Pickle Vapor Love Bazooka

I was prepared. I had a plan. I had practiced several times a day for the past two months. I had all my tools in my pockets, plus snacks and a tiny first aid kit. That night at 10 pm, I would finally do it.

I then walked to the school, with two small guns in my hands, deep in my pockets. I had just one time to do this, before I met God. It was breakfast time, and everyone met in the small cafeteria, some loud as a donkey, and some quiet as a bat. I had a bad feeling in my stomach..

It was probably that pickle brine my sister dared me to drink that morning. Why did I drink the whole jar of it? Ugh. I looked at the guns in my hands. They were so tiny. Lego guy guns! What was I supposed to with these? The brine was going to my head. That's when Alicia saw me.

Huge grin, bazooka slung over her shoulder. Screwed. “Alicia, w-“ a pickle burp interrupted my plea.

"Sorry, Alicia" I offered an apologetic face but in a moment it turned into a strained rictus as I let rip the most trouser-inflating fart that had ever passed my chuff-pipe. It began with quack followed by a 4-second baritone drilling sound ending with a whine two octaves higher

When I finally got up I was struck by the total calm of her face. How could she be unfazed by such a display? “Just got out of a repressive, unhealthy relationship,” she said holding her nose. “Thank you for being so free in front of me—I’m ready to start a new chapter with you.”