The Horror of the West
Rated (M):
Bloody Horror Violence, Strong Language and Sexuality
PART I: PACKING
"That was my shirt!"
"And those were my pants…."
Clarice turned towards Don; he held a smirk upon his chiseled face. She was right; they were fighting not more than a day after their wedding.
"Alright, we'll see who has the last laugh," she said.
She pulled a shiny quarter from her pocket, "heads and I pack everything my way."
Don rolled his eyes. She's as crazy as her mother said she was.
"Flip away," he said.
He watched as her thumb popped upward, hit the quarter, and sent it flying straight into the air. It glistened in the sunlight - which peeked in from the window they stood in front of.
The yellow paint that covered the walls of the house held a golden tone in the warming light. Don leaned very slightly against an oak table, its polished surface letting him see himself. His eyes followed the quarter up until it hit the ceiling, its rough texture ricocheting the quarter off into the living room.
Clarice ran so quickly out of the kitchen that a gust of air hit Don in the face, sweeping his hair around in circles.
"Fuck!"
Don heard Clarice cursing from the connecting room. An almost evil looking smile split his lips. He stepped into the doorway and saw Clarice bent over, staring at the quarter as though it would flip over.
"Well, looks like I'm packing."
"No, stupid. I stubbed my toe."
Looking utterly displeased with himself, he peered at the quarter.
"Well, shit."
Clarice smiled and stood up, but Don saw this coming and ran over to her. He scooped her feet out from under her and she fell into his arms. He carried her with ease, out of the room and into their bedroom which was just down the hall.
"I think we have some time to spare," he softly whispered in her ear.
Clarice laughed. Both fell onto the bed.
"I've got some new moves…."