Kitchen Cruelty

KC Six: Banana

A/N: Hey guys, sorry for taking so long! But I think this one should be enjoyable, so enjoy (:

Dedicated to Mish for enforcing this idea :P (: 

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Part Six

•Banana•

          “I don’t wanna be a chicken; I don’t wanna be a duck; so I shake my butt!” I sing happily. “Da da da da, I don’t wanna be a chicke-“

          “Shut. The. Hell. Up!” a neighbouring thing screams out in shrill, anguished voice, but I reckon, that deep down, it doesn’t actually mean that so rudely. Deep, deep down. As in, like, deep, deep, ‘Hey, let’s go get a shovel, a jackhammer digging thing and another thingy mabob that you can use for digging and drill to the centre of the Earth!’ type deep. But it’s okay. ‘Cause the true feeling is still there, that it isn’t really anguished. I giggle inwardly and let out a small fart of joy.

          I get ready to voice my thoughts – well, they’re not just thoughts, it’s the truth, but ya know, they’re still in my head, so technically, they’re still thoughts – to the thing that just interrupted my lovely singing when I realise I have no idea what it was. I emit a fart of confusion from the joint of my peels where all my farts come from, and I scan the area. My gaze passes over a roll of kitchen paper, a stack of toilet rolls, – which isn’t something you’d usually find in a kitchen, but actually, it’s pretty normal here, so oh well – a passionfruit that’s definitely got it’s grumpy hat on and a wood block.

          Three of them are clearly inanimate and definitely don’t talk. So, it’s pretty clear which one just interrupted me and has deeply hidden feelings, no?

“Oh my god, how can it be thinking or whatever the hell that stupid banana is doing and be singing and farting at the same time?” the thing groans quietly. I think it was talking to itself. But you never know. It might’ve meant for me to hear that. But I hope not. Because it wasn’t very nice. It shouldn’t be calling me stupid.

But actually, if I dig deeper again, if I look for the hidden meaning behind the thing’s words, I can tell that it’s a compliment. My peel lets a happy fart rip. The thing’s obviously complimenting on my skill at multitasking. You know, singing, farting and thinking at the same time. It takes a pretty smart, talented person to do that. Not to say that about myself, but I mean, I can’t help if others think highly of me.

          “You know, you don’t actually mean that,” I say kindly. “You’ve just hidden your feelings deep, Loo – can I call you that? Loo? Or should I call you Rolls? Because, you know, you’re a toilet roll. And, well, I dunno. It’s kinda awkward calling you Toilet Rolls, if you get what I mean. Oh, actually, maybe I should call you Loopy. Like, as in, LooPee. As in, like, how people call toilet paper, TP? Like, TeePee? For Toilet Paper? I should call you Loopy. As in LooPee. Like Loo Paper. Do you get what I mean? Get my flow? My swagger? My rhythm? You know, I thinhk I’ll just call you Loopy. ‘Cause you seem to be quite loopy, not responding to me now, but getting all annoyed-as-a-front-but-actually-not-annoyed at me before. It’s really, quite confusing.”

          “Oh, this is pointless,” the thing mutters.

          “Well clearly!” I exclaim a little put out, “If you can’t even talk back to me when I want you to!” I release a slow, sad fart. Instinctively, that fart is followed by a happy one, to lift up my moods, because I’ve trained myself to never be sad, and to always cheer myself up instantly. Happy again, I sing, “Loopy, Loopy, Loopy the loo roll, ah. I don’t wanna be a chicken; I don’t wanna be a duck; so I shake my butt!”

          “When will this end?! Put me out of my misery!” the thing cries exasperatedly.

          “Oh, Loopy, don’t be like that! You know I love you and, oh I feel a song coming on!” I cry happily, emitting three joyous farts in a row. “I love you, you love me, let’s go... Oh darn, Loopy, I forgot the words,” I admit sheepishly. “Help me out?”

          “I hate you, you should die, let’s go cut you up and not-cry,” Loopy sings somewhat evilly, a dark take on the words, which I can also read into and see the happy, nice, friendly meaning so it’s okay. “With a great big knife or a blender or maybe both! Let’s go see you go to hell.”

          “Aww, Loopy, I’m touched! That was such a sweet song,” I gush happily. No one’s ever made a song for me before, so my peel releases a sweet, touched fart.

          “Oh dear god, that is truly disgusting,” Loopy groans to itself.

          “You really are the nicest loo rolls that I’ve ever know, Loopy,” I coo, a series of sweet farts emerging.

          “Yeah, and the only loo – wait, no, god dammit, I’m not freaking toilet paper, you idiot!” Loopy cries out exasperatedly, a pained tone in it’s voice. “I’m a frucking PASSION FRUIT.” Then, more to himself, it adds, “God. Bananas these days.”

          “Reall- Oh no, oh my gosh, Loopy! No, don’t leave me, Loopy! I don’t want to die! No! I’m too young to die!” I cry out, feeling myself being lifted away from my solid banana rack. A tearful fart emerges out of me before four happy ones follow, to cheer me up again.

          Loopy and the crazy passion fruit are getting smaller and smaller to me, until they’re hardly there. But as a farewell, I think I hear Loopy sigh, “Oh my god, YES. I think I would’ve killed myself if that freaking banana hung around any longer. Ha. I’m funny. Haha. Geddit? Like, hanging? And it was a banana? And it was, like, hanging on that hook? Oh god, now I’m just like her.”

          A happily teary fart emerges from my peel. “That was truly the nicest things that anyone ever said to me, Loopy,” I whisper sentimentally, although I know that Loopy can’t hear me. “You were my first love, Loo-” I accidentally cut myself off with a scream and over ten panicked farts, as I feel my peel being ripped away from my body. I feel my heart shatter a little with every rip away.

          “Banana split!” I hear a young voice shout happily.

          “Split, banana, split, split, banana,” I sing instantly, hearing those words. I should really become a singer when I’m older. Or a music artist. Or a song writer. Actually, no, I think I should leave the song-writing to Loopy. He’ll always beat me at that. I just can’t match up to that beautiful song.

          “Knifey buddy, how are you?” I greet, as a giant, shiny silver butterknife pops into my view. I don’t get a response, but I gurgle a happy fart anyway, at the chance of making a new friend. A fart which comes out strangled because of my lack of peel, but I have no time to worry.

          I have to always live in the moment, never leave regrets if I die.

          Suddenly, my gut lurches and I feel myself thrown apart. Before I can figure out how to see in this lopsided state, both halves of me are thrown onto a freezing heaven, and I choke out another happy fart. “This is the life,” I sigh dreamily.

          Then, some warm, brown liquids are oozed onto me and I sink back in the cold heaven and fart dreamily at the sensation of the cold against the hot. “Boy, am I loving this! Sign me up again!” I murmur, relaxing.

          But then, I’m thrown out of my blissfully comfortable world as the edge of a shining spoon cuts into a half of my head, gathering some of the cold heaven with it. I’m taken on a luxurious yet painfully detached journey to what I’m assuming is a deluxe mouth. But then, I realise what’s happening and my life darkles as I realise what I’ve done. It’s not the dying, that I’m sad about. It’s Loopy.

          Now Loopy’s all alone in this big, beautiful world with no one to share it with. Oh woe is my lovely Loopy.

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A/N:: Favourite character, favourite line/part, favourite whatever else, go, go, go! (;

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