Furby

I am a cash register. I, myself, am a machine. Only when I work, of course. Not all of the time. Well, at least, I don’t….think….I am… OH MY GAHT. “Am I or am I not a cash register?!” Didn’t Shakespeare ask himself the same thing those many years ago?!

Just call me Winpiglium Sheakespeare.

So I’m being a human register per usual, besides the days when I’m not bussing, and I am approached by a small child and her mother. Small child acts excited. She loves Chipotle. Mother acts annoyed because small child is strange in public.

I applaud small child. I, too, was “that” strange kid in public.

“14.50,” I say. Standard Chipotle expense. Two chicken bowls. CLASSIC.

Mother hands me her credit card. Visa. CLASSIC.

As I swipe her card and the receipt immediately begins its printing, I hear small child exclaim “Mr. Googly Eyes is hungry!”

I grab the receipt. Mr. Googly Eyes sounds like small child’s favorite stuffed animal or some, Monsters Inc. character. I’m expecting an adorable, infant toy and also half expecting nothing, like an invisible friend. But, to my dismay. To my horrible dismay. IT WAS SOMETHING.

Something I never thought I’d see in a million years. Ever since I threw mine away in my closet 10 years ago after it awoke as I slept soundly alone in my room. I thought the nightmares were over.. But here it lives. On the silver Chipotle counter in front of my palms.

A furby.

And just then, like a phoenix from the ashes, my fear was reborn. It came again in a second vicious, furbicious wind and I felt my armpits and forehead begin to perspire.

“Mr. Googly eyes is ALWAYS hungry,” mother nervously replies to small child’s statement about his appetite.

Always hungry? He feeds upon Chipotle and human flesh. No wonder mother was wearing long sleeves and pants, her forearms and shins bitten to the bone by the flame orange beak of the ancient winged beast!

Googly Eyes furbily darts his good graciously googly eyes back and forth. Back and forth. He’s. Alive. Pretending, only pretending, to remain inanimate before he…

LEAPS FROM THE COUNTER WITH HIS RAZOR SHARP FURBY NAILS AND DIGS THEM INTO MY CLAVICLE.

Then Googly pierces his beak into the left of my neck and I struggle to sprint to the walk-in fridge dodging the linebacker and take-out specialist. Hand to handle I throw the door open wide in search of furbacious kryptonite: Marinated chicken cutlets.

My knees grow feeble, Googly’s talons grip my throat; I reach for the pan of breasts. A cup will do.

MARINATION!!!! BI- GAWKK!!!!

Breast cutletts slaps render Googly useless. His body falls to the tile floor alongside a box of lemons. Looks like things ended sour for you… Googly.

Small child breaks into tears. But Mr. Googly eyes won’t googly anyone, anymore.

This vision happened in a matter of five seconds as I said “Have a nice day.”