melworks

Mr. Tombs, the peculiar landlord with a penchant for dramatic flair, perched on the grand staircase, his eyes gleaming with mischief. His cape fluttered behind him like a pair of midnight wings as he announced to the new tenants, "The pool, my dear guests, has been neglected. Fear not! For tomorrow, Brad Pittman, the most exquisite poolboy this side of the Mississippi, shall arrive to restore its sparkling allure." "When you say exquisite, Mr. Tombs, do you mean hot?" asked Shannon Doggerty. The fiery redhead was sprawled in an antique velvet chair, still wearing her garish pink waitress uniform. Mr. Tombs smirked, his fangs briefly peeking out. "Why, Miss Doggerty, your interest in the aesthetics of our pool's maintenance is quite... charming." "That means he's hot," quipped Richard Simpson. The fitness instructor was perched on the couch, next to Doctor Ruth Westenhause, the plump German sex therapist. Doctor Ruth chuckled, her blue eyes twinkling. "Indeed, Mr. Simpson, your grasp of the English language's nuances is quite... entertaining." "Forget hot poolboys," said Richard. "They're a dime a dozen in Hollywood! Let's talk about hot food!" He turned to Mr. Tombs. "Namely, the lack of it! It's been a week since the oven died, Mr. Tombs. When are you going to get it fixed?" Mr. Tombs raised a dramatic hand. "Ah, the culinary conundrum! I shall attend to it posthaste! But until then, why don't you all indulge in the charming delights of the Hollywood Diner?" "Oh hell no," said Shannon. "Just use the microwave, Richard. That still works." Doctor Ruth nodded in agreement. "Ja, I believe we can manage a simple meal with what we have." "We can make do for a while," agreed Richard. "But we don't all live on . . . wine, Mr. Tombs." He glowered at their landlord. "You need to get the oven fixed!" Mr. Tombs' eyes narrowed. "Your impatience is as delightful as your palate, Mr. Simpson. But I shall attend to the oven tomorrow" "Thank you!" said Richard. The next day, as promised, Brad Pittman strutted through the mansion's gates, wearing nothing but a pair of skintight swimming trunks and a smile that could melt the Arctic. He was indeed hot, and Shannon and Shelly couldn't help but ogle him from the windows. "Looks like it's going to be a steamy day," whispered Shelly, her cheeks flushing pink. "Yeah, but not as steamy as our kitchen's going to be," said Shannon with a wink. "Bet he's got abs like a brick wall." Shelly sighed dramatically. "I wish I had something to wear that's half as revealing as his... work attire." Shannon rolled her eyes. "You've got more costumes in your room than a Broadway play, Shell. You'll find something." Doctor Ruth, overhearing the conversation, waddled into the room. "I've got just the thing to get us through dinner!" She waved a microwave cookbook in the air. "I've had this since I came to America! It's full of delicious, easy-to-make meals." "Well, that's something to look forward to," said Richard, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Doctor Ruth ignored him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Come, let us conquer the culinary wasteland of the microwave! I have a recipe for a zesty chicken parmesan that's to die for!" The four roommates gathered in the kitchen, a place that was more of a relic than a functional cooking space. The walls were adorned with peeling wallpaper that looked like it had seen better days, and the appliances were a mishmash of decades-old gadgets that seemed to have a life of their own. As Brad's laughter echoed from the backyard, the tension in the room grew thicker than the dust on the countertops. Shannon bit her lip, her eyes glued to the pool outside. "You know, I could go out and offer Brad a drink," she said casually, her voice hinting at the flirty undertones she hoped would be picked up by the others. Shelly giggled. "Why don't you, Shan? Maybe he'd like a taste of your... 'Hollywood hospitality'." Shannon rolled her eyes playfully at Shelly and strutted out the back door, her hips swaying with the confidence of a woman on a mission. She found Brad lounging by the pool, his muscles glistening with sweat as he scrubbed the tiles. "Hey there," she called out, her voice a sweet symphony of charm and innocence. "You must be Brad. I'm Shannon." Brad looked up, his eyes widening. "Oh, hi! You're one of the new tenants, right?" Shannon sauntered over, her tray of drinks clinking in the early evening light. "That's me," she said, placing the tray down on the poolside table. "Shannon Doggerty. I work at the Hollywood Diner, so I know a thing or two about keeping things... hot." She handed him a lemonade with a flirtatious smile. Brad took the drink, his gaze lingering on her. "Thanks. And you must be the artist," he said to Shelly, who was now leaning against the doorframe, watching the exchange with amusement. Shelly pushed off the