My Funny Valentine

My funny valentine
Are you truly mine?
It’s more then Cupid’s arrow
Has wounded you this time

We’ve taken now a course
That casts us in remorse
‘Or never was a place for us
Your fertile ground discourse

But am I one to blame?
For casting you in shame
When all the world does conjure up
Their way to wreck and pain

There must to some degree
Be room enough to be
But vision says
And eyes report
My sentiment to thee

Will time run out of time?
Deliver this to mine
And tell her that
I loved her so –
My words run out of rhyme

When Time Runs Out Of Time

Time of the essence
Time is gold
Be it real
Try it virtual
How does it take hold?

Now relative time
A wonder to me
Moving faster or slower
A conjunctive idea

A good time
A bad
Some hard time, maybe?
Let's throw in some cyber
Please time, let us be

Don't do it on my time
Don't waste of your own
Don't bend it
Or warp it
Nor spend in a zone

The edge of a hole
Where time can stand still
Or gravity changes
Does barely fulfill

Regardless of many
Or how it stands clear
The time due to us
Does never stay here

It slips through your fingers
Melted butter or jam
And time stops for no one
Not woman, or man

It's carried the ages
And held up the world
But one day must happen
It's timing unfurled

All ticking will stop
And clock must run out
And silence submerge us
In nothing about

Don't Really Own No Elves

"Good morning Lieutenant. General Nailem said you’d give me a demonstration today. You must know how patiently the public’s been waiting for more information on the new unmanned drones you’ve been flying. I hear they’ve become real weapons of war."

"Now hold on sonny. Wait one minute here... You from the newspaper or somethin’? Show me some credentials."

"I have clearance sir. I thought you would have been informed by now."

"Jus’ the same, I wanna see ‘em fur mahself. Hold ‘em out, or I ain’t gonna show the crap stains on the latrines, got it. They’s a big ass mess out there in Irune, so I gotta be as careful as a hiker on a horse trail, get what ah mean?"

"I understand," I replied, with some hesitation. Surprised that the officer in charge had no prior knowledge of my arrival. "Here you are," I continued, offering him my wallet in a gesture of respect and admiration for our fighting forces.

"Hmm... says here yer Reid Laurence from ‘The Great Informant’. That right?"

"That’s right sir."

"You gonna take pictures?" he said, noticing the camera I wore hanging around my neck.

"Yes, I planned on taking some if that’s alright with you."

"As long as ya get mah good side, yer as welcome as a chicken on a hog farm."

"I’m not sure I understand sir."

"Don’t worry ‘bout it," said the thin, wiry officer named Figbee. "Jus follow me." And without further ado, I found myself walking after the man who unbeknownst to me, was about to open up a whole new world that I had never in my wildest dreams thought possible. Never, that is, until that one odd fraction of time in my life, when fact and fiction seemed to meld together in a great tilt-a-whirl of strange but true fantasy, which this day, I’ve written down just for you and for the good of all...

"Well," began my tobacco chewing guide, spitting and clearing his throat before speaking the rest of his explanation. "This here’s it."

"What? I don’t get it," I answered. "What is ‘It’?" I asked, unaware that I was standing at the very epicenter of modern technical thought and contrivance.

"This here’s where we test it."

"Test what?"

"The dad burn Predator ya come ta see, that’s what. Less ya don’t wanna see it no more. I kin always take ya back."

"No, no," I blurted out. "I want to see it very much. Where is it?"

"Whaddaya think? In the hanger over yonder, that’s where," he said, pointing to a large metal building not far from where we stood. "Ya don’t think we leave it layin’ ‘round in the field here, do ya?"

"No, of course not. Hey, this is great!" I exclaimed. "I can hardly wait to see it."

"Well ya don’t got long ta wait then sonny," said the Lieutenant, as he inadvertently targeted my new shoes with a well placed splat of saliva mixed with tobacco juice. "There she is," he added, as he opened the two large metal doors of the downsized hanger, used to house the Air Forces’ new secret weapon; The Predator Carrera 911.

"Wow, that is soo cool," I said, upon seeing the bold, stylish small plane for the first time. "What does it use for power?" I asked naively.

"She’s rocket powered. Gets from here ta Chiny in twenty minutes. From here ta Canola, Irune in under ten. That fast enough fer ya?"

"Gosh, that means it must be traveling at about... twelve thousand miles per hour! That’s incredible."

"You know it Bub."

"Can I see it fly?"

"Course ya can. That’s why ya come out here, ain’t it?"

"Yes, I suppose," I replied, not wanting to appear impudent, or disrespectful.

"Well alrighty then, ah’ll fire it up fer ya," and without warning, the lanky Lieutenant swiftly kicked the beautiful, sleek war machine deftly in the middle of its fuselage, causing an immediate display of flashing lights and blinking gizmos... enough to make any self-respecting computer geek insanely envious.

"Forgive me," I started to say. "But isn’t there a switch on the thing or some other typically simple way to start it up other then knocking it senseless?"

"Nope, ain’t no switch. Ya see, if this here ever falls inta the wrong hands, the army knows they ain’t no way the enemy kin even figure how ta turn it on... hell, who’d be dumb enough ta spend twenty million dollars on a new weapon an then kick the shit outta it? That there’s reverse psychology, ya see? The enemy’ll never figure it out."

"I see," I replied, without fully realizing the depth and impact of what had just occurred. "So, can I see it fly?"

"Tell ya what," remarked my respected new acquaintance. "Ah’ll go one better. How wouldya like ta see ‘er in actual combat? Is that a hoot’n a hollar ‘er what?"

"Oh, yes sir. That’d be terrific."

"You bet. Ah’ll give ya somethin’ ta write home ‘bout. Jus gimme a second here," remarked my well disciplined, army escort. But as he turned away and walked to a desk in the corner of the drab, concrete finished room, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. Then, as he pulled something from a Rolodex on the desk, I was soon able to determine the reason for his action. "This here’s a picture a Osama Bingcrosby BobaHopa, the well known Al Krappa terrorist. Naw, all ah gotta do is put this here in the little slot there," he explained, positioning the photo in a small, unassuming port at the side of the Predator Carrera 911, "an ah’ll jus show ya what this varmint ‘ll do," he explained.

"Alrighty then you metal monster, listen up!" And as my guide spoke, the new Predator drone seemed to respond with yet another, even more impressive array of flashing lights and blinking switches, like the kind of machine which may only exist in the imagination, and so definitely beyond the scope of human comprehension and experience. "Ah gave ya the photo, naw git! You got half an hour ta kill that bastard or ah’m gonna personally see you get decommissioned inta tuna cans, you read me!?"

