Gism Butter

Sat, 24 Jul 2004

The Grub Scouts

I was sitting in the cahir, quivering beneath this lanky smelly old fart. The lawn was ablaze. Its red glow gave the room a hellish quality, and the three points of Mr. Grubb's old derby made a fitting pitchfork atop his thin pin-striped body. He stood there over me, flipping a frog up into the air and ccatching it with the same hand, then repeating the process. The frog seemed not to mind and croaked hollowly at the apex of each rotation.

Well kid... you got a name?

I shook my head back and forth. I couldn't remember if I had one or not. The fear made me shudder, and it kept my brain locked in a complete dead-end street. The flames seemed to be growing higher now, and I could see the light of fire trucks that were pulling up and extinguishin the blaze. You could always tell whent he firemen were around, because their rauckus music and constant drinking were actually louder than any siren they had in their possesion.

No name? That aint nat'ral. Sure you got one. Now let's have it.

I opened my fool mouth and tried to utter the sounds that seemed to be naturally emenating from my gut, but nothing came out. The burst of air and noise got stuck in my neck and remained there as though it were cemented in place.

You kids today... No balls, ya got. Listen kiddo, you think you got problems now? the firemen were finishing up the job downstairs, and the noises that had replaced the flames were suspiciously like those heard at a strip club. Still I said nothing.

Look kid, I'm just gonna call ya Pico... Mr. Grubb stood bacck and admired his handywork, framing me up in his hands. yeah, Pico'll do. Anyway, Pico, you got some nerve, you and yer lowlife friends... coming inta my yard and settin' fire to my bagonias. I oughta let ya have it right now. But I think I can come up with a better alternative, if you get my meaning.

I shivered again. the lights outside were obviously coming from a disco ball; no doubt that the firemen were now dangling it from the high-ladder as the fire-sluts gyrated below for the amusement of the operators of what was largely an automated system by now.

See, kid... I look at you and I see potential. I see all the poten-chal in the world. But it's misdirected. Comepletely aimed in the wrong direction, ya know? I think I could, maybe, learn ya somethin' about the finer points of setting fire to otha' people's rhotodenden. Ya take my meaning?

I didn't. All I took now was pitty upon my poor bladder that even now was brimming over. The backwash was making its way up my spinal collumn, and soon would cover the better part of my lungs. At this point, however, I fully expected to be coughing up urine in heaps, and I could only fear what would happen to me were I to get any of it on Mr. Grubb's nice suit.

Mr. Grubb grabbed the back of the high leather chair to whcih I was tied. He spun it now, and the force of the rotation sent my inards a-wiggly. Then, he stopped me suddenly, and pointed out the window, his cheek next to mine. The skin was smooth, as if shaved by a straight razor. The scent was of burnt oranges. The veiw was of a disco ball, faintly reflecting the combined images of firemen tossing dollar bills at a stage-full of middle aged women wearing nothing but broomsticks. And in the darkness, he grinned.