Meet Polly Appledoo Longitude, the embodiment of dangerous fun. Her obsession with social media led her to a fiery mishap on a cooking show, leaving her with blackened scars concealed by oven mitts. Now, she confidently strolls in a pink bikini, daring anyone to tempt her with sweets.
A bloodcurdling scream pierces through the air.
“Is he KIDDING ME?”, she shrieks her head straining to implode with the pressure of blood building up behind her already bloodshot eyes.
“Popular loan shark investor, Barron, denounces engagement with runway model, Polly Longitude. His reason? She’s a terrible cook!”
The headline flashed briefly on her 14 inch 1950s’ TV screen, courtesy from a sleeping old grandmother who tended to leave her windows open, before it switched to show a live broadcasting of her ex-almost-husband.
With product drowned up-styled hair, small ears, and a big nose, Polly’s ex wasn’t exactly the kindest sight for the eyes. However, with his fancy designer brand collared shirt, white pressed slacks, and a thirty-thousand dollar watch that he couldn’t even read, it was easy to look past his face and into his wallet. Which was exactly what Polly had done. Mistakenly, she had also overlooked his personality and his tendencies, and awoke to find herself on the dusty streets of Los Angeles, after being kicked out of his 2.3 million dollar house and gate, her ring now around the stubby finger of another less hot, gold digging woman.
“Yes. The rumors are true. Polly and I are no longer getting married.”, Adrian’s nasally voice squeaked through the square tv, causing Polly’s eye to twitch.
“She was crazy. She didn’t understand me as a partner at all. And worst of all, she couldn’t even cook. You know how I feel about a woman who can’t cook,” the weasel wearing elf pointed cow skin shoes snorted.
“I’m crazy? I’m crazy! I’ll show him what’s crazy. That two-faced mole rat who only cared about my body will see who’s crazy.”
The temperature in her blood practically boiling the temperature of the small flat she resided in several degrees higher, Polly grabbed her phone, red eyes still trained on the screen, and dialed a number from an advertisement she had seen up on a lamp post.
One day later, Polly was standing in the cramped, dirty, and dimly lit kitchen, scowling at the camera lying sideways on the ground.
Shaking its head, the seven foot figure next to her stooped down to pick it up, long taloned nails curling around the stand, promptly setting the camera back up right. Nervously, Polly wiped the oil from off of her bare thighs onto her mitts. She stared at her body, the pink bikini, the matching oven mitts covering the scars on her limbs, before shaking her head to watch the person that put up the ad.
Turning to look at her, a permanent grin etched into their face, the lamp post of a human nodded at Polly, signaling for her to begin. Hastily, Polly plastered on a smile as wide as possible. Staring directly into the camera lenses, a blinking red dot blaring in the corner of her vision, she began reciting her lines.
“I just want to thank you all for tuning into my show. I understand this isn’t your typical show of watching boring old men have weird tension between each other while arguing who deserves to sit on the spinny chair more. That is why I am here to offer you the watch of a lifetime— a true sequel to a story, one even better than the first.”
The corners of Polly’s lips slightly turned upwards as she turned to look at her husband. Noting that he had no objection with her saying that she exclaimed, “With that being said, I’m Polly Barron, and let’s get cooking!”
Moving around the kitchen with about as much grace and elegance as a parrot wearing stilettos, Polly whirled around the kitchen, the number of people starting to watch her rising by the mass. At last, 1 hour later, she had created a gooey and circular one tier chocolate cake, with melted chocolate running down the left side, and a frozen chocolate covered strawberry resting upside down on the other side.
Beaming, her masterpiece haphazardly arranged on top of a baking tray, Polly shoved the cake in front of the live camera and cried, “And there we have it! A beautifully crafted artifact, and created right before your eyes!”
A well of tears formed in both of her eyes, and sniffling, Polly called out, “Adrian! Adrian deary! Tell me what you think of this.”
