The Observations of Patrick Kraker.

Chapter 2

I froze into position at precisely 7.49. I'd used this new moonshine pearl lustre paint powder instead of my usual liquid paint. It was easier to wash off, and cheaper.

The only problems were that the stuff was easily transferred, meaning that I left silvery prints everywhere I touched, and that the powder kept wandering up my nose. Yes, I now have silver nostrils.

I absentmindedly sucked on one of the sweets that Mrs. Phinnegan had left in my bucket yesterday. The crystal of cherry red slowly dissolved in my mouth. Then it began.

My eyes watered and invisible steam blew out of my ears. My nose leaked and I sniffled and sneezed. The curious powder that explored my nostrils didn't really help either. My tongue was alight with the fiery flavour. It wasn't cherry. It wasn't strawberry. It was chilli. That wacko.

I spat the remaining candy into the bushes behind me.

I didn't have time to focus on Homeless Dude getting shouted at again. It's kind of hard to concentrate when your body is trying to eject your lungs out of your mouth.
When a particularly violent sneeze ripped through my body, combined with my brilliant coordination, needless to say, it didn't go down well.

I hurtled face first into the pavement, my glasses flying off. At the last moment, I was caught from probable hospitalisation by none other than Mrs. Phinnegan, herself. I was literally parallel to the pavement when she gripped my hands, allowing me to put my feet down.

I'd like to say that that fall could have happened to anyone because my ledge is five feet off the ground, but in reality it's like two feet. So only me. Only me. Now some would put a positive spin on that: I'm unique. Then others (me) would throw a glass of cold water at them and say, 'Wake up, you delusional donkey.'
Them: 'Oh look, now the glass is half full!'
Then others (me again) would walk away and hope stupidity isn't contagious.
That doesn't necessarily mean that I'm a pessimist, as it's highly unlikely that I'll look at the glass at all, since my primary source of hydration is vending machine soda. Healthy, I know.

I thanked Mrs. Phinnegan who introduced herself to me. I'd also like to say that I was completely right about her and she tried to kidnap me with a handkerchief of chloroform, but I was a little bit off the mark.

Her name was Dorothy Finnegan and she had a dog; no cats, and judging from the pace at which she was talking, she liked to pour her whole life story out to people. I could write her biography.

However, I noticed one thing: as she spoke, her hands shook ever so slightly. She was also wearing sunglasses so I couldn't see her eyes. Her back was hunched, with a cardigan stretched over it, but two prominent bumps from under the cardigan, down the length of her back, that she itched every few minutes. She also mentioned something about going to the doctor's, but I was preoccupied by trying to figure out if she was trying to trick me into thinking that she was a nice lady.
What about that godforsaken candy, huh? Giving poisoned candy to innocent, naïve teenagers?

I knew she was evil now, no point in trying to hide it.

I could feel my observational skills improving, as I came to a conclusion after she left. Guilty. But what was she trying to hide?

Her true vindictive nature.

Her true villainous form.

A faerie.

She was lying about the dog thing, because if she really had a dog, I think she would have been dog food by now, assuming that she took her wicked true form at home. She probably gave out poisoned candy to other children and teens alike, trying to coax them into taking it by grinning. Key word: trying. Those dentures could make anyone wet their pants.