small price to pay for a healthier, organic tan and, as it turned out, I received tons of compliments that summer. Most of them unspoken compliments that only a person's eyes can say. "Someone's been on vacation" I could tell they were thinking to themselves. "Why don't we ever take a trip?" they would probably say to their spouses after I was out of earshot. It didn't entirely make up for Deb's conviction, but the recognition for all my hard work really lifted my spirits and helped cushion the blow of Deb's two life sentences.
I wasn't sure what to think about Deb's unofficial early release. I just assumed she’d serve her life sentences until she finally died. I had already made peace with it, gone on with my life and now this? This was just like the old Deb - completely unpredictable! Deb and I went way back. She roomed with me for five out of six of my crazy college years. We met during my second freshman year at The Stool , a fun off campus bar where a hookup was almost a sure thing on dollar draft night! I was cutting through the alley behind The Stool and noticed Deb passed out by the dumpster. Her thin, choppy bleached blond hair reminded me of one of those fake dollar store barbies whose stringy hair lifts up and reveals a bald scalp underneath. Her tattered, cut off jean shorts barely covered her scrawny ass and her badly stained Corona t-shirt was obviously a toddler's size. She sported mismatched flip flops that appeared to be two different sizes. Just to be sure she wasn't dead, I rolled her over onto her stomach with my foot. She let out a gurgly moan. I couldn't figure out if the tattoo on her lower back was an angry butterfly or a snarling fairy. Either way, it was pretty cool. There was only $3 and a Tic Tac in her overly bedazzled back pocket. I knew I had to help her, so I hid her under some cardboard boxes that were next to the dumpster and promised myself that I would come back out and check on her later.
As usual, the Stool was packed with drunk people and Sir Mix-A-Lot was blasting through the tiny speakers that sat on a shelf behind the bar. It was no wonder why The Stool was such a popular hang out. You could hook up with a guy in the bathroom and twenty minutes later, make out with his best friend by the pool table. No one ever remembered enough to judge. The night flew by, and eight dollar drafts, five purple hooter shots and almost three hook ups later, it was already time to stumble back to campus. I had accidentally forgotten about Deb, but there she was, still passed out like a little lamb under the boxes. I tripped over her and my boot heel got wedged in her mouth. She woke up while I was trying to work my boot out and, in a husky, chain smoking Courtney Love voice, said she needed a place to stay for the night. I must’ve said yes because Deb was curled up on my floor the next morning, still clutching the tooth I had knocked out with my boot. We used some acrylic nail glue, and she was good as new. She took me to IHOP for breakfast and ended up staying with me until I graduated four years later!
Deb really took to college life. Although she was never an official student, she rarely missed a keg party and performed more “walks of shame” than any of the other girls. In fact, during our first junior year Deb was diagnosed with an STD the doctors had never even seen before. They said she’d probably never be able to have illegitimate children. Faced with the possibility of never having a Deb Jr., Deb hoped they would at least name the STD after her. Maybe something classy like “Debra's Disease”. After all, she said, if Lou Gehrig could do it, why couldn't she? Instead, some jackass doctor stole Deb's thunder and named it after himself - “Goldstein’s Ghonnawhat?”. Deb was furious - so furious that she considered not spreading the “Gonnawhat?” anymore just to spite the doctor. Several months later, the CDC concluded that Deb just had a Herpes/Chlamydia hybrid - plain old, ordinary Hermydia. Excitement in the medical community quickly died out and Deb felt like a complete failure.
We were absolutely inseparable during college. Deb was like the big sister I never knew I wanted. And just like a big sister, she constantly looked out for me. Several times a week, Deb gave me a breast exam, tediously but tenderly checking each breast for lumps. “Early detection is the key” she’d whisper in my ear. She advised me on which boys were safe to hook up with and which ones might be carrying the Hermydia. The other girls envied us. They envied Deb for having so much sex with their boyfriends. They envied me for having such a cool best friend.