But all that could be determined from the drone - if in fact any comprehensible answer could be determined - were several more blinking lights and the sound of a well tuned Chevy 350 V8 engine turning over.

"I don’t get it," I said. "You just talk to it? How is that possible? And why in the world does it sound like an old Chevy Camero starting up?"

"Course ah talk to it. That dad gum bastard knows more ‘en me an you put tagether. Don’t need no more programm’in. But the engine noise, that was sheeer genius don’tcha think? Engineer’in threw that in at the last minute they say. Suppose ta remind us all a home sweet home, ya get it?"

"I guess so. But if this thing is so efficient," I replied, as the modern drone taxied down the special runway and took to the air. "Then why are we still at war?"

"Ah dunno, Can’t stop naw ah reckon. Not while we’re havin’ so much fun. Anyways, what in tarnation does the army do when they ain’t no war ta fight? Nuthin’, that’s what. So where ya want yer tax dollars ta go anyway? Ta some lazy ass army that ain’t got nuthin’ ta do, or one that’s got their hands full? Ah don’t have’ta answer fer ya, do ah?"

"No," I responded. "I see the light now."

"Good, so whaddaya wanna do while that tin can killers’ out do’in the job on old Osama what’s his name? Wanna play horseshoes er darts?"

"Gosh," I said. "I get a choice? How about horseshoes?"

"Yer on," replied my skilled companion. But we were barely into the game when the Predator showed up on its return trip, landing gently in the exact same spot it had taken off from.
"So," remarked the Lieutenant, speaking to the drone in a most stern tone of voice. "Ya done what I told ya to, er what? Show me some proof." And before either of us had time to look away or think, the Predator had expelled two photos from the very same slot on its side in which the Lieutenant had used to issue its target. One after the other, they simply popped out and fell to the tarmac of the runway. Picking them up from the ground, Officer Figbee began to explain... "This here’s a before picture," he noted, which appeared to be nothing more then the rock strewn side of a very plain looking, desert mountain. "An this here’s the after," he said, showing me a photo of such carnage and chaos that I tossed the horseshoe I was holding down to the ground to get a better look. "Hard to believe," I commented. "But how do we know which one was Osama BobaHopa? It looks like the Predator wiped out a whole nest of the enemy. Who’s who?"

"Ah’d know that sombitch anywhere’s," offered the Air Force guide. "Look here naw. See this?"

"What?" I answered, more perplexed than ever over the odd relationship shared by this rare machine and its master.

"I swear boy, you as blind as a bat. Hey," remarked the Lieutenant to his space age alter ego. "Gimme a close up shot a that scum bag Osama, an make it snappy." And as I watched, the remarkable Predator Carrera 911 issued a new photo from the small slot in its side, not unlike any other well disciplined soldier following commands. "There ya be," maintained Officer Figbee. "That’s his head towel lay’in on the ground... size thirteen. See the number inside?" asked my guide. "Ain’t no other got a head that big. He’s the one. Fer sure, that’s him."

"Wow, cool," I said, amazed and awe struck at the precision with which the entire plan had been executed. "And you say we’re fighting now just because we’re on a roll and can’t seem to stop?"

"Yep, that an one other thing."

"Really?" I asked. "What else could be responsible for the continuing conflict we’ve been arguing over for years now. Why don’t at least some of our soldiers come home since it looks as if the Predator has pretty much wrapped things up on its own. What do you think the problem is?"

"Well," began the outspoken officer. "Naw, don’t quote me on this, cause ah could get in trouble fer lettin’ secrets out what ain’t suppose ta be let out, but jus betwixt you an me, the real reason is... the army likes ta use the word; DRONE, fer a acronym, but they kain't figure out what them letters stand fer, no whatta mean?"

"No way," I replied. "You’re kidding."

"Yep, way," answered Officer Figbee.

"Well," I began, clearing my throat as I spoke, unable to contain myself at the thought of finally arriving at some conclusive reason for the war’s continuation. "Is there at least a list of words in the making? Something they’ve been using in the meantime that you could let me in on? You know, just between you and me. I promise not to tell the public if you don’t want me to."

"Awlright. Ah guess ah could let’cha know if ya promise then. Ah’ll jus whisper it cause ya never know who might be listen’in." And in a voice barely audible - so quiet in fact that I was forced to read the Officer’s lips in conjunction with what he was saying - this is what he said... "Don’t Really Own No Elves."

"And that’s why we’re still at war? Just because the words that represent the acronym don’t make sense?" I questioned.

"Yep, you got it. Anyways, may as well finish our horseshoe game. Ya remember who’s turn it was?"

Jailbird

"I don’t know ‘bout you...," said Wild Bill - a nickname the other convicts had thought of which stuck and seemed to suit Bill Tyson’s rowdy nature. “But I’m sick an tired a look’in at these four walls.”

“Don’t start complain’in again,” answered Bill’s cell mate - called Penguin for the way he preached his thoughts to his fellow prisoners. “Ya know it never gets ya anywhere. Besides, the Man’s on his way - I can hear ‘im com’in.”

“Big deal,” replied Wild Bill, just as disgruntled as ever. “Elvis Presley his self could walk through that door for all I care. Ain’t ya sick an tired a the same old routine, day in an day out? Don’t it make ya wanna get up an get the hell outta here? I never could understand why you’re so content ta just sit there on your ass an eat that crap they dish out? There’s a whole world out there just wait’in for us, an you couldn’t give a damn, could ya?”

“Hey,” said Penguin, in the same cool, calm tone he used whenever his good common sense predicted an outburst or disorder in the crowd around him. “You find a good way outta here, an I’m with ya all the way. Until then, ya know what?”

“What?”

“I don’t wanna hear no more,” replied Penguin. “Besides, you remember what happened ta the last poor bastard who wanted out? Even the cons wanted a piece of ‘im for mak’in all that trouble for the rest of us.”

“Yeah, I remember the guy. He made a lotta waves didn’t he. What the hell was his name anyway, I forget?”

“Just plain Bird I think. That’s con talk for prison time. Never knew his real name. But anyway, you keep mak’in waves like Bird, an they’ll do the same thing ta you as they done ta him.”

“What’id they do to ‘im?” asked Bill, whose curiosity had by now, gotten the better of him.“They fried ‘im early. Whaddaya think they done? They sure didn’t pat ‘im on the back.”

“What difference does it make,” replied Wild Bill. “We’re all on death row here anyway. If ya ask me, he didn’t lose much.”

“Well, if yer ask’in me,” answered Bill’s cell mate. “He took a gamble an lost. If ya want my advice Bill, don’t play against odds like that..., you’ll lose every time.”

