I have to blog something and I haven't figured out what to write for Flash Fiction yet, so I will tell an embarrassing Halloween story about my sister instead.

When my sister was in junior high (or "middle school," as it's now called), she and her best friend (whom I'll call Shmudy Shladniak for anti-Googling purposes) on Halloween to commit devil damage upon their real and perceived enemies.

On their enemies list was one Mr. Savage (his real name) who was not the friendliest of sorts, if neighborhood lore is to be believed. As my sister and Shmudy were tossing rolls of toilet paper into his trees, a bellowing Mr. Savage emerged from his home and started chasing them down the street. Unfortunately for Shmudy, her Hunchback of Notre Dame costume was much more cumbersome than my sister's court jester one, and she got nabbed by the Savage and hauled back to his lair, where he telephoned the local constabulary.

My sister did not stick around for moral support.

This was how at the tender age of 13, Shmudy the dangerous malefactor found herself loaded into the back of a police car by Mr. King, for whom she babysat. Mr. King did not let sentiment stand in the way of performing his sworn duty of protecting the fine citizens of Woodridge against such a hardened criminal; babysitter or no, he was taking her in.

(Mr. King would've done better keeping a better eye on his own son, who was my age and who had already pulled the school fire alarm twice, and that was just in first grade. Mr. King also had the flightiest, most scatterbrained wife in the village; she named their dog "Grandpa" and often spoke in her falsetto-sounding sing-song voice about how Grandpa broke through his chain again and was running loose in the neighborhood, to the horror of those who overheard her.

Mrs. King worked with my mother, and Mr. and Mrs. King went out for a drink with my parents exactly once. Mr. King's intense Republican politics and anti-union attitude irked my father, but it was his order of Mogen David and 7-Up that my dad found most unforgivable.)

Anyway, Shmudy and my sister were never close again after that. My sister further exacerbated the situation by sending Shmudy information packets in the mail. For instance, she told the Army Shmudy was interested in enlisting, prompting them to send her countless promotional packets including a 45 recording of the "Reveille" bugle call. But that was nothing compared to the birth control information she requested in Shmudy's name, prompting a concerned Mrs. Shladniak to confront Shmudy after school -- "Shmudy, is there something you need to tell me?"

All in all, it's amazing that Shmudy even spoke to my sister.