After graduation, we didn’t see each other as often. As luck would have it, my grandmother died shortly before graduation, so I moved into her house and Deb moved into a shelter all the way across town. I wished Deb could have moved in with me, but my extra bedroom was already occupied by my elegant Beanie Baby collection. I inherited them from my grandmother and there was no way I was about to let Deb frighten or stink them up with her chain smoking. We were also both busy with our new careers. I had refused to declare a major in college so that I could keep my career options open after graduation. In an unforeseen counter attack, the university refused to give me a diploma but agreed that after six years, it was time for me to move on. My plan paid off big time when I landed a data entry job at my uncle's accounting firm. Deb started work in the medical field selling her eggs and plasma. She called whenever she could find the time or a cell phone. The stories she told me about the shelter were insane! I have to admit, I envied her a little. It sounded like she was still living it up.
The last call Deb made to me before she went to prison was brief. She told me about the wheelchair guy she‘d met. I think his name was Larry or something that rhymed with it. After dating heavily for three days, they fell in love and Deb moved into his trailer to start her new life as a live-in girlfriend. She said she could barely keep her mouth out of his pants long enough to call me. She sounded so happy. I told her I was thrilled she had finally found the love of her life. After all, I pointed out, she'd gone through whole groups of guys before finding what's his name and she deserved to be happy. She said she couldn't wait for me to meet him and that she'd call again soon. A few weeks later, Deb’s mug shot was all over the news. It was horrible - her hair was an absolute mess and she looked like a cracked out possum. Even Nancy Grace thought that Deb should be convicted based on her mug shot alone. "Look at this woman. Just LOOK (dramatic pause) AT (dramatic pause and nostril flare) HER. She looks gross AND she murders the handicapped (right eyebrow raise)." Then she curled her top lip up and glared at the camera and right into the souls of her viewers, daring them to disagree. All the other news networks swooped in too, like they always do when someone is born or killed in Walmart. Needless to say, Deb didn't stand a chance.
So here we were, almost ten years and one unfinished prison sentence later and Deb needed a place to stay - AGAIN! The irony was killing me! I’d never harbored a fugitive before, but Deb was not just any fugitive, she was my fugitive and she needed my help. I also felt some sense of patriotic duty to protect the unjustly accused. Deb had pleaded “absolutely not fuckin' guilty” at her trial. She claimed that the eyewitnesses at Walmart were just jealous because she snatched the last Nintendo DS on sale. She personally testified that her boyfriend broke his neck from accidentally and repeatedly running into a clothing display rack. Deb even tried to sue the wheelchair company, but thanks to a few slick corporate attorneys who pointed out that the wheelchair wasn‘t motorized, the case never even made it to court. In spite of all this, the jury convicted her anyway. If only I’d been able to testify on Deb’s behalf, I would have convinced them that the Deb I knew was not a strangler. A beater, maybe. But not a strangler. Case closed Matlock! Well, maybe "the system" and a faulty coat rack had failed Deb, but I would give my old BFF some justice. I gave her directions to my house. A deep, husky voice whispered, "I'll be there tomorrow" and she hung up.
She still sounded like the same old Deb, but I wondered if prison had changed her. I hoped she hadn’t been forced into lesbianism, although Deb wasn’t exactly what you’d call “rape material". I figured she’d have a few body piercings and probably some homemade prison tattoos - perhaps a symbol of whatever gang she had joined or maybe her "special" girl's name strategically placed behind her earlobe. I couldn’t even imagine what hairstyles were available in a prison beauty salon - a she-mullet or maybe a swastika shaved into the side of one's scalp. Whatever the case, I’d accept my best friend with open arms (and maybe one wide open eye).
I wasn’t sure what type of hostess to be to an escaped convict, so I decided on a combination of Mr. Belvedere and Mr. T - a jovial, nurturing old scamp with the tough love attitude of B. A. Baracus. Mr. Belvedere would lovingly nourish Deb back to normal life while B. A. Baracus would stomp out any of her bad prison habits. I figured the safest place to keep Deb safe and out of sight was in the attic crawlspace. It was only accessible through a small panel in the hall closet. Plus, the large attic fan vent in the hallway ceiling was perfect for passing Deb food, water and treats. With the exception of squirrels and the occasional bat, the attic was empty. She could have the whole place all to herself. I figured she could take care of the squirrel problem for me in exchange for rent (She probably didn't have money and I wasn’t about to engage in any type of lesbian prison bartering).
