Phyllis T. by Airika Sneve

Phyllis T. by Airika Sneve

It was the spring of 2024 — an early one, and warmer than usual — when a grandmother named Phyllis T. ruled the city of Great Groin, Ohio, with an iron fist and a spitfire neon purple custom wheelchair.

By all accounts, Phyllis was a lovely woman. She had smooth, clear skin for her 75 years and short, stylish spiky brown hair. She wore long, flowy dresses and angel earrings and made it a point to smell nice — usually lavender, vanilla, or Chanel #5. She collected American Girl dolls and porcelain elephants and colored beautifully in her adult coloring books.

Despite her grandmotherly exterior, however, Phyllis was quite the pistol — easily pistol enough to be a card-carrying member of the NRA. Though she was hardy and hardcore in myriad ways, she didn’t need a gun to be the cock of the walk. You see, Phyllis knew people, people in all kinds of places both high and low. She was a woman who could pull some serious strings if and when she wanted to.

One could call her a master puppeteer. Many did.

As a testament to her badass-edness, Phyllis’ signature fashion piece was a black leather motorcycle jacket with fringed sleeves and a skull and crossbones on the back. The jacket bore glinting, gleaming rows of metal spikes and grommets, the shoulders completely covered with formidable one-inch spikes.

The jacket was as tough as a stiletto knife, almost as tough as the woman herself.

Phyllis had a husband named Durdell, but, much to his chagrin, most people called him ‘Durd.’ He hated it and had pulled more than his fair share of subtle middle-finger displays in response. He was almost six feet tall and exceedingly fit for a man of his 81 years, largely due to a plenteous diet of fresh air and exercise, golfing with his buddies, and walking in nature.

Since Phyllis was mostly confined to her (outrageously spiffy) wheelchair due to arthritis, Durdell did the lion’s share of the meal-making and cleaning as well as all of the driving. Phyllis could get in and out of her wheelchair fairly well with assistance, and she could (usually) toilet herself, but Durd did the bulk of the butlering.

With a wheelchair as cool as Phyllis’s, who needed to walk?

Phyllis and Durdell had two full-grown children, a 57-year-old daughter named Brynlee — whom they called ‘Flubba’ — and an older son named Charles (affectionately nicknamed ‘Chotch’). Brynlee was a paralegal living in Charleston, South Carolina, while Chotch was the manager of the local Cub Foods, his residence at West Crotchley Road only a few blocks away from Phyllis and Durdell’s. Their only grandchild was a 40-year-old granddaughter named Erica, whom everyone called ‘Airhead’ for obvious reasons. Durdell liked to joke that Erica’s favorite phrases were “Huh?” and “I don’t know.”

At present, Phyllis was in her sewing room seated next to a small entertainment station desk with a 32” flatscreen TV, a Singer sewing machine, and a jar of Vanicream on top, reclining in a rocking chair with her most prized possession on her lap: a cotton candy-pink Epiphone double electric guitar plugged into an Orange mini amplifier. Her manicured fingertips flew up and down the fretboard with fluid ease, nearly sparking the strings as they went. Neither Yngwie Malmsteen nor Paul Gilbert could have matched the speed and precision with which Phyllis’s purple Dunlop guitar pick plucked its way up and down the scales, nearly, as some said, leaving the guitar smoking in its wake.

It was a beautiful piece of firewood, as Chotch liked to tease.

Phyllis paused and set the guitar aside. Her hands felt dry; time for a coat or two of her secret weapon, Vanicream, a geriatric dermatologist’s favorite scentless, dye-free, no-irritation body cream. She opened the jar and greased the white ointment all over her hands, rubbing and patting it in. Phyllis was fond of telling people that Vanicream was the ace up her sleeve when it came to guitar solos, its greasy slip helping her fingers glide over the neck and strings like a knife through butter.

Phyllis was known as a hands-on-fire shred guitar queen, and nursing homes and VFWs the Great Groin region over knew it. She and seven of her church friends had formed a musical group called The Chanticleers that played acoustic music (complete with teapots, harmonicas, acoustic guitars, banana shakers, and other endearing hand percussion instruments), at retirement homes, singing mostly Americana and old church songs like “How Great is Our God,” and “Go Tell it on the Mountain.”

