blog and portfolio of Tyler Omichinski

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The Ballad of Peaburt Potato

I found a potato that looked like it had a face on it today. Took some pictures. Next thing I knew, I had a ridiculously weird and terrible short story. Enjoy!

Today I met the most amazing person. His name is Peaburt Potato. We quickly learned that we have a lot in common. He told me so. Much like a character from Twilight or 50 Shades, he bites his lip a lot. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he should be biting the lower lip, not the top lip. It makes him look like a piranha.

Peaburt said that he is from the Yukon, but I'm not sure I believe him. The truck he came in on was from Ontario. We passed this awkwardness and decided to worry about other things.

It didn't take long before we were as thick as thieves. We decided to grab some scotch to celebrate. Peaburt offered to buy the first round, so it didn't take much more to convince me. Out came a flask from somewhere. I still don't understand where the flask came from or how Peaburt gets around. It was like every time I looked away, he got all the moving he needed done, and only in those times. When I looked back he just stayed put. I could hear his whispering starchy voice in my head though, whether I'm looking at him or I'm not.

He wanted me to go with him to the bank. I don't really understand why. Maybe he has difficulty getting around. If he can only move when no one is looking, it must be hard to get down the street. His voice, just inside my ear and reverberating against my eardrum sounds like pieces of paper being slid against each other. The arguments he makes are very sound. I put him in my back pocket, we decided it would be safe, and we went for a walk.

At the bank things quickly took a turn. We stood in line and Peaburt started to talk about the lines of sight on all of the cameras. That should have been my first clue. Before I could think to leave, he was handing me a mask and putting one on himself. We shoved our way to the front of the line and Peaburt started to demand that all the money be put in a bag.

"I'm not going back to prison!" His whispers cut through the mild chatter of the room, the murmurings of the people who were suddenly our hostages. "They'll fry me in there!"

We spuddered about, I didn't know what to do. Starch whispers chipped their way through my psyche and urged me on. We had to finish the job, it was what we came here for.

Before long Peaburt had the money in a bag, and he made me into his erstwhile getaway walker by jumping back into my left-buttock cheek's pocket. We speed walked out of the place while Peaburt told everyone that the first person to raise their head would be mashed into a bloody pulp on the floor.

On the street, we zig-zagged our way into a back alley, removing our masks as we did so. After throwing them into the garbage bins, we ruffled through their contents to ensure that it would be hard to find and tie back to us.

The whole walk home we kept our eyes peeled. While doing so, though, roots of doubt started to worm into me. I didn't know Peaburt that well, and I had never robbed a bank before. It was when I saw a news report about an escaped murder on a television that peered out through the window of a grimy electronics joint that I knew what I had to do.

Peaburt felt me go tense, and it was then that I felt the potato peeler jabbed into my ribs. He told me not to do anything stupid and marched me back to my apartment. I told him the offer to let me live, so long as I didn't try anything, was awfully appealing.

"Just remember," Peaburt said in his quiet way, "I can skin you like a chef with this thing."

Back at the apartment he had me put him and the money on the kitchen counter. It was then that I saw it. I had left a knife out the night before from making dinner. Peaburt saw it too and we both lunged for it. I managed to grapple with him and get the knife into one hand. He still had the peeler though, its dark metal ready to cut through me.

We danced, knives flickering between us. He proved to be an adept commentator throughout, criticizing both of our moves. It wasn't long, though, before my reach started to prove the end of him I kicked him in the side and his peeler went flying. Finally, I had him. I pinned him to the cutting board and commenced my dark work.

By the time his body was carved up, I had already heated the oven. I was going to have to dispose of the body, and there was only one way I knew how. He was a wanted murderer, and no one would coming looking for this spud around here.

The cops did come by, eventually, to ask questions about the bank robbery and if I had seen anything. I told them that I hadn't, and it wasn't long before they were on their way. As they left, walking down the hall, I called after them and said one last thing to them, trying to make some last comment for reasons unknown even to me.

"Sounds like he wasn't a very sweet potato."