Drabble Wednesday: Frankie and Joni Party

The second instalment of Drabble Wednesday in its new home.

Frankie and Dr. Seuss

“Tardy we may be, but we’ll party hearty, you’ll see!” Frankie grinned at me over the computer-generated snack table.

I gave him an exasperated look. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a Dr. Seuss party. I am rhyming.” He bowed and tilted his Cat in the Hat chapeau at me.

“It’s bad enough we’re wearing these ridiculous outfits,” I glanced down at my Whoville get-up. “Remember we’re working, scoping out any program glitches. There will be no “party hearty”, smartie.”

“There’s a rhyme, just take the time.”

I sighed and stuffed a virtual muffin in his mouth to keep him quiet.

Frankie and Joni Go Retro

How do I get out of this silly scenario?

I wanted to scream, but I didn’t think shouting, “Help, I’m in a simulation of the 1950’s” was going to profit anyone. But I needed to vent something.

“Stupid virtual reality! Stupid consumer consumption nostalgia craze! Why did you suggest we test the program?”

“Hey, it’s not that bad. It’s what they wore to a sock hop.”

I glared at Frankie. “Look at me!”

“I guess we have skirted around the issue?” Frankie giggled.

“Oh shut up!” I waved my fist and the dangling details on my orange poodle skirt jingled.


“It needs more mice.”

I paused in taking a bite of my sandwich and placed the sardine roll back on my plate. I took a breath and asked, “What are you blathering about, Frankie?”

“The holiday program. It needs more mice. In little red elf hats. Maybe singing carols. But definitely not baking.”

I sighed, controlling my exasperation. “Okay. Supposing we do need mice, and that’s not a given, why can’t they be baking?”

“Because of the poem.”


“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. Not a mouse was stirring, remember.”

I face planted into the table, right next to the sardines.  

Frankie Goes Hollywood

“Glitzy glam, ma’am, that’s what I am.”

I glared at Frankie, against the backdrop of fritzing neon lights. I wasn’t sure which to blame for my burgeoning headache. Or maybe it was the punch. I’m pretty sure Frankie spiked it with that tequila rum he likes.

“Why did I let you talk me into going to this Hollywood Hologram party?”

“Because you didn’t have a date for New Year’s Eve.” He grinned, and I nearly kicked him. “Hey look, the Maltese Falcon, but—”

I interrupted, blurting, “Good golly, Miss Molly, its pink.”

Oh, yeah. Frankie definitely spiked the punch.

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