Monday, February 28, 2011
Bowl up, baby. No links. Just story. Check out yesterday's TDC WEAW first, if you haven't.
The news reporter on the scene had big, yellow hair. She stood across the street from the police vehicles in front of the modest house located on the lower west side of Fuckno, Californiation. She smiled with big Chiclets teeth.
"Today, someone broke into the small, lovingly adorned home behind me and performed Depraved Vandalism."
Cut to weeping family.
"Our little home, once lovingly adorned, is now a cesspool of racial hatred. We pray for whoever did this. God have mercy on your soul, you misguided fool."
It was the little Hispanish Madre standing there, with her family around her, and she was holding her Rosary Beads in her hand. The ones that she carried everywhere.
Cut back to Big Yellow hair with Chiclets Teeth. "Indeed, the neighborhood community has joined up to provide shelter and meals for this little family. Such an unprecedented outpouring of warmth that the city of Fuckno has never seen before.
"The neighbors are getting ready to try to restore the once lovingly adorned home. But in the mean time, police are searching for clues that may have been left behind by the unwashed Heathen of Hatred, who cut up every electrical cord in the home into six inch segments, which when arranged a certain way, can spell out I HATE YOU.
"This is Trish Tocker for KFUK TV. Back to you in the studio."
I felt ill. My mom wondered out loud, "Who would do such a thing to that poor little family and their lovingly adorned home?" She slowly shook her head.
I got up and went outside to get some fresh air. Sean was gone back to his aunt's apartment for the next day of school, and I had another day at home to look forward to, alone with my thoughts.
The sun had set before the evening news came on, and the moon was a faint sliver in the dark blue night sky in the west.
This was an age without cell phones, or any sort of instant, constant electronic connectivity to others. The internet was a twinkle in the eye of the ARPANET, and when you were alone, you were truly alone.
I considered giving Joey a call, or Katheena, or maybe taking my ten speed down to Bryan's. Instead, I simply walked down the cement paths that led to a side gate fo the complex of duplexes, and then I crossed the small side street to the water reservoir behind the chain link fence.
The events of the day kept going over and over in my head. I looked toward the moments of feeling like I was part of a team of do-gooders. We four had gotten our revenge on Gilbert all right.
But, maybe we should have focused on his piece of shit car. Not his home.
It was later in the night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep at all, with images of big yellow hair and Chiclets teeth sneering at me, and a small family pointing sadly at their once lovingly adorned home.
Inside, someone had sealed up all the electrical receptacles with silicone caulk, spray painted foul language in black paint everywhere, and taken a dump in their toilet, after plugging it up with a solid block of instant oatmeal in the back tank.
All the cords had been cut and strewn about on the front lawn. The house was filled with the pungent odor of a hundred smoke bombs.
And there was a pentagram on the living room carpet, formed from black, melted wax.
Who had done this, indeed?
And there it was. One thing that stuck out.
Bryan was helping Joey light all those smoke bombs, but he had to take his glove off to do it. His huge, meaty hands could not work the wheel on the lighter.
And now his rubber glove had finger prints on both the inside and the outside.
He left it in the upstairs room, on the floor.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.