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List Provided By: Unknown.
Sibling Rivalry XVIII
by: chopsticks
p g
-----
This was, undoubtedly, the best plan she had ever had in her entire life. Well, at least in the past day. She allowed a cruel smile to grace her features, reveling in the sheer brilliance of her idea. Lyle would flip out when he saw what she was about to do, but she didn't care. That little stunt in the lunchroom bar had been the last straw, as far as she was concerned.
Now, she just needed to figure out how to execute it. Which was why Broots now sat across from her, bug-eyed at the smile on her face. In his experience, whenever Miss Parker smiled like that, it meant very bad news, especially for him.
"Broots," she said slowly, letting the name roll off of her tongue. He swallowed audibly, bringing his eyes back to their regular size, or as close to it as he could manage. "I need you to find me some painters."
"Painters?" he stuttered, confused by her request.
"Yes, Broots. The people with the brushes, the ladders, and the paint." she quipped sarcastically.
"You know, I really don't appreciate. . ." She glared at him, and he trailed off, the remark left unfinished. "I'll go see about getting some painters. . ." And with that, he slid out of the chair and slipped out of the room quietly. She often wondered how he managed to blend in so well sometimes. If she hadn't been watching him, she would have never known he had left.
She dismissed the thought and began to daydream about what Lyle's face would look when he saw her latest scheme. Oh, it was going to be good.
----
Broots scurried, as he was apt to do, down the halls of The Centre. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, or even how he was going to find some painters, but he knew that failure was not an option he was willing to consider, especially with Miss Parker being at her most devious today.
It was while he was embroiled in these thoughts that he ran headlong into Mr. Lyle's office door, which now had windows in it. In fact, Broots considered, the doors looked like they had been completely replaced after Lyle's little scuffle with the carpenters. He thought it was pretty ironic that the carpenters that had caused half the damage in the first place (spurred on by several comments from the foul mouth of his superior) were now the ones repairing it. Broots opened the door a crack and was instantly overwhelmed with the strong scent of fresh paint. Fresh, wet paint.
Broots grinned slightly, glad that today Lady Luck was on his side for once. He opened the door a bit wider and nearly choked on the scent emanating from the room. Make that fresh, wet, odiferous paint.
"Whoa. . ." Broots mumbled, inhaling another whiff. He vaguely remembered that it was entirely possible to get high off of paint fumes and he wondered if that was what was happening to him now.
"What the. . .?" two surprised voices called out as a sudden burst of air was sucked from the room, just as it had happened when Lyle went through the glass.
"Oh, um, sorry," Broots said, entering the room and letting the door click shut behind him. He noted that the new window was now capable of being opened to let the breeze in. The painters were presumably using it to vent the room, but it seemed to be having very little effect.
"It's okay, don't worry about it. Nothing was hurt," one of the painters, a tall fellow with wispy black hair, replied through a facemask.
"Yeah, we're just getting started anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered," the other painter, shorter and with blond hair, said.
"Oh, that's good. It's looking nice," Broots said conversationally, glancing around the room and trying not to breathe more than possible.
"Thanks. Did you need something?" the dark-haired one said.
"Actually, um, I was wondering if. . .you could take a break. . .because my, um, superior wants to see you." Broots glanced nervously at both of them, hoping he hadn't made a complete ass of himself once again.
The painters looked at each other for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure, what the hell. The paint fumes are starting to get to me," the blond said, descending his ladder.
"Yeah, me too," the dark-haired one said, descending as well.
"Oh, well, that. . .that's good. Um, follow me, I guess."
-----
The instant she heard the timid knocking on her door, she knew it was Broots. He was the only one that didn't have balls enough to knock like a normal person.
"What?" she said harshly, looking up from her paperwork and toward the closed door.
"Um, Miss Parker?" Broots asked, poking his head in the door. It was a rather comical sight, and she might have been amused had it not been for the fact that she was chest-deep in backlogged paperwork.
"Yes, Broots," she said crossly, as if being disturbed by him was the last thing she wanted. Secretly, she was glad for the interruption, because she really loathed paperwork.
"I-I found some painters. . ." With that, her eyes lit up and she gesticulated to him that he bring the painters inside. Her best plan all day was about to be put into motion, and she couldn't be happier.
-----
Mr. Parker was coming back from a late-lunch business meeting and was feeling relatively mellow. Perhaps it had been the turkey he had; or the mindless business chatter that he had been listening to for the past hour and a half; or the three martinis he'd had. Whichever one it was (or perhaps a combination of all three), he was definitely in a very amicable mood.
