Harry Guakomoli was having a bitch of a time figuring out his newfangled phone. Our hero had been given the gadget by Dr. Lawrence Triangle, a man he had found annoying the moment he met him. The Guak wanted nothing to do with the nuisance, but he was in a bit of a bind; his telephone did not survive the explosion at Neuneuschwanstein. Neither did our hero for that matter, but the phone did not have the benefit of a weirdo with access to arcane whatever to bring it back from the dead.
But this phone was like nothing he had ever experienced prior. Our hero always used s cheap pre-paid phone, a "burner" in contemporary street parlance. His new communication device was not a burner, but a super phone, smart phone, whatever those egghead dinks called it. The most he was able to do was figure out his contact list of phone numbers. The list only had one name: Dr. Lawrence Triangle. And it bothered The Guak to no end that the doctor even typed in the "Dr." part of his name. Of all the people with titles in the world, doctors certainly topped the list of those that made sure everyone knew they were worthy of such titles. That really burned our hero's britches.
The Guak was trying his damndest to figure the fucker out while riding in the back of a cab. Oslo was kind enough to give our hero a hundred dollars to pay for a taxi, though really it was the least The World's Smartest Cat could do after he killed his crime-fighting partner and took his home and the object of his lust. Our hero was struggling to figure out his own phone number. The Guak kindly asked for his driver's cell number so our hero could call him and get his number that way, but the cabbie couldn't understand what his passenger was saying. The Guak was unsure if the hack was legitimately confused or just pulling his leg, as those foreign-born drivers were likely to do. It was then that our hero realized he was thinking like Travis and decided to give the gentleman the benefit of the doubt.
Meanwhile Gunther was starting his day. The day's first sunbeams had began to break through the night's wall of darkness. And the groundskeeper knew he was going to be busy. He always was on Sundays. He sat down to eat an enormous bowl of Rice Krispies. After pouring on the milk he sat in silence and listened. Listened to the snapping and the crackling and the popping of the cereal. God he loved that magical sound. Then Gunther dumped three tablespoons of sugar in the bowl and stirred in the sweetener. Gunther dug in, quickly and noisily scarfing down that particular breakfast staple from those nice folks from Kellogg's.
The groundskeeper chewed with his mouth open, causing milk to drip down his corpulent face. He made short work of the solid portion of his breakfast before taking the bowl into his chubby hands. Gunther brought the receptacle to his maw and began slurping down the sugary milk which flowed from the corners of his mouth.
Gunther had just started his daily ritual of drinking the saccharine lactose when a loud knock came from the front door of the hovel he called home. He ignored the knock; an hour remained before his shift started, and he was not to be disturbed. A thunderous methodical series of knocks followed.
"I'M FUCKIN' EATIN'!" Gunther screeched after he lowered the bowl from his mouth. "COME BACK LATER!"
Satisfied that he made himself clear and would no longer be interrupted, the groundskeeper returned to his sucking down of the milk. Then the pounding started. Pounding which could only mean his uninvited visitor was trying to break the door down. That startled poor Gunther, and he jumped out of the chair, dumping the bowl's contents all over his face, stained white shirt, and white briefs. As I am sure you can predict, dear reader, this enraged Gunther.
"YOU ARE GONNA GIT SUCH A TALKIN' TO!"
Gunther stomped over to the door and quickly unlocked the three dead bolts that protected him from home invaders and the restless dead. Standing before him was a large man with shortly cropped brown hair, brown sweatshirt, jeans, and a stylish pair of Velcro sneakers. One hand was smashing the door while the other gripped something black and sleek. Gunther reminded himself not to show his envy toward the stranger's footwear.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" the groundskeeper barked.
"Do you have a shovel?" The Guak nonchalantly asked.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" Gunther asked again.
"To borrow a shovel obviously," our hero coolly answered.
"WHY FOR?!" Gunther demanded to know.
"To dig up my own grave."
No comments:
Post a Comment