The next morning, I got up early and rushed to Taco Bell for some gorditas and then to Petsmart. I bought a large dog bed and a litter box. I also picked out a few cat toys to keep Deb occupied in the attic. After staring at prison walls all day for over three years, they’d probably seem like Rubik’s Cubes to her. I sped home and returned to a broken kitchen window and a bug eyed Deb slouching in my living room chair watching her own news coverage. She looked just like the Deb I remembered - tired, dirty and roughed up. Her dollar store barbie hair was butchered into a horrible, sloppy mess. It looked like the prison beautician had blindfolded herself and held the scissors with her feet. I noticed a long, puffy pink scar on Deb's right cheek. Worse than that, she was super skinny. She looked like Calista Flockhart at the height of her food boycott. I, on the other hand, looked like I had gobbled up the entire Ally McBeal cast, so I decided to focus less on her achievement and more on her scar. “Cool scar, Deb, how’d ya get it?” She grunted something about a courtyard fight gone bad and turned back to the TV. I couldn’t wait to find out more, but first I needed to get Deb unglued from her news coverage and into the safety of the attic.
I turned off the television and quickly explained my plan. Then I showered her with the supplies I had bought. After a quick hug, I shoved her into her new home, threw the supplies in and locked the wooden panel behind her. Compared to a prison cell, my attic crawlspace must have felt like a wide open pasture. I couldn’t believe how good I felt giving Deb her first taste of freedom in over three years. For the first time since we spoke on the phone, I felt relieved. Deb was finally safe and so were my Beanie Babies. Those were going to be my retirement fund someday and I couldn’t risk having Deb flee to Mexico with them.
That night, I sat in the hallway under the attic fan vent so Deb and I could catch up. Mostly, we talked about college. I reminded Deb about the night we pimped her out at the local bars to raise money for spring break. Unfortunately, we only raised enough money for me to go but Daytona just wasn't the same without Deb. I told her I would find the pictures so she could see them again. Then Deb remembered the time I offered her $10 to crush up a bottle of Minithins and snort them. I had completely forgotten about that - what a crazy night! We hit 3 clubs before Deb collapsed during the Electric Slide. The ambulance workers pronounced her dead on the dance floor but then the Minithins kicked back in, she came right back to life and performed an impressive Macarena. The ambulance guys cheered louder than anyone else. It was awesome. “That reminds me Deb, I still owe you $10!” We couldn’t stop laughing to save our lives! Boy, I missed our college days. Those were simpler times.
Then it got quiet. I thought Deb was asleep until I heard her gravelly voice. “Girl, I gotta tell ya somethin'. I found Jesus in prison. He saved my life and showed me a new way.” I nearly choked on my Suzy Q. Found Jesus - in a prison? I rolled my eyes and let Deb continue her story. She told me that one night at dinner, a prison riot broke out. A gang of Jehovah Witness Shiites took a prison guard hostage. They were furious over a body cavity search performed by a Catholic doctor the day before. Suddenly, the riot took a turn for the worse and inmates started attacking each other. Deb said she huddled under a table in the corner to escape the wrath of Sheila, whom she had pissed off earlier that week in the courtyard. All around her, she watched as inmates beat one another with fists, chairs and tater tots while backup guards shot teargas into the cafeteria. Deb shut her eyes, hugged her knees into her chest and cried “Jesus Christ! Get me outta here alive and for fuck’s sake, please don’t let Sheila find me.” Three hours later, the riot ended and the surviving inmates were taken back to their cells. Deb said a prayer that night, her first prayer since she was a kid. The next morning she found out that Sheila had been crushed to death by two of the fattest Shiites. Deb took this as a miracle. Not only had Jesus spared her, he had smited Sheila. After that, she started reading the Bible every day. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing - the old Deb never read anything she couldn’t steal from a 7-11. She used to devote her spare time to practicing for roadside sobriety tests. Now she was reading the Bible??? It seemed ridiculous to me that someone like Deb was even allowed to own a bible, much less read one.
