Randy's Bad Day

Randy stirred on the couch. His head pulsing with his heartbeat, tiny sledgehammers pounding his temples in rhythmic time.

"Unnnh." He rubbed his eyes, dislodging the crusty remnants of a hard night's sleep. Slowly, his living room came into focus. The TV played blinding gray static; he squinted his eyes to slits. Before him lay the aftermath of the previous night's binge--empty cans of Bud Light littering the coffee table and floor below, and an empty fifth of Jack Daniels laying horizontal, pointing at the sliding glass door that led to the woods out back.

Randy swung his feet onto the floor and sat up, his muscles groaning and unwinding from their previously constricted state. He took a deep breath in an attempt to drive the nausea away, then stood, his knees a pair of popping cap-guns, and stretched his hands above his head, vertebrae snapping into place and realigning.

He walked to the kitchen, his steps staggered and short, and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. He looked out the window while he filled the glass from the tap. Three deep gulps helped wash the stale booze aftertaste away. A dense fog penetrated the woods, reducing visibility to only a few feet from the cabin. He looked at the clock on the microwave --7:12am.

Randy walked to the breakfast nook and peered out the large bay window. There was an eerie calm about fog that always unnerved him. He wondered if it might rain. Then he chugged the rest of his water and opened the fridge, hoping to see what he was looking for. He did.

One remaining can of Bud Light stood alone in the fridge. He grabbed the can and held the cold aluminum to his forehead. Sweet relief.

Carefully, he poured half the beer into his glass. From the pantry he pulled a bottle of tomato juice and filled the glass the rest of the way. For the finishing touch, a few dashes of Tabasco. He took a sip and slowly the world seemed like a better place. The spice and vinegar

from the hot sauce opened his sinuses, and the salt from the tomato juice felt good going down his throat.

Randy walked to the side table and retrieved his phone. "Oh, shit." (Voicemail from: Janelle)

Randy tried to recall his hazy, beer-and-whiskey- soaked memories of the night before. He'd done a good job of ignoring Janelle's calls after he left the house. When she said she wanted a divorce, he didn't scream and yell; he didn't hit her (even though he felt like it). Instead, he jumped in his truck, got a twelve pack of beer and a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey. Then he made the hour and a half drive out to their cabin in the woods.

His phone rang nonstop the first half hour he was on the road. By the time he got to the cabin and cracked his first beer, she hadn't called for forty five minutes. When his phone rang two hours later, he was buzzed enough to think answering it would be a good idea. That proved to be a mistake.

Divorce.

She'd found herself a "new man," she told him, "one who didn't drink so much that he had trouble getting it up for her." One who would spend more time with her instead of "always running off to that goddamned cabin."

"Well, more power to her." That's what he'd said when she was standing in front of him, anyway (when he was sober).

With a belly full of booze and head full of steam, though, it was a different story - he let her have it. She was crying by the time he hung up on her, and if he remembered correctly he told her to "go running to Superdick with her crocodile tears."

Randy put his phone in his pocket and grabbed the remote to turn on the morning news and check the weather. It was on the right channel, but he got nothing but static. He tried another channel, still nothing. "Great. She forgot to pay the goddamn cable bill." He turned the TV off and took another sip of his tomato-beer when he heard something.

"Bruuuhhhp"

He walked to the hall and looked toward the bedroom he never slept in.

"Bruuuhhhp"

It was on his left, by the front door, but it was coming from outside. Bewildered, he opened the door. On his doorstep sat a large bullfrog. It stared at him with bulging eyes, its greenish-brown hue reminding him of the inside of the toilet bowl the last time he had a stomach bug.

He smirked, "hey little fella, what are you up to? You lost or somethin'?" A foul odor cascaded over Randy and he grimaced. His stomach danced and tumbled, threatening to send his tomato-beer back up the way it came. It smelled of sulfur and body odor and stilton cheese and a dead skunk's rotten sphincter, all rolled into one. "Jesus Christ! Is that you?"

"Bruuuhhhp"

"Uh-huh. Well, you stink buddy." He reached to close the door when the frog leaped, flying past Randy and landing in the small entryway. "Hey! No you don't." He crouched and crept up on the frog, trying not to scare it, but prompted it to jump farther into the cabin. He slowly extended his arms and scooped it up (instantly repulsed).