She walked away from the camera, now well over 20,000 people watching it live. Sounds of cloth shuffling picked up through the camera. Heartbeats passed by as finally, Polly wheeled out a large object into frame, giggling all the while. A low moan came out muffled from the cloth. Polly kicked at the lump, silencing whatever was beneath it.
“Not yet!” she laughed out in a sing-song voice.
Her bright pink arm length oven mitts and knee high boot mitts to match were a stark contrast to the dull gray cloth sitting in her kitchen.
“As DaVinci said, an artist never reviews their own art. And as I said, a cook never tastes her own food.”, Polly states factually. “So, my husband, yes, my husband! We decided to get married!”, she squealed, reaching around the cloth and tugging on a limp hand with a slightly rusted silver ring that appeared to constrict the blood flow of the finger.
Sighing dreamily, Polly continued on.
“My hubby here will be trying my food that I cooked, and we will all be seeing if he wishes to take back what he said, or not!”
With a dramatic flourish of her hands, a little chortle of laughter, and a nod of her head, claws reached out from behind the clothed object and pulled it back. As though the collective gasp from everyone watching was heard through the camera, Adrian’s head slowly lolled to the side. Arms and legs bound to a wooden chair on top of a polished hotel luggage cart, a disheveled, slightly bruised, and gagged Adrian was being broadcasted live for the world to see.
“Oh oops. I forgot. Let's just… Hmmph. Yeah, ok.” Polly stepped back, wiping his spit on himself, to admire her husband, who was now sputtering out saliva from his cracked lips.
“Doesn’t he look wonderful?”, Polly cooed.
“Polly? Polly, what the hell is this? God, you are such a crazy bi-”
Before he could finish his sentence, Polly bent over and shoved a spoonful of cake into his mouth, making sure to angle her butt towards the camera. Smirking over her shoulder as Adrian gagged once again on the spoon of cake, Polly yanked the spoon out of his mouth, staring down at him with hope. He started coughing, his eyes watering, his fingers clenching around the rope.
“It’s fucking shit.” he gasped out. A hoarse laugh escaped from between the mixture of saliva, tears, and cake on his dirt and grime riddled face. “You’re so goddamn crazy. You’re so stupid. My father will find you and there’s nothing you can do that they won’t know about.”
“What?”, she whispered, her vision getting cloudier and cloudier.
“You. Are. Dead.”, Adrian hissed out, pronouncing each word out. He opened his mouth and tilted his head back to laugh, but no sound came out. Only his blood did. It streamed down his throat, coating his designer jacket in red. The sharp scent of metal pierced through the air.
A sob caught in Polly’s throat, not at the sight of her now practically decapitated husband, but at the words he had last spoken to her. Her knees gave way and she collapsed on the floor, still in direct sight of the camera, oil coating her body. A loud crash sounded behind her as the clawed figure whisked Adrian and the chair away from the camera. Gurgling sounds echoed throughout the kitchen, till it gave away to silence, but Polly paid no mind.
Hiccupping, as Polly wiped the tears away from her face, she stared at the oven mitts covering her arms and her legs. Suddenly, her mind cleared. With shaky hands, she removed the oven mitts from off of her body. Rising on steady legs, Polly looked directly into the camera, tears staining her cheeks, mascara still intact.
“My name is Polly Longitude.” The sound of dragging and sloshing seemed to only push Polly onwards. “The man you just saw was my husband, Adrian Longitude. He was crazy, and he set me on fire, which is why I have these.”
She stepped back and raised her arms up. Raw, blistered, red skin lined her arms and legs, skin flaking around charred flesh. There was a ringing in her ears. Boots heaved through the kitchen as the creature dragged fresh, bloody entrails behind it.
“I suppose we were both crazy.” she smiled this time, from ear to ear as she grabbed a lighter, flicked it open, and dropped it to the floor. Flames burst up all around her as she stood there, smiling at the camera.
A story written by: Sabrina Ha
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