So, when he walked into the main rotunda, carrying his briefcase and being generally congenial, he wasn't the least bit fazed by the painting that was going on. In fact, he barely noticed until the smell nearly knocked him unconscious. He looked up then and noticed that the painters were using a very dark shade for the new paint, which struck him as odd. The Centre preferred to project the image of stark cleanliness, and somehow royal purple paint just didn't seem to be the right choice. He wondered how the Tower had ever approved something like this, when he noticed that the painters seemed to be just randomly placing lines and arcs of paint all over the place, not really covering the surface. It was still in the preliminary stages, and in his state of mind he didn't notice that the painters were making letters, not random lines and arcs.
He blinked and shook his head slightly. It was then that he noticed his daughter standing at the opposite side, watching the painters work and occasionally shouting out directions. He made his way over to her, careful not to fall on the tarp that had been placed on the floor. She seemed slightly surprised at his appearance, but quickly masked it.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, giving him a quick hug.
"Hello, Angel," he replied. He looked up toward the painters once again, still befuddled at their random painting that wasn't really as random as he thought it was.
The duo stood in silence for a minute, and Miss Parker cast a worried look at her father, hoping he wouldn't put the kibosh on her fun.
"You know," he finally said, his words coming out slower than normal, "those painters are really doing a very poor job. They're just making random lines all over the place. Where did we find these people?"
Miss Parker blinked in surprise at her father, glad that he wasn't angry, but worried about his odd behavior. "I'm not really sure, Daddy," she replied, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Hmm. . . Well, find out for me, Angel. I'd like to have a talk with their employers." And with that final comment, he ambled off, leaving Miss Parker to her thoughts.
"That was. . .surreal," she said to herself. She decided to concern herself with it later and went back to supervising the painters.
-----
Lyle sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that day and shifted his suitcase to the opposite hand. The Tower was demanding that all paperwork be turned in by the end of the month, and that was now only six days away. He would be working well into the night just get to the stack he had stuffed into his briefcase done tonight. Five more stacks waited for him on his makeshift desk. He hated the end of the month.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the strong, overpowering smell of fresh paint. He wondered why it would be this close to the entrance, because as far as he knew, no remodeling was being done in that area until mid-summer.
It was only when he actually came into the main rotunda and noticed the mass of people that were standing there that he figured out why the area smelled like paint.
"Son of a fucking-" he began, dropping his briefcase (which was heavy enough to dent the floor slightly). The uproar this caused within the rotunda is indescribable, but many people were lying on the ground when it was all done, moaning in pain and some bleeding. Lyle ignored all of this and made his way to the middle of the rotunda, occasionally kicking one of the people on the ground, causing he or she to scream in pain. Somewhere deep within his mind, Lyle took pleasure in that noise.
But, what he was really concerned with was the writing that was painted—fucking painted!—on the walls. He began to read, having to spin in a circle to read all of it.
Fifteen Pieces of Advice When Dealing With Mr. Lyle
1.Don't imagine you can change Lyle. . .unless he happens to be wearing his weekend diapers.
2.What do you do if he walks out? You shut the door with the correct timing to hit him in the ass.
3.If they put a man on the moon, they should be able to stick Lyle up there as well. Maybe with a cannon of some sort.
4.Never let your Lyle's mind wander. It's too little to be out alone.
5.Go for younger cannibals. They're more attractive than Lyle is and you're bound to get eaten anyway.
6.Men are all the same. They just have different faces so that you can tell them apart.
7.Definition of a bachelor: a man who has missed the opportunity to make some woman miserable, instead choosing to eat her.
8.Women don't make fools of Mr. Lyle. He's the do-it-yourself type.
9. The best way to get a man to do something is to suggest that he is too old for it.
10.Love is blind, but marriage to Lyle is enough to make any woman gay.
11.If you want a committed man, look no further than Mr. Lyle in five years when he's confined at a mental hospital.
12.The children of Israel wandered around the desert for forty years. Even in biblical times, men wouldn't ask for directions.
13.If Lyle asks what sort of books you're interested in, tell him anything that keeps your liver intact and in your body.
14.Remember, a sense of humor does not mean that you tell him jokes, it means that you laugh at his.
15.Sadly, all men are created equal. . .and Mr. Lyle is the quintessential idiotic male.
After having spun in a circle, Lyle felt rather queasy and quite dizzy. The only thing that kept him from falling over was the intense rage he was feeling right then. As soon as he regained his balance and the world decided it liked being right-side up rather than sideways and at all sorts of funny angles, he stalked over to where his briefcase sat, kicking several bodies on the way, and snatched it up, the sheer weight of it forgotten.
He needed to plan something big against his sister, but he wasn't quite sure what it would be. At least, not yet.
