Mrs. Ozanski hurriedly grabbed the ball of mac n' cheese off of the floor, tossed it in the trash and clumsily traipsed up the stairs.
'Thomas!' She cried, 'For God's sake, answer me! Is there an intruder? Have you been assaulted?'
Chris, who had remained seated, raised his eyebrows and blinked his eyes slowly and exasperatedly. This ridiculous situation was not even worthy of comment, and he, Chris, would not grace it with one. An intruder? For Benjamin's sake, the closest thing that they got to visitors, much less intruders, was the mailman, or mail woman. Even he, or she (the only aspect of the 21st century that Chris clung to with startling tenacity was gender sensitive pronouns) rarely had mail to put in the mail box, as Tom, with his partiality to things of the technological nature, had insisted on going paperless years ago. Further, Chris'creative energy extended to all walks of life, and in his spare time he spread his personal flair on everything from ceiling fans draped in tinsel to decorative mailboxes, which reflected the times and the seasons. Often, he failed to take into account the mail person, whose attempt to deliver the Ozanski's their rare piece of junk mail would many times involve peeling through tape, papier mache, glue, and one brisk Mayflower day, several layers of ribbon. The Ozanski's mail box posed either a refreshing challenge or a teeth grinding bother to the mail person (whose days often blended into a blur of bland residential mailboxes yawning in boredom to accept bills, documents, advertisements and the occasional anonymous threatening letter) depending upon their perspective.
Sighing, Chris stretched out his nylon breaches and pondered the situation. If, in fact, a highly unlikely scenario had indeed brought Tom face to face with a masked intruder, Chris doubted that Tom would invoke any interest for them- both in terms of finances and in terms of a victim. He, Chris, would be a better option- not only did he carry a pouch of coins about with him in case of an emergency, but he would give any sociopath in search of a fearful victim a far more satisfying experience than Tom's stodgy rationality. He, Chris, would scream a high pitched scream and attempt to flee, only to struggle and fall limp under a chloroform soaked stocking. Tom would simply try to reason with the villain.
Chris' grisly meanderings were interrupted by his mother walking slowly down the stairs, her hand clutching the railing and her face slack and white as a sheet. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she gathered herself and made a visible effort to be a source of strength for her son.
'Christopher Charles,' She whispered, 'Your brother, my son, Thomas, is missing.'
This is so odd.
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