Through the Wringer
A Gritty Western… About Laundry
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New Subscribers: Welcome to The Giggler! We’re on a never-ending quest for amusement and unadulterated fun here. Sometimes, my newsletters contain updates from my life as a voice actress and filmmaker; other times, it’s all about my adventures in learning to draw. Today is a ridiculous short story to make you chuckle. Thank you for being here!
Hey Giggler!
Today’s short story is full of punny humor. I couldn’t help myself! Hopefully, you get a kick out of today’s Western parody… Enjoy!
Through the Wringer
The clogged, staticy air stung Gus’s eyes as he galloped through the godforsaken Lintland, past tumbling lint balls and the occasional mirage of sudsy water. He grit his teeth against the relentless onslaught of gut wrenching flashbacks that barraged his vision.
Her scream.
The sound of screeching metal.
The moment he lost her.
Everyone knew the tall tales, but no one ever imagined it could happen to them.
Well, this time it happened to his partner. His match for life, the woman he loved.
Lacy.
Damn it if he wasn’t going to save her.
Gus T Sock gripped the laces of his trusty shoe, Heely, tighter, willing him to move faster. Faster, damn it!
It didn’t matter what the others said. He’d prove them wrong, he’d save his woman, and they’d somehow find their way out of the dreaded Dryer.
Heely’s gallops slowed, and Gus leaned forward to pat his trusty boot reassuringly. “Easy there, Heely, don’t wear out on me now.” Gus’ words had no effect on the shoe’s pace. After days of searching with not so much as a hint as to where Lacy could be, even Gus was in need of a rest. He reluctantly steered them in the direction of the closest outpost around— The Spin Cycle Saloon.
The rough-and-tumble gathering place for mismatched socks and other lost laundry items wasn’t Gus’ first choice, but what other options did they have? He saddled Heely at the entrance with the other dust covered shoes and waded inside.
Gus swung open the creaky door. Sunlight filtered through the cracks of the shoddily built shack, highlighting swirling lint clouds in the air.
A mismatched pair of socks sat hunched over a rickety table, cards in hand, their conversation growing more heated by the second.
“I’m telling ya, I’m the real sole survivor,” grumbled a grimy athletic sock with a fraying heel. “I made it through the Whirlpool Massacre, lost my pair, and came out the other side in one piece!”
The faded argyle sock across from him slammed his threadbare hand down on the table, rattling the cards. “That’s nothing! My partner got eaten alive by the Permanent Press Posse!” The others rolled their eyes. “I’m lucky to even be here.” He jabbed himself in the chest with a toe-less stub. “This? This ain’t just a fashion statement—it’s a war wound.”
The athletic sock sneered. “War wound? That’s a ventilation tear, you liar. I can smell the fabric softener on ya from here. Betcha didn’t even make it past the Delicates Cycle.”
The argyle sock shot to his feet, swaying slightly on his loose threads. “Say that again, you sweaty gym reject, and I’ll—”
“ENOUGH!” bellowed a third voice—a hulking wool sock with a stitched-up scar running down his ribbing. He towered over the pair, his voice heavy with the weight of loss. “We’re all survivors here, but none of us are whole.” He stared into the distance, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The Lintland takes everything. Even the best of us.”
The other two socks exchanged a glance, then grumbled and sat back down, muttering under their breath about “who really deserved the title of sole survivor.” Gus smirked as he passed by, shaking his head. Amateurs.
Gus spotted a mismatched pair of socks embroiled in an argument about their divorce (“I told ya Tina— our colors don’t bleed the same way anymore!”), one previously fluffy sock that had appeared to be matted down with dirt and stains aggressively brandishing his lint roller like a weapon in a heated conversation with an imaginary partner, and a group of younger ankle socks drunkenly slurring warnings to each other (“Static Gulch?” Hic. “That place’ll leave you… crispy.”). Every single one of them was frayed and in desperate need of a Quick Wash cycle.
One group of dirty patched up patrons with buffed up muscles and too many scars and scratches to count unanimously paused their game of poker to give Gus steely eyes and grumbly guttural sounds as he made his way past them to the bar.
“You look washed up, stranger. Ain’t got no time for dirty business,” said the bartender, a grizzled tube sock with a permanent wrinkle.
“I ain’t lookin for trouble. Just a nice cold Starch Shot,” Gus told the bartender.
“Extra stiff?”
Gus nodded.
The bartender chuckled. “Looking to put some starch in your step, huh?”
Gus didn’t return the friendly smile.
The bartender cleared his throat and got to work pouring Gus’s drink. “So, what brings you to the Spin Cycle Saloon?”
“Just looking for a lead. Heard anyone talking about missing pairs?”
“Sure, but…” the bartenders gaze flicked to the patched up patrons, cautiously resuming their game of cards, “…it’s all just fabrications…”
“I ain’t got time for fairytales,” Gus said. “Who’s been talkin’?”
“I-I told you. It’s all just fabrications. Stories spun outta threads is all.”
The saloon door slammed open and the room fell silent. In strutted a saggy, faded sock with a crooked spiked name tag that read, Sheriff Shrink. His once-pristine stripes were dulled by time, and his left seam was fraying at the edges. But no one dared to comment.
The Sheriff paused in the doorway, brushing a stray lint ball off his shoulder with exaggerated care, then smirked, which seemed to be a signal for the patrons to resume their normal actions judging by how quickly they all did just that. As the sheriff sauntered over, Gus got a faint whiff of fabric softener and trouble.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” the Sheriff said, his voice low and scratchy. He eyed Gus up and down. “Strangers like you tend to…” The Sheriff ran a loose thread across his mustache, his smile cold. “…unravel.”
The bartender put the glass shot on the counter and slid it toward Gus, who caught it mid-slide, downed it, and slammed it back down.
“I’m lookin’ for Lacy,” Gus growled. “She’s white, ankle-length, and smells of lavender. You seen her?”
Sheriff Shrink smirked. “Plenty of white socks pass through here, friend. But lavender? That’s rare.” Gus thought he noticed the sound of snickering emerge from the patrons in the saloon. “You might try your luck out near Static Gulch,” the sheriff said. Then he turned around, telling the patchy patrons to deal him into the next round.
But Gus stopped the sheriff mid stride. “I reckon it’s just a coincidence then…”
The sheriff’s smile faltered. He froze, his fingers twitching near his holster. Around them, the saloon held its breath, Gus’ words sinking in like a damp load forgotten in the dryer.
Gus leaned forward, his voice low and steady, “…that you smell like flowers.”
😂 I sincerely hope this made you laugh out loud, Giggler. I’d love to know what you think of this punny parody in the comments! 🧦
Psst! …
Hey, you!
Yeah, you… Enjoying this style of absurd original fiction?
If so, you might totally LOVE my full-length spy parody, Over the Top Secret, originally published here on Substack as a serialized novel and now available in all formats wherever books are sold!
WARNING: This book contains screwball humor, non-stop adventure, amateur sleuthing, and shameless movie references. For fans of goofy comedies, spy parodies, and unadulterated fun. Read at your own risk...
Your Exclusive Audio Content, Giggler…
Thank you for being a paid subscriber!!! I really hammed it up for you this week. 😆
Sincerely,
Alexa
Loved it, great imagination.