Phyllis also fronted a rock band called ‘The Blue Hairs,’ which featured herself on vocals and guitar, Durd on bass, and Phyllis’ knitting circle friend Leggy Peggy — named for her lengthy (or legthy) and strong kick-drummin’ appendages — on drums. The group played the VFW and American Legion circuits and rocked classic tunes such as Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, fifties bops, and old Motown standards.

Now, in her sewing room at home, Phyllis grabbed her guitar and began to restring it, her pick clamped between her teeth like the old pro she was. Her trusty, dusty hardshell guitar case lay at her feet, bedecked with stickers such as AARP, Ann Murray, Yanni, Julio Iglesias, Sara Lee (baking company), and Dole (leading pineapple products distributor).

 The grandfather clock chimed 9:00 a.m.

Phyllis caught the smell of coffee and bacon wafting in from the kitchen. “Hon?” she called. “Is my breffust ready?”.

From the kitchen, wearing nothing but a red-and-white polka dot apron, Durdell flipped an egg and called back, “Yah, just about! Come and get it!”

“Good! I’m starvun!”

Carefully, with the shakiest of hands, Phyllis placed her guitar on its stand and wheeled out to the living room, where her breakfast awaited her on a TV tray in front of her recliner.

“My soaps are startun!” she said. “Where’s the clicker?” (and by clicker, she meant TV remote control).

“I was gonna watch my war show!” said Durdell. “Yer soaps are on all day.”

“The Young and the Restless is just startun! I missed the last episode. I have to know what happens between Victor Newman and that stripper gal.”

“My show is startin’ in five minutes!”

“You always get to watch your shows.”

“Fine,” Durdell sighed. “After that, it’s time for my show.”

“You always get the clicker. We’re always watchin’ what you wanna watch.”

“How ‘bout you go live at Dartanian Belth?” said Durdell, referencing the pleasant retirement home where two of his old coffee buddies now resided. “Then you can have your very own TV and use the clicker anytime you want.”

“Very funny,” scowled Phyllis.

And then it hit Durdell like a bolt out of the blue: Dartanian Belth was a fine idea. More than fine; it was a mighty fine idea.

For Phyllis.

He stifled a grin. Just think of it! If Phyllis went to the home, he might never have to share the remote control again. No more slaving away in the kitchen night and day. No more cutting up her stupid Toblerones just the way she liked. No more helping her to the toilet. No more missing his favorite TV shows because she wanted to watch her soaps.

Slowly, his lips pulled back in a show of pure glee. He couldn’t help it.

A plan began to hatch in his mind.

He opened the cupboard and ran his hand along a neat row of canisters: ricin, Borax, and arsenic on a white doily next to the spice rack. He moved them aside and selected a transparent orange pill bottle with a twist-on lid marked ‘Deadbuttex.’

“Phyll, you are going to be just fine,” Durdell whispered. “Just right as rain.”

With a sinister grin, he closed the cupboard and hatched a plan.

& & &

T’was Saturday night, the Saturday of the Blue Hairs’ gig at the Blooger Valley VFW. Sporting a quilted jean jacket with fringes and a large Mickey Mouse embroidered appliqué on the back, black slacks, and boxy Nike low tops that lit up when she moved, Phyllis helped her bandmates load music gear from the van into the back door of the club.

Phyllis rolled into the Blooger in rockstar style, with her gem-studded spectacles and metallic purple wheelchair as she toted Durd’s Marshall amplifier head on her lap. Erica helped carry Leggy Peggy’s cymbals inside while Durd and Chotch ported Durd’s tan Epiphone bass guitar and Marshall amplifier.

“Where’s my Vanicream?” Phyllis barked. “I need ta grease my digits! Erica, did you pack it?”

“Um…let me look in the cord bag. I think that’s where I put it.”

“You think? I need it now. Vanicream should always be in supply! You know that. It’s my secret weapon.” She held up her hands. “It makes my fingers fly like birds.”

Erica looked into the bag and gasped. “I am so sorry. It looks like I filled this bag with darning needles instead. I dunno how that happened.”

“What?”

