Blind Allie 4:1

“Damn those Bible study freaks and their Latin!“

Allie sat up so forcefully that her garbanzos nearly popped out of their sockets. Jolted awake by a nightmare, she now found herself alone in her bed covered in a slimy cold sweat, her fishtail twitching convulsively under the sheet that in the murky predawn light of her bedroom took on the mesmerizing appearance of an oscillating water wave.

Just a moment earlier she had been chained to a fish cleaning table in Vulcan’s fiery mythical forge where, through alchemy or some other dark art, the archbishop of Paris had magically transformed the metal 19th-century spire of Notre-Dame into a brilliantly bejeweled burning hot silver misericorde (also known as a mercy dagger) that spun threateningly on its point at the most intimate and sensitive point on Allie’s inguinal area. She didn’t know whether she was about to be fileted or transformed into a biped like the Little Mermaid. She didn’t want to find out either, which is why she forced herself awake.

A craving for Blue Nun overtook her. She got up, went to the kitchen, and grabbed one of her father’s bottles from the refrigerator. She poured herself a glass, sat down, and took a sip, hoping the wine would help her figure it all out.