Just as Penguin’s words began to sink through Bill’s callous exterior - making him realize what might happen if he caused dissension within the prison walls - the guards showed up with lunchtime meal trays and began handing them out, one by one to the great population of hungry, waiting prisoners. But when the guard slid Bill’s tray into his cell, Bill’s reaction was only to ignore it. Even as the other prisoners around him contentedly ate, he very willfully turned away from the food, as he’d done many times before. In fact, by now, Bill’s stomach had gotten used to being empty and the urge to eat that normally accompanies the very thought of food, had all but completely disappeared in Bill, leaving in its place only the stubborn, determined attitude that was so characteristic of Wild Bill - a prisoner of great moral conviction.“Ain’tcha gonna eat taday Bill?” asked Penguin. “It’s been days. You must be starved ta death.”

“Mind yer own business,” replied the thin but wiry Bill. “I’ll eat when I’m good an ready.”

“Oh yeah?” came Penguin’s reply. “Well I’m good an ready,” he said, frantically digging in to the food on his tray, as if someone were going to take it away. “You just starve yerself then,” continued Penguin. “See what I care. In the meantime, I’m gett’in bigger an bigger an yer just as small as ever. Besides, there’s nuth’in wrong with this chow,” said Penguin, sucking up the last tiny morsels of food from his dish with his mouth. “You’re just too damn fussy, that’s all. Ya know, this ain’t no restaurant here. Whaddaya expect anyway?”

“A life, that’s what I expect. That’s all anyone expects ain’t it? They took it away from me, an I’m gonna get it back, you’ll see.”

“Fine,” answered Penguin, as he finished the food from his own tray and at the same time, kept a carefully trained eye on Bill’s untouched meal. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ya when ya wind-up like Bird. By the way,” he continued. “You ain’t gonna eat your lunch, are ya?”

“Nope, I ain’t gonna eat my damn lunch. Here,” said Bill, about to become facetious, pushing his lunch tray within Penguin’s reach. “Here ya go, It looks better on you. As far as your advice goes, for all the good it’ll do, I’ll try an remember.”

The next morning the prisoners awoke to a dreary, cold, rainy day but to many, the weather on the outside world meant very little. It was only something to observe every now and then through the tiny opening in each cell Bill called, ‘a sorry-ass excuse for a window’. What then could be the cause for the disquiet in Bill’s cell block? If not the weather, what then? No one knew exactly, but a sixth sense told the prisoners something was up. Something was about to happen that would alter their daily routine of waking, eating, exercising and sleeping but what it was exactly, no one could say. That is, until one of the big cell block doors opened and four big guards came rushing in... “What the hell is this!?” asked Penguin. “A raid? I ain’t hid’in nuth’in, they got nuth’in on me.”

“No stupid, it ain’t no raid. Look,” answered Bill, as he watched one of the prison trucks backing up into position to a side door. “There transfer’in us some-wheres.”

“Like where? Another prison?”

“How should I know? We’ll hav’ta wait an find out.”

“Well,” replied Penguin, doing his best to recover some of his composure. “It couldn’t be any worse then this place here.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Wild Bill, with even more pessimism in his voice than usual. “I got a bad feel’in about this. A very bad feel’in.”

Two by two, the prisoners were ushered into the back of the truck, but it wasn’t long before the small, old prison vehicle filled to capacity, leaving Bill and his cell mate standing outside in the cold rain as it drove off into the fog. Wondering to themselves - as two remaining guards stood vigil over them - the pair stood side by side and waited as the chilled, falling rainwater cascaded down over their faces. Then, overhearing two of the guards talking to each other, the pair soon realized what the very near future held in store for them. “Whaddaya wanna do with ‘em now Hank? You gonna leave these two stand’in in the rain like this?”

“Ya want I should give ‘em umbrellas?” replied the other guard, mockingly. “Besides, where they’re go’in, they might as well catch pneumonia now an get it over with.”

Laughing at his own cruel jest, the guard slapped his friend on the back for emphasis and reached into an inside pocket of his coat for the pack of cigarettes he normally kept handy. “Damn,” he muttered. “I’m outta smokes. Can you watch these mugs for two minutes while I run in an buy a pack outta the machine? I’ll be right back.”

“Sure Hank,” answered the new and far less confident guard. “I’ll do it, but don’t take too long, okay. Gives me the creeps stand’in out here watch’in the poor bastards get rained on, know what I mean?”

“One thing ya gotta learn out here Tommy, before one more day goes by,” replied the other, more experienced man as he turned to walk inside. “Ya gotta learn ta detach yerself from any kinda feel’ins for these poor slobs. You and I both know where they’re go’in, an there ain’t nuth’in either of us can do about it, even if we wanted to. Ya read me?”

“Yeah sure Hank, I read you.”

“Good, I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on ‘em.” But even before the prison guard could make it to the door, Bill could feel the fear and dread welling up inside him, and turning to face his friend, he could tell Penguin felt the same way. “Our number’s up buddy boy,” said Bill, as the guard left in charge momentarily turned to look out in a different direction. “Looks like judgment day arrived a little sooner then expected.”

“Whaddaya mean judgment day?”

“I mean they’re gonna snuff us out, as in k-i-l-l,” replied Bill, spelling out the letters of the word to emphasize its meaning. “You heard ‘em as well as I did, didn’tcha?”

“I heard ‘em, but I just can’t believe it.”

“What’s not ta believe?” answered Bill. “Ya knew we was on death row all along didn’tcha?”

“I wanna talk ta the Governer,” said Penguin.

“You argue with ‘em if ya want,” muttered Wild Bill under his breath. “But me, I got a plan.”

“What plan?” replied Penguin, who’s body was beginning to shake at the thought of his own execution.

“I say, the next time the guard turns around, we rush ‘im, try an toss ‘im down. That outta buy us enough time ta run away inta the fog. Whaddaya say? It’s now or never, while the other guard ain’t here. Are ya with me?”

“Yeah,” said Penguin, nervously. “I’m with ya.”

“Okay then,” said Wild Bill. “You hit ‘im high, I’ll hit ‘im low, on the count a three. Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Alright, here we go,” said Wild Bill. “On my count. One..., two..., three!”

Living up to his name, Bill’s wild, straight forward plan of action seemed to be working, as the two renegade prisoners ran into the guard, knocking him off balance and sending him to the ground. Hitting the back of his head on the hard, wet pavement as he fell, the guard temporarily lost consciousness and in the moments that followed, completely lost track of Bill and his scared, but determined friend, Penguin. Running hard now, from fear and the adrenalin that coursed through their veins, the pair had put at least a mile between them and the prison they fled. The thick, grey fog they ran into also helped to conceal them, as they ran and made their way through quiet cattle pastures, and areas of dense vegetation and forest. But the frantic pace of their escape was catching up with Penguin, who was beginning to tire from all the weight he’d gained and the many extra servings he’d eaten off Bill’s meal trays.“When can we stop?” asked Penguin, huffing and puffing, too heavy and out of shape to keep pace with his much thinner companion.

