Freak Week [#WRITINGWITHGRACE CHAPTERS 2 & 3]

CHAPTER THREE: FREAK FIGHTERS

Dear Disaster Diary,

Whomever was the leading individual to advise against kickin' it with outlanders has undoubtedly never literally, nor figuratively kicked it with the aforementioned "shadowy figure".

I'm composing this to you, Big D, ensuing an appreciably bewitching exchange with conceivably the paramount entity of audaciousness and eccentrically magnetizing heroism:

"Great Caeser's ghost, who the fried green tomatoes are you?!" Marmie squawked as the party crasher sauntered within her autocratic wake, our engrossment centralized unto her.

"I'm here t' chat with the guy or gal in charge.  If you ain't them, get outta my way," the gentlewoman regimented, investigating the lot of us for a singleton of authority.

"I—" Mr. Kevin advanced dubiously, his tone faltering akin to a prepubescent "crack", "I would be that guy.  How can I help you, uh, Miss...?"

"Lieutenant Bluebell Mildore," she pronounced with imperturbable intrepidity, her palm enveloping an oxhide holster that masqueraded a metallic spray canister of an indistinguishable substance.

"Lieutenant of what?" Crush interrogated, his shoulder peppered with blanched freckles sideswiping mine.  He catapulted a fleetingly resplendent gander my direction, and when we fractured our tenderhearted ogling, I could've attested on The Bible in open court that his ashen cheeks were tinted blush.

"THEBEDROOM!" Harry (who would've reckoned, Disaster Robot Diary?) vociferated with callow snickering, his engagement as a primo ballerino professedly having ceased.

"Harry.  A female on the front lines of combat is not a female to be sexualized or objectified as a defense mechanism for the patriarchy's undeniably wounded egos when women are more skilled marksmen than them.  Even an attractive lady like Miss Mildore here," Banana courteously avouched—or, alternatively, burned—him in rejoinder.

Harry was, in consequence, quiescent, dumbfounded by Banana's veracious intellectuality; however, we were collectively aghast at her declaration of, well—lesbianism.

"Banana," I addressed fastidiously, apprehensive that we were interpreting her erroneously; albeit, I'm recurrently prevailing in uncertainty as to how that would be, "are you gay?"

"Yeah.  When have I not been?" Banana questioned with a furrowed brow.  When becoming cognizant of our persisting bewilderment, she recommenced with her respective bona fide confoundment, "You detectives never clued into that?"

We were merely positioned amidst the lobby of the establishment, bamboozled within our head shaking, the trophy cases saturated with gold, silver, and bronze bestowals for sporting tournaments environing us, and a motivational affiche, which eloquently declaimed, "Roses are red / Violets are blue / Apply yourself to your studies / Or else you'll end up homeless alongside your dropout buddies!"

"Look, I'd love t' keep this lil' discussion 'bout Banana's homosexuality here 'n happenin'—y'know, congrats on that 'n everythin'—but I don't have all the time in the world," Bluebell interjected, readjusting our assiduity onto the impending assignment. "I'm on a mission 'n I need your help."

"Ma'am, I think you may have us here confused with people of a more profound aggression and agility—" Mr. Kevin chortled diffidently, waving his hand aimlessly in timorous disesteem.

"What Mr. Kevin means to say here, Bluebell, is that," Marmie amended, striding before the lieutenant to situate herself within the nucleus of the communication, "whatever it is, we're in like my auntie digging into a big ol' bowl of green bean casserole on Thanksgiving."

"What do you need us for?" Crush inquired, ruffling his azure tresses.

"This is gonna come as a shock t' you kids—erm, 'n adult—but out there in the great wild is an underground operation we like t' call 'Freak Fighters'."

"You had me at 'underground operation' and lost me at 'Freak Fighters'," I muttered, my expression disheartened at the plausibility that this self-proclaimed militia executive may be inebriated with Freak Week's psychological pestilence.

"Us Fighters got together a lil' while after Freak Week was first takin' it's course," Bluebell elucidated, and it was the first occurrence that it was opportune to scrutinize her visage for what it was: incontestably apocalyptic.  The lustrous melanin of her left cheekbone bore a healed laceration.  Her ebony locks were cloaked beneath a camouflage baseball cap, and upon her voluptuous framework was a conventional onyx tank top, army pants, and snakeskin combat boots. "To keep it simple: we go out, take on whatever environmental disaster, 'n make sure people get someplace safe for the time that's left.  We've been workin' closely with some scientists—y'know, tryin' to get our planet back to the way it was before this mess—'n we've even been able to prevent some of that chaos out there."

"So...basically...the Fighters are a bunch of treehuggers," Harry perceived unhurriedly, his lips pursed.

"Hey, we do good work, kid!  Not like anybody else has stepped up t' the plate."

"We respect you for that, Lieutenant, we do, but," Banana huffed exasperatedly, "what do the Freak Fighters have to do with us?"

"There's someone out there," Bluebell tentatively articulated, her almond-shaped eyes glowering with determination, yet trepidation.  "He goes by his initials: R.W.  He 'n his asinine rebel group have been tryin' to take us down for months now, 'n they're startin' to catch up to us.  You guys seem like you could use somewhere to crash, so here's my proposition: you help me put away R.W., and I'll bring you t' headquarters until this is all over."

"Students, I don't know if—" Mr. Kevin uttered with presentiment.

"Uh, yeah, we're absolutely doing this, y'all," Marmie infringed yet again with a lambent grin, her ponytail ablaze with its incandescent redness and bouncing with enthusiasm.

"Glad to hear it," the lieutenant nodded approvingly, a humble smile of her own plastered upon her features. "Get your things 'n follow me outside."

"Wait a minute—outdoors?  There's not a chance that I'm getting cello'd again," Crush abstained   adamantly, ostensibly weary of the previously experienced emotional influences for reasons unbeknownst to me.

"Almost forgot 'bout that," Bluebell conceded as she extracted that same spray can from her holster. "Use this.  It ain't a cure, but it'll mask most of the usual symptoms of The Freak.  Plus, it smells like peaches."

As we spritzed ourselves with the fragrant inoculation, daybreak erupted throughout the atmosphere, and with that Freak Week perpetuated in manifesting.  Day Three was exceptionally idiosyncratic, for ducks—literal, actual ducklings—materialized by sprouting from the soil as though they themselves were your average joe daisy plant.

Following the obtainment of our minimal personal belongings and the supplies we accumulated the initial day of Freak Week, we trudged into the horizon, deserting Greatway High School into the dust (or ducks).

"Don't you dare fluff that duck, Harry!" Marmie shrilled as he plucked duckling blossoms from the sage grass beneath our feet.

Disaster Diary, you and I are concurrently pedaling at a distressing velocity into the epicenter of Freak Week.  However, as I look yonder into my Great Beyond—Crush ambling alongside myself, guffawing at Marmie partaking in an involuntary game of tag with Harry cackling maniacally; Banana sweet talking Lieutenant Bluebell; Mr. Kevin morosely attempting to phone his two-timing wife—I can't refrain from thinking this: 'I'm a senior.  Not the wheelchair kind, but the this-is-the-end-of-the-beginning kind.  Things are ending, and I don't want them to.  So, this is going to be my legendary adventure—my galaxy's worth of an adventure—and this is going to be beautiful.  I'm going to make it beautiful.'

5 Days and Counting,

Your girl, Lace