29 June 2011

Colostomy Bags for Fun and Profit

"I never did take sittin' on the couch as a viable means of gettin' proactive about somethin'," offered Sheriff Cecil Morgan, to no one in particular.  "And I don't rightly think sittin' on yo' ass is gonna' get you outta' the heap of trouble you in right now," he said to to someone very much in particular - a pimply, snot-nosed and heavily pierced young man who was sitting in the gravel roadway next to Morgan's Crown Vic.

The Sheriff walked in a semi-circle around the kid, snorting a little chuckle now and again.  The kid just flipped his hair out of his eyes and tried to stare down the out-of-shape law enforcement agent with halitosis and pock-marked skin.  Morgan turned and kicked a little bit of gravel at the kid.  "What you lookin' at, a**hole?" he shouted, "you want a piece of this?  Huh?  You want me to bust your ass in thirty different ways from Tuesday, you little somebitch?"

Sheriff Cecil Morgan was having a bad day.  Luckily for the kid, Sheriff Cecil Morgan was having one of his episodes, as well.  He tried to shout that last word again, but it came out funny.  "Somdebipts. Subblyblips," he said, blinking rapidly and unholstering his service 9mm semi-auto.  "Subblyblips mid de soorjonja," he babbled, and the pimply, snot-nosed kid flinched as Sheriff Cecil Morgan unloaded six fast rounds into the rear quarter panel of his Crown Vic.

"Sonja de soorjonja! Subblyblips! Fudger...minna pluckin soorjonja mid de subblyblips!"   Crack, crack, crack...three more rounds sounded, this time discharged just past the kid's kneecap, through the rear tire of the Crown Vic and into the gravel roadway. "Soorjonja subblyblips!" cried Sheriff Cecil Morgan through foamy lips, laughing and urinating with great vigor.  A dark patch spread across the crotch of his camel-colored trousers,  while the kid rolled to the side and covered his head.

Sheriff Morgan hit the ground with a hearty thud, dropping his pistol and losing his hat in the descent.  He flapped his arms around, making something like a snow angel in the loose gravel and scaring the fecal matter out of the pimply, snot-nosed kid.  Quite literally.

The trip back to Haverland seemed longer than usual as that snot-nosed kid ran down the dry gravel roadway.  Pea fields stretched out in the heat for miles on one side of the road  and corn well over the kid's head on the other.  A good honest sweat worked out of his forehead, out of his armpits and out of his groin, making his boxer shorts damp and uncomfortable as he ran.

A frothy-mouthed sheriff with halitosis, pock-marked skin and urine-soaked trousers flopped around in the gravel like a fish taken out of the pond down by Old Man Switchback's on a hot summer day.  Flopping around til' you know it wasn't going to flop any more.  Only this fish stopped flopping and just laid there and laughed a single word up at the clear blue sky.


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