 “I must have had my headphones on and gotten confused while I was packing.”

“Erica!” Phyllis tsked. “If you can’t get the packun right, you’re gonna lose packun privileges!”

“Sorry Grandma.” Dopey, nonplussed Erica — with her bleached-blonde hair and brassy roots that looked like an uncomely golden goose had shat on her scalp — lowered her head. “I wouldn’t wanna lose packing privileges.”

“Use your noggin and think next time.”

Dressed in torn jeans and a brown leather jacket over a white V-neck t-shirt, Chotch charged in through the back door carrying Leggy Peggy’s bass drum. His usual permed neck-length ape drape had been hairsprayed to perfection — no flyaways, nowhere — and he reeked of several powerful pumps of Old Spice.

Good ol’ Chotch, always on the prowl. 

Onstage, the warm-up band, a local male-centered rock group called “Guys’ Eyes,” was in the middle of sound check. They played through a song called “The Touch of a Man” while the sound tech dialed in the levels. A lone patron at a table by the stage hooted and hollered over the soundcheck playoff, not realizing the show hadn’t officially begun.

“Rookie mistake,” chuckled Durd, taking a swig of Bud Light out of his plastic boob mug (which read ‘Keep it classy’).

“Who hasn’t done it, though?” said Leggy Peggy.

Phyllis concurred, downing a glass of brandy on the rocks while Erica and Chotch sipped Cokes. The crowd was just beginning to flow in. The bar smelled like beer, cologne, and body odor — “Just the way a dive bar should smell,” as Durdell enjoyed saying. 

  Durdell watched, riveted, as Phyllis sipped her brandy. What she didn’t know — and what he hoped she wouldn’t taste — was the two little blue Deadbuttex pills crushed to powder and stirred into her drink. Last year, his doctor had prescribed him this medication to help with his blood pressure, but the meds instead caused symptoms similar to a disorder called ‘dead butt syndrome,’ weakened his glutes and made them as limp as noodles. Other dead butt-mimicking side effects he had suffered included double vision and difficulty with a myriad of bodily functions, particularly full-body muscle weakness.

 If all went according to plan, Phyllis’ glutes would turn to spaghetti noodles, she wouldn’t be able to walk, and — best of all — she would be flipping through the Dartanian Belth TV guide in no time.

Deadbuttex.

Durdell crossed his fingers and hoped that this would be the ticket to ultimate remote-control freedom.

& & &

Once Guys’ Eyes kicked off their set, Erica and Chotch played foosball while Durd shucked his shoes and laced up a pair of rollerblades, skating around the club in golf shorts and a light green Lacoste t-shirt — becoming, as friends and family knew him, ‘Rollerdurd.’

It was his thing. He was known for it.

An hour later, the crowd of about 100 people went wild as The Blue Hairs tore into their set. They kicked things off with Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock,’ and the crowd went wild. Double guitar slung over her shoulder with a fluffy pastel pink strap, standing shakily with her lips pressed to the mic, Phyllis blazed through their set with rock star style and her smokin’ Marshall half stack.

The wind machine blew, and the dry ice billowed. When Phyllis was onstage, adrenaline coursed hotly through her veins like molten lava, and her aches and pains faded away. The mood was high, the drums were kickin’, and Rollerdell held down the groove like a groovemaster should.

It was all good.

For now.

The house was packed. The Blue Hairs debuted their original song, “Glitter Blisters” — about going out and partying even when the corns on your feet are killing you — and the crowd loved it. In ill-fitting faux leather pants and black Crocs, Erica joined the band for a few songs and did backup vocals, shaking a maraca and singing phrases like “OOH-OOH! SKEE BOP DEE-BOP BOP!”

She didn’t know much about keeping the beat, but she most certainly knew how to have a good time.

Halfway through their set, Phyllis was prepped and primed to pull off her signature rock move: shredding a killer guitar solo while spinning on her side in a circle on the floor.

Durdell watched her like a hawk, breath held and waiting on pins and needles to see if she could pull this off. He could only hope that Deadbuttex would win this battle.

It was time. 

Erica and Chotch each took one of Phyllis’ arms and gently assisted her offstage. They helped her painstakingly onto her side on the floor, slowly, carefully…

… And then Phyllis took off like a champion.

