Arnold Ziffle’s fresh incision is itching. The old pickup’s ride ain’t what it once was. The thing rides over the ruts like an empty 50-gallon drum. The a/c as dead Lincoln’s great-grandfather.
“Farm livin’ is the life for me.”
The pills have been keeping the pain down to a dull ache.
“Land spreadin’ out so far and wide”
Arnold stares out the passenger window. Pig sweat starts dripping into his eyes. Worse than dull ache in his chest is the need for nicotine. The crushed, empty pack on the floor, like the dead remains of unpleasant memories.
“Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside!” Bubbah pounds his arm rest and gets into it with gusto, swinging his scruffy black beard from side to side.
“…The chores. …The stores. …Fresh air. …Times Square!”
Arnold once pretended to be a patient, friendly pig on TV. That was then, this is now. He turns slowly to the fat man driving next to him.
“Green Acheeeeeeee–errrrrrssss!”
“Fat man. HEY, FAT MAN.” There’s hate in his voice thick enough to spread on toast like butter.
“Wuht?”
“What’s black and blue and red all over?”
“Z’at some kinda pig joke?”
Arnold narrows his eyes. “Answer the question, Bubba. What’s black AND blue AND red all over?”
“Shit pig, I dunno. I’m only in this for the pills.”
“It’s your corpse, jackass, if you don’t stop singing that fucking song.” Arnold gives him a stare colder than eskimo ice cream then turns back to the window. Staring blankly at the dry, brown empty Texas plain.
The ride is quiet the rest of the roll to the smokes at the mini-mart. Still, it haunts him.
“You are my wife. Good bye, city life. Green Acres we are there.”
“Let’s go, Honeys!” Shouts He-Wonder Woman over her shoulder while shouldering open the door to leave the Super Mini-Mart and smacks right into an enormously fat black man with a big ‘fro. Now he’s got Strawberry Lime Slushy all down the front of his flat black T-shirt, missing his black shorts due to the overhang and drips on the ground by his black sneaks. He works up a scowl that could curdle milk.
“Oh, Megabarnacle! I didn’t see you there, darling” she gasps, manicured fingertips pressed against her lips.
Dr. Weevil pulls open the other door and rubs his bald head. “Oh, look what we have here. Banana Man, Wonder-Where’s-The-Weiner and Black Rhumba. Fancy running into The Stupid Friends here.” At the disturbance the other members of The Justice League of Justice crowd out onto the cracked pavement lit a slightly nauseous yellow by aging sodium lamps.
“Oh, no! Let me get some paper towels Megabarnacle!” Titters He-Wonder Woman.
A grumpy reply. “Oh no.” Shakes his head slowly. “It’s too late for that.”
A skinny teen with messy hair and a Where’s Waldo T-shirts dances from foot to foot with glee, pointing at the big man and giggling. “Ha ha! Grout thinks you look so stupid!”
An even skinnier teen with messy hair and braces is also pointing and laughing. “Ha ha! Curdles thinks you look dumb!” He rubs the “I’m With Stupid” T-shirt over his guts.
“We’re not the Stupid Friends, we’re The Justice League of Justice and we fight for … Justice.” Growls Banana Man.
“Oh, is it a fight you want? Looks like you’ve got yourself a Rumble with The Legion Of All The Dooms!” Megabarnacle jabs a thick figure at Banana Man. “You, Banana Head. Yo mama’s so fat she left home in high heels and by the time she got home they was flip-flops!
Banana Man looks confused. “Ah… And your mother wears combat boots.” The Legion Of All The Dooms bends over with laughter.
“Ha ha! LAME!”
Black Rhumba steps forward, starts circling The Legion. “Stand back, Leaguers. Better let me handle this.” He jabs his head towards Megabarnacle. “Oh yeah? Yo’ momma’s so heavy, when she stepped on a scale it yelled, ‘No livestock!”
“Oh, it’s on…” Dr. Weevil puts a pinkie to the corner of his smirking mouth.
Hands cocked over hips. Megabarnacle has been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. “Heh. Yo’ momma’s so stupid she sits on the T.V. and watches the couch!”
Black Rhumba is unfazed. “Yo’ momma’s so stupid it takes her 2 hours to watch 60 Minutes!” Marina Skank snorts and chews her auburn locks.
“Yo’ momma’s so old when God said, ‘Let there be light,’ she flipped the switch!”
