***MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY***
Harold was a good friend of one of Myra’s co-workers. Myra had agreed to go on a blind date with Harold only because of the glowing report she’d received from the co-worker and her husband. She did a quick-stalk on his social media pages, which looked extraordinarily ordinary. What a nice change of pace.
The plan was that Myra would meet Harold at the just-opened French cuisine restaurant. Harold made reservations at 7, and Myra was there and seated at 6:45; Harold arrived minutes later. Soon the two were drinking moscato and nibbling salmon-topped appetizers. Harold was an excellent conversationalist with romance in his heart. He told Myra about his new kitten and his favorite hobby, baking. He described his latest batch of cupcakes with such passion, Myra began to warm up to him and imagined helping him ice cupcakes in a cozy kitchen. Most amazing of all, he asked Myra questions and listened to her responses.
After dinner, they took a leisurely stroll on the boardwalk and were able to watch the sunset from the lighthouse at the end of it. Harold offered his coat to Myra on the brisk walk back to their cars, as once the sun went down it got quite chilly.
They reached Harold’s car first, a boat-like beast from the 50’s. Harold invited her into the vehicle to talk for a bit more and Myra accepted. Harold held the passenger door open as she slipped onto the smooth seats. Looking around in the vehicle, Myra marveled at the buttercream leather upholstery, old-time gauges, dials, and trim details — made from real metal, not plastic. Then she noticed that the passenger car door had no door or window handles.
A funny feeling came over Myra when she heard Harold giggle and say, “Surprise!”
Myra’s head swiveled towards Harold and saw he’d unzipped his trousers and pulled out his bazooka — compass said due north. With a smoothness that indicated her hundreds of practices, Myra reached into an outer pocket on her purse for the pepper spray and gave Harold a 10-second blast while pulling her portable gas mask over her face. Then she pulled Trigger, the .45, out of her purse and pointed it at Harold’s temple.
“OK, big boy, are you going to see me out, or shall I let myself out?”
Harold, gagging, face bright red, was twice Myra’s size; and as he often depended on his brawn for his hobbies, he lunged for the revolver — which went off and splattered his brains all over the buttercream upholstery.
Myra dialed ‘911’. She was able to reach the driver’s door handle to open it. She had to do a double kangaroo shove-kick to get Harold out of her way so she could exit the vehicle. She stepped over his cooling corpse and walked to the front of the vehicle. Hopping up then plopping on the hood, she dented it as her high heels scratched the chrome of the fender. Soon the police arrived, as did the ambulance.
Her mind, in an effort to barricade her from adrenalin overload, kept looping, “No more blind dates. No more blind dates. No more blind dates.”