“When I say so,” replied Bill. “Unless a course, you’re anxious ta get dragged back ta the ‘Big House’..., or worse.”

“I’m just too tired ta go on Bill, I gotta stop or I’ll toss up lunch.”

“We can’t stop yet. Lets run at least till we get ta them trees,” answered Bill, referring to a thin strip of forest ahead, with a clearing beyond. Running between the trees on wobbly legs with his head pointed down to the ground, Penguin missed seeing a large oak in his path and ran right into it, crying out in pain as he sailed backward, landing on the ground with a thud.“Shit,” said Bill, “That had ta hurt.” Resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath from their long run, Bill peered out into the clearing. Reaching out to Penguin, he offered him a helping hand to get him up off the wet ground. “C’mere an look at this,” he continued. “Looks like another jail don’t it? Damn, is the world just one big prison or what?”

“That’s one way a look’in at it,” said Penguin, rubbing his head as he got to his feet. “If you’re one a those pessimistic types. But if yer ask’in me, it’s just one a those things - a coincidence or someth’in.”

“Look at the size of it will ya,” exclaimed Bill. “Must be a few thousand jailbirds down there. I never seen a prison that big in my life.”

“So whaddaya wanna do now Bill. If we hang around here too long, we could end up back in the pen. Besides,” continued Penguin. “I’m gett’in hungry. We ain’t eaten in hours. Boy, I sure miss all that good grub we left behind.”

“Sure,” answered Bill. “Why don’tcha just go back for dinner like we never left. We’ll just pick up where we left off, no problem. I’m all for it. I might even get a ringside seat when they fry ya..., dope! Don’tcha know if ya go back there, you’ll end up like Bird!”

“Yeah,” admitted Penguin. “I guess it was a bad idea. But whadda we do for food? You don’t care cause you never get hungry.”

“Well, I’m gett’in there. All that runn’in took a lot outta me. Why don’t we head for one a those fast food joints an raid the dumpster.”

“Yuck,” replied Penguin. “That's disgusting.”

“Got a better idea?..”

“Whatchya got there?” asked Penguin, forever interested in what others were eating, even though he was very much absorbed in the day old cheeseburger he found.

“Fish, I think,” replied Bill. “Who cares. I don’t live ta eat, buster... I eat ta live. Anyways, I got someth’in more important on my mind, like stay’in free. I’ll tell ya right now Penguin,” continued Bill, talking as he ate. “I ain’t go’in back ta the pen. If they catch me, it’s all over.”

“Whaddaya mean?” said Penguin, finishing his burger, turning over boxes and old newspapers as he searched for anything else that wasn’t rotten or swarming with flies.

“I mean,” answered Wild Bill, true to his name. “They’ll have ta kill me before I go back there.”

“I’d say that decisions’ already been made for us, wouldn’t you?” said Penguin.

“I’d say yer right,” replied Bill. “C’mon, lets get mov’in,” he added, getting to his feet. “I don’t feel comfortable stay’in this long in any one place. Just makes it easier for ‘em ta track us down.”

“Just a minute,” replied Penguin, feeling certain that he’d caught a glimpse of some French fries lodged between two empty cartons of eggs.

“We don’t got a minute,” answered Bill impatiently. “You can stay if ya want, I’m mov’in out, pronto.”

Jumping from the dumpster, Penguin’s feet had only just touched the pavement when Bill yelled out, doing his best to get Penguin’s attention. There, just leaving the restaurant parking lot was a rusty old pick-up truck, sputtering its way toward the main highway with Bill running close behind it. Jumping into the back, with Penguin in hot pursuit, Bill did his best to conceal himself from the driver who was - as Wild Bill realized, when he peered in through the back window - a very old man dressed in overalls, and fortunately for Bill, couldn’t hear very well.
Catching up, Penguin noisily hopped into the bed of the truck, but went unnoticed, as Bill watched the driver lean to one side to adjust his hearing aid and turn up the volume on his radio. “We’re in luck. He can’t hear worth a damn,” said Bill, referring to the driver. “Is this perfect or what?”

“I’ve seen better accommodations,” replied Penguin. “But I suppose it’ll have ta do. Where do ya think he’s headed?”

“We’re headed south, ain’t we? On highway 65. An accord’in ta my calculations - an the sign we just passed a course - we should be headed straight for the Buffalo River in beautiful northern Arkansas. Imagine that,” continued Bill, leaning back on the hard metal surface of the truck bed. “Me an you bask’in in the sun by the river bank, all the food we can eat an nuth’in ta do but take in the views an relax. All we gotta do is stay away from the tourists an we’ll be fine.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘all the food we can eat’?” asked Penguin.

“I thought that’d get yer attention,” said Bill. “There’s a shit-load a fish, ain’t there? An a whole bunch a other goodies I bet..., you’ll see.”

“Leftovers from the tourists?” asked Penguin. “Sounds good ta me.”

“You got it buddy boy. An the best part is, we’re free. We can do what we want, when we want, an nobody’s gonna tell us different.”

“Oh man,” said Penguin. “I can hardly wait. When do we get there?”

“I dunno exactly, but do me a favor will ya.”

“What?”

“Don’t call me 'man', I hate it.”


“Here we go buddy boy,” said Bill, as the old truck made its way over the bridge which connected the banks of the beautiful, green, rushing river beneath. “This here’s our stop. Unless a course you’d like ta go home with the old guy here an end up on some farm, grazing like an animal.”

“What are you talking about? I am not an animal,” answered Penguin, angry with Bill for thinking of him in that vein. “I do not graze.”

“Forget it, would ya. C’mon, let’s move out!”Getting off the truck was about as difficult as getting on - which was not very easy - but when the old man slowed down at the opposite end of the bridge to avoid an armadillo in the road, the two companions seized the opportunity and jumped off. Unable to control their legs from the momentum of the moving truck, Penguin and Wild Bill both fell, and rolled the rest of the way down an embankment which met the side of the road where the bridge terminated. “Ouch!” exclaimed Penguin, rubbing his head. “I think I hit my head on a rock. Lets hope we don’t have ta do that again. Those last few feet really hurt like hell.”

“Yeah, I know what’cha mean,” said Bill. “Which reminds me of an old joke about keep’in yer shoelaces tied cause a trip’s better then a fall, get it? Trip, fall, a little play with semantics there, get it?”

“A course I get it, it’s just not very pertinent, that’s all.”

“Why?” asked Bill.

“Cause I ain’t wear’in any shoes, for one thing.”