frame and glided over, extending a hand. "Shelly Duvette," she introduced herself, her voice as smooth as silk. "And yes, I'm the artistic soul trying to make it in this crazy town." Brad took her hand, his grip firm and warm. "Well, it's not every day you meet a real-life artist and a Hollywood waitress," he said with a grin. "And you must be the fitness guru," he added, turning to Richard, who was now bouncing on the spot, eager to join the conversation. "Guilty as charged," said Richard, flexing his bicep. "And this is Doctor Ruth," he gestured to the German sex therapist, who was busy flipping through her microwave cookbook. Doctor Ruth looked up, her cheeks reddening. "Ja, I am not just here for the... ambiance," she said, her accent thickening with embarrassment. Brad chuckled, taking a sip of his lemonade. "Well, it's definitely an interesting place you've got here." "You have no idea," said Richard, leaning in conspiratorially. "This isn't just any mansion. It's haunted!" Doctor Ruth swatted at him with the cookbook. "Richard, stop scaring the poor boy." "Why don't you guys go and see about lunch," suggested Shannon, looking pointedly at Richard and Doctor Ruth. "You can try out the doc's cookbook." "Fine," said Richard, pouting. "But if I turn into a microwave zombie, I'm holding you two responsible." Doctor Ruth rolled her eyes and shooed him away with the cookbook. "You'll be fine. Just don't overcook the chicken." Shannon watched as Richard and Doctor Ruth disappeared into the house. "So, Brad," she began, her voice a purr, "tell us more about yourself." "Yes, Brad," said Shelly, sitting down on the ancient wicker deck chair. "Well, I've lived in Hollywood all my life," Brad began, his eyes scanning the two of them as if he was deciding how much to reveal. "I've seen a lot of weird things, but this place definitely takes the cake." Shelly leaned in closer, her curiosity piqued. "Weird how?" Brad took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the horizon as if contemplating his words. "It's just got this... vibe, you know?" He looked at them both, his expression serious. "I've heard stories about this place, and not all of them involve the typical Hollywood drama." "Oh my!" Shelly's eyes lit up. "How thrilling! You must tell us more, Brad." "Yes," agreed Shannon, giving Shelly the stinkeye. "Maybe over dinner." She gave Shelly a look so pointed it could have skewered a chicken. "For two." Brad chuckled, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun. "I'd love to, but I've got to get this pool finished. Rain check?" Shannon nodded, trying not to seem too disappointed. "Of course," she said, her smile lingering. "But you've got to promise to tell us all about it." Brad winked. "You bet." In the kitchen, Doctor Ruth and Richard faced the ancient microwave with a mix of trepidation and determination. The microwave was a hulking beast, its digital clock flickering with the erratic rhythm of a disco ball. The cookbook lay open on the counter, a recipe for zesty chicken parmesan mocking them with its simplicity. "Alright, let's do this," said Richard, his voice a mix of bravado and doubt. Doctor Ruth nodded, her expression more optimistic. "Ja, let us conquer the beast!" Together, they managed to piece together the ingredients, the microwave beeping and whirring to life as they inserted the plate of chicken. The air grew thick with the scent of processed cheese and overcooked meat. Richard peered through the microwave's heavy glass window. "Are the bones supposed to glow like that, doc?" Doctor Ruth squinted at the plate, her brow furrowed. "I... I don't think so," she murmured. "But it's been a while since I've cooked anything that wasn't boiled or broiled." The microwave's ding snapped them out of their contemplation, and they jumped back as if it were a bomb about to go off. Carefully, with oven mitts that looked like they'd seen better days, they retrieved the plate. The chicken parmesan bubbled and steamed, looking suspiciously like something that belonged in a science fiction movie rather than on their dinner table. "Well, it's not burning," said Richard, trying to sound positive. "So, that's a plus." Shannon and Shelly wandered into the kitchen, their heads still swimming with the heat of Brad's presence. The smell of microwaved mystery meat hit them like a wall, and they both wrinkled their noses. "What's cooking?" Shannon asked, eyeing the steaming plate with suspicion. "Zesty chicken parmesan," said Doctor Ruth. "Yeah, it's definitely zesty," said Richard, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Maybe a little too zesty." Without warning, the chicken on the plate sat up, the cheese sliding off its charred frame like a lava flow. The four roommates stared in horror as the once-dead bird began to quiver, its legs wobbling as if it were doing the electric slide. Then, with a squawk