Blink's Stoof

IN WHICH KATHRYN IS A 26-YEAR-OLD GERMAN MOBSTER

Kathryn: The German Mobster

"Fuck," Kathryn whispers to herself while overlooking David Lyman’s profile, "I mean, the information is here, phone number and all, but his exact location, no." She clicks a page. And another. "Oh, here it is," she says, exasperated, "I’ll try to book a flight next week, but first I’ll have to get all the chicken nuggets."

She calls her father, who works in a well-known restaurant. "Yo, dad. How you been?" Kathryn inquires.

"Okay, Kathryn, I’m not just going to ship you free food again. There’s gonna have to be a price. Like drugs. Except I’m your father, and I really hope you're not doing any drugs. What I can do is put a discount on it because you’re blood, alright?" he responds with a question of his own.

"Yeah... I guess that sounds like a plan. So how much we talkin’ here? For 5,000 chicken nuggets," Kathryn mentions.

"Well, if you carry the one and multiply that by five, it’d come out to be $1,500, kid," he reasons with himself.

She pulls up a page in a separate tab that shows her how much is in her bank, and she’s got $4,637. She’d have $3,137 left, which is easy to get back into the higher numbers with her job. "You got a deal, old man. You just gotta come by my house with the nuggets and I’ll pay ya there," she informs him.

"Alright, Kathryn. Deal. I’ll see ya in a day or two," Kathryn’s father says before hanging up on his end.

"Yes! This is great, I’m finally going to kill that dumbass David!" Kathryn says hysterically, dancing.

Two days pass by.

There’s a knock on Kathryn’s door, early in the morning.

“I’m coming!” Kathryn says, putting on a dark-blue sweatshirt and a pair of worn-out slippers.

Assuming it's her father, she opens the large, ivory door and smiles warmly when she sees who's on the other side. “Hey, dad. Here’s the cash,” she greets him, giving him $1,500. He hands her some boxes of chicken nuggets, just as promised. “Thanks, dad!” she says excitedly before telling her father goodbye and closing the door.

Skip to the next week.

Kathryn is on a plane headed to Colorado. She’s got a long flight ahead of her, so she listens to some Maroon 5 on her phone, which, this time, lulls her to sleep.

She wakes up just before the plane is about to land. When the plane finally lands, she’s the first person to stand up and get off the plane. She’s got important ‘business’ to take care of.

She rents a car and puts her luggage and the chicken nuggets in the backseat, smelling the crispy scent every once in a while.

When she arrives at a blue house, she smiles, she just fucking smiles.

She’s here, finally.

She grabs her luggage and the chicken nuggets, closing the car doors. She wobbles up the steps to the door, almost dropping the boxes of chicken nuggets more than one time. She puts the boxes down when she’s close enough to the door, sighing contently before knocking. When a man in his 30's answers it, she knows it’s him. She smiles her biggest smile, eyes closed and shit.

"Hello, may I come in?" she asks broodingly. "I suppose so, sure, ma’am," the man, who Kathryn knows as David, complies, unsure. "Please, call me Kathryn," Kathryn instructs. "Alright, Miss Kathryn, please, make yourself comfortable. Do you like tea?" David queries, face a little pale. "No, ‘fraid not. But I do like coffee, do you have coffee?" she asks warmly. "I certainly do, I’ll get it ready for you momentarily," David responds. "That would be great," Kathryn comments.

She sits down and opens one of the boxes, smelling the condiments for just a second. “Ahh,” she coos. She turns around, hands filled with chicken nuggets, saying: “This is what you fucking deserve, you low life fuckin’ pansy piece of shit!” And then she's throwing the chicken nuggets at David Lyman, laughing as he cries out in pain. She only ceases the throwing after she sees that he's stopped breathing and when she's seen the blood on the floor. “I've done it. That felt fantastic,” she breathes, going to wash off the carmine blood that splattered on her clothes.