Finally I asked Deb the question that I’d been dying to ask her all night - how she managed to escape from prison. I hadn’t been able to see much of the news coverage yet, since I was busy with the news story herself. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat and explained to me how an ex-cellmate taught her how to make a shiv out of a tampon. It was mind boggling! Deb had simply used her tampon shiv to overpower a guard during cell check, blessed, bound and gagged her, then slipped into the uniform and walked right out of the prison. I was more than impressed. “Oh my God Deb! You totally kick David Blaine's ass!” She completely agreed and on that note, we decided to call it a night. As I got up to go to my room, Deb said “I give thanks to Jesus for you for helping me.” Finally, I thought, some thanks to the REAL savior here. I fell asleep that night wondering how much maintenance Deb would require. Probably more than a goldfish but less than a dog.
The next morning, I awoke to Deb’s chirps for breakfast. I rubbed my eyes and glared at the clock - 7:30! I didn’t need to get up for another hour but I wanted to be a good host to Deb so I rolled out of bed, stomped to the kitchen and opened the fridge. I grabbed a hotdog and trudged back down the hallway. I held the hotdog up to the fan vent and Deb’s scrawny baboon hand reached down and snatched it up. Before I could even stomp back to bed, she screamed, “What the hell? This is raw! Can you heat this fucker up?” You'd think that Deb had been raised on a pirate ship instead of in foster care. Apparently, her dozens of foster parents had turned her into a spoiled little princess. I decided to ignore her, closed the attic fan vent and went back to bed. Just like a spoiled child, Deb needed to learn that she wasn’t going to get her way by throwing a fit. I tried to get back to sleep but Deb's muffled ranting kept me up. I was already stressed out about her dietary demands so I called work to report myself sick and laid back in bed to watch TV. Deb’s first feeding had been a complete disaster.
The next couple of days were no better. Deb resorted to yelling and hissing at me over every little thing - food, water, heat - you name it, she wanted it. I tried to reason with her, explaining that if she could just act civilized, she would get more privileges. I even tried to bribe her with promises of toilet paper rewards for good behavior, but her behavior only got worse. She seemed incapable of change.
By the end of the first week, Deb had become a complete menace. The constant screaming was wearing my vocal chords to shreds. She was a demanding ingrate, constantly whining for more food or begging me to let her out of the attic for a while. With the exception of weekends, when I went bar and bed hopping, I lavished Deb with tiny marshmallows soaked in Kool-Aid. I had stopped giving her hard foods after the Pop Tart ambush left me with a bruised forehead and battered ego. Prisoners knew things normal people didn’t. Someone with as much time on their hands as Deb could probably turn a cotton ball into any type of firearm she wanted. At feeding time, I made Deb reach through the attic fan vent while I gently poured Kool-Aid soaked marshmallows into her cupped hand. I realized that Deb’s behavior was partially my fault. I’d given her too much too soon and she couldn’t handle it.
By the end of the second week, I was so distraught that I had to stay at the Holiday Inn for a few days. I may have had the heart and patience of a thousand Buddhist monks, but Deb was more annoying than all of them put together. My little vacation was a much needed and well deserved break from rehabilitating Deb. I even took some time off work and only left the bed to use the bathroom and answer the door for food. I watched TV for three straight days. I felt rejuvenated and hoped that maybe there was still time to fix Deb.
I returned home recharged and optimistic, but that quickly faded after Deb flung some poop on me during one of her feedings. I realized then that prison had turned Deb into a wild animal. I could never fix her no matter how hard I tried. So, reluctantly, I started to weigh my options: A) Let Deb out of the attic. But what would she do to me? She had become very abusive and hostile. During a recent marshmallow pass, she grabbed my wrist and tried to attack me through the fan vent. She may have had a baboon arm, but exhibited all the strength of a full grown gorilla - a very angry full grown gorilla. B) Turn her in for the $2500 reward. But how would I explain the fact that she was locked in my attic? With a dog bed, half eaten cat toys and a litter box? Maybe that I liked the “idea” of having a pet but not the reality? There seemed to be no easy way out of this mess, but one thing seemed certain - Deb could not come out of the attic. My stomach churned as I wondered what the life expectancy of an ex-con was.
