by Koop and Ullrich

The incongruity manifest. There was nothing else to do…

“Vera, Veeeera,” growled a guttered voice.

His shirt was tight over his head – arms dangling loosely, pale at his sides. He grasped a blue, fluffy dustbuster and scoured the walls daintily – all while ambling, grumbling like an upset ape. Blonde straight hair thinly peered out, smearing his forehead down into bright blue eyes, covering an otherwise intense, blank stare.

Around the corner came a sing-song voice, “You’re naked, Derk.”

***

Billy dropped the football and jogged to Seth’s side, he was terrified, but ready.

Twelve boys lined up in the back of the brown chewed field near the chainlink fence – exhaust wafted through — hazy grey. Six on one side, six on the other with an invisible line down the middle.

A fist struck Billy’s quavering jaw. The blow knocked him back to hands and feet; his eyes watered to the sky. Dirt clouds encircled the escalating scuffle. Jarring silence pervaded save sounds of skin slapping shaking flesh.

A whistle sounded in the distance; the pile disentangled as quickly as it had formed. Mudcaked uniforms flapped torn in the warm wind. Children scrambled toward the schoolyard blacktop pavement.

Lines formed by grade; chatter ebbed, flowed – pulsing, anxious. Voices calmed quickly; cascading shower sound came closer. The clamor closed in like a wave: rain sweeping in slowly on the back of the breeze.

Lastly rolled in Freddie – chased by the storm. His jog lumbered along at a crawl; his limbs flapped wildly and his hair danced around to the rhythm of his mismatched steps.

All eyes panned to his worried face.

“It’s coming!” he bellowed.

And it did.

***

Years have passed; attempts at ignorance proved futile. The cycle is strong…

No escape. Only defense is observation. Time means nothing; we’re all stuck – afraid to die.

There must be something that cuts clean through: a crossroad.

We’d be off – free from ego.

That’s it: loss of identity.

But how?

***

Hello proctor, today the pencil stuck in my Fupa. I pulled it out – somebody came along. Told me I was promised to pardon, 70 years, three months ago. I’m goin’ for gov’. You tell him your bringin’ in William Antrem, Henry McCarty, aka Chesty McBreast, alias BOBATRUSCENT. IT WAS WHAT SOME CALLED THE END OF THE LINCOLN COUNTY WAR. MOST OF THE BOYS THAT WERE RIDIN’ LLAMAS WITH ME, WERE EITHER dead, gone or hidin’. But I never let’em take me out. I was a Hussy Puss… Hussy Puss the Kid. Killer of 21 were-llamas. I abandoned my barnyarded, lycanthropic ways and went into the business of marrying Patrick Floyd Garrett – common interest in the whoring of cattle and horses. He was hired to kill me, but we fucked like rabid badgers out on the prairie. Our marriage was ahead and he dropped it. We lived happily years until he cheated on me “fumble” and I hushed up a butterfly. He was my flower.