6:59 A.M. The radio alarm jarred her angrily awake, as always. It was set to the hip hop station to force her to get up immediately and switch off the the fucking racket before leaping like a wounded gazelle from bed and dragging a brush through her auburn tangles, prepared to face another day educating the youth of America. As she reached for her noisy Zenith she came to an abrupt halt as bombastic horns and kettle drums blared through its tiny blown speakers, followed by the excited voice of the DJ.
"This is Marty McFly Swatter with the WHIP FM (whip-cracking sound effcts) morning zoo. I have an important announcement: Due to the heavy snowfall and blizzard conditions, our governor has declared a state-of-emergency for the area. All schools are closed until future notice...now back to Johnny Mathis sings gangsta rap followed by 24 continuous hours of Lil Wayne singing the Frozen soundtrack."
After dancing an impromptu Snow Day jig a la Riverdance, she dashed to the window, becoming silly with glee as she took in the mounting snowdrifts. So unexpected. She knew her third-grade kids would be excited but nowhere close to her joy. But, she still had an important decision to make; should she stay indoors and binge-watch baby Yoda on 'the Mandolorian` or frolic outdoors? Her inner child won that debate and she quickly donned her parka and Sorel snow boots, the only two items her granny left her in her will. That is until her lawsuit against the estate is adjudicated. Blood is thicker than water, my ass!
Stepping outside, the teacher was temporarily blinded by the virginal-white glare of fresh snow. It was the whitest thing she had seen since a Trump rally in Iowa. By the time she took her second step, she was bombarded by snowballs from neighborhood snipers, aided by the fact it was a wet snow, perfect for crafting snowballs of mass destruction. Next door some enterprising PTA had already built a snowman. They even used a huge cucumber as Frosty's snowmanhood and were charging $20 per ride. Soccer moms were lined up around the block, their drool freezing before it hit the ground.
Standing on her porch atop Peekaboo Street, she watched celebrating brats on their cheap-ass plastic sleds. It has a treacherous, steep hill perfect for sledding, but now it was her turn to show these hooligans how it's done. Grabbing the dusty old-school sled from the garage, it's steel runners glistening and deadly she applied Pam to each runner liberally and trudged her way up the hill. Kids stepped aside to allow her passage like extras in a Sergio Leone spaghetti western. Squinting down the hill like Charles Bronson, she rubbed raw bacon on the steel for an additional layer of turbo-powered fun and then she was off as on-lookers gazed on like slack-jawed yokels. The story would be told like Tolkien tales for decades to come of how this quiet elementary school teacher went careening down the slope like Clark Griswald. Only her profane screams prevented this from becoming an even bigger part of local lore.
It began simply enough. She took a running start, dropped the sled and jumped on it face down. That impact had multiple effects: the sled creaked and catapulted down the ice, it knocked the wind out of her at one end and thunderous flatulence out the other end which seemed to propel her now gas-powered sled even faster. Midway down, there was an unplanned hazard. A defenseless bunny rabbit was frozen in its tracks at the sight of the rampaging sled-o-doom. Too late to swerve, the teacher closed her eyes and prayed for the best. Her best wasn't good enough as the razor-sharp runners severed all four of Peter Cottontail's legs simultaneously, blood soaking into the snow like a scene from John Carpenter's The Thing. Still, the sledder felt lucky not to have crashed and she had four rabbit's feet to thank for it. The rabbit in question felt much less fortunate. At least, she finally had answered the age-old debate. It was rabbit season not duck season although had the bunny ducked the tale could have ended on a much cheerier note.
Our protagonist, an animal- lover wept openly and prayed for forgiveness from the rabbit's hundreds of offsprings.
Gazing further down the hill through frozen tears, she witnessed yet another potential disaster. Standing near a roaring bonfire was some hipster playing Jack Johnson on his acoustic guitar. Needing to vent her frustrations she leaped from her conveyance, grabbed his Gibson and smashed it like Pete Townsend or, even better, Quick Draw McGraw. Applause from a nearby house caught her ear. It was from a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Walking slowly to her new admirer, their eyes locked.