“Just a technicality, that’s all. Hey,” continued Bill, getting to his feet to have a look around. “Would ya look at this place, it’s beautiful!”

“Yeah,” answered Penguin. “An the best part is, there ain’t no people around.”

“I hear ya. No people, but a lotta potential friends at large, that’s for sure,” replied Bill, drawing Penguin’s attention to a pair of Cardinals who were bathing themselves and drinking water from the river.“An some what ain’t so friendly,” observed Penguin, referring to a pair of hawks that were circling overhead, watching their every move.“I see what’cha mean,” said Bill. “But at least out here, we’re free. Free from any man who thinks he can keep us in a pen, plump us up on steroids and execute us like some kinda lousy convicts. It turns my stomach just ta think about it. We’ll just have ta watch our step, that’s all. You watch my back an I’ll watch yours, just like when we was back in the pen, right?”

Extending a large white wing, Wild Bill reached over to his friend as a man might shake hands or pat another on the back. “Right,” agreed Penguin. “Birds of a feather, flock together. Now where’s all the grub you were talk’in about. Ya made this place sound like a non-stop banquet. Whadda we do for food?”

“Hmm...,” said Bill, about to do one of those things that should come naturally to any red-blooded American turkey in the wild. Bending at the hip, he picked up a fat juicy beetle on its way into the forest and finished speaking as it crunched in his beak under pressure. “Try the insects here - gulp! - they’re delicious.”

Sisohpromatem

Getting out of bed is always the toughest part of the morning for me, so before I turned over to leave the soft, warm confines I spent the night in, I thought to myself how nice it would be to have a little comforting breakfast before greeting the day and turned in the opposite direction to put the idea to my wife. “Honey lamb,” I asked, as I gently patted that part of her body closest to me - which at the time, appeared to be one of her blanketed legs. “I sure could use a couple of eggs an toast. Whaddaya say? Can we strike a deal here?”

“You got two hands,” came her reply.

“But sugar lips, I’ve gotta get ready. I just don’t have the time.”

“Eat some cereal.”

“Is that your final answer?” I replied, hoping that one final plea might make her see the light.

“Go away... I’m sleeping,” she said without looking up.

“Very well then,” I remarked. “I can see that I’m on my own here,” I added, as I found the floor with my feet and walked to the bathroom mirror for a quick shave and to comb what little hair I had left. “I thought marriage was a team effort Mary. You’re letting the team down, can’t you see that?” But it was too late to lodge any last minute complaint, for my better half had already fallen back to sleep and rested peacefully in the bed I’d only moments before left, looking as angelic and peaceful as the day we were wed.

Oh well, I thought to myself. I’ll treat myself to something hot for lunch and turned on an overhead light as I finished brushing my teeth but as the light came on and I gazed back at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but notice that the passing years hadn’t been unkind to me at all. In fact, I thought, I’d never looked better and as I reached in my closet for the usual uniform of white shirt and dark pants I regularly donned, I wondered if my lovely wife would be so kind as to help me tie a neater then usual knot in the colorful tie I’d selected to offset the otherwise drab, everyday clothing I was subtly forced to wear. “You-who,” I whispered, not wanting to startle her awake from her beauty sleep. “Think you can help me out with my tie here, I’m just about ready ta hit the road?”

“Boy, you don’t give up do you,” she answered, removing the top pillow she used to cover her head to block out any unwanted sound or light. “Okay... I guess. Let’s see now,” she muttered, sitting up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Which kind a knot ya want? The little thin one or the big fat one?”

“Uhh... the little thin one,” I replied. And kneeling over to make the tie easier for her to reach, I found myself thinking how nice it was to have someone who cared about me in my corner, helping me out, and now, as at other times, literally taking up the slack in something which needed her kind and devoted attention. But as I stood there, bent at the waist, watching her sleepy eyes slowly opening, I couldn’t help but wonder why her expression had suddenly changed so from the harmony of rest, to the unrest of fear and disgust. “What’s wrong my dove?” I questioned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you have a bad dream?” But all the answer she could muster was the most shrill and terrifying scream I’d ever heard and as she sat frozen with the dread of a real-to-life horror scene, I did my best to try to calm her so as not to wake our two sleeping children. “Easy Mary. Calm down, please. What did I do? Is the tie that bad? I can always pick out another one. Hey, I’m flexible, you know me.” But even as I spoke these last words, she’d jumped back into bed, covered herself completely and pulled the blankets up over her head, leaving no part of her body whatsoever exposed to the naked eye. “Does that mean I’m on my own with my tie too?” I asked. “If ya hate it that much, why don’tcha come out an help me pick out something else. You can always hit the hay again.”

“G-g-go away! You’re not my husband! What’did you do with my husband!?” was all she said, and finished up by adding one more, last, “go away!”

Shocked, I went back to the mirror to see if I could find out why or what could have happened to have caused such a strange and sudden reaction in her, but as I carefully searched my reflected image, I could find no just cause and responded only by saying, “maybe all you need is a rest Mary. You take it easy and when I get back we’ll talk, how does that sound. Fair enough?”

“N-n-no way,” she replied. “Go away... don’t come back... ever!”

“But sugar plum, I thought you loved me? What happened? How did everything change in one night?” But all she responded with was the rustling of sheets and blankets, and for the first time in our long marriage together, I knew I’d been left totally and utterly, alone.

Getting into my car, I started up the engine, but never for a moment could I take my mind off what had happened. Through thick and thin, through good times and bad we’d stuck together like two peas in a pod, but this, this was something unexplainable to me. Something I just couldn’t figure out, unless of course, it was some kind of practical joke she was playing. Sure, I thought, like an April fools day joke, that must be what it is. I bet when I get home she’ll be standing there laughing as if nothing ever happened and all this will have passed like a bad dream. That’s all it is, I thought... just a joke, and pulling up to the usual space I parked in, I put my car in park and headed for the office door.

On my way to my desk, I couldn’t help noticing Lisa standing at a counter we used for our coffee machine. A smart girl I’d gone to school with, she was an excellent drafter and was well on her way to the architectural license she’d been working toward. A good friend of mine, I decided to surprise her and walked up quietly while her back was turned - just to play a little practical joke of my own and start the day off with some of the laughter we sadly lacked at times, working under the daily pressure of building schedules and deadlines. “Boo!” I shouted, and watched some of the coffee she balanced in her hand spill to the counter as my voice reverberated in the small hallway around us.

“Oh Reid,” she said, still facing the coffee machine. “Would you cut the crap? That builder’s house you’ve been working on isn’t gonna draw itself ya know.”

