|The Story||The Authors|
Gurn, the big Swedish-looking fellow in the knit cap and the lumberjack jacket, rubbed his hands together and grinned malevolently at his posse. "Oboyoboyo, boys — I been looken forward to this for a laawng time. Remember when we chopped down those trees where the Spotted Owl sissies were haven their little Hillary Clinton hippie lesbian communist sit-in? I wasn't looken half as forward tot hat as I was to these pieces a un-American trash..."
He turned to the five. "So whatta we got here? Two retarded children, a fucken cartoon kittycat, a boar dressed like Quentin Crisp, and this—" he gestured bruskly at Anita "This tramp. This troll who wants to de-sex the world. Wants to wake the Boss from his beauty sleep. Probably has plans to outlaw beef, whiskey, football, tobacco and hunting after that..." He turned back to his band of not-so-merry men. "So whatta you think about that, gents?"
"Uh, I'm thinkin', maybe, uh, Salem, circa 1692, chief, huh?" replied
one of Gurn's goons. "When the presence of the, unh, diabolical,
uh, precludes the, um, uh, workings of the greater community, uh,
duh, the, uh, Malleus Maleficarum is brought out in a, er,
timely fashion and uh, dum de dum, witches are dealt with accordingly,
uh-huh, as heretics." |
"Good boy!" snapped a new voice. "I see you've been memorizing your catechism with that thick cinderblock you were given in place of a brain. Catch!" and a dog-biscuit (in the shape of a fish, no less) flew through the air, and was snapped up between the pearly whites of the aforementioned flunky, just as (none other than) Cardinal Richelieu stepped from the shadows...
Sharply shoving Gurn out of the way, he stood before Anita and company, fingering a barbaric-looking iron rosary with his chubby, sausagelike fingers, lips pursed in a cold hmmm, eyes brightly glacial as stars in the cloudless moonless sky of a sub-zero night...
"Well, well, well," he said. "You weren't much more effort to catch than your pathetic excuse for a 'boyfriend' (oh, the devils we pulled from the throats of the users of such obviously Satanic terminology in my day, I tell you...) Roger Weaver was only this morning, now, were you, my dear? Whoever sent word that you were a threat was, well... even more foolish than you. AT least you have that going for you, my pretties." And he laughed then at that point and it made them all very uncomfortable, that laugh did, being as it was like a black widow waltzing lazily down her web toward a trapped fly — five trapped flies, to be exact — and only Boar, who was farthest away from the Cardinal, was able to look away from the Grand Inquisitor, and mumble, if only to to his shoes, "Ah cainnot tahlahrate so perfidious a co-lection a Yankees stinken up mah cave, ah simpleh cainnot. Mah pappy neveh raised a fool, nor a coward, nor a tolaratoah of Yankees..."
But the slightest verbal transgression, yea and verily even one upon
the part of a lowly gnat, would not fail to reach the ears of Cardinal
Richelieu. "What was that, you porcine buffoon?" he hissed, stepping
forward and up against Boar (with the combined fervor of a U.S. Marine
Corps bootcamp sergeant and a stilletto slipped secretly between
two unsuspecting ribs into a less-suspecting heart or lung) — "Would
you repeat that for all the present company —" |
"Ah sayed," replied Boar, chest forward, sout fellow!, "Ah sayed ah wasn't expecting the Spayanish Inquisition..."
|you smell like poop|
There was a gasp of fear even among the hardened lowlife that comprised
Gurn's crew of nefarious ne'erdowells. Riechleu sneered the full
width of his narrow face and pinched the curl of his teensy french
"One seldom does." He leaned closer to Old Boar's ear and hissed. "No, my swinish friend, there'll be no "soft pillows or "comfy chairs for you at my little party. Take these heretics away and put them through their tasks.Except this one" indicating Anita,"I want to oversee her confession myself."