Friday, September 12, 2014

Petit The Party Pooper

You may be forgiven for thinking that people in the crime-fighting biz have this sort of, uh, bond with their arch-nemeses (nemesises? nemesii?). All the time in superhero movies and comics, not to mention thriller/spy flicks (think J.Bond Esq.) you'll see these types confront each other and gab, gab, gab about this and that instead of kicking butt. Or they'll start in with some fisticuffs and then some witty banter, followed by more fisticuffs. It's like they're pals really, underneath it all, and one's good and one's not so good but the good one isn't perfect and essentially they are like two sides of the same coin.

So like I said, you may be forgiven for believing that in real life, we're like that too.

Ahem. No.

Take this little creep Henri Petit, shown here with his mom (she's a wrong'un if ever I saw one).

"That's right son... breeeathe deeeep."
When he and his henchmen invaded our party (see previous instalment) it could have been construed as one of those comic-book fantasy moments where a villain shows up and merely wants to hang out with his do-gooder counterpart, like it's some sort of gentlemen's agreement.

Baloney. We knew from the get-go that if Petit shows up unannounced (or even announced, for that matter), he's only there to stir up trouble. No matter how good his mom's potato salad might be. Not that we'd know - Clark peed in it before anyone could get a taste. Purely as a preventive measure, of course. That delicious-looking dish was probably laced with some mind-bending substance or poisonous tincture, so it was best to render the stuff inedible. You can't be too careful.

There was no goodie/baddie camaraderie when he showed up, just a swift measure of whoopass and marching orders for this evil tot. He's been a thorn in our backsides ever since we first encountered the demonic infant. We know he's up to no good, even when asleep. He can't help it. It's his nature. 

Dreaming up more wicked plans, no doubt.
Anyway, once we had sent the nasty little pipe-smoker on his way with a few bruises and a soggy diaper, the party resumed and went off without a hitch. Michael wheeled out his Unbelieva-stereo-box

and put on a couple of his favourite LPs.

 We partied till dawn, chuckling occasionally about the feeble attempts of Petit to try and ingratiate himself. Potato salad indeed! Whatever next?

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