“Oh my god, Alfred STOPPIT.”
“If you don’t stop I swear to Glob I will freaking choke you!”
“Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow!” the American screams louder than imaginable while shaking his hips, arms extended at an angle like some kawaii neko. The mask on his face is made of cardboard and poorly coloured in with crayon; it hangs on his face tied with a shoe string. “Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa—”You turn around and strike like lightning, but he’s too fast; just as your fist comes hurdling through the air like debris erupting from a volcano, Alfred scrambles out of the way, tripping over himself and falling to his knees, during which, he continues on: “Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho! Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho! Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!”
You groan on the verge of tears from the irritation. “Look, Gangnam Style was enough, don’t you think? Please, just help me finish this project…” With that, you turn back to your desk where toothpicks are stacked together almost to the ceiling, held together by Styrofoam squares: you’re making a model of the Eifel Tower as a project for History class.
Yes, it’s lame, but it was the only thing you figured Alfred could help make without ruining it. But he hasn’t done jack squat since you started: all he’s done is goof around, even though the due date is tomorrow and there’s plenty left to be done.
“I bet Norway and Iceland are getting their project finished,” you grumble, “Next time I see that stoic Norwegian I’m going to remind him how easily influenced Americans are and why it’s a bad idea to use YouTube. When does he even get free time to come up with this stuff anyway?” You push a toothpick into a Styrofoam piece and glace down at your diagram. Then you piece together what will be the very top of the tower; so far, so great, besides your slacker partner, of course.
Alfred says excitedly, now standing at your side with a slight bounce, “Hey, [Name], I can speak Norwegian! I’ve been practicing all afternoon.”
“That line from the Harlem Shake doesn’t count, you know,” you reply with a sly smirk, feeling ever-so clever.
“No, really, do you wanna hear?” he asks in an almost inaudible voice; you don’t hear him and carry on your diligent work pace. Alfred steps behind you as you lean forward towards the desk; he leans over you, inhaling the world’s oxygen, close to your ear.
And then he does it.
Certainly, you weren’t expecting that: your body jumps with a start at Alfred’s obscene screaming. During this, you smash a section or two of the toothpicks, and that’s when you squawk because toothpicks splinter and sting. You quickly brush them off and cradle your arm desperately, but you aren’t distracted from the idiotic teenager.
“WHAT THE HELL, ALFRED?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FRUKING NOODLE?!”
And he shouts back, “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?!”
And so you return with, “I’MABOUTTOKICKYOURSORRYARSE!!!THAT’SWHATTHE FOXSAYS.”
And he laughs before tearing out of your room at Mach 5 speed, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
And you rage after him, swinging the door open just as he rounds a corner to the stairs. You’re at the top of the staircase in an instant, and then you hear it.
“Dog goes woof, cat goes meow, birds go tweet and mice go squeak. Cow goes moo, frog goes croak, and the elephant goes toot. Ducks say quack, and fish go blub, and the seal goes ow ow ow. But there’s one sound, that no one knows…WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?”
You howl, “I AM GOING TO HURT YOU!” over the pulsing dubstep.
After taking the stairs (four at a time), you reach ground level, where Alfred dances in the middle of the living room; Lukas is sitting on the sofa in a fox costume, you don’t even care how he got into your house, you just want to get to Alfred. Crossing the room, you tackle the target, pinning him to the ground on his back. Your hands clasp around his neck and you just wring the living shite out of him.
Lukas silently watches from his seat on the couch, arms crossed, a blank expression on his face, but inside, he’s actually enjoying the scene of Alfred’s head bobbing against the floor to the beat from your merciless wrenching.
You let him go, still sitting on him. “What do you have to say for yourself?” You weren’t sure what kind of answer you were going to get, but it was the most obvious one.
He coughs pathetically, massaging his bruised neck as his face returns to its natural colour. “I think you’re foxy, [Name]. So what does the fox say?”
Your left eye twitches. “And what am I supposed to say?”
“How will you speak to that ho-o-o-o-orse? I’m the horse, and you’re the fox. How will you tell me I’m attractive? ”
It takes a bit of restraint not to laugh. In a hurry, you get off of the poor guy to hide the dumb grin on your face. Then you cross to the stereo and shut it off.
“Aww, c’mon, I was having,” Alfred coughs, “fun.”
“I’m going to go finish my project. Nice seeing you, [Name],” Lukas stands and crosses to the door, “Good luck finishing.” It almost sounds sarcastic.
“Wait, why are you wearing that costume?” you inquire hurriedly.
He looks down at himself for a moment. “These are my pyjamas.”
“It’s for my project,” he confesses without batting an eye; he excuses his self and closes the door. You turn to Alfred, but he isn’t where you left him last. He stands at the stereo and the music starts again.
You sigh and accept defeat. Sitting on the sofa, you cradle the injured arm and watch the American does the dance from the video, a smile of joy across his face.
And then the electricity shuts off.
Alfred sobs in the darkness.