Fancy Red

“Cackle hardy, and the whole world cackles back at the pimples on your leg, Sugar-dumpling,” said the wheezing elderly matron to the sugar-dumpling in front of her. The sugar dumpling had a pale face...complected much like a repeatedly spanked buttock, pale but flushing cherry red and having two watery pustules for eyes.

And Sugar-dumpling wore a crew cut.

Sugar-dumpling's black hairs looked almost like graphite shavings against his pimply white skin, and the wheezing elderly matron reached out to caress that buttock-like skin on his cheek. “There, there, Sugar-dumpling, Gramma's chilluns don't gotta' worry for the takin'...I set you up and you just don't worry.” The wheezing elderly matron prepped the inside of the sugar-dumpling's right arm, slapping it red, until it resembled his cheek which resembled a buttock that had been repeatedly spanked. She slipped the fine needle under his skin and into a delicate vein. She released the tourniquet and sugar-dumpling released a sigh as he felt the chemicals trace a cool path through his arm and along their merry way to his heart and his brain and his bowels and his chameleon-flavored skin.

“Pisser never 'magined I could juggle, Gramma',” said Sugar-dumpling over watery lips that glistened in the light of a bare 75-watt bulb. “Pisser wanted alla' balls. Pisser got de' balls. I ramm' 'em in his 'froat, Pisser.”

“There, there, Sugar-dumpling, don't you fret. Gramma got you all set up right nice. You gonna' just take your medicine and smile nice for the camera, hidey-ho?”

“Hidey-ho, gramma,” replied Sugar-dumpling, a broad smile coming to his face. “Hidey-ho.”

The wheezing elderly matron turned the dial on the climax-o-meter until it read “be concerned” and its read-out needles did fancy-pants dances and lights flickered on and off like a meth addict's libido. Sugar-dumpling made a kissing sound and soiled his trousers. A trickle of urine made its way down the leg of the elf-kindled wooden chair and pooled on the hard-hearted linoleum.

“Hidey-ho, Gramma,” said Sugar-dumpling as the wheezing elderly matron cocked the hammer on the revolver and pressed it tight up under his jaw. Sugar-dumpling swore he could feel the cold barrel almost pressing through his skin and against the bottom of his tongue.

“Hidey-ho, Sugar-dumpling.”

And Sugar-dumpling wore a crew cut.