I could hardly sleep at night anymore. The constant noise of Deb praying and trying to claw her way out of the attic weighed heavily on my nerves. I started drinking at night just to sleep. It was the only defense mechanism I had left. Honestly, I didn’t know how much more of her torture I could take. I could barely lie down in bed to eat dinner without Deb smelling it and harassing me to give her some. The Mr. Belvedere in me would gently remind her that chicken bones were practically grenades in her hands while Mr. T would scream "Shut it up Deb! SHUT IT!" and blast the TV to drown her out. I felt like a prisoner in my own home.
Finally, I had to admit defeat. Deb was a challenge I could no longer accept. A cause I no longer had the strength to fight for. My mind wandered back to a few short weeks before, when I foolishly believed that I could rescue Deb from her miserable existence and turn her into a human being again. Realistically, I knew she’d never be a debutante - Deb was way too “White Castle” for that. But I thought that with my help and guidance, she could become at least as well mannered and civilized as Mighty Joe Young. I guess the movie didn’t bother to show the tremendous effort it took to civilize him. And unlike Deb, I never saw Mighty Joe fling his poop at anyone.
With the weight of the world on me, I went to bed early and turned on the Lifetime movie channel. I slowly picked at my dinner and gulped my wine as I watched a riveting performance by Tori Spelling in “Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?”. I'd seen it before, but I'm a sucker for award worthy made for TV movies. Eventually, I found myself wrestling with the decision of whether I should have some Swiss rolls or cosmic brownies. After deciding on the Swiss rolls, I made my way down the hall and toward the kitchen. Immediately, I noticed two very familiar baboon hands poking through the attic fan vent. One of them wielded what appeared to be a bra underwire and was using it to take the large screws out of the vent cover. On one hand, I was impressed. On the other, I was dumbfounded as I had never pegged Deb for the bra wearing type. My voice quivered as inner Mr. T took over and screamed, “I'm calling the cops and...you’re going back to prison fool!” But it was too late. With one swift kick, the vent cover and Deb crashed into the hallway. She looked disgusting. Her cheeks were sunken in and her skin clung to her body like a wrinkled leotard. Her collarbones protruded so much it looked like she had swallowed a coat hanger. She looked like a naked mole rat - a psychotic naked mole rat with baboon arms. I could have cried. Here I had been trying to nourish my BFF back to a normal life and she had failed me miserably.
The look on Deb's ghoulish face told me that I should run and boy did I. Beads of sweat poured down my face as I raced back to my room, slammed the door and locked it. My hands trembled as I frantically tore my room apart looking for the phone. I vaguely remembered using it the night before to order a small African boy from some infomercial. After drinking nearly two bottles of wine, I decided to get Deb someone to keep her company in the attic. He looked about the same size as a table lamp, minus the shade, and could easily be passed up to Deb through the slits in the attic fan vent. But after calling to place my order, I realized the whole thing was a total scam. They take your money for the child, but don't actually give him to you. I immediately canceled my order and threatened to call the BBB but I couldn’t remember where I had thrown the phone.
Deb was howling as she kicked and beat the door. She threatened to slit me from end to end. I wondered which end she would start with. Either way, it didn’t sound good. I gave up on trying to find the phone and ripped the shade off the window. The sound of splitting wood accompanied by several thundering kicks turned my attention to the door. It crashed open and Deb stumbled into the room, panting and gasping for air. She glared at me with a hungry look in her eye. Her other eye looked like it had succumbed to some type of oozing infection. The smell of Deb and danger filled the air. I ran around my bedroom looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Deb pounced on me and knocked me off my feet. Her scrawny baboon hands instantly wrapped around my neck. I gouged her goopy eye as hard as I could until she screamed and lost her grip on me. I struggled to get back on my feet but Deb grabbed my legs, growled and bit my ankle. I yelped and clawed at her. We furiously smacked one another until my wrists gave out and I collapsed to the floor. I was no match for a violent ex-con. My life flashed before my eyes, my beautiful, wonderful life. No last meal, not even so much as a last Little Debbie snack cake. “Death by BFF” my obituary might read. I couldn't imagine how my friends and family would ever go on. I almost wanted to cry for the people I would leave behind and the huge, gaping hole I would leave in their hearts.