But even as she turned, I could see her expression change from the familiar calm she generally radiated to one of complete fear and angst. Screaming and dropping her cup to the floor, she ran to the nearby bathroom and slammed the door loudly enough to cause concern all over the office. Knocking on the door, left to wonder again what it was I’d done to cause such a reaction, I questioned her through the barrier she’d so literally drawn between us.

“What is it Lisa?” I asked innocuously. “What the heck did I do? I was just joking around, I swear.”

But “Go away!” was the only response she had to offer, and when others in the office came to find out what all the noise was about, two other co-workers I’d known for at least three years took one look at me, ran to the janitor’s closet, armed themselves with brooms - oddly enough - and came straight at me, swinging them and hammering me with blows that were obviously, no joke. “Mike, Jerry,” I pleaded. “It’s me, Reid. What the heck’s go’in on here? Put those down wouldya? Hey that hurts!”

“Get outta here ya stink’in bug,” yelled one of them to my utter surprise.

“That’s the biggest fuck’in roach I’ve ever seen! Get the hell outta here!” screamed my other so-called friend and co-worker. And all that was left for me to do was to openly scurry for the door and run for my life, never turning to look back, or to wonder what had gone wrong.

Driving home - as by now it was the only course of action I could think of taking - I reached my familiar address, but couldn’t believe my eyes as I pulled up the driveway. An insect exterminator’s truck stood parked on the street nearby and in front of that were three police squad cars, solemnly lined up in a neat row almost as the procession of some funeral, or the awful scene of some terrible crime. “Now what?” I said to myself, as I pulled up the driveway and parked. “What other surprises are in store for me today? Nearly got beat up at work, an my own wife didn’t even recognize me. Now what? Shit, what if someone broke in? But what’s with the exterminator? I didn’t know we had bugs.” Letting myself in, I was on my way to comfort Mary if I could and to find out what was going on when three policemen with guns drawn, pointing in my direction began yelling like the house was on fire... “Stand still you ugly bug or I’ll send you’re ass straight ta bug hell!”

“You heard ‘im!” shouted another. “Freeze!”

“Shit!” exclaimed the first officer. “That’s the biggest roach I ever seen! Man... get a wiff a that thing wouldya. Stinks like hell warmed over. Cuff ‘im Tim.”

“But I can’t,” remarked the third officer. “I only got one set a cuffs an he’s got four arms an two legs. Damn, I never knew they could stand up like that neither. Whaddaya want me ta do?”

“Well, let’s see... hmm. How about you guys cover me an I’ll put my set on ‘im, then we’ll switch an Tim can put his set on ‘im too, okay?”

“Good enough,” they agreed. “But what then?” asked an officer with the letters ‘Lieutenant Kafka’ plainly written over his left shirt pocket.

“Whaddaya mean, ‘what then?’” said the first. “It’s plain as hell ta me. This is one for the boys in the lab. If they can’t figure it out, we’re in deep shit. Can you imagine more a these damn things runn’in around? All hell would break loose, ya follow me now?”

“I follow, but I ain’t sitt’in in the same car with it. You want it,” replied one of the men, “you take ‘im in your squad. If it was up ta me, I’d end this right here an now.” But as the three men stood bickering about who would do what and when, I quickly seized the opportunity, popped open the door latch that had closed behind me and ran straight to my car. Stepping on the gas, with the pedal to the metal as they say, I didn’t stop my car until the oddest sensation came over me. Pulling over, as night had fallen and my eyes seemed to be not quite as good as they once had been, I parked my car and noticed the blinking neon lights of a sign. Must be a hotel, I thought to myself as I walked into what appeared to be an open door, with one of the best smells coming from it that I possibly could’ve imagined. Stepping inside, I hadn’t walked very far when all at once I became aware that my feet were stuck to the ground. In fact, I was nearly frozen in place when I noticed all around me that there were others also in the same predicament as I, and as I wondered what in the world was going on, I finally read the blinking sign that I’d neglected in my haste. It read, “Reid’s Roach Motel” in large, red, flashing lights and all at once, any question I had about who I was or where I was going became strangely, all too clear.

Writer's Block

Searching my mind, questioning myself repeatedly for something to write about, I knew I’d reached my first dead end in the field of creative writing. I couldn’t even think of a bad story, let alone a good one. I tired of putting down the President and figured that was all behind me, and weary also of imagining myself as someone else - caught up in some strange, impossible situation - I was about to put my pen down forever when lo and behold, who should walk past me on her way to school but my darling daughter, Natalie...

“Wha’cha do’in?” she asked, as she’s sometimes prone to do. But after a moment where I offered no reply, gazing out the window, deep in thought over the weight of snow which had bent a shrub to one side on our lawn, she enquired, “What’s a matter, cat got your tongue?”

About to reply by asking her, ‘Which one? Take your pick’, I hesitated before answering. The way I saw it, we had five to choose from - some indoor and some outdoor - any of whom could have been held responsible for my condition, so the question, taken literally, wasn’t all that simple to resolve, but figuratively, the reply was as easy as two plus two. “Yes,” I responded. “One of the cat’s has my damn tongue and I can’t think of anything to write.”

“Well don’t let it out on me,” replied my daughter. “I was only asking. Writer’s block happens sometimes. You’ll think of something, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know Nat, I think the well just ran dry on me. I haven’t felt this speechless in a long time. Not since your mom caught me looking at internet porn anyhow. Man, that was a bad day. Whaddaya think pissed her off so much anyway? It’s just some boobs an butts.”

“To you it is,” answered Natalie. “But not to mom. You outta know that by now dad.”

“I don’t know Nat,” I said disparagingly. “You know I’m not the brightest light in the chandelier. Besides, I’m only human ya know.”

“I know,” she added, but not wanting to broach the subject of my voyeurism, she continued by changing the subject, and suggesting that I think about something festive and cheerful, she remarked, “but after all, with Christmas on the way, there must be a lot of things you can think of to write about. Look at all the history behind it.”

“That’s true,” I replied. “But Dan Brown already answered every dang question about God and Jesus. There’s nothing left to talk about now. The Davinci Code was the solution to all our problems. Now there’s no question in our minds concerning who to kill or who to leave alone. We all owe him a big thanks if you ask me, but I still don’t know what to write about.”

“Look on the bright side dad. I know you’ll think of something. I’m late for school now, but I bet by the time I get back, you’ll have something down on paper.”

“I hope you’re right Nat,” I said. “Anyhow, have a good day.” But as soon as she walked out the door, it was as if she’d taken with her every creative thought known to the human race, and once again I was left alone to ponder the bent branches of the snow laden shrub just outside my window. Maybe I’ll think of something worthwhile tomorrow, I thought. Then again, maybe I won’t. But what the heck, I can’t change the world anyway. Not unlike the Holy Trinity, only Dan Brown, President Bush and God have the power to do that. The rest of us are just casual observers, left alone here to look out our windows and wonder what to think.

