So I’m driving home from a hang-out with Party--a non-specific rendezvous on this rural route, (tho let it be said that fun was had, cigs were smoked, windows were smashed ((another story entirely)), plans were hatched like Cadbury bunnies, aimless gps-guided bleez cruises were in full-effect, and the picture‘s been painted) which has since come to a late-night end and groggy goodbyes and send-me-this-file-and-that’s and “peace dude”s--and it’s mad dark. And as I make the claustrophobic b-line thru the cattle-shoot of a main street, all’s quiet. It’s past curfew, it’s a week-night, and the elderly have been asleep for hours. I’m flying solo down this landing strip, a tad heavy on the gas, and up ahead I see the only signs of life: a group of about fifteen fifteen year olds. BMX bikes like it’s the 80s. What? Just hangin out on the street. So I move over a little as not to hit them…
5 seconds ago:
“Hey Josh, check out my new cat, Mister Fluffernuts.”
“Yeah, he’s real swell, Kylie. Let me touch your pussy,” and Josh tries to grab the cat.
Suddenly, there I am. Full-bore down main street in the borrowed Nissan, nowhere to veer from the spooked Mister Fluffernuts as he jumps out of Josh’s grabby hands, lands in front of the silver Nissan moving west at about 40 nauts, as we say on the sea.
Imagine a catastrophic explosion of cat. Pun. Imagine Mister Fluffernutter’s tire-pressurized, insides-out explosion. Hair and blood splatters and spatters on Josh and Kylie’s faces, thirteen other teens drop jaws in shock. I, of course, hit the brake hard. Then realize I’m not going to buy a dead cat. Or a new cat for a teenage girl with a post-traumatic stress syndrome who’s going to grow up to be a stripper now. So, I floor it.
And yes, I feel guilty. So I’m confessing. It was me who killed Mister Fluffernuts. My conscience forced me to confess, because I got only another 100 yards up the road from the scene of the massacre when I was forced to stop at a railroad crossing. From there I watched, in horror, the scene unfolding in my rearview mirror: teenagers running to a cat-pizza in the road, probably wailing and frantic-freaking; poor Mister Fluffernuts was so full of life just moments ago, purring then bounding. It was then that I noticed the truck in front of me: a Ford F-250. From the trailer-hitch nut-sack, my eyes rove the truck; the required NRA sticker, the Git-R-Done window vinyl, a Harley-Davidson logo and a Jesus fish. And I start to wonder. If Jesus, on the way back from an NRA convention, hit a cat with his Harley, what would Jesus do to Git-R-Done?? After a ponderous train-crossing, I decide that the entire hypothetical was bullshitic whimsy anyway. Because Jesus would’ve resurrected the cat. No harm, no foul.
I don’t do resurrections, so I called Party, “Dude, you’ll never believe what just happened.”
Gotta run. PETA’s been calling incessantly.
~Hype
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