DISCLAIMER: I loooooove disclaimers…
Voltaire: Okay. Question number-counts on fingers- one is-
Erik: Oh, no you don't. No more non-serious writing until you add another chapter to that serious story. The one you said you'd be working on!
Volitaire: Geez, who sent you here to watch over me? My dad?
Erik: -clicks off walkie-talkie: Noooooooo…
Volitaire: If you ask me-
Erik: Which I didn't.
Volitaire: Why do something today when you can procrastinate forever? Wheeee! Procrastination!
Erik: If someone doesn't shut her up, this whole stories going to be a disclaimer. Which means I won't be abused like always in her stories…Heheheh…
Volitaire: Silly Erik…
Question One- What would happen if my little brother finally captured Erik?
--
I was sitting on my bed, eating a chocolate waffle sandwich, when my little brother- (tries to find fake name for him)- Corky, came bursting into my room.
"Didn't you read the sign?" I asked him, trying to figure out why my attack cat sucked so much at being an attack cat.
"Yes," he said, shaking his head no. "But I did bring you a present!" He put both hands behind his back.
"Corky, there's nothing in either of your hands. You just showed me!"
He held out his right hand and revealed a live fish.
Weird, I thought.
He started to walk out of my room, and I followed him down stairs to our basement, curious (Erik: jokes on you, stupid! You live in a state below sea level. You can't have a basement HAHAAH- Me: click Why do I keep letting him back on the computer.)
When we reached the basement/underground pool, I gasped.
"Look at this nice wallpaper; I never noticed that all these fifteen years we've lived here!"
"Es-I mean,-Volitaire, look up."
I looked up. Hanging from a rope on the ceiling was none other then Erik himself.
"Ohmigodohmigod, Erik, THE Erik, is hanging from my ceiling! AHH!" I shouted with glee as Erik glared at me upside down.
"Let me down! Or I'll hurt your cat!" he said as a muffled meowing came out from his jacket.
"We don't have a cat," I said calmly.
"Uh, Yes you do!" he shouted, obviously, even to a toddler, trying to trick us into freeing him.
"Ah! No, I'll let you down! Just give me the cat!" I cried, standing on one of my dad's home made ladders, made out of a book of carpet samples.
Erik fell to the ground, landing on his head, groaning. For a moment, everything was awkwardly silent.
"Sandwich?" I said, offering Erik my waffle-thingy.
"No, I don't want your stupid sandwich, stupid! I want you to release me! NOW!" he screamed.
Suddenly, I heard a sound that struck terror into my-glances at an anatomy book- spleen every time I heard it: my mom's voice. Our parents were home! What would they do if a strange, disgruntled masked man with a cat and a waffle sandwich was in their house?
"Quick! Flee! Flee like you've never flung before!" I screamed, hiding under a table. Corky hid under a chair, and Erik just ran around in circles.
"Honey! We're home! I hope this is our house," my dad said as he opened the door, pausing to put his hat on top of Erik's head, thinking he was a coat hanger.
"Funny…I never noticed this masked coat hanger before.
"Coats go on coat hangers, not hats, you idiot…," growled Erik. My dad didn't hear him.
"Now where are those kids? They need to mow the lawn, even thought they just mowed it yesterday, it's nighttime, it's raining and hailing, and we don't have a lawn," said my dad.
He went upstairs, and we all clambered out of our hideouts.
"How did you get here anyway?" I asked Erik, who was struggling to remove the hat from his face.
"I don't know. One moment I was writing my to-do list (Item one: Kill fop. Item two: Kill fop. Item three: etc.) and the next, your brother was tying me up."
"Well," I said, narrowing my eyes, "You can stay here and I can showcase you to all my friends! I'll charge three Argentine pesos per visit, and-,"
"How about you stay here and study the art of winning Christine back with me? I know all about girls," said Corky naively. Erik and I gave each other a look; Corky didn't know anything about romance.
"I think I'll go with option three, the Ferrari and laptop," he said nervously, looking back and forth at Corky and I.
"Ah-ah. There is no option three." I scolded.
Erik went into deep thought, by which I mean he was dreaming about driving down the highway, way above the speed limit, in his Ferrari, singing Sweet Child o' mine by Guns n' Roses.
"Fine. I'll stay. If you throw in a live fish," he said.
"WHAT IS IT WITH YOU PEOPLE AND LIVE FISH?" screamed the authoress from above.