-----
the end.
feedback welcomed at spacedoutwriter@hotmail.com.
by: chopsticks
p g
-----
This was, undoubtedly, the best plan she had ever had in her entire life. Well, at least in the past day. She allowed a cruel smile to grace her features, reveling in the sheer brilliance of her idea. Lyle would flip out when he saw what she was about to do, but she didn't care. That little stunt in the lunchroom bar had been the last straw, as far as she was concerned.
Now, she just needed to figure out how to execute it. Which was why Broots now sat across from her, bug-eyed at the smile on her face. In his experience, whenever Miss Parker smiled like that, it meant very bad news, especially for him.
"Broots," she said slowly, letting the name roll off of her tongue. He swallowed audibly, bringing his eyes back to their regular size, or as close to it as he could manage. "I need you to find me some painters."
"Painters?" he stuttered, confused by her request.
"Yes, Broots. The people with the brushes, the ladders, and the paint." she quipped sarcastically.
"You know, I really don't appreciate. . ." She glared at him, and he trailed off, the remark left unfinished. "I'll go see about getting some painters. . ." And with that, he slid out of the chair and slipped out of the room quietly. She often wondered how he managed to blend in so well sometimes. If she hadn't been watching him, she would have never known he had left.
She dismissed the thought and began to daydream about what Lyle's face would look when he saw her latest scheme. Oh, it was going to be good.
Broots scurried, as he was apt to do, down the halls of The Centre. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, or even how he was going to find some painters, but he knew that failure was not an option he was willing to consider, especially with Miss Parker being at her most devious today.
It was while he was embroiled in these thoughts that he ran headlong into Mr. Lyle's office door, which now had windows in it. In fact, Broots considered, the doors looked like they had been completely replaced after Lyle's little scuffle with the carpenters. He thought it was pretty ironic that the carpenters that had caused half the damage in the first place (spurred on by several comments from the foul mouth of his superior) were now the ones repairing it. Broots opened the door a crack and was instantly overwhelmed with the strong scent of fresh paint. Fresh, wet paint.
Broots grinned slightly, glad that today Lady Luck was on his side for once. He opened the door a bit wider and nearly choked on the scent emanating from the room. Make that fresh, wet, odiferous paint.
"Whoa. . ." Broots mumbled, inhaling another whiff. He vaguely remembered that it was entirely possible to get high off of paint fumes and he wondered if that was what was happening to him now.
"What the. . .?" two surprised voices called out as a sudden burst of air was sucked from the room, just as it had happened when Lyle went through the glass.
"Oh, um, sorry," Broots said, entering the room and letting the door click shut behind him. He noted that the new window was now capable of being opened to let the breeze in. The painters were presumably using it to vent the room, but it seemed to be having very little effect.
"It's okay, don't worry about it. Nothing was hurt," one of the painters, a tall fellow with wispy black hair, replied through a facemask.
"Yeah, we're just getting started anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered," the other painter, shorter and with blond hair, said.
"Oh, that's good. It's looking nice," Broots said conversationally, glancing around the room and trying not to breathe more than possible.
"Thanks. Did you need something?" the dark-haired one said.
"Actually, um, I was wondering if. . .you could take a break. . .because my, um, superior wants to see you." Broots glanced nervously at both of them, hoping he hadn't made a complete ass of himself once again.
The painters looked at each other for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure, what the hell. The paint fumes are starting to get to me," the blond said, descending his ladder.
"Yeah, me too," the dark-haired one said, descending as well.
"Oh, well, that. . .that's good. Um, follow me, I guess."
The instant she heard the timid knocking on her door, she knew it was Broots. He was the only one that didn't have balls enough to knock like a normal person.
"What?" she said harshly, looking up from her paperwork and toward the closed door.
"Um, Miss Parker?" Broots asked, poking his head in the door. It was a rather comical sight, and she might have been amused had it not been for the fact that she was chest-deep in backlogged paperwork.
"Yes, Broots," she said crossly, as if being disturbed by him was the last thing she wanted. Secretly, she was glad for the interruption, because she really loathed paperwork.
"I-I found some painters. . ." With that, her eyes lit up and she gesticulated to him that he bring the painters inside. Her best plan all day was about to be put into motion, and she couldn't be happier.
Mr. Parker was coming back from a late-lunch business meeting and was feeling relatively mellow. Perhaps it had been the turkey he had; or the mindless business chatter that he had been listening to for the past hour and a half; or the three martinis he'd had. Whichever one it was (or perhaps a combination of all three), he was definitely in a very amicable mood.
