Whenever Irene sees women in ridiculously high heels, she has the urge to push them over, and watch them topple to the ground. Of course, she never acts on her impulses. Unlike normal redheads, Irene is timid and quiet, always keeping to herself.
She wondered, on that grey, windy morning, why anyone would ever voluntarily wear a medieval torture device.
As she walked down the city street to her dreadfully dull job, Irene sipped an iced coffee. This was odd, because it was late fall. What happened was when she went to get her morning cup of joe, the pimply, greasy haired boy had screwed up the order. She wanted a pleasant, hot coffee. She was even so daring as to ask for whipped cream on top. But instead the brain dead worker gave her this. And instead of telling the teenager that this was not even close to what she had ordered, and shove it back into his doughy face, she put on a fake smile and politely took it, paid, and left the shop. Irene was not the type to tell people what to do.
She swept into the entrance of Jerry’s Pencil Factory, where she worked, day in, day out. It was a dreadfully dull job, where for 8 hours a day, the poor girl watched a conveyor belt of pencils go by, sorting out the defected ones. Sometimes there was no eraser on the tip…other times the pencils were cut wrong, or two were stuck together.
Irene loathed her job in every way. The pay was horrible, the work was unbelievably monotonous, and her boss was not the most agreeable character. Yet, she continued to show up, every day. This is because Irene is not a risk taker. This was the first thing she found, and, fearing that nobody else would want to hire her, she took it. She dreamed of quitting and being what she really wanted to be, a bass player in a punk rock band, but no, that would never work, she told herself.
“Ms. Kinsley, may I ask why is your attire covered with fur? Did you roll around an animal shelter?” Sneered a cold voice that belonged to Irene’s boss, Mr. Slavowski.
Irene swerved around, face to face with the man she detested more than any other. His distasteful, mustard hued suit barely contained his pot belly. She had the desire to take a nearby pencil and pop it like a balloon.
“N-No, Mr. Slavowski. My dog –“
“Stop yakking and get to work, I don’t pay you for wasting my time!” He shouted, before briskly strutting away, off to patrol the other workers.
Clenching her teeth, Irene sat down. The machines had only just turned on, so no pencils had showed rolled by, yet. She began to daydream about her beloved pet, Bainbridge. Sure, he made her clothes – and everything else in her life – covered in fur, but she still adored him, even if he was a pudgy, blob of a beagle.
Hours rolled by slowly, as she inspected pencils, attempting to her very best ability not to drop dead of boredom. Finally, at 5 o’clock, it was time to leave.
Stiff from sitting for so long, Irene meandered to the door. It was lightly drizzling out, and quite foggy.
Getting to her apartment, Bainbridge’s entire body waggled in excitement to see his companion, letting out a deep “wuff, wuff” to greet her.
Suddenly the phone rang; she reached to it and held the receiver to her ear.
“Hello?”
“May I speak with Miss Irene Kinsley?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Good, good! Miss Kinsley, how would you like to be the proud owner of a Stainless Steel Pasta Machine?”
“N-No, I don’t think this is necessary –“
“Nonsense, EVERYONE needs one of these things! This machine can make any pasta you desire! Just feed in your dough, crank the handle, and presto! Homemade pasta!”
Irene bit her lip, replying, “No, I don’t even like Italian –“
“Great! Just three payments of 15.95 and this baby will be yours! Just give me your address and credit card information.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A week had passed and it was another chilly morning, as Irene was about to leave for work. Wrapping a long, knit scarf around her neck, she turned her apartment’s door knob, almost tripping over a hefty package. Awkwardly struggling to bring the thing into her tiny kitchen, she set it on the counter. Upon opening the box, she found a giant metal contraption with a large crank and all sorts of complicated gears. The side of the machine read, “Basso’s Pasta Maker” in red lettering.
Irene strode down the street as fast as she could. She was already ten minutes late because of the giant hunk of metal that now occupied most of her kitchen counter.
“Good morning, Ms. Kinsley,” grinned a bloated figure as she entered the factory building,
“Did you forget to set your alarm last night? Or maybe you decided to
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