The Return of Jemoldy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a short story that I wrote while I was with my family in Jordan. I got bored, so I wrote it beside my brother on our couch, just for fun. There's a first one, but I don't know where it went.
I hope you enjoy!
THE RETURN OF JEMOLDY

Submitted: November 18, 2007

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Submitted: November 18, 2007

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The Return of Jemoldy


It was a dark evening when I went outside for a smoke. The moonlight shone across the roof of my BMW X5. I heard the clicks of a woman’s high heels as she passed me across the other side of the street.
I sucked in the smoke from my joint and blew out as I waited carefully, listening to the night. The heels returned.
The woman in red, unfashionable clothes continued to pass by me, but always on the other side of the street. I blew out smoke as I tried to forget her.

And suddenly, she was there.
She was leaning against the back of my X5. And what an ugly face! Her eyes were amber, and her hair was red. She had a pound of freckles scattered throughout her face. Her round nose reflected light over the ground.
“Hey, there, cutie,” she said. She sounded absolutely American.
I stomped out my cigarette, and began to walk into my apartment building, but it was too late. She was already at the front gate.
“What do ya’ say, we go out for a drink?”
I tried to step to the side, but she blocked me. “Let me in,” I said calmly.
She didn’t move. “What do ya’ say,” she said, more in a demanding voice, this time. “We go out for a drink?”
I stepped to the side as fast as I could and pushed all of the buzzers beside the doorway. She grabbed my arm and I felt her uneven nails pierce my skin between my thick sweater.
“Get the hell off of me!” I shouted, and kicked her to the side. I ran into the building which was opened by about 24 people, and I jogged up the stairs to my apartment in about 30 seconds. It seemed about 5 minutes without a smoke in between.
As soon as I reached my door, I clambered for the keys in my pocket and jostled the door open. I slammed it behind me, and locked it with the bolt and key, and then dashed to the kitchen to pour myself a shot of brandy.
I lit a cigarette as I sat down at the kitchen table. I luxuriously took deep breaths of the revolting smoke, and drank my shot slowly, letting the fiery liquid run down my throat. And then, I saw her. Sitting out my window, smoking a Virginia Slim and grinning evilly towards me. I gasped and dropped my cigarette on the white tiled floor. I shouted, and ran back down the stairs.

I was scared this time. She continued to chase me down the street, moving like lightning. It was amazing that a woman was able to move that fast in high heels.
After a few seconds, I heard another click. A more metal, mechanical click, and I looked back over my shoulder. She held a tiny revolver in her small, rough hand, and she had it straight for my back.
I took a quick dive behind a dumpster. She ran right past me, the gun in her outstretched arm, coated with her unfashionable red jacket.
I was wheezing as I peered around behind the green dumpster. I saw nobody. I stood up.
She was built inside the trashcan, her gun to my head. The evil grin was back.
I ran again.
My lungs were about to give out. All that smoking was finally doing me in.
I dodged past cars in the street and zoomed past people and streetlamps, who’s glow gave the cement sidewalk an eerie look.
My sweater was beginning to make me warm. I took it off while I was running, and couldn’t see where I was going. I ran straight into something. I believe it was a person.
And it was.
The woman stood before me. I couldn’t escape. I needed to give my black lungs a rest. I pulled out my box of Viceroys.
“How does that drink sound?” she said loudly. I saw a light in the house across the street turn off.
They were lucky.
 

I decided to take the drink. There was nothing else I could do.
In an instant, we were at her car. An ugly Lada with three of its hubcaps missing. I tried to sit in the back. She insisted I sat in the front. I dared not to argue.
We drove a long ways to a small diner in the country. Its floors were black and white tiles; rather classical. A large waiter took our orders.
“What will it be for the ma’am today?” he asked.
She giggled falsely. “I’ll have a Vodka. With a dip of cherry flavouring, please.” She handed him the menu.
“And for the sir?”
I frowned. “I… I’m fine.” But I changed my mind when I felt a cold circle touch my hand beneath the table. “A-actually, do you know what? I’ll have a… er…” I looked at the woman. “I’ll have a brandy, please. Full cup.”
The fat waiter smiled with his sausage lips. “That’ll do?”
I nodded quietly.

She asked me my name as she took a match from my breast pocket and lit it on the rough table.
I frowned. I wanted a cigarette, but I had smoked my last one by the sidewalk.
She handed me a Virginia Slim. I ripped it from her grubby nails greedily. It tasted odd, but the nicotine soothed my nerves.
“My name is Jemoldy,” she announced, allowing the smoke to escape her lips. She shoved a piece of pink chewing gum into her mouth.
I frowned at the sound of the name.  It sounded odd. Rather familiar, actually. I tapped the lent cigarette into the ashtray that sat in the center of the table, and snorted smoke in the direction of the kitchen.
Within a few minutes of silence, the waiter brought our drinks and bottles for refills. I drank, allowing my throat to savor the liquids. A drink never felt so good.
She looked at me again.
“We gotta do somethin’.”
I frowned. “What?”
“We gotta rob the convenience store by 112 an’ Oak.” She whispered quietly into my ear. I smelt her un-brushed teeth. I blew out and turned my head away. I put out my cigarette.
“What do you mean?”
“We gotta rob it, honey,”
“Rob? Why?”
“I’m a poor child. I ain’t got no dough. I live wit’ my gramma in Oklahoma.”
“Why the hell are you in Maine?” I asked, swallowing my drink, and pouring myself a new cup.
“’travel a lot, dearie.”
I stood up. “I can’t. I’m leaving.”
I felt the barrel against my kneecap. I had no choice. I didn’t want one knee.

We pulled the itchy ski-masks over our faces as we sat in the car. Quickly, she told me to wait and she stepped out of the car, placing duct tape on the front and back license plates. Then, she told me to bring my fully automatic AK from the back of the car.
We were off.
And it just so happened that as soon as we burst in, two policemen who were buying doughnuts saw us in ski masks.
We were instantly shot by their electric guns, and handcuffed. They sat us in front of the Kum & Go, and waited for backup. They pulled off Jemoldy’s mask first.
Each police officer took their turn at gasping.
“It’s Jemoldy!”
“Jemoldy?”
They instantly ran to the Lada and checked the contents of her car. They came back and ripped off my mask.
“Name?” asked a police officer.
I looked at the officer’s shined shoes. “Jam- James Sandman,” I groaned. I felt miserable. I needed a smoke. The AK-47 sat behind me.
“And what’s your version of the story?” the officer said to me. I saw his name was Pilkens.
“Well, offica’,” I said. “I was takin’ a smoke the other day, just down beside my apartment. I saw this lady passin’ by. She appeared by me, and chased me throughout town. She took me for a drink, and forced me to rob this store with her.”
The copper chuckled. “Forced?”
“Every time I refused an idea, she would threaten me with a small revolver she kept in her purse.”
Officer Pilkens looked from Jemoldy to me, back and forth. Then, he checked her purse, and lay it’s contents on the hood of his Ford police cruiser.
“Lookie here, Swachie,” Officer Pilkens called to a fellow worker. “We got some high grade heroin sitting on this woman’s head! Plus, this nice little gun…”

They brought me to a court where I fought against Jemoldy. I won by a longshot, and she was sent to prison at a sentence for 14 years…
But that wasn’t the last of Jemoldy.
 


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