The frog was covered with a thick slime, like it had been dipped in the snot of a thousand allergy sufferers. It was slippery, but made no attempt to jump out of Randy's hands. If it had, he wouldn't have been able to stop it.

He placed the frog back on the doorstep, facing away from the cabin. "Go on now, get." He stuck his foot out and nudged the frog's little butt with the toe of his boot. "Shoo, little froggy." The frog hopped off, away from the cabin and into the fog.

Randy used his shoulder to push the door shut, not wanting to touch the knob with his slime-covered hands. He walked to the kitchen with his palms up, looking like a doctor before surgery.

It took three washings with hot water to get the slime off. He stared out the window above the sink, looking at the fog. It seemed even thicker than it did just a few minutes ago. He could hardly see beyond the cabin.

He stood there, drying his hands, staring out the window, when a frog came rocketing toward him. It hit the glass in front of his face with a splat, then peeled away and fell to the ground, leaving a grapefruit-sized slime-print behind. Randy jumped. The initial scare was quickly replaced by anger, "What the hell, frog?"

He walked to the sliding-glass door, threw it open and stormed out back, marching to the window over the sink. The frog limped feebly, one of its legs obviously injured. A streak of pinkish-red blood trailed behind it. He sighed and picked up the hurt frog, enduring the ungodly stench coming from it.

"What were you thinking, you slimy booger?" He looked at the frog's injured leg then turned it around to look it in the eye. "You sure are ugly, you know that?"

He took his index finger and went to rub the frog's head but when the amphibian opened its mouth, Randy froze. The frog had dozens of tiny, sharp, needle-like teeth! Before he had time to process what he was seeing the frog clamped down, a thousand tiny pinpricks stuck into Randy's finger. He cried out in shock and pain and let go of the slimy thing. It swung from his finger--its teeth providing an excellent grip.

He shook his hand up and down in an attempt to fling the frog off. It held strong. "Son of a bitch!" He grabbed the frog's head and squeezed the corners of its mouth, slowly forcing it open. Once there was enough room, he yanked his finger out, some of the frog's needle-teeth snapping off with it, making his finger look like he'd been pricked by a cactus.

With his finger free and adrenaline pumping, he reared back, throwing the frog down with all his force. It bounced limply off the hard dirt like a beanbag. The frog managed to drag itself forward a few inches then stopped, trembling. Randy lifted his leg and stomped down with his heel as hard as he could. The frog exploded in a halo of gore around Randy's boot.

"Fuckin' frog," he said, picking the broken remnants of needle-teeth out of his finger.

"Bruuuhhhp"

Randy whirled around wide-eyed. A new frog was bouncing its way toward the open sliding glass door. "No, goddammit, no!" He ran for the door, trying to beat the frog there. The frog jumped ahead of him; he outstretched his arms to catch it, but it sailed into the living room just out of his reach.

It landed on the couch and Randy barreled through the door after it, lunging for it as it jumped toward the hallway. He stumbled over empty beer cans trying to catch it as it hopped down the hall and into the bedroom.

Randy wiped his hands on his jeans and grinned. The frog was trapped. "Now I gotcha, you son of a bitch." He went to the hall closet, where his bat had been propped in the corner since the Bear Lake Softball Tournament last July. He picked it up, feeling the satisfying weight of it in his hands. With murder in his

eyes he marched down the hall and into the bedroom where the frog sat in the middle of the queen-sized bed, looking at Randy. Mocking him.

"Bruuuhhhp"

The bed was Janelle's. So were the sheets, the blanket, and the god-awful floral print comforter on top. She'd let Randy bring it all up when they moved in together. He thought that was quite the upgrade from the old futon that had been in there initially, but the thing was as hard as a rock. He'd never gotten a good night's sleep on it since he broke his back hauling it up.

He thought about killing this smelly, slimy, utterly- gross creature on something that was definitively Janelle's, and that suddenly made him very happy. Randy raised the bat over his head with a sinister grin. "Get ready to go to froggy heaven, you smelly shit." He brought the bat down as hard as he could and the frog jumped, narrowly missing becoming a stain on the comforter. It leapt toward the headboard, then onto Janelle's stereo that played old Marvin Gaye CD's back when they still had sex.

