The boy is up to something. He usually yells and goes running for the lady who puts me back in the see-through box. She puts on yellow gloves first. That’s fine. I don’t want to touch her either.
But this time, I didn’t like the look in the boy’s eyes when he found me in the middle of the den. There was no Mom! Paco’s out again! Mom! Come get the iguana! Nothing. He just crept back out of the room quietly, and he’s been gone for too long.
Where’s the woman? Come to think of it, I haven’t heard her for a while, either. She’s probably off with the one who sleeps over sometimes. The turd. This is what the bigger boy, He Who Feeds Me, calls him under his breath sometimes. He Who Feeds Me was here earlier with the little one, but then the thing in his pocket beeped and chattered and he left without locking my box.
I hear it before I see it. The high-pitched whine. The intermittent ricochet of debris. The round thing that sucks the carpet and bumps into walls. Room-Bah, they call it.
The first time I saw Room-Bah, I was pretty terrified. Then I realized it was even stupider than the turd is when he drinks from a lot of bottles. Bumping around and moving slow and making noises. Nothing really to worry about.
The boy, however, has me worried.
He runs in behind Room-Bah wearing a helmet with bars on the front and the pads that the lady makes him use when he rides the two-wheeled thing. His eyes are behind dark glasses. For some reason, he’s wearing a heavy, padded vest. In South Florida. In the summer. I imagine that even other people would think he looks stupid.
“Today, we are cancelling the Apocalypse!” he yells. I can’t quite place this nonsense, but it sounds familiar, and it sends an inexplicable chill down to the tip of my tail. I discover, to my surprise, that I have peed on the carpet, although to be fair, I might have already done that before the boy came running in.
The boy starts moving around like the turd does when he watches sweaty muscle-people exercising on the big rectangle in the corner. Moving fast and pulling bands and such. P90Z, right? Or P50X? Is P50X a thing?
That’s when it hits me. There was that other thing on the rectangle, the loud advertisement where the men in the ridiculous-looking, chunky, metal suits do exercise routines to make gigantic, chunkier metal machine men fight big lizar…ds.
No. No. No no no.
The turd had insisted on taking the boy to this thing, this Pacific Rim, a name which, for some reason, always elicited an insinuating snicker from the turd. I don’t think he’s old enough, said the woman. Sure he is, said the turd. Tell your mom you want to see Pacific Rim. Heh heh heh. Apparently, it made an impression.
Room-Bah is getting closer. I always assumed I could dodge it if the situation ever arose, but the boy now appears to be exercising vigorously. I’ve seen the pictures on the screen, heard the battle cry. That’s how you make machines fight lizards, and judging from the loud advertisement, it doesn’t go well for anybody.
I would not be offended at the woman with her yellow gloves now.
In theaters July 11.