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Reliable Source: Mac Vs. PC

Marion Cox | 10 Apr 2010 14:00
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"Door's unlocked," I yelled in my best impersonation of a police officer, warning the half-naked man that I was armed and dangerous, albeit with a computer.

"Pax shalom warrior," his eyes still closed. Shit, this wasn't a queer housebreaking junkie, it was Renault.
"You should lock the door."

Renault opened his eyes slowly, "Locks are tools of prison guards."

"Uh-huh," I set the computer down and looked around to see if Maryanne's furniture had been shoved into a corner. "I guess you didn't hear about the scumbags that break into people's houses and sell their furniture."

I locked eyes with him as I said it. His face told me that he understood the implications: I thought he was a crackhead, and he had stolen my sister's furniture. It was at that moment that I sensed something wrong; I could see the fear in his eyes.

He closed them, pretending to meditate again.

"Where's Mary?" I asked, concerned that he had sold her into white slavery for the bag of skank weed and the few sticks of incense that now stank up the house.

He didn't answer me. Instead he made a humming noise again and pointed to the kitchen where I could already hear the clanking of silverware. I entered to find that my sister cutting vegetables.

"What's for dinner Mar?"

"Brown rice, broccoli and miso seaweed soup."

"That's a salad?" I wasn't joking.

"That's dinner! Don't you remember, I told you, Renault is macrobiotic?"

Suddenly, I had become very uncomfortable. I didn't even know what miso was; it tasted like some type of animal excrement.

"In my country, we eat meat."

"Marion, you sound like dad."

She was right! And suddenly I wished the crazy old coot was there, he could have scared the hell out of the lazy rice eating beatnik in the living room and then tell Maryanne to go buy three steaks and make Renault eat them raw.

Despite my pleas to go out for dinner, we had what could only be generously described as dinner. Half-way through, I had given up on trying to use my chopsticks, eating my food with my hands like a barbarian. Frustrated in general, I began eating with my hands and when Renault watched me with his smug little beady eyes I mouthed, "I'm watching you hippie," before dipping a raw head of broccoli in my fish-poop soup before taking a vicious bite from it. I suspect I didn't look half as vicious as I thought I did, but I was caught up in the moment.

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