Brocklesnitch

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HoHoHorror

First in a series.

 

The Kitchen

 

Ellen Degeneres sits on her couch, staring intently at her television. Playing on it is her own image. On Sundays she has Tony the DJ make a supercut of all the times she danced on camera that week (including every CCTV camera she was caught on in the entirety of Los Angeles). When she can’t sleep, she gets out of bed to watch it for an hour or three. It soothes her. Suddenly, she hears a strange noise coming from the kitchen. Unfamiliar to her ears, it makes her jump. She stands up and faces the direction of the sound, breathing heavily. She knows it isn’t her rescue dog or her other rescue dog or her rescue cat or her other rescue cat or that other stray cat they are feeding or her rescue birds or her rescue horse or her rescue Sophia Grace or Rosie (they are in the soundproof cage in the studio basement at Burbank), or her rescue pony or rescue mule or rescue sheep or rescue donkey or the rescue parrot she gave CPR to or the monkey she rescued from the set of Friends (Jen Aniston smuggled it out in The Rachel). Could it be Portia? No, since she had lunch with Gwyneth last week to get health tips, she sleeps wrapped upside down in a fake womb hanging from the ceiling. She wouldn’t be birthed out into a bath of warm coconut water until the water broke at 5:45am.

 

The noise continued. It was a thick gurgling, a steady bubbling, perhaps similar to the sound of a person struggling to breathe or Barney Frank doing anything. The hairs on her arms stood on end, waving back and forth, wearing a sensible vegan vest – mimicking the dancing figure on the screen behind her. She took a few steps towards the kitchen, with a feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was very wrong. Although not as wrong as her romantic comedy Mr Wrong, the wrongest thing that has ever happened. The noise seemed to be getting louder now, each gurgle lasting a few seconds more each time. She finally reached the kitchen and entered through the doorway, poking her tiny head around inch by inch until she could see in.  “If only These Walls Could Talk 2,” she thought to herself. Even in times of crisis she can’t stop being hilarious. It is her burden. She looked around the kitchen. There was nobody there. No wild animal, no open door, no brick covered in ricin thrown through the window by Oprah and Gayle like last time. Her heart was racing as the strange and scary noise shattered the silence again and again.

 

She realised the sound was coming from the usually empty space beside the Swisse Vitamin pantry. She quickly turned and grabbed a knife from the sink and moved toward the SVP, feeling her pulse beating hard in her wrist as she grasped the handle (her hand grip incredibly strong due to Swisse Vitamins). She approached the pantry and quietly flattened herself against the door. She paused, gathering her courage like Kristen Bell and a sloth gathering youtube hits. Suddenly there was an extremely loud gurgle. She swung into action and let out a Xena yell as she pounced around the corner, jabbing the knife out in both of her shaky hands. There was nobody there! The noise was coming from the six-hundred dollar waterfall fountain Portia had purchased that day for their cats. Ellen had completely forgotten about it. She started to laugh hysterically, gasping  “I put myself through hELLEN back because of this”, doubling over with laughter at her own wit. As she stood she noticed tiny writing on the side of the fountain. She bent back down and read it out loud, alone in the kitchen - “contains slip agents, made from animal fat”.
 

She starts screaming.