Banana Man is getting angry. He’s crushing his Hostess Apple Pie in his fist. He’s suddenly aware of every piece of gnarled litter fouling the grimy parking lot.
“Yo’ momma’s so old she sat behind George Washington in third grade.” Retorts Black Rhumba, slick and smooth in his white T and purple leather jacket. Curdles and Grout are shaking with laughter.
“Let me tell you about your momma. She’s so poor she shops at The Penny Store!”
“Is that all you got?” Chuckles Black Rhumba. “Yo momma’s like Ramen Noodles, cheap and easy!”
GG Allin screams and pulls down his pants. “That’s it. IT’S FECES TIME!”
With that distictive “WHOOP! WHOOP!” a police cruiser humps itself into the parking lot, blinding the combatants in its headlights.
“It’s The Fuzz! Let’s beat it!” The Legion scurries off the lot. Marina Skank stops and shakes her skinny fist at The League members. “You ain’t seen the last of us!” And they’re gone.
Banana Man grimly takes a bite out of his crushed pie and hisses. “Justice….”
Thanks to B. Raciot for some great character names!
Rumble! Performed live by the Author on June 24, 2023:
I watched Starship Troopers the other night on Netflix. Haven’t read the book.
It is a silly movie, which is fine. Clearly aimed at teens. It seems that in the future you don’t graduate from high school until you’re 25. It is a bit hard to believe Earth can send hundreds of troopers to an alien planet, but not a single armored people carrier or artillery.
No matter how many times the aliens attack the same way, no one ever figures out they should set up their Mobile Infantry in such a way that the troopers behind the six people in the front can shoot at the critters. However, it does set them up for some gruesome death scenes.
From the Wikipedia entry:
“I wanted to do a big, silly, jingoistic, xenophobic, let’s-go-out-and-kill-the-enemy movie, and I had settled on the idea that it should be against insects … I wanted to make a war movie, but I also wanted to make a teenage romance movie.”
There’s an old Oregon joke that was going around when I arrived here from Pennsylvania (“Penn’s Woods”) in the early 90’s:
Three men are sitting around a campfire outside of Bend, Oregon. The Texan takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey, throws the bottle in the air and shoots it to pieces with his 6-shooter.
“Why did you do that?” the others ask. “Hell, I’m from Texas and we’ve got lots of Whiskey!”
After watching that, the Californian takes a swig out of a bottle of white wine, throws it in the air and blasts it apart with the Glock he got at Wal*Mart. “Hell, I’m from California and we’ve got lots of white wine!”
The man from Oregon takes a swig from a Black Butte Porter, throws it in the air, catches it and shoots the Californian. “What the hell?” asks the Texan.
“I’m from Oregon and we’ve got lots of Californians and this bottle is worth 5 cents.”
Reid Fleming crossed my path, I would guess in early 90’s Pittsburgh. Why is his nose so square? Who knows? I would suggest not asking him, a guy who crushes his alarm clock in his bare hands every morning.
Why am I writing about this? Well, like Banana Man, Reid Fleming makes no sense. He’s going to deliver your milk whether you like it or not.
Arnold’s in trouble again. Only two smokes left in the pack.
And he’s been coughing blood.
“Give it to me straight, doc. What’s happening?” he rasps.
Dr. Benway is perusing x-rays by holding them up to the window behind his desk. He swivels his chair around, sets the x-rays on the desk and clamps the pig with his gaze. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Gimmie the good news.”
“The good news is this won’t cost you a dime.” He stops and smiles, leaning back in his chair. “That is, if you agree to a few conditions…”
“Conditions! Say, like what?”
Dr. Benway chuckles. “First the bad news. You have lung cancer. Bad. See this?” He’s pointing to what is clearly a dark mass in the pig’s lungs in an x-ray. “Bad.” The pig is squinting at it. “What you need my friend, is a lung transplant.”
Arnold coughs out his cig with a bolt of surprise and fear, then scrambles and lights a fresh one from the pack. “Wa-what?”
“How much do you like breathing? And being alive?”
“Let’s say I’ve gotten used to it, and I have unfinished business to attend to.” With a rude noise he horks up a bloody mass of gunk, right on the floor. Arnold realizes he’s shaking. “Do I get to pick the donor? Don’t fucking need one of those feed-lot jobs. Fucking factory pork.”
“Ah, you see that’s the condition…”
“I just said no factory pork!”
“You didn’t let me finish. No factory pork. No pork products at all, actually.”