that sounded suspiciously like a battle cry, it hurled itself at them, talons outstretched. Shannon screamed, leaping onto the kitchen counter, knocking over a display of mismatched ceramic fruit. Richard, ever the action hero, tried to grab a frying pan to fend off the flying fiesta of foul foulness, while Shelly and Doctor Ruth stumbled back, knocking over chairs in their haste. The microwave chicken, now in mid-air, had a newfound zest for life that was anything but appetizing. "Kill it!" shrieked Shannon. "Nein, nein!" exclaimed Doctor Ruth, her eyes wide with horror. "It's just... overcooked!" But the microwave chicken had other plans. It dove at Richard, who swung the frying pan with surprising agility, sending the creature into a loop around the kitchen. The clanging of metal against the chicken's skeletal frame echoed through the room as it circled, looking for its next target. Doctor Ruth, ever the scientist, tried to analyze the situation. "It's not alive!" she exclaimed. "It's just... malfunctioning!" "It's a radioactive zombie chicken!" shrieked RIchard. He had a death grip on the frying pan. Shannon's eyes grew wide. "Do you think it's because of the oven?" "What do you mean?" asked Shelly, her heart racing. Doctor Ruth took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Maybe the oven isn't just broken. Maybe it's... cursed!" The microwave chicken, seemingly hearing her words, turned its attention to her. She shrieked and dashed behind the kitchen island, knocking over a tower of Tupperware. The chicken followed, its eyes glowing with a neon blue light. Shelly grabbed the nearest kitchen weapon: a rolling pin. "Back, foul creature of the culinary underworld!" she yelled, brandishing it like a sword. Shannon, not one to be outdone, snatched a bottle of hot sauce. "You want zesty, I'll give you zesty!" She hurled it at the chicken, which was now swooping in for the kill. The bottle smashed, showering the chicken in a fiery rain that would have made any human scream in agony. But this was no ordinary chicken. It just sizzled and grew more determined. Shelly grabbed a colander, her eyes gleaming with a sudden idea. "I've got it!" she exclaimed. "We need to drain it!" She flung the colander over the chicken, trapping it. It squawked and flapped, trying to break free. Doctor Ruth took a deep breath, channeling her inner MacGyver. She grabbed a spatula and a pair of tongs, ready to assist in the impromptu exorcism of the microwave demon. "We must dismantle it!" she declared, a steely resolve in her voice. Shannon, still clutching the rolling pin, nodded fervently. "Yeah, let's show it who's boss!" She took a swing at the colander, her eyes wild with the thrill of the chase. The chicken squawked and flapped as it tried to escape its metal prison. Richard, ever the strategist, grabbed a pair of oven mitts and a serving spatula. "We've got to disarm it!" He lunged at the chicken, his aim surprisingly true, flipping it onto its back. The chicken's legs pedaled in the air, trying to find purchase on the slick kitchen floor. Shelly, her artist's instincts kicking in, grabbed a meat tenderizer. "We'll show it who's boss!" she exclaimed, raising it like a war hammer. The roommates circled the chicken, their makeshift weapons glinting in the fluorescent kitchen light. It was a bizarre scene of domestic warfare, a quartet of unlikely heroes ready to vanquish the foe that dared to ruin their dinner. "On three," said Richard, his eyes locked on the flailing bird. "One, two, three!" With a collective shout, they all struck at once, their kitchen utensils clanging against the metal colander. The chicken squawked in protest, sending a spray of cheese and sauce flying through the air. But the colander held firm, trapping the creature in a cage of their own invention. "Now what?" panted Shannon, her heart racing. Doctor Ruth's brow furrowed as she considered their next move. "We must remove it from the colander without it escaping," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos. "On the count of three, we lift together." "One... two... three!" They hoisted the colander in unison, the microwave chicken still thrashing. With a grunt, Richard managed to pin it down with the spatula while Shelly brought the tenderizer down, ready to deliver the final blow. But the chicken had one more trick up its sleeve. With a burst of energy, it shot out of the colander, soaring straight towards the open window, leaving a trail of steaming cheese in its wake. The roommates gasped as it disappeared, the sound of distant squawks growing fainter. They stared at each other, their adrenaline pumping, the kitchen a battleground of overturned chairs and splattered sauce. "Who wants to order pizza?" Richard asked, dropping the spatula. Shannon and Shelly looked at each other, their laughter bubbling up like a shaken soda. The tension of the moment broke, and they collapsed into a fit of giggles, their exhaustion turning into exhilaration. Doctor Ruth wiped her brow with a tea towel, a small smile playing on her lips. "Oh! Wait!" Shannon turned toward the door. "Brad!" Brad had just stepped in, his eyes widening at the chaotic scene before him. The three roommates, armed with kitchen gear, stood panting over a toppled colander. "Is everything okay?