“Honey, I’m bringing Chinese food home for dinner,” my Dad says through the phone, “We’ll be home in a few.”
I hang up the phone and groan, flopping back on the bed. Ugh, why Chinese? I hate Chinese. Nothing appealing about it at all. The taste, the smell… everything about it just turns my stomach. Why couldn’t he bring home something tastier, like Italian or Mexican? Those at least have some flavor. Or some good, old-fashioned American fast food? Can’t go wrong there, unless you get it from some cheap place on the corner. Then all you get is a foul taste and indigestion.
The door bangs open. “Kids, we’re home!” My Mom calls out, Dad right behind her. My brother and the dog bound downstairs, practically salivating with hunger. With a long-suffering sigh, I roll out of bed and walk downstairs, reaching the table as dad lays the bound, gagged, screaming Chinese man, woman, and two children on the table, their eyes wide open with fear.
“Let’s eat,” Dad says. Sighing once more, I drag one of the kids close to me, my claws wrapping around his foot as I lift him over my gaping maw.
Man, I hate Chinese food…
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Original Pastas
HororOkay! Well these may be few and far between, but if something happens in my life, or I see something that makes something in my messed-up brain click, a Pasta will be born. These are all mine. Anyone else who makes a claim to them... well, let's not...