So, when he walked into the main rotunda, carrying his briefcase and being generally congenial, he wasn't the least bit fazed by the painting that was going on. In fact, he barely noticed until the smell nearly knocked him unconscious. He looked up then and noticed that the painters were using a very dark shade for the new paint, which struck him as odd. The Centre preferred to project the image of stark cleanliness, and somehow royal purple paint just didn't seem to be the right choice. He wondered how the Tower had ever approved something like this, when he noticed that the painters seemed to be just randomly placing lines and arcs of paint all over the place, not really covering the surface. It was still in the preliminary stages, and in his state of mind he didn't notice that the painters were making letters, not random lines and arcs.
He blinked and shook his head slightly. It was then that he noticed his daughter standing at the opposite side, watching the painters work and occasionally shouting out directions. He made his way over to her, careful not to fall on the tarp that had been placed on the floor. She seemed slightly surprised at his appearance, but quickly masked it.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, giving him a quick hug.
"Hello, Angel," he replied. He looked up toward the painters once again, still befuddled at their random painting that wasn't really as random as he thought it was.
The duo stood in silence for a minute, and Miss Parker cast a worried look at her father, hoping he wouldn't put the kibosh on her fun.
"You know," he finally said, his words coming out slower than normal, "those painters are really doing a very poor job. They're just making random lines all over the place. Where did we find these people?"
Miss Parker blinked in surprise at her father, glad that he wasn't angry, but worried about his odd behavior. "I'm not really sure, Daddy," she replied, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Hmm. . . Well, find out for me, Angel. I'd like to have a talk with their employers." And with that final comment, he ambled off, leaving Miss Parker to her thoughts.
"That was. . .surreal," she said to herself. She decided to concern herself with it later and went back to supervising the painters.
Lyle sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that day and shifted his suitcase to the opposite hand. The Tower was demanding that all paperwork be turned in by the end of the month, and that was now only six days away. He would be working well into the night just get to the stack he had stuffed into his briefcase done tonight. Five more stacks waited for him on his makeshift desk. He hated the end of the month.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the strong, overpowering smell of fresh paint. He wondered why it would be this close to the entrance, because as far as he knew, no remodeling was being done in that area until mid-summer.
It was only when he actually came into the main rotunda and noticed the mass of people that were standing there that he figured out why the area smelled like paint.
"Son of a fucking-" he began, dropping his briefcase (which was heavy enough to dent the floor slightly). The uproar this caused within the rotunda is indescribable, but many people were lying on the ground when it was all done, moaning in pain and some bleeding. Lyle ignored all of this and made his way to the middle of the rotunda, occasionally kicking one of the people on the ground, causing he or she to scream in pain. Somewhere deep within his mind, Lyle took pleasure in that noise.
But, what he was really concerned with was the writing that was painted—fucking painted!—on the walls. He began to read, having to spin in a circle to read all of it.
Fifteen Pieces of Advice When Dealing With Mr. Lyle
1.Don't imagine you can change Lyle. . .unless he happens to be wearing his weekend diapers.
2.What do you do if he walks out? You shut the door with the correct timing to hit him in the ass.
3.If they put a man on the moon, they should be able to stick Lyle up there as well. Maybe with a cannon of some sort.
4.Never let your Lyle's mind wander. It's too little to be out alone.
5.Go for younger cannibals. They're more attractive than Lyle is and you're bound to get eaten anyway.
6.Men are all the same. They just have different faces so that you can tell them apart.
7.Definition of a bachelor: a man who has missed the opportunity to make some woman miserable, instead choosing to eat her.
8.Women don't make fools of Mr. Lyle. He's the do-it-yourself type.
9. The best way to get a man to do something is to suggest that he is too old for it.
10.Love is blind, but marriage to Lyle is enough to make any woman gay.
11.If you want a committed man, look no further than Mr. Lyle in five years when he's confined at a mental hospital.
12.The children of Israel wandered around the desert for forty years. Even in biblical times, men wouldn't ask for directions.
13.If Lyle asks what sort of books you're interested in, tell him anything that keeps your liver intact and in your body.
14.Remember, a sense of humor does not mean that you tell him jokes, it means that you laugh at his.
15.Sadly, all men are created equal. . .and Mr. Lyle is the quintessential idiotic male.
After having spun in a circle, Lyle felt rather queasy and quite dizzy. The only thing that kept him from falling over was the intense rage he was feeling right then. As soon as he regained his balance and the world decided it liked being right-side up rather than sideways and at all sorts of funny angles, he stalked over to where his briefcase sat, kicking several bodies on the way, and snatched it up, the sheer weight of it forgotten.
He needed to plan something big against his sister, but he wasn't quite sure what it would be. At least, not yet.
the end.
feedback welcomed at spacedoutwriter@hotmail.com.