Randy swung at the frog again and once again it jumped away. The aluminum bat shattered the stereo, bits of broken plastic shooting in every direction-- shrapnel in The Great Frog War.

The frog jumped back to the bed and this time Randy was ready. He brought the bat down on top of the frog before it had a chance to move and he connected with full force. The solid thump on the barrel of the bat was the most satisfying feeling Randy had experienced in months. The frog's eyes bulged from their sockets, dangling by the thread-like optic nerve. Randy raised the bat then brought it down again and the eyes ceased to be, turning to liquid goo that soaked into the comforter.

Randy took a moment to catch his breath as he watched the frog ooze its insides onto the bed. He decided to come back for it later and throw it out. The smell was overwhelming and he desperately needed to clear his head. He leaned the bat against the couch, grabbed his tomato-beer and took a sip--it tasted like victory. He started chugging it so he could make himself another one when he almost choked. In the

glory of his murderous afterglow he'd neglected to notice the sliding glass door was still wide open. Another frog was hopping toward the house.

Randy put down his glass and shot for the door, sliding it shut as hard and fast as he could. The frog jumped in with uncanny timing. The olive-skinned critter got caught between the door and the frame as it slammed shut, the force almost cutting it in two. The frog's eyes shot out of its head, gooey projectiles that landed on the couch and rolled on the cushion like tiny marbles.

"Yeah!" He pumped his fist. "Fuck you, frog!"

Randy strutted back to the kitchen, leaving the lifeless, eyeless-frog pinned between the door and frame, and poured himself another tomato-beer. He added the Tabasco on top and was savoring the first sip of his fresh drink when he heard a loud thump, and looked up to see another frog slowly peeling off the sliding glass door. "What in the hell is going on?"

"Bruuuhhhp"

Another thump, this one on the front door. Another frog was hopping madly toward the sliding door. He braced himself for the impact; it hit hard enough to rattle the door in its frame.

"Bruuuhhhp" Thump! "Bruuuhhp" Thump!

A frog came crashing through the bay window in the breakfast nook, landing on the table, cut and bleeding. Randy dashed to the couch to get his bat--the thumps at the front door were becoming a steady, rhythmic sound.

He shot back to the breakfast nook to find the frog gone--smeared slime and blood on the table were all that remained. Before he could look for it he heard a croak coming right at him through the broken window.

His reflexes took over, powering through the hangover and reactivated buzz of the morning's tomato-beer. He cocked the bat and swung like an All-Star. The incoming frog slammed right into the bat's sweet spot;

anyone seeing the damage secondhand would've been hard pressed to believe it hadn't been force fed a cherry bomb. Viscera flew in all directions, some of the sinewy-mucous slapped Randy in the face and hung from his cheek.

The thumps at the front door were now a constant barrage. The sliding door was rattling loud enough to drown out Randy's profane screams of fury at the creatures trying to invade his cabin. A frog the size of a fat pug jumped into the sliding door, the force causing a hairline crack in the glass. It fell clumsily and rolled onto its back, dead or dying.

"They're gonna break through. Jesus Christ, they're gonna break through!"

Randy fished his phone out of his pocket to call 911. Another pug-sized frog hit solidly, helping the crack spread the length of the door. Two more came sailing through the busted bay window.

The injured frog that had broken the window drug itself across the kitchen floor. It sprang toward Randy,

clamping down on his calf. He yelled out, caught off guard as the spiny needle-teeth dug into him--he staggered, pulling at the frog.

Fog began seeping through the open bay window, the croaks and thumps of the slimy animals hitting the house became a thunderous cacophony of impending doom.

Randy ripped the frog off his leg, tearing flesh and muscle away with it, and fell to the floor. A frog the size of a bulldog charged the sliding door and the cracked glass gave way, opening the floodgates to hundreds of frogs that bounded into the cabin.

Randy shrieked, his cell phone flying out of his hand as he tried to slap frogs away. Fog filled the cabin as he was devoured alive by thousands upon thousands of mutant amphibian needle-teeth. A frog stepped on his phone, causing the voicemail to play. It was drowned out by croaks, thumps, tearing flesh, and Randy's dying screams.

"Randy, it's Janelle. Look, I'm still pissed at you after you were such an asshole last night, but there was something on the news about strange things going on around the lake. It says they're asking people to evacuate? Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Call me."