Politics, I Hate The Word, As I Hate All Politicians And These...

The senate race - in my opinion - is nothing more then a knock down; hair pulling; eye gouging; scratching, kicking, slapping, punching, childish dispute between two people who already have enough personal wealth between them to buy the office in question outright - if such an office could in fact be legally purchased - but instead are compelled by gluttony, (for want of more of everything and anything... like stoking the fires of a great and growing need for attention; the accumulation of wealth and self-idolatry) to ‘debate’ for it, if indeed such an embarrassing and barbaric televised argument between two such adults could be described by a word that might otherwise have carried with it some civilized connotation, all with the purpose ascribed to it of showing that we can settle our partisan differences, resulting in and revealing to the public at large, that getting along with one another in order to work effectively together may not only be accomplished, but I have to say facetiously... realized in our lifetime.

To me, two such self-important, greedy combatants never need be associated with any high level government platform, which will only serve in the end to feed already acquired bad habits, causing conflict between co-workers all the more.

In fact, all I need do to illustrate my point is to repeat some of the dialogue of the televised event that went on in my state just a few short weeks ago. After reading it, I’m certain that any citizen of democratic society will see my point, at least well enough to agree that we have a problem in this country in the way we elect representatives of the people, by the people, and for the people.

This so-called debate between Ms. DeClair MyCastle and Mr. Rhym Liq’ueur went exactly like this - or anyway, as well as I can remember it did...


“She runs a meth lab in her office!”

“That is the most ridiculous accusation I have ever heard, but coming from a man who works such long hard hours in public washrooms from coast to coast, what more do I need to say in my defense other then, ‘I sincerely hope you’re satisfied now Mr. Rhym Licker.’”

“That’s Liq’ueur. Mr. Rhym Liq’ueur, but what would you expect from a lady who shoots meth daily, gives rambling speeches like Hitler and hasn’t paid her taxes since the end of the Civil War - which I might add didn’t end the way her family would have liked it to.”

“How dare you! I have been a tax paying citizen of Missouri all mah days and none a the slaves on my plantation have ever once accused me of unfair treatment or harsh living conditions. Shame on you Mr. Rhym Licker for using this debate as a weapon against my personal integrity. Your bombast is a reflection of the type of race you’ve been running from the very start. A mockery of my stainless record as a selfless servant of the people.”

“That’s very funny coming from a person who runs nursing homes down to the ground, sets fire to them to collect on their insurance and gets away with it all. Hey, that reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask you who your lawyer is. I bet he’d like working for the Liq’ueur machine... er, team I meant to say. Why don’t you give him my card? I’d like to meet him sometime.”

“Sure, just tell me what washroom you’d like to meet him in. Then you can get right down to any of those swelling, urgent interests you’ve been known to have acted on so often. Which brings me to my very point Mr. Licker... just what is it that you feel you’ve achieved since you’ve taken office. Please, tell me. Tell us all. The entire television audience - millions of people - are waiting breathlessly to hear.”

“I...” muttered the senator, as a feeling of desperation and a sincere loss for words fell over him like a darkened cloud. No thoughtful means with which to muster any answer seemed to be at his disposal, until finally, like the guiding light required to find one’s way around just one of Ms. DeClair MyCastle’s huge homes, the always unjustifiably proud senator, undaunted by Ms. MyCastle’s high spirited attack replied...”I helped ban gay marriages in this state for one thing, that’s what! How could you ever persuade the American people to doubt me, or the strict code of morals I adhere to. That, DeClair MyCastle will simply never happen. Not in this life time.”

“It might take a lifetime to question all the choir boys you’ve allegedly molested, and unfortunately, we’re running out of debate time, but I’d be happy to reach into my purse here and pay for another hour long time slot if it would bring the truth to light. Has anyone here got change for a million dollar bill? I’m so sorry, I don’t seem to have anything smaller on me at the moment.”

“Okay Ms. MyCastle. I’ll tell you the truth. The only truth is that your father had sex with farm animals; made millions of dollars selling moonshine to seven year olds in third world countries and lost it all when he became a syphilitic leper, unable to remember his own name or even the name of his favorite mistress... a beloved goat named Gerta. That’s the only truth Ms. MyCastle.”

“Lies, all lies. One lie after another. I don’t understand why Mr. Licker must spend his time attacking my family just because they don’t hide in a closet. Really Mr. Licker, I wouldn’t even have shown up tonight if doctors hadn’t reassured me that I couldn’t get aids from standing too close to you.”

“That’s it,” remarked the presiding official of the MyCastle / Liq’ueur debate. We have unfortunately run out of time tonight, but lets have a big round of applause for both of these fine Missouri residents. If you ask me ladies and gentlemen, senatorial hopefuls just don’t get any better then Ms. MyCastle and Mr. Rhym Licker. How about another big hand for them!”

“That’s Liq’ueur you idiot. Oh, maybe I should just change my name. Everyone mispronounces it wherever I go.”

“Why would you when it suites you so well? I should think you would have gotten used to the flavor of it all by now, Mr. Rim Licker. But the most important truth of the night never did seem to come out in our debate.”

“What’s this now DeClair? Have you finally thought of something deeper then your twisted tax return or your money stuffed mattress that you’d like to discuss?”

“Only that especially in your case, you really can judge a book by its cover. I genuinely hope you and your would be clone lose this race and amendment 2 for stem cell research passes. You were right, we don’t need two of you. In fact, the only time I enjoyed listening to you was when you said, ‘I don’t wanna be walk’in down the street one day an see me com’in at me!’ You really do have a way with words but after all, even one of you is too many for this world.”

I'm Just The Bell Ringer Here

“Hi dad, I was just call’in ta find out if you’d maybe like ta go out for breakfast or someth’in like that? Could be nice, you know. We could go ta Lennie’s maybe, get two Big Scams with the works... bacon; sausage; hash browns, whaddaya say? I haven’t seen ya in a while, you know. How long’s it been anyway?”

“Oh... about twenty years I’d say, give or take. But in answer ta your question, I guess I could do breakfast. Pick me up, I’ll wait in front, an don’t keep me wait’in all day.”

Later that morning, father and son sat down at one of the comfortable booths the restaurant had to offer and began scanning over the large breakfast menu. They soon decided to treat themselves to the Super Big Scams for $6.99 that came complete with pancakes, but when the waiter arrived to take their order, he could tell something was amiss, and the sneaking suspicion that the pair were more then slightly dysfunctional seemed to pervade the diner just as plainly as the odor of any food source in the room.

