It was just another Sunday in the Studebaker house. Chicken breasts cooking in the oven, freshly rolled paint on the kitchen walls, and a hammer pounding.
Home reno day.
Anyone walking by outside could smell that lean chicken and those wafting paint fumes, and they definitely could hear that unmistakable hammer echoing.
“UNG! UNG! UNG!!”
With every slam PMS hammers away on her counter top she grunts like a goddamn wildebeest. And get this: this woman is chiseling her own from scratch. That’s right. She dragged that granite on in by her independent-self and brought it to life like mother fucking Hephaestus himself.
The pounding continues until we hear a sudden—
CRRRACK!
Silence.
A guttural bellow unleashes from the bowels of PMS’s windpipe, shaking the foundation of her house and causing her refrigerator to swing open, a massive purple eggplant rolling out and stopping next to her size 17 foot.
Her chisel is broken.
In a tizzy, PMS tosses down her hammer and jets out the door. She’s speed walking straight to the hardware store down the street, and based on the reactions of those who’re juking and diving out of her warpath, I’d absolutely hate to be the man or woman on the other side of that check-out counter.
Willy’s Hard Wares. The front door swings open and a little bell chimes to alert the workers that a customer has arrived.
And Pamela Marjorie Studebaker most certainly has arrived.
She shoves aside the poor elderly man trying to purchase his new screwdriver set his wife requested so they can hang some pictures of the grandkids, and slams down the broken chisel on the counter top, looking the unfortunate pimply-faced 40-year old virgin across from her.
“Excuse me— your chisel that I purchased from you is brr-oken,” she pronounces with attitude.
The man looks around, wide-eyed for a moment before responding, “Uhh, aisle three ma’am. We have more in stock, if that’s what you’re looking for…”
Wrong answer.
“You’re telling me that there’s no warranty for this chisel I spent my hard-working credits on??”
“Uhh… sorry ma’am, no—”
“Please, I’m out of credits and I’m having a very difficult time of the month. Could you just, replace it?” PMS asks, changing her tune.
“Uhh… no?”
Wrong answer.
“I’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!”
The 40 year-old virgin looks her dead in the eye and responds:
“We have no manager, ma’am.”
That was the moment everything turned red for Pamela Marjorie Studebaker. In a fit of rage, she attacked everyone in that hardware store. Blood everywhere. The 40 year-old virgin? Didn’t live to see 41. The elderly man just trying to screw with his wife? Had his head screwed right off his body. Every man within striking distance was slain dead that day.
It was a true horror.
The locals refer to it as “Bloody Sunday” and do not speak of it in public in fear of the big, strong, independent woman catching wind and coming for their blood as well.
Now whenever a hammer is heard pounding, or the smell of chicken or fresh paint is in the air, everyone hides in fear from…
PMS.