The Multi-genre Mashup SmackDown

Hatchet Street, Sacramento

The voice on the other side of the telephone varied in volume, Reedgrass' father had a habit of placing a client on speakerphone and then walking away from the phone. Mayor Shepherd was a consistent man, and so relatives were treated the same.

No response.

"SpAtuLAs?"

No response.

"SpOOns?"

No response.

"ARTillErY?"

Reedgrass stilled, "What?"

"ARTillErY?"

He lifted a long chunk of wood,"What for?"

"In CAsE thE RoOMMatE iS a PsYcHO-LiBErAl BitC–"

"I'm sure my roommate will be pleasant, now I really must be going." Reedgrass closed the flip phone and dropped it into his washed out jean pocket. He hummed something akin to "Gods & Monsters", but in a lower register. The lyrics excavated his lips like stains from a teenage church camp, "No one's going to take my soul away," a sense of reclamation laced his words as he pulled his scuffed Ford onto Route 16.

In the bathroom of LackLuster Law and Legal Advice, the secretary set the office phone in a ceramic sink bowl. The dark cylindrical wire ran along the floor. The secretary then set a manilla file folder in the second sink and dialed. Before the call even went through the secretary unlocked the tool chest on the window sill and went to work, pulling up slivers of carpet from the ground with a blunt nail and a foldable rake. They yanked a long strip of fabric up, and tied it to their ankle in a neat bow. The phone gurgled once, as they ran to the other side of the bathroom. Below the carpeting was the prize: hard tile.

The phone gurgled again, as they wrapped their forehead with another strand of dark gray material. Their right leg rose like a stork, one foot high in the air, arms raised–wings protruding.

The phone connected, "HelLO?"

The secretary's eyes honed, "Mayor Shepherd, your son picked up the keys to the Hatchet Street property earlier this morning."

"And tHe GiRL, mY NieCE?"

"There was a girl here an hour ago, yes."

"OdD KiNd?"

"She was polite."

The connection cut.

The secretary stripped more carpet from the floor and ran down the whole corridor to the front door with it trailing.

On aisle nine of a house warming store, Hawk Winkins (a self chosen name), was sifting through drink coasters. He'd picked out three packs so far. The first had buckets of oranges on them. If you scratched the coaster it smelled like a synthetic mandarin. The second was an Andy Warhol print of pennies filling the entire surface. The third was in Hawk's hand, he was uncertain of it. He pulled the phone up to his ear, resting it against his shoulder.

Within one ring a voice came through, "I'm unloading firewood, where are you?"

"Reed, I'm unwell thanks for asking babe. I'm trying to turn your 16th century tenebrose townhouse into a welcoming establishment." He sighed and continued "In layman's terms I'm making your graveyard more lively. Would you use a coaster that says, I kill trick or treaters?"

"Uh–yes."

"Love y–" Hawk hung up. Reedgrass was his collegetown sweetheart, he loved him with his soul–more precisely Reedgrass was his Ophiuchus; healer, serpent and sky. However, time was running short before the roommate would arrive, as he dropped the coasters into his basket.