She spun her entire body in circle after circle, propelling herself with her legs and biceps while tearing it up on the guitar like a woman on fire. The crowd roared. The bartender clapped and hooted. It was a mystery even to her doctors how she was able to perform this rigorous feat, but, somehow, through deep inner reserves of passion and pure love of music, she executed her rock moves with astonishing skill and gusto.

Durdell swore under his breath.  

The mood was hearty and high when, all of a sudden, Phyllis shoved her guitar aside and cried out, “YOW!”

“Hon?” said Durd, stepping forward. “Are you OK?”

Chotch stepped forward to relieve her of her guitar. Erica and another patron moved to help Phyllis up while another person went to retrieve her wheelchair. Chotch and Erica worked together to help her into it as the crowd closed in, concerned.

“I hit my noodle on a stool,” said Phyllis, rubbing her temple. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.” She uttered a laugh like a bell tinkle, her trademark chuckle. “My legs gave out on me, and I crashed into a stool. This is the first time that’s ever happuned.”

“That’s a goose egg, alright,” said Chotch.

“Oh dear!”

Durdell looked at the purple knot rising on Phyllis’ temple and inwardly cheered. It worked! Deadbuttex had taken Phyllis out of commission!

Leggy Peggy approached Phyllis with some ice wrapped in a washcloth and pressed it gently to her temple.

“Is it bad?” asked Phyllis.

“It’s not terrible. The ice will take the swelling down,” Leggy Peggy said.

“Let’s get you home right away,” said Durdell.

“No, no. It’s not like I broke my neck! Durd, where’s my guitar?”

“Don’t call me Durd!” he gruffed. Still, he fetched her guitar and helped wheel her up the ramp back onstage.

Painstakingly, Phyllis held her guitar up and declared, “The show must go on!”

The crowd cheered. Despite her head-honking snafu, she tore through the setlist as sweet and spunky as ever.

Throughout the set, Durdell held the groove down and kept his eye on the empurpled goose egg on Phyllis’ temple. She hadn’t been seriously injured; if she had been, Durdell would have been deeply concerned and upset. He didn’t want her to get hurt; he just wanted his clicker back.

He had plans. Serious plans — and, if he played his cards right, soon, he would never have to share the remote control again.

& & &

Back home after the show, it was past 11:30 p.m., time for Phyllis and Durdell to tuck in for the night.

“How’s that goose egg?” asked Durdell, tossing his rollerblades into the shoe closet.

“Oh, it’s fine. It’s not like I’ve got a concussion or anything.”

Durdell headed into the bathroom. “That was a hard knock. Are ya dizzy? Having any pain? Blurry vision? Droopy eyelid? Anything?”

“Hon, no. It’s just a little sore. I said I’m alright. My butt cheeks, though. It’s like they haven’t been working right for the past couple of days. It’s like they’re losing strength.” She wheeled herself down the hall toward their bedroom. “Shut yer gape drape!” she griped as she turtled by the open bathroom door (where Durdell was now draining the lizard). The trapdoor on the back of his red full-body underwear hung wide open as he peed.  

When he had washed up and finished, he helped Phyllis out of her wheelchair and into bed, then headed to the hallway to make toast. “Let’s keep an eye on that goose egg,” said Durdell, calling from the kitchen. “It looks pretty purple. I might call the doctor tomorrow about your muscle weakness just to put my mind at ease.”

“Do what you want. I feel perfectly fine otherwise.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Durdell in a low, secretive voice.

& & &

The next morning was fraught with panic. Phyllis had fallen from the bed and was now lying on the floor belly-up like an overturned turtle with Durdell staring down at her, a horrified expression on his face.

“Help! Durdell, heeeelp! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” 

Durdell moved quickly to help her. “Phyll, are you okay? What happened?”

“I fell off the bed and now I can’t get back up. My butt muscles aren’t working. They’ve been getting weaker and weaker.”

“I wanna take you to the doctor. Just to be safe.”

“Well, alright, if you say so,” said Phyllis. “I think it’s silly, but if it’ll make you quiet down about it, okay.”