The applauding female broke into exposition. "I just came outside to make snow angels when that horrible man began caterwauling like something from the depths of Hades. But, thankfully you arrived to chase him away like Jesus eradicating money changers from the temple."
"Like who from where?"
"You're not much of a Bible scholar, are you?"
"But I am," the teacher corrected. "Ask me anything."
"Okay, tell me about Genesis," her new friend inquired.
"That's an easy one. Peter Gabriel was the original singer, but he quit and was replaced by Phil Collins although I'm not sure what this has to with the Bible."
This confusing religious conversation did help clear up the land of confusion over the mystery lady's identity. She was the wife of the Reverend Smithy (obscure reference of all-time). But the God-fearing woman wasn't done...of course, they never are...As much as I admire your work with Mel Torme Jr. Over there, I must admit I'm troubled by your mutilation of that poor bunny rabbit. They are all God's creatures, great and small, you know. Your actions were almost demonic. You're not the spawn of Satan are you?"
Extending her frigid hand in response..."Please allow me to introduce myself," she said with a self-aware giggle which got no reaction from the pious neighbor. "Not a Stones fan, eh?" Never mind, some people call me the gangster of love, but my actual name is Phlegm Fatale."
"I think I'll stick with Gangster if you don't mind." Her face then contorted hideously as if a horrible thought suddenly dawned on her. "Oh goodness gracious, my wonderful husband has mentioned you in sermons dozens of times." Then whispering, "Are you truly a lesbian? I thought they were only urban legends to frighten young girls." Her question left her cheeks burning like the fires of Hell without Ozzy Osbourne music. Our hero merely nodded and asked
"And who might you be"
"That's right, we've never been formally introduced. I'm Sinai Smithy. I've only lived here eight years, you harlot." She then used her fingers to form a cross aimed at Phlegm.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm a lesbian, not a fucking vampire!" No one is sure which word caused the preacher's wife to slip a nitroglycerin pill beneath her tongue; perhaps it was a combination of all. Still, the thought of seducing the wife of the preacher who once banished her from his church merely because she had "borrowed" money from the Easter offering plate did appeal to her on many levels.. She had no interest in romance with the religious housewife but as conquests go, this had massive fantasy potential, surpassing even the ones of Britney Spears in her younger years.
Revving up seduction mode, the teacher inched closer. "Aren't you at least curious about intimacy with another woman? You can tell me. The Reverend Lovejoy will never know."
"It's Smithy! Curious or not, homosexuality is a sin!"
"So is murder but everyone does it, " the teacher replied skillfully.
"You never took any logic classes did you?"
"The only logic I need was gleaned from the wonderful Leonard Nimoy. Besides, read the eleven commandments. Nowhere does it say, 'Thou shall not perform or receive cunnilingus .' Seriously, what do you have to lose?"
"My soul," Mrs. Smith replied sadly.
"Actually, I had something more tangible in mind," teach clarified. "We can be patient. I won't rush you like a bat out of hell."
"Meatloaf?"
"No thank you, I had Vienna sausages earlier. But enough talk about fine food, be honest, this conversation has you horny, doesn't it? Go on, my child, confession is good for the soul I hear."
Mrs, Smithy covered her ears and began chanting in tongues. "Oh, please don't use that vile word!"
"Confession?"
"No, 'horny. The devil has horns, you wicked temptress."
"He has a pitchfork too like Eddie Albert on 'Green Acres' but not even Billy Graham ever accused that show of Devil worship."
"Well, I suppose it would be nice to have a girlfriend to discuss secular topics with. Like, every few weeks I get terrible itching between my toes. Do you?"
"No. I've got 99 problems but an itch ain't one." Even the well-hung snowman could be heard booing. Unless he was saying "Bruce."
The teacher then took her victim of prey by the arm and escorted her up the hill. Mrs. Smithy felt as if she was walking the 'Green Mile' but with the compassionate Tom Hanks nowhere in sight for salvation. The winter storm continued to rage around the shivering women. Sitting on a curb was a huge, slobbering St. Bernard with a small brandy keg beneath its neck. Next to him was a sign stating five dollars a shot. "Would you like a drink, neighbor? My treat to warm you up and ease inhibitions."