“Good morning,” said the waiter, as he walked up to the table. “My name is Carl and I’ll be your waiter today. Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes to decide?”

“Ah, we know what we want, don’t we dad? We want two Super Big Scams. That makes it easy don’t it?” replied Reid. But food orders from Robert, his father were much more involved and consisted of all the delightful little eccentricities of old age and rough times put together. “Listen, you piss ass bitch... I shit bigger chunks then guys like you every day. Now I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up. I want my eggs scrambled lightly, not that overcooked crap ya pound nails with, got it?”

“Ahh,” was all Carl could say, dreading the moment he’d gotten out of bed that day and plainly showing the growing pain he was feeling through the new expressions forming on his face.

“An I want my bacon crispy, not greasy. That limp shit’s no good for your stomach or your heart. An I want rye toast, lightly buttered. If I see it swimm’in in butter, I’m go’in straight ta your boss, got it?”

“Yes sir, I’ve got it, I think,” were all the words the waiter could push out. But as he slunk away, conversation between Reid and his World War Two vintage father began to lighten up, as Reid recalled a joke he’d once heard. “Hey dad, I got a joke. It’s funny as hell, you’ll love it.”

“Yeah, a joke. Okay, lets hear it. Make it fast wouldya? Ah’m not in a real joke mood right now.”

“Oh, come on. You’ll love it. It’s hilarious.”

“Okay, lets hear it already.”

“Alright, alright, ahh... just gimme a second ta remember it.”

“Do ya know it or don’tcha? First ya tell me ya got a joke, then ya can’t remember it. Ya know, me an your mother could never reach you. You were always somewhere out there in outer space or someth’in, like Sputnik. Go ahead already, make my day.”

“Well, there’s this church bell ringer see... an he does a great job ring’in this bell like he’s supposed to, like clockwork, everyday. Only, like, he’s got no arms! Everyday, he runs inta that damn bell with his head, only one day... he misses it completely, I mean he runs right past it, flies right over the side a the bell tower, an bam, he’s gone.”

“That’s hilarious,” replied Reid’s father. “Bam, he’s gone. Ya got anymore like that? Hey, were’s our food, ah’m starv’in here.”

“No dad, that’s not the end a the joke, ya see,” Reid continued, doing his best to elaborate on the unfinished piece of satire but as luck would have it, the pair’s food order had just arrived and took priority to any jest. “Good Carl,” remarked Robert. “Ah’m so glad you could make it. Have trouble finding us?”

“No sir, I didn’t. I got here just as soon as I...”

“Then why’d it take so damn long?”

“Hey dad, come on. Give the guy a break,” interjected Reid. “Everything’s cool Carl. You done good. All we gotta do is eat this stuff now, right dad. Looks good, don’t it?” But like any of the minor bumps and bruises in life that we all seem to have to endure from time to time, a problem had already begun to brew in Reid’s mind and set a precedence to any other. “Ahh, dad,” he began. “Someth’in’s not right here.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what else is new. Pass the salt.”

“No, I mean. I just know, someth’in’s miss’in here,” and staring at a blank spot on the table where his pancakes should have been, but were not, Reid slowly but most certainly, zeroed in on the problem. “My pancakes... they forgot my fuck’in pancakes. I can’t fuck’in believe it. An I told that fuck’in guy everything was cool. What, am I crazy or what?”

“Relax wouldja? What is this, Anzio or what? You gonna make me sorry I met you now aren’t you? Just lemme eat this in piece. You an your mother, ya both gimme indigestion you know that? God, sit down,” protested Robert, but it was too late, and as Reid began to rise from the table, he opened his suit coat to reveal two shoulder holstered .45 automatic weapons, retrieved them from their resting positions and brandished them, one in each hand as he walked up and down the long aisle of the restaurant, screaming for retribution and the pancakes he was promised but nay, did not receive. “I want my fuck’in pancakes, an I want ‘em now,” he shouted, turning around in circles as he spoke, aiming the two loaded guns for emphasis and waiting, as if for some answer from a crowd of desperately scared patrons who could only vomit with fear, and look on in astonishment at the real life spectacle now unfolding before them on the strangest stage of all - real life. But just as he was wondering who to shoot and what difference that would make to his pancake order, the waiter emerged from the kitchen, offering Reid the side order he’d been waiting for, and thanked him for his patience. Holstering one of the weapons in order to take the plate, Reid returned to his table and calmly slid back into his seat at the booth, resting the other gun he’d been carrying on the table surface with a thud and began to divide up the stack of three pancakes with a fork as his astounded father sat and watched. “Anyways,” began Reid, snapping in and out of rage as simply as one might change a hat or coat. “The bell ringer, remember,” he said, as he poured maple sirup over the three, hard won pancakes. “He fell remember, right?”

“Are you nuts?” asked his father. “You just scared the shit outta these poor people and now you’re gonna tell me a joke? Well I got news for you. The cops are here buddy, an I don’t think they’re in the mood for jokes. You got some explain’in ta do.” But in seeing the squad cars pull up, all Reid could think of doing was to bite into those pancakes, and what would go with them better then a thin strip of crispy bacon smothered in sirup.

“Come out with your hands up,” shouted one of the policemen on a megaphone, loud enough to wake the dead. But Reid still sat and calmly ate until he’d finished much of what the waiter had brought. Then finally, just as the police were about to do something drastic, he rose from his seat once more with his hands in the air, told his father, “I’ll write. Hey, don’t be such a stranger.” And walked to the door, pushing it open with his waist until he could turn his body and make it out to the four squad cars of waiting police.

In the aftermath of all the unrest, two officers remained behind to question Reid’s father, but when asked why he thought his son had pulled the guns out in anger, he could really not say. “I got no fuck’in idea,” said the old man. “I was hop’in you could tell me.”

“Well, what was the last thing he told you?” answered one of the officers. “Sometimes, that gives us a clue as to what the person had on their mind at the time.”

“Just some dumb ass joke about a bell ringer with no arms, that’s all. Hey, he never was Einstein ya know what I mean?”

“Hank,” said one officer to another. “You know any joke like that?”

“Hey, ya know. Now that you mention it, I do. Ya see, this guy who rings this church bell, he’s got no arms, so he rings the bell by runn’in right into it with his head. But when he misses it one day, he goes fly’in right over the edge a the tower and dies. Then one day a cop shows up an gives the priest pictures a the guy. The priest takes one of ‘em, scratches his head for a minute an he says, “hmm, the name’s not familiar but his face rings a bell.”

“So what the hell is that supposed ta mean?” asked the eighty-one year old man.

“Well, I’m no profiler, but if you ask me,” remarked one of the cops. “I don’t think you spent enough time with your son. He feels you hardly know him.”

“Now he tells me.”