“Good. You know I’ve only got your best interests at heart.”

Durdell wrought a wily inward wink.

& & &

On the ride home from urgent care, an obviously irked Durdell drove an exhausted Phyllis home as she rested on her donut butt pillow. 

The doctor found no evidence of any medical cause for the gluteal muscle weakness.  He gave her both a physical examination and an EEG (electroencephalogram) imaging test, but neither turned up any indication that a medical condition was at play. 

“I don’t trust that doctor,” said Durdell in his signature slow, careful drone. “You were shakin’ pretty bad when you woke up.”

“I’m always shakun.”

“This was worse. It looked like you couldn’t control yourself.”

“Well, I feel fine.”

“I have an idea. I know you’re not gonna like this, but…whatta you think about moving into a home?”

Phyllis gasped. “A home?”

“A retirement home.”

“WHAT?”

“Calm down, calm down. I just wanna make sure you get the care you deserve. You’ve been having so many troubles lately.”

“A nursing home?!!”
“Well, sure.”

“Over my dead body. You have got to be jokun!” Phyllis scowled.

“Maybe even just for a little while, ‘til we see how you’re doin’? I just wanna make sure this don’t happen again.”

“I am not going to a nursing home, and that’s that.”

Durdell had been hoping that this office visit would turn up something, anything, for him to hang his case on to get Phyllis moved into Belth as quickly and quietly as possible, easy peasy, lemon squeezy. The time was nigh for more weather channel time and zero soap operas.

Durdell was not about to give up. If anyone could pull this off, he reckoned, it would be him.

& & &

Back at home, while Phyllis settled into her recliner munching popcorn and watching True Blood (much to Durdell’s chagrin — he wanted to watch his westerns!), Durdell got busy in the kitchen. 

“Hon, do you want Earl Grey or Spring Cherry tea?” he called.

“Earl Grey! And bring my Toblerone too. Don’t quarter ‘em this time, cut ‘em into fifths.”

“You got it,” said Durd, grinding his dentures with every word. True Blood. Pah. He had no time for it. Soon, however, if all went according to plan, he would be laying back on his easy chair watching all the westerns and war movies he could watch. If things went his way, he would have sole proprietorship of the clicker in no time. In fact, he would have a Western movie marathon and eat popcorn for days.

He simply could not wait.

& & &

Two weeks after Durdell kicked off Phyllis’ top-secret new Deadbuttex regimen, she began to act very strangely — and not in the way Durdell had hoped. Instead of the dead butt syndrome-mimicking side effects he was so eagerly anticipating, Phyllis couldn’t stop complaining about her feet — chiefly, how much they hurt. “Ma feet! Ma feet!” she would cry, and there was nothing Durd could do to stop the aching.  

Weirder yet, Phyllis purchased a pair of clunky, amazingly dorky orthopedic shoes, and Durdell hadn’t seen her barefoot since. She wore those big brown clunkers 24 hours a day and even slept with them on. Durdell pried and pried, but no matter how many questions he fired at her, Phyllis kept her shoes and/or socks on at all times but the bath. 

Today, busying about in her garden, she and her new ortho clunkers (complete with velcro straps and a thick, chunky platform heel like a crab claw), were tending to her rhubarb patch when Durdell came out to see how she was doing. 

“Dell, where’s my garden gnome?” she asked, pausing from her planting. “I haven’t seen it for days. I know it was out here.” 

“I ain’t seen it. If it’s not on the steps, it’s on the table where you left it.”

“Oh, here it is.” She grabbed her red cone-hatted troll from behind a big, sparkly hunk of desert sand rock and righted it back in place. 

“How are ya feelin’, hon?” asked Durdell.

“Oh, fine. Besides my feet.”

“Any blurry vision? Neck weakness? Muscle pain? Anything new at all?”

“Just a little muscle weakness and foot ache, why do you keep askun? You’ve been pesterin’ me for days. I told you, it’s mostly my butt muscles that’ve been botherun me. It’s been happening ever since” — Durdell waited with bated breath — “Well, ever since about a week ago. Why do you keep askun?”  

“No reason. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

Durd cursed under his breath. No more Deadbuttex symptoms?

