The Escape

Tremendous fear collected inside of Patrick as Grampa Wentz charged like a bull towards him. He ran towards the back door, pulling Pete with him. All he could hear was his own panting and the mixed screams of Pete and his Grampa’s.
 
            “PATRICK CALM DOWN!” Pete screamed. He tried to stop Patrick from running. “YOU’RE GOING TO RIP MY FAVORITE SHIRT! I ONLY WORE IT TO LOOK NICE FOR YOU!” Patrick had a good lead on Grampa Wentz, so he slowed down, then to a halt.
 
            “…Really?” He simultaneously sounded embarrassed and optimistic. Pete looked down at his shoes, and nodded. He made a mental note that Patrick was still holding on to his sleeve. Patrick grabbed Pete’s chin and made him look up, “Stop fucking around Pete, there are at least 5 knifes in this house and two hands who know where they are.”
 
            “You’re so serious.” Pete said, “All we have to do is give him his medicine and he should pass out for a couple more hours.” Grampa Wentz was coming in pretty close.
 
            “Promise?”
 
            “Promise.”
 
            “Okay.” He pouted, “Go take care of gramps, and I’ll get the medicine.” Pete nodded to Patrick’s instruction and ran up to his grampa and screamed, “General, I found a Jewish spy in room over taking…” he had to think for a moment, “uhm, your plan book to bomb…PEARL HARBOR!”
 
            “DAMN JEWS!” The old man briskly walked into the bathroom and Pete slammed the door and held it shut. The door began to shake violently. Even though Grampa Wentz was 80 and insane, he was surprisingly strong.
 
            “PAT, I NEED THE MEDS!” Pete shouted. He was even frightened now, knowing that his Grampa was going to be pissed. Patrick was around the corner, fumbling with the few bottles of pain killers. He was desperately looking for the bottle with gramps name on in, unsuccessful. The only bottle that wasn’t to do with anesthetic was entitled: “Biogetica, C20 EPILEPSY FORMULA”
 
            Realizing that he was no doctor, Patrick took a shot in the dark and grabbed that bottle. “Pete it’s a liquid, how are we going to get him to take it?” he asked.
 
            Pete’s voice traveled around the corner, “If you look to the left of the sink, my Grampa’s dentures should be in a glass of water. Just wash it off and spread the medicine all over it.”
 
            “NO.” Patrick looked at the dentures in disgust. They were big and overly pink, making it obvious for anyone to tell there were fake.
 
            “No.” he repeated. “Wait,” he pondered, “are you telling me that your grampa doesn’t have any teeth in at the moment?”
 
            “Yes! Patrick come on! Grampsy is going to murder both of us for being Jewish and traders. JUST TOUCH THE FUCKING DENTURES!”
 
            Patrick whined a little bit, purposely loud enough for Pete to hear. He slowly put two fingers into the denture solution and picked up the dentures. Barely pinching them, Patrick somehow managed to get them over to the medicine on the other side of the sink.

This is the most grotesque thing I’ve ever done, he thought. He quickly took it away, remembering the tour days. He almost chuckled thinking about them while evenly spreading the shiny liquid evenly over the flamingo pink surface.

“Patty dear, you don’t have all day.” Pete said in the back round. His patience was running thin and Grampa wouldn’t stop screaming, “Those damn Jews, MY OWN GRANDCHILD! Poison job, poison job!”

“SHUT UP GRAMPA!” Pete yelled directly into the door when his grampa rammed his Nazi-helmet protected head directly where Pete’s face was on the other side of the door and that was the final blow that knocked him completely off of his feet and back onto that nasty carpet. “..damn reoccurring themes.” He said, a bit winded.

Grampa came charging out of the bathroom like he was to kill whoever was closest. His wrinkled face was as red as the swastika on his helmet. Pete stayed frozen on the floor, acting like his own grandfather was a rabid dog you’d see on the street.

“That blonde Jew, I have to find that Jew.” then he muttered something under his breath and began. He began to scope out the room, at the same time Patrick was re-screwing the top of the medicine. He quickly set it down, but his hand hit something when he did. A black sharpie.

“Yes.” He quietly said to himself. A sinister smile formed on his mouth. “I obviously can’t give the fucker the dentures myself, so I’ll have to give it to him from a role model.” He took off his cap and tucked in his long blonde hair. Then he took off the top to the sharpie and drew a small mustache.

“Forgive me.” Patrick said while looking up then put the sharpie down and picked up the dentures and put them behind his back. He held his breathe and walked into the room.

“There you are.” he said in an aggressive voice. “I have been looking all over for you to give you your...weapon advancement.” His voice got weaker with every word spoken.

Grampa Wentz’s posture changed the instant Patrick walked into the room. He put his arms firmly to the side and would not look directly into Patrick’s eyes.

“Needs improvement.” Pete was still on the floor, he made eye contact with Patrick then pouted. Patrick nodded. Looking back at Grampa Wentz he said, “Our weapons are now compact and harder to detect by the Jews.” Patrick tried to keep a straight face but a sputter of laughter almost came out when he revealed the dentures. Grampa Wentz began to marvel over them and instantly put it in his mouth.

Pete and Patrick both watched his muscles relax and Pete slowly rose. He whispered into Patrick’s ear, “It’s over now. His medication always does that.” He smiled and tried to hug Patrick again but was interrupted by Grampa’s change in appearance.

His pupils shrunk to half the size they were, then his fist clamped up. Patrick and Pete shared a glance, Pete’s scared eye’s met up with Patrick’s and he hushed, “What medicine did you put on his dentures?” he said calmly.

“Uhm..” his voice fretted, “I think it had C20 in it.” Patrick swallowed. “Is that bad?”

Pete continued to keep his eyes on his grandfather and grabbed Patrick’s hand. “We’re going to find out, aren’t we?” Patrick let him hold his hand this time because if he died, that would be the only rigamortis position he would want.
***

A half an hour later, Pete’s parents walked into the house to find Grampa Wentz foaming at the mouth, on top of Pete, who was on the floor screaming because Grampa Wentz was choking him.

Patrick was about two feet away from them with a smudged marker mustache, screaming, “Steigen Sie von ihm, du dumme Maulesel!” He would stomp a few times then say, “Sie sind nicht im Zweiten Weltkrieg, aufhören zu schmerzen meine Liebe!” He grunted in frustration then looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Wentz.

“Oh, hey. How was moving in his stuff?” Patrick’s tone of voice began soft and respectful when he spoke now that Pete’s dad got the senile old man off of his best friend.

Mrs. Wentz voice was hesitant at first, “..It was good.” she seemed afraid to ask, “How was taking care of Grampa?”

“It only got hard when we gave him the wrong medicine.” he admitted. His inner child was showing in now, and he was blushing and feeling uncomfortable to talk to her.

She must of been able to sense it because in reply she said, “That’s my husbands fault, he never listens to me. Well you must be tired. I’ll let you be.” She smiled and walked back to Mr. Wentz.

Patrick walked up to Pete and crossed his arms. “I’m never babysitting with you again.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Promise?”

Patrick paused, then quietly said “Maybe.” Pete looked like he wanted to laugh but he must of been tired from being thrashed against the floor and being choked several times over.

“Okay, Goodnight Patty.”
***
It only hit me how relieved I was about getting away from Grampa Wentz when I was attempting to scrub off the sharpie from my upper lip from the safety of my own home. I mean, I had managed to go against religion, nerves, and feelings. I escaped the horror that was Grampa Wentz. I had managed to escape falling any more in love with Pete. No I hadn’t.