Ankyra Sound i swapped contact with reality for a country house

HAHA ohman clooney. this. 

set scene: CAIAPANTS, a rough-around-the-edges suburban mom in a pink gucci track suit with a bad smoker's cough, clutching her cosmo and peeking through the curtains of the estate her sugar daddy bought for them before he mysteriously disappeared one day while out on the yacht for a couples excursion-- 

enter LUSCA, jehovah's witness: idling at her doorstep accoutered in a brown suit with an insoluble thigh stain, clipboard, bible and a slough of despondency.

three rapid raps against her door. three more. ten raps. 

CAIAPANTS, secretly craving social interaction after holing herself up for seven long years, cracks open the front door.

CAIAPANTS (suspiciously):"what? whaddya want? i ain't buying, look at the sign" 

cut to sign, reading: UNLESS YOU ARE SELLING THIN MINTS, PLEASE GO AWAY!

LUSCA, stuttering: "ma'am, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior jesus christ?"

CAIAPANTS, silent for a moment: "what about 'em?"

LUSCA: "do you own a bible? it's the word of god you know."

CAIAPANTS: "yeah i'd like to have a word with god. keep tryin' to find the guy but he keeps changing numbers! ya know where i can find 'em?"

LUSCA, (nervously): "yes, ma'am, you can find him in your heart!"

CAIAPANTS, squinting thoughtfully: "nope. haven't heard of it. what's the zipcode."

LUSCA: "ma'am you should know that salvation is no joking matter. god will save you by his grace and i feel it is my duty as an envoy of his to–"

CAIAPANTS: "honey, i'd sell your soul to satan for one cornchip."

(DOOR SLAM)

LUSCA, frantically tripping through bushes, pounding on the windows: "you do know the guacamole costs extra!?!"

A few moments passed where she heard nothing apart from the dismal run-down of water from the speleothems as they splattered against the wet limestone in a reverberated rataplan cadence. She cast hearth-gaze about the erosive interior, searching for squatters –– or the reaper, whichever came first.

Sudden shuffling movement from far within the undercroft snatched her ears –– amorphous audio sludge, nothing distinct, nothing that Lusca couldn't talk herself out of hearing. But the cessation of grave-like silence nonetheless garroted the husked remnants of her soul and her ears wilted, a shudder unwinding along the length of her spinal column like a scroll. She shook it off at the tip of her tail, wringing out the anxiety to boldly–and mockingly–exclaim: "YOU SCAAAAARED?!"