None? No dizziness? No further muscle weakness? Not even the slightest bit of eyelid drooping?

Dartanian Belth was beginning to feel farther and farther away from Durd with each passing hour.

“Alright, hon,” he said. “I’m gonna watch my show.”

“What show?”

“The Ten Commandments.”

“Wait for me! I wanna see how it ends.”

Durdell was incensed. His face burned like a toasted brick. Wait? Wait for her to watch his show?!! He had no time for it. Grinding his dentures, he thought of all the TV time his harpy wife was causing him to miss.

He exploded. “I’m sick and tired of you gettin’ in the way of my shows! Can’t you spend more time on your coloring books? Or read more? Or go on your iPad? That TV is mine!”

Phyllis was shocked. “Yours? We’ve been married for 55 years, and you can’t even share the TV? What is wrong with you, Dell?”

Durdell had had it. He had to do something about this, but what? The Deadbuttex wasn’t having enough of an effect. He thought for a moment, and it hit him. He then did what any reasonable man in his position would do. 
He challenged her to a duel.

“Phyll, honey, I hereby challenge you to a duel!” he said, straightening up nice and tall. “My golf club will be my weapon, and you go ahead and choose your own. I’ve had enough of this happy crappy. We need to resolve this once and for all.”

“Oh, you bet your bippy I will! What are the stakes?”

“If I lose, you get control over the clicker for an entire year.”

“OK. What if I lose?”

“If you lose, you have to let me commit you to Dartanian Belth.”

She gasped. “The nursing home? You must be out of your gourd!”

“Those are the stakes.”

“Well, I have no intention of losing. You’ve messed with the wrong blue hair, and you’re about to find out.”

“Fine. Get ready for Belth.”

“Get ready for my total TV domination!”

So it was set. Both Phyllis and Durdell had a lot of planning to do — but there could be only one victor.

& & &

The day of the duel arrived, and it made the local news before the fight even started. 

With her extensive social connections, Phyllis was able to secure Cox Arena, a 3000-seat venue, for the battle. She also flexed her regional connections to rent out 20 motorized shopping scooters and 12 Segways from Walmart, her favorite shopping (or ‘shoppun’, as she would say) hotspot where she went for groceries, tea, and Red Bulls. To top it all off, she had also managed to procure a Doritos supply truck for Chotch and Erica to drive. 

Phyllis took a mighty slug from her Red Bull.

The party was on. 

Now, Phyllis and her 32-person motor cavalcade buzzed slowly in a single-file line down sidewalks and intersections, Phyllis leading the way in a high-performance shopping scooter with a basket on the front. Cars honked. People waved and hooted, spurring them on.

The local news was there for it.

KTTP TV’s lead reporter covered the story in front of the downtown Super America gas station as the procession passed, cars honking cheerful greetings and drivers issuing salutes as the fleet of unlikely vehicles trundled by. There was only one mishap when Lenny Sykes, a badass Black man and Phyllis’ guitar tech, fell off his Segway due to a crack on the sidewalk. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt. They got him back on his go-devil and they were off, the elderlies waving at the camera and their rapidly growing throng of fans.

They were all smiles.

Durdell and a tableful of his buddies watched the broadcast on TV at Hy-Vee grocery store and buffet, their favorite breakfast location. Pah!” said Durdell. “Let ‘em put on a show. We’re stronger than they are, and we’re sure as hell not gonna lose!”

Only time would tell.

& & &

Inside Cox Arena, the duel was on, and there was not a single empty seat.

It was a fine day for a fight.

The announcer spoke: “Lllllllladies and gentlemen! The duel you’ve all been waiting for! Let’s welcome our first competitor, a Great Groin native and regionwide fly-fishing cham-peen! Introducing the man, the myth, the legend — and the only ‘Durdell’ you’ll ever meet! — DURDELLLLL THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE!!!”

In head-to-toe army camouflage, Durdell made a muscle for the crowd and kissed his bicep, waving and grandstanding to a surge of cheers and jeers.

