The ping-pong ball flew through the air leaving behind drops of water which splashed the sports attendants below. A game was being played today, a deadly game. A game which would come to alter the course of history.
The “course of history” is a rather fearful term for me, because when I hear this particular phrase, I am reminded of a night I was almost poisoned at a lovely dinner party.
The dinner party was being hosted by a lovely host whose name I’d prefer to keep a secret. But when someone is reading a story, they like to know who it is they are reading about. So with great annoyance and hostility and absolute terror, I present you with Pollyanna Kimme. Of course, I am not presenting you with her, but simply telling you her name.
Pollyanna Kimme was a beautiful blonde who had just turned forty. She is extremely wealthy, and I am sorry to say that she still roams the earth today. And by “roam”, I mean “walks the earth with a passion that is centered around something commonly referred to as revenge”. She and I have had many meetings. These meetings usually focused on why I was always stealing her bathroom faucets and taking pictures of her with my disposable camera. I always answered her with the same answer and that answer is and shall always be “I am in love.”
But of course, this is not the direction I wanted this story to take so I will resume describing a deadly game of water tennis.
Water tennis is a deadly game that is only played in nonexistent places. These places might be a telephone booth or Babylon. Where I am playing is in a soccer stadium on the moon and I am playing this deadly game of water tennis with a deadly opponent and her name is Pollyanna Kimme. Water tennis is played quite simply. The object of the game is to not drown. To stop yourself from drowning, one must make sure that an average, ordinary ping-pong ball does not make contact with the surface of the pool water in which we are playing. This task would be ordinarily simple, but this game is no ordinary game. According to the rules created by people who were once friends of mine, one can only use his or her feet to keep the ping pong ball from making contact with the water.
So here I was playing water tennis with Pollyanna Kimme, a power hungry lunatic who was angry with me because I had eaten forty-two ounces of strawberry jam in one minute. I am writing this story because I am supposed to be telling you, the Reader, about the connection between a ping-pong ball and a disposable camera. And that connection is that by continually taking pictures of the woman I love I am now playing water tennis with a ping-pong ball. So the connection is my death. For the ping-pong ball has just made contact with the water on my side of the pool and the conversation that took place between the two means my certain demise.