As I struggled in Deb's death grip, I could feel my body giving up. Then, I suddenly caught a glimmer of hope under the bed - MY salvation, MY miracle - Night Rider, my 7 and 1/2 inch jet black vibrator. I desperately reached out and managed to grab him. Instinctively, my hand embraced him firmly. I flipped the switch and he purred like a light saber. Deb's shaking, sweaty hands tightened around my throat so I thrust Knight Rider into her goopy eye. Her head jerked back as she screamed and moaned. I seized the opportunity and violently thrust Night Rider right into her mouth and right down her throat. After years of practice, I’d learned to wield him like a samurai. I kept a steady grip on Night Rider and shoved him even deeper into Deb’s mouth. As she struggled for air, I managed to roll on top of her and pin her arms down with my knees. I shoved Night Rider in harder and deeper. Deb’s good eye pulsated rapidly and she started convulsing. Finally, she stopped moving and went limp; her good eye still glaring at me. I choked her a few minutes longer just to make sure she wasn't faking.
My body trembled with hunger and exhaustion as I stumbled to the kitchen and made myself a salami, cheese and Dorito sandwich. My poor shaking hands could barely lift it to my mouth. Then I had my Little Debbie Swiss rolls. After refueling, I got some Gorilla Glue and a stepladder from the garage. I trudged to the hallway and replaced the vent cover. It looked almost as good as new. Then I went to the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed 911. I told the operator about the “break in” and act of self defense I had just committed. She dispatched the police and asked if I needed her to stay on the line with me. I figured that if I could take down an escaped convict, I’d be OK and hung up. I wondered how long it would take the police to get Deb out of my house. I really needed to get a solid eight hours tonight and I’d definitely be calling in sick to work tomorrow. Our administrative assistant got three days off when her grandma died. I needed to find out what the company policy was for a dead best friend.
I went back to my bedroom, knelt down next to Deb and turned Knight Rider off. I left him where he was. I'd never be able to use him again anyway, not after this. It would feel like sloppy seconds. As I stared at Deb’s tiny, lifeless body, it finally hit me - last night was my last time with Night Rider and my last night with Deb. I couldn't hold back the tears as I cried for all of us. Then I leaned forward and gently pressed Deb’s lips into a goofy smile. I grabbed a sharpie off the nightstand and wrote “whore” across her forehead. Then I scratched it out and wrote “lesbo” underneath. I could almost hear Deb laughing with me.
When the police finally arrived I showed them the broken kitchen window and the crime scene. I assured them that I had acted in such complete self defense that there should be no question as to my innocence. I also told them that I was fully prepared to testify against Deb and for myself. After examining the crime scene, the officers assured me that no charges would be pressed. After all, they pointed out, Deb was an escaped convict who broke into my house and tried to kill me. Case closed, Matlock! They did inform me, however, that desecrating a corpse with a sharpie was a “no no” and that I would have to pay a fine. By that time, I was too tired to argue.
After a grueling 10 minute interrogation, the officers finally finished. They placed Deb in a huge body bag and carried her outside. She looked so tiny. She probably would've fit in a grocery bag but I didn't want to tell them how to do their job. It was out of my hands now. She belonged to them, and would be known as "Exhibit A" and kept in the evidence room. They left and I stood in my house, alone for the first time in weeks. Deb had been a complete pain in the ass, but somehow, it felt strange being alone now. It almost seemed weird NOT to hear her scurrying around in the attic. I couldn't believe my BFF was gone forever. All I had left were memories of Deb and all of the crazy times we shared. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I realized how blessed Deb and I had been to be able to spend her last weeks together. I was glad she didn‘t die alone in some filthy prison cell. I wondered what the coroner would put on her death certificate as the cause of death. For her sake, I hoped it would be “death by dildo” - Deb would‘ve loved that.
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