“Now!” said the announcer, “Let’s welcome a woman we know all too well: She’s the queen of Bubble Witch Saga who never met a guitar she couldn’t shred! She is the matron of rocking out, knitting, and all kinds of good times, the one, the only, PHYLLIS T!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Thunderous, wall-shaking applause erupted. There Phyllis was, in the driver’s seat of a gigantic black monster truck painted with electric blue flames. She gunned the engine and blazed rip-roaring onto the scene, rearing the truck up on two wheels while spinning in a 360-degree twirl. When she was through grandstanding for the crowd, she launched into gear and roared over a line of 40 cars to where Durdell stood, golf club in hand.  

The crowd went berserk.

Thousands of spectators heaved one word, a name: “Phyll-IS!

Phyll-IS!” Durdell and his team booed. Chotch helped Phyllis out of the truck and into her wheelchair to soak up the applause, her hands high in the air. Today, she had chosen a fitted yellow blouse, black capri pants, and her mysterious orthopedic shoes for the fight. It took a long time to load Phyllis into her metallic purple wheelchair, which had a single rolling pin in a sackcloth tied to the back — her chosen weapon.

“Enough of this malarkey!” Durdell crowed. “Let’s get this show on the road!” 

Phyllis taunted him to the tune of “Bird is the Word:” “Durd, Durd,

Durd! Durd is a turd!” 

“I’m gonna can yer banana!”

“Oh yeah? I’m gonna pickle yer beets!”

“I’m gonna rumple your Stiltskin!” Durdell held a golf club up to the crowd, eliciting more cheers and jeers. “Kiss my farted-up barcalounger!”

Durdell eyed Phyllis’s wheelchair. He wasn’t about to hurt Phyllis with the club. Just knock that rolling pin out of her hands, maybe beat on her wheelchair a bit. “Tell ya what,” said Durdell. “I’ll try to be careful, ‘cause I don’t wanna hurt ya. But I am going to lay your wheelchair to waste if I have to.”

“You think so?”

“I AM THE CLICKER KING!”

“In your dreams, Durdy!”

Lenny Sykes pulled the rolling pin from the sack and handed it to

Phyllis.

“NOW!” said the announcer. “Whoever drops their weapon first, loses!” 

Phyllis and Durdell circled each other like wolves, closing the distance little by little. Twice, Durd swung at Phyllis’ rolling pin but missed. Her wheelchair was fast, and Durdell felt achy and slow today.

Still, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

Durdell lashed the air with his driver while Phyllis backed away, pointing her weapon at him and glowering down the pin. Durdell took a swing at her rolling pin but missed. The crowd screamed, transfixed. Durdell took another swipe, but Phyllis blocked him with her rolling pin, her souped-up wheelchair much too fast for him.

When Durdell moved in, swiping and thwacking the wheel of her chair, Phyllis aimed for his family jewels and missed but landed two good, hard wacks on the seat of his pants. He yelled out “HEY!”, swung the club, and got it tangled in her wheelchair spokes — and still, he held on.

Durd took his dentures from his mouth and hurled them at Phyllis, hitting her right between the eyes. He hadn’t expected it to hit, but there it was.

Phyllis squawked. “Damn it, Dell!” She grabbed the dentures from her lap and hurled them back at him, hitting the grandstand instead. “That’s it! Enough of this brouhaha. Tenzen, gimme some power!”

 Quick as lightning, Phyllis’ contact Tenzen Yamaguchi grabbed the sackcloth on the back of Phyllis’ wheelchair, chucked it, and deftly fitted the straps of a rocket pack on the back of her wheelchair.

He fired it up with a roar.

“Syanora, motherfluffers!” yelled Phyllis. “I told you I know people in high places! Literally!” She waved as she ascended in her wheelchair. “Thank you, Tenzen!”

Tenzen, the head of a special weapons unit in Chicago, saluted her from the garage port entry.

Durdell wasn’t having it. “Oh yeah? Well, I did a little planning myself!” He held up his fingers and snapped. “Tenzen!”

Tenzen — the same Tenzen who had outfitted Phyllis with her rocket pack — started forward and affixed Durdell with his own rocket pack. 

“Tenzen!” squawked Phyllis from above, where she idled in the air.

“You sold to both of us?!!”

Tenzen gave a sheepish shrug.

