Antipathy

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Antipathy
To my pen-pal, Beverly “Veberly” Post

In the city of Neila, there once were two “rival” groups: the evil Quadruple Quartet (consisting of Frederick, Aakil, Olivia, and Tin Oile) and the (inadvertently) “heroic” Forever Hive (consisting of Bill Temper, Jack, and Mr. Half-Bald).

As I’m sure you can imagine, the Quartet hated the Hive with a fiery, burning passion. But the Quartet member who hated them most was, of course, the leader, Tin Oile.

Oile hated how the Hive always beat his team. He hated how the Hive always went to Little Caesar’s for dinner on Friday nights. He hated how they liked the medical drama Room Emergency. And most of all, he hated their shoes (“First Little Caesar’s, now Sketchers!? Dag gommit, it’s like they want us to get sued!”). --- One cold, snowy day in late November, Oile called a group meeting in the dining room of his middle-class home on Milkdud Street so they could work out how to destroy the Hive.

“Could we whack them with a plunger, please?” Frederick said to Oile, producing a plunger seemingly out of nowhere.

“For the 123rd time, no,” Oile snapped from the end of the table, where he had his feet up.

Frederick set the plunger down next to his chair, looking deflated.

“Any more ideas?” Oile sighed.

No one answered; Frederick was staring dejectedly at the table, Olivia was chewing gum and twirling her gray pigtails boredly, and Aakil was reading a book.

Oile groaned and snapped at his teammates: “Ya killin’ me, Smalls!” He pounded his fist on the table and stood up abruptly. Olivia, having swallowed her gum, eyed him warily.

“What, do you expect a plan to just fall out of the sky!?” Oile went on, waving his arms frantically. All of a sudden, a box came crashing through the window and hit Oile in the head, making him fall forward, unconscious, on the floor with a simple “ow”.

“No, I expect it to come crashing through the window,” Olivia jeered, which Aakil accompanied with an amused snort.

“Sorry ‘bout the window, young’uns,” said a blind guy pushing a dolly, who was standing by the now-broken window looking in the opposite direction. “I’m just gonna make like a tree and leaf before y’all sue me. ‘Bye!”

And he rushed off.

When Oile woke up, he ordered Aakil to open the box.

In the box, they found the blueprints to a plan so awesomely sinister that its contents had to be <CENSORED> for this story. (Let’s just call it “PLAN F”, OK?)

The next day, the Quartet executed PLAN F, by <CENSORING> the <CENSORED> <CENSOR> by <CENSOR, CENSOR, CENSOR>, <CENSOR-Y CENSOR> <CENSORED> <CENSORED> <CENSORED> <CENSOR>. <CENSOR, CENSOR, CENSORED, CENSORING, CENSORED> strawberry.

The Hive arrived on the scene just as the Quartet were getting done with their <CENSORING>.

“Hey, guys! What’s up?” said Mr. Half-Bald brightly to the criminals.

“Oh, nothin’ much,” Frederick said, “just doin’ a little -- yowch!”

The brute was cut off by Olivia bludgeoning him with her purse.

“You are too late to stop us this time, Hive,” Oile stated proudly, holding the file that held PLAN F for all to see, “we have with us a Plan that has been given not only the Certified Seal of Awesome, but also the No-Fail 100% Foolproof Certificate from Sir Thomas Fool himself! So, there!”

“What kind of ‘Plan’ is it?” asked Jack.

“An evil one, ya bonehead!” Oile snapped impatiently.

“HEY, THERE’S NO NEED TO YELL!” Temper yelled.

Olivia rolled her eyes.

“Boys are soooo immature,” she sighed.

“I’m not,” Aakil scoffed.

“That’s ‘cuz you’re not a boy,” Olivia giggled, “You’re a geek.”

Aakil looked mildly offended, but he knew Olivia was probably right.


The Hive and the Quartet got into a fight over yelling. Fists flew and spaghetti was thrown, the latter of which sucked for Olivia because she got some in her hair.

“AAAAAAAH!!! THERE’S SPAGHETTI IN MY HAIR! THERE’S SPAGHETTI IN MY HAIR!”

She panicked and ran into a wall, knocking herself out.

Frederick was whacking the Hive with a plunger, a dream come true for him. But, alas; it was short-lived, for Jack knocked him out with a bowl-brush.

Aakil was to be the Hive’s next victim. He and Mr. Half-Bald were duking it out with oven mitts, and the chubby guy strawberry-pied the brainiac right in the face.

“Oh, rrrrreal mature, Mr. ‘Hive’,” Aakil remarked, his voice heavy with irony.

Now only Oile was left. He and Temper were staring daggers at each other as a tumbleweed blew across them, signaling the impending ultimate showdown.

“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, Temper,” Oile said, hawking a loogie into a trash pail.

“I HAVE A MEETING WITH MAYOR ELVIS NEXT WEEK,” Temper said, “WANT ME TO TALK WITH HIM ABOUT EXPANDING THE CITY??”

“IT’S A FIGURE OF SPEECH, YA MORON!” Oile yelled back.

He reached in his pocket and took out a grenade-launcher, and Temper imitated the action.

The two rivals fired at the same time, and when the smoke cleared it was Oile who’d been burnt to a crisp.

“I hate you,” he puffed, whereupon he fell over, unconscious.

~The end!~