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Dinner got a little out of control," said Richard. Brad looked around the kitchen, taking in the overturned chairs, the splattered sauce, and the colander lying on the floor. "I see," he said. "So, like, I'll have to come back tomorrow to finish the pool. I need some, like, industrial strength chemicals and stuff." "Oh, Brad," Shannon said, her voice breathless with both laughter and attraction. "You're a lifesaver. Literally." Shelly nodded, her cheeks still flushed from the chicken-induced battle. "We could all use a break from cooking. Pizza sounds heavenly." Brad chuckled, his eyes scanning the trio. "I'll grab my phone and call it in. What toppings?" "Everything but the kitchen sink," said Richard, still trying to catch his breath. Later that evening, after Brad had left, the roommates were seated in the living room. Half empty pizza boxes were scattered about the place, and the quartet were watching the local news. "...and in the news of the bizarre today," the anchorwoman said, a plastic smile on her plasti face, "Hollywood Animal Control responded to multiple calls about a rabid chicken terrorizing the Hollyhills neighborhood." The roommates froze, their slices of pizza halfway to their mouths. On the screen, a blurry image of the microwave chicken flashed by, its neon-blue eyes glaring straight into the camera. "Could that be...?" whispered Shelly, her eyes wide with shock. Shannon swallowed her mouthful of pizza with a gulp. "The microwave chicken?" "Authorities say that the rabid chicken was captured and will be humanely disposed of," continued the anchorwoman. "Well, that's a relief," said Richard, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "What is a relief?" Asked Mr. Tombs. The four roommates jumped, caught completely unawares by their landlord. "Mr. Tombs!" exclaimed Shannon, her heart racing. "You startled us!" The vampiric landlord glided into the room, his cape trailing behind him. "Ah, the scent of victory," he said, sniffing the air. "I trust your culinary endeavors were... successful?" The roommates exchanged glances, their expressions a blend of embarrassment and relief. "Uh, yes," said Shelly, trying to compose herself. "Very successful. Just a... small malfunction with the microwave." Mr. Tombs' smile grew wider, his fangs glinting in the flickering TV light. "Ah, the joys of modern technology," he mused, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But fear not, my dear tenants. I shall have the oven repaired posthaste. Perhaps it was simply tired of being neglected." Doctor Ruth raised an eyebrow. "Tired of being neglected? That's a... unique way to describe a broken appliance." Mr. Tombs chuckled, his cape fluttering around him like a dark cloud. "This mansion has a personality of its own, my dear. Sometimes it requires... special attention." He turned his smile on Shannon and Shelly. "Speaking of special attention. What did you ladies think of Brad?" Shannon shot Shelly a look that was half glee, half warning. "He's... quite the character," she said carefully. "Indeed," said Mr. Tombs, his eyes gleaming. "And quite the... catch, if you'll pardon the pun." Shelly giggled, her cheeks coloring slightly. "We're just friends," she said quickly. "Besides, we have more important things to worry about than romance." "It is just as well," said Mr. Tombs. "Brad is something of a . . . lothario? Gigolo? Himbo?" He pursed his lips, trying to find the right word and failing. Shannon couldn't help but laugh. "A himbo? You mean he's all looks and no brains?" "He is as dumb as a box of rocks, my dear," said Mr. Tombs. The room fell into an awkward silence, the tension thick enough to slice with a knife. Shannon cleared her throat, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. "Well, I suppose we can all appreciate a good-looking pool boy," she said, winking at Shelly. Doctor Ruth, ever the diplomat, changed the subject. "So, Mr. Tombs, about that oven," she began, her voice firm. "We really must insist on a more... reliable form of cooking." Mr. Tombs nodded gravely. "Of course, of course. I shall see to it personally. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a... dinner appointment." He disappeared into the shadows, leaving the roommates to wonder if he was going to eat dinner or be dinner. Shannon leaned back into the couch, eyeing the pizza longingly. "Well, I guess we're sticking to takeout for a while," she sighed.