 “Let’s get this show on the road!” shouted Durdell, flying from side to

side with his driver in hand. He zoomed over and tried to bash Phyllis’ rolling pin out of her hands, but she blocked him with it and held on tight. Durdell was a master golfer, but both were so speedy in their rocket packs that they had difficulty connecting the weaponry to the desired (quickly moving) targets.

“That’s it!” cawed Phyllis. “I’m bringun the big guns in!” She whipped off her left sock and shoe and hurled them at Durdell, displaying wet eyeball after eyeball squeezing out of the many holes on the soles of her feet. There were little eyeballs and big eyeballs; there were even eyeballs that squeezed out and inflated to the size of overfilled balloons. There were brown eyeballs, green eyeballs, even violet ones. The rate at which Phyllis was squeezing out these ocular horrors was astonishing.  

Everyone gasped collectively. “It’s the Deadbuttex special!” yelled

Durd, horrified. “THAT side effect wasn’t on the bottle!”

“What?!! You’ve been drugging me???”

“How else do you think you’ve been squeezing eyeballs outta yer

feet?!!”

“Dell!”

Droves of people fled the arena, screaming. Phyllis pelted eyeballs at

Durd. “Show me whatcha got, Durd! Durd Durd Durd, Durd is a turd!”

“Shutchyer mouth, you ol’ battle-axe!”

“Durdy is a turdy!” 

The greater the volume of eyeballs dispensed from Phyllis’ perforated feet, the larger they inflated once squeezed into existence. The oculars piled up and up, positively plopping out of her feet. All Durdell could do was shield himself from the torrent of Phyllis’ pelts. Shocked and repulsed, the audience ran screaming from the building. Some of the eyeballs swelled to the size of sticky wet silos. Now, the arena was filled with piles of eyeballs about 15 feet deep — about half the distance from the floor to the ceiling.

“Hon!” shouted Durdell. “We gotta get outta here before it overflows!”

“The doors are all blocked! What do we do?”

Durdell dropped his driver. Phyllis dropped her rolling pin. 

At the same time, both of them spotted the large half-circle opening

in the wall a few feet above them.

The room was filling up fast. “We have to get to that window space!”

shouted Durd. “This is the only way out! Come on! Let’s go!”

“My rocket pack is falling off! The straps are tangled!”

“Get over here!”

Durdell met her halfway and untangled her rocket pack straps. “Let’sgo! Now!”

The two of them rocketed their way to the glassless opening in the wall.

“I think I got it.” Durdell grabbed Phyllis’ sturdy rocketpack strap, gave it a good yank, and pulled Phyllis into the window — where they both became trapped with their torsos and both hands on the clear side of the window and their bums on the eyeball side.

“We made it!” exclaimed Phyllis. “Dell, we made it!”

“Thank the good Lord,” said Durdell. “I didn’t think we were gonna.”

“You saved me. Thank you,” said Phyllis, batting her eyelashes.

“You’re my hero.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my queen. I’d do anything for ya.” He smiled. “Even share the remote control?”

The realization slowly dawned on Durdell. Finally, he spoke. “Absolutely.” 

“You mean it?”

“Yup. That TV ain’t more important than you. I’ve been outta my gourd.”

“Wow.” She laughed her bell-tinkle laugh. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that.”

“We’ll buy a second TV and put it in the bedroom when Black Friday rolls around.”

“Wonderful,” said Phyllis. “Y’know, I think we’re both better when we work together.”

“I think yer right.”

“You know what, Dell?”

“What?”

“I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

He could only smile. “You sure are, Phyll. You sure are.”

“I’d kiss you if I could.”

He blew a kiss at her. She blew him one back.

“So how are we gonna get out of here?” drawled Durdell.

“Do you have your phone?”

“Yup.”

“I have the number for the after-hours building maintenance supervisor. She’s a close and personal friend.”

“Of course she is. Sure.” He thought. “And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You look as great in yellow as the day I met you.”

She could only smile.

From twenty feet high up, Durdell and Phyllis blew kisses at each other and waited in the sea of weepy, popping wet eyeballs for the janitor to come and rescue them.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Airika Sneve 2025

Image Source: Afif Nur Fahmi from Unsplash