Tickled Blue
This is, quite possibly, continued from a few weeks ago. Well, at least we got around to it.
I was, as you may have guessed, sitting out on my favorite bench along the main strip, the main drag. I was just sitting out, watching life go by in the form of a few old-ish looking Cadillacs, a whole lot of SUVs, and a couple of Harleys. Including Harleys that may have just been a hobby horse with the word "HARLEY" written on the side in black marker, ridden by a frightfully short guy.
Sorry, I don't usually use the word 'frightfully.' It's just that lately, in my head, I've gone rather Elizabethan. I don't know why.
So life belches exhaust like you wouldn't believe. And life, that night, wore a scowl bigger than it was tall. The little guy riding the hobby horse was, as I said, short and bad. I saw him coming down the street after a particularly delightful lull in the traffic, during which I'd leaned back, tilting my head towards the heavens, my neck towards any vampyres that might be lurking. Seeing as how I was a marginally... well, what some people might call "fat," balding man with a wattle with which a turkey might identify, I didn't expect to be ravaged by a nubile young vampyress, I just didn't have the most attractive neck. With my luck, I'd get the oldest, skeasiest sort of vampyre, with bad breath and brittle teeth. I also lived in a time without vampyres, of course, so the chances of either scenario: nubile vampyress or old geezer vampyre; seemed remote to nil to happening on this particular night. It was just something I always imagined when I put my head back like that, vertebrae cracking in complaint either into or out of place. In this case, I believe they went back into place.
As I was bringing my head down, gingerly, I saw him. All five foot five of him, riding into town, down the main street, on a hobby horse. And he looked my way, as you would if a large man, as I am, lowered his gaze at you. And you were riding a green polka dotted hobby horse. Our eyes met, briefly, and I could feel the smoldering going on inside him... smoldering out at the world, at me, the guy on the bench, smugly sitting there like I didn't need the extra height or something. "Oh, he wanted a piece of me," is what his eyes were saying in that brief second. I looked at the giant temperature display at the bank across the street and behind where this little guy was busy riding/hopping. In the CIA, their operatives are expected to sit down in a busy restaurant and pick up every single last detail of what's going on and going down in an instant. I prided myself on having some of the same abilities, especially after watching Spy Game, with Brad Pitt and Clint Eastwood. Err, Robert Redford. Forgive me.
I kept my eye, my peripheral vision, trained on the bad little guy riding into town while I also memorized the current temperature: 68°F.
And when it flashed to the time (9:07PM) I launched myself from the bench, into the street, just behind where the little man had ridden, and came up in a karate-like stance, flinging fake throwing stars, which I wasn't allowed to carry any longer, after I'd injured a girlfriend a few years back in a horrible case of mistaken identity (also just around the time Spy Game first came out), and my friends convinced me to forgo the dangerous weapons, which always seemed to carry that extra air of menace when wielded by myself.
And he was hit. Dead on.
Ehm, by a bus. Which is what you get for riding a hobby horse down the main street of a town. I, on the other hand, kept rolling (I never actually made it up into a karate-like stance, I just kept on rolling, baby), rolling all the way home.
Summary
disclaimer:
This week we bring you a story you may have thought was dead and buried. Well, it wasn't. Or, if it was, we exhumed it and dragged it kicking and screaming right back to you. So there.
Peace out, kids.
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