05 July 2012

Squatpiler Got Lost (Summer of 1988 in 1,000 Words)

Hairy Ruddard, sanitation engineer...there he goes, throwing bag after bag of refuse into his mighty truck. Titty-Boy follows along, or drives the truck, or finds himself hanging from the back of it as it lurches through alleyway and lane. “She-it,” cries Ruddard, pressing the accelerator to the floor and narrowly avoiding old Miss Quonsethut's Siamese cat. “She-it,” cries Titty-Boy, his fingers white and straining to hold on to the truck.

Over and around the suburban routes they fly, extracting garbage from can after can...can after can. Up and down the hallowed lanes the waste-mobile speeds, with Hairy Ruddard grinning his wet, toothy grin – the little lines of tartar and unswallowed food clinging to the gumline, where the teeth disappear into his swollen tissue. His own fingers and knuckles white upon the steering wheel, his hair damp with sweat and thick with grime, red-maned idiot crap-wagon driver speeding like a hell-for-to-pay of crazed-prison wild-ass driver. Press that accelerator, Ruddard.

The mighty duo pulls up at a rickety old garage, dusty and smudgy as the pair themselves. Dusty, smudgy, rickety garage with a pile of bags behind it. Out of the cab of the waste-mobile hops the red-maned idiot man, diving into the bags with glee. Over and over and over his heads the garbge bags arc, high into the air, settling with a comfortable, dusty 'whompf' into the collection bin of the truck. Titty-Boy blows his nose on his sleeve, examining the flecks of dust and black dirt that come out in the mucous. “Git hoppin', shitter!” cries Ruddard at Titty-Boy, narrowing his brow and flinging faster, “lotsa' shit ta' sling!”

In a breath, in a heartbeat, in a moment. The truck is loaded and Ruddard throws himself into the cab, guns that mighty diesel and pulls away. Titty-Boy holds on for dear life.

Squeals to a stop, does the waste-mobile...squeals to a stop outside the rear entrance of the public library, thick with concrete lions, but only the backsides of concrete lions, you must understand. Titty-Boy first removes the specially-formulated blend of concrete polish from his overalls, and then the hand-crafted goose-down dust-rag. He gives a quick polish to the backsides of the concrete lions, and then squeals with glee. Ruddard has already begun slinging garbage bags, his white, white fingers straining to poke through the black multi-ply plastic bags. The plastic groans and creaks beneath his bony digits.

Up and over and in and 'whompf'. Bag after bag after moist and dripping bag holding waste from the aquatic exhibit and the naval exhibit and the marine biology exhibit and the prancing dooh-dah exhibit. 'Whompf,' goes each and every bag, 'whompf'. 'Pankle-cled' goes one lone bag as Titty-Boy drops it and books pour out. Big books. Dry books. Little books. Moist books.

'Pankle-cled' goes the bag as it hits the side of the waste-mobile. 'Pankle-cled' as it falls to the ground. 'Pankle-cled' as the books tumble out. Titty-boy wonders and grabs at a book. Feels it. Sniffs it. Tastes it. Runs his tongue over the cover. “Dumb shitter Titty-Boy” thunders Hairy Ruddard, slinging bags. Laughs. Laughs with his gut poking through his t-shirt, curly hair and a piece of cheese gracing that navel deep enough to swallow a roll of quarters. A crumble of blue cheese, most likely, or a white cheese that has spent too much time with a roll of quarters. “Dummy! Drop yer tongue! Drop dat ting!”

Titty-Boy holds his treasure high to see if sunlight will filter through. A dusty blue cover blocks out the light, and Titty-Boy blows the dust out of his lungs, making the chocka-poo sign with his blistered lips. “But there are words in here!” The chocka-poo sign is raised on high and Ruddard drops a bag and howls. Words might hurt, and words might burn.

Ruddard holds a hairy, sweaty forearm against Titty-Boy's cheek, pinning him to the waste-mobile, and leaving a salty smear against such fair flesh. 'Whompf' is the sound of Ruddard's fist on Titty-Boy's ear. “No-no is de book. Got it?” Unswallowed food breaks free from the gumline and the toothline and goes airborne and spatters on the Titty-Boy face. 'Whompf' goes the fist again. 'Whompf' is Titty-Boy on the ground. Faster and faster Ruddard slings the bags, clearing the alleyway and giving a smirk and a snort and a finger and a flick to the backsides of the concrete lions. “Giddup!” shouts hairy Ruddard to the Titty-Boy as he hops back in the cab.

Titty-Boy gingerly shakes an overly whompf-ed head, listening for the little pieces of pottery to spill out of his ear and onto the pavement. 'Tinkle, tinkle' go the pieces of pottery. “Giddup! Hurry!” shouts Ruddard, gunning the diesel engine and scratching his crotch. Cheesey aroma floats through the cab. Ruddard inhales deeply and grins.

White knuckles grab the steering wheel and a meaty foot-filled boot presses hard on the accelerator. Hairy Ruddard laughs a throaty laugh, coughs up recently-swallowed food broken loose from gumline and toothline, coughs it up and spits it out the window at the trees and cats and passing hookahs. “Summa de wholla it!” shouts hairy Ruddard, looking for Titty-Boy in the side mirror. Arched back of Titty-Boy and his white knuckles on the side of the waste-mobile. Holding on for dear life. A meaty foot-filled boot presses hard on the accelerator.

A dusty blue cover opens and then closes and gets slipped into the back pocket by Titty-Boy's one free bony white-knuckled hand. He leans to the side and smiles back at Ruddard, making a mental, invisible chocka-poo sign with his ghost-hand. Over and around, through and through the suburban routes they fly, extracting garbage from can after can...can after can.

There they go.

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