(an incredibly horrible, sick and mildly perverted story that extensive editing and polishing could never hope to save)
Opening his eyes, Keith groaned. Having been dragged back to consciousness by the sound of tiny bubbles popping, he now found the side of his face resting in a puddle of his own drool atop the plastic-wrapped monster couch he vaguely remembered crashing on the night prior. His mouth tasted downright toxic; a lethal cocktail of booze, vomit and cigarettes. He lifted up his head to find a scary tattooed guy on one side of him and a girl in a Catholic school outfit on the other, her skirt up, her Hello Kitty panties exposed. He straightened out his oversize flannel shirt and ran his fingers through his wild, overgrown hair, sighing hoarsely and slowly trying to crawl onto the floor.
Instead, he fell, and he fell face first and hard, though the impact was softened by the shag carpet he had fallen upon. He looked around, hardly able to believe what his eyes beheld. All across the living room were bodies; save for the absence of blood and decapitation, it looked like a field in the wake of a long, enduring battle. Clearly, this was the side that had lost.
Making it to his feet, though finding himself terribly off balance, he stepped over the mass of people and wandered about the house. In the kitchen, amidst a sea of empty bottles of booze and a few dozen half-eaten bags of chips he found, in the corner of the counter beneath a cabinet, a coffee machine, which was certainly a sight for his sore eyes, not to mention an easing one for his spinning, spinning head. Even better, within it was a pot of coffee, and upon smelling it, he found it fresh. He opened the cabinet above and found a black mug with a huge, yellow smiley face on the front. He sniffed it, and though it smelled fine he washed it out in the sink anyway before pouring himself a mug full of java.
He then stepped out the door at the back of the kitchen, which led to the back porch; there he found a guy and two women, all enjoying their hangover morning with coffee and smokes. Keith groggily nodded to them and mumbled good morning as he wobbled down the steps between them, stepped into the back yard and made his way to his car, his piece of shit Celebrity, atop which a heavy tree rested. He vaguely recalled this having to do with events that had transpired the day before.
Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his keys and unlocked the back door, placing his mug of coffee atop the car and rummaged around in the back. Soon, he found a suitable book, which turned out to be Charles Bukowski's Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook, after which he slammed his car door, grabbed his mug of coffee and, preferring not to squeeze through the three sitting on the back porch again, made his way to the side of the house.
He walked wearily through a labyrinth of cars, finally loosing his balance, falling sideways and slamming his shoulder into a car window. Though he didn't hit the ground, as soon as his shoulder slammed into the glass a head popped up. She had blond hair with pink streaks and squinted her eyes to look at him. Beside her in the back seat he saw another girl, naked, passed out, her legs spread. His eyebrows darted up his forehead, but he then quickly held up his hand, smiled feebly and mouthed, "Sorry," before he started to wobble away as fast as he could in his still-considerably-intoxicated state. Behind him, however, he heard the window rolling down.
"Hey," a girl's voice said. Then, louder, "Hey!"
He spun around and looked at her. She ran her fingers through her long hair, her head now out the window, staring at him through her round reflective sunglasses. "Yes, alluring, muff-munching stranger?" He said to her.
She cocked her head. "Huh?"
"Nothing," he said. "Good morning. How can I help you?"
"I need a smoke."
He shrugged. "Sorry. Only got a few left."
"I'll suck your cock for a cigarette."
"Well," he said, nodding, digging into his pocket and then holding out the pack for her, "someone's got an oral fixation. What can I get for a carton?"
She pulled one out of the box and put the butt of it in her mouth, leaning the tip of it towards him. "Okay, we can fuck," she said as he lit her cigarette for her, and then, as she took a drag and breathed it out, pointing the cherry at him as she held the cigarette between two fingers, "but don't poke me in the brown eye."
"No issue there," he said quickly. "I mean, to each their own, but my crotch-thrusting pus projector -- "
"Your what?"
"My blue-veined goo-gun..."
"Huh?"
"My custard-chucking cobra, my cyclopic sperm-spitter, my -- "
"You mean your dick?"
"Yeah," he said, "my dick, it doesn't bob in the trough in the midst of the twin rear flesh tsunamis. It doesn't cruise down the two-humped sub-spine fissure. It doesn't dock in the posterior port. It considers the whole thing going the wrong way down a one-way street. Going in the exit, you know? On the off ramp. Just not my thing."
"Well, okay," she said sweetly. "There's always my pussy."
"There's always that," he said, nodding. "But could I take a rain check on that, perhaps? I've got to go download some funky fudge bunnies like you wouldn't believe."
"What?"
"You know, I need to toss out a brown trout, toot out a tootsie roll, hurl a Ho-Ho, chuck out a nut-wart-ridden rectal log, blast out a butt-brownie, evacuate some bowl eels, squeeze a steamer, birth a butt-scud. Cast a curled, corn-infested rump-slug into the ever-hungry hole in the mighty porcelain sea."
"Got it," she said, holding up her hand. "Rain check. Run before you have an accident, euphemism boy."
He turned his head sideways and looked at her. "You know what a euphemism is?"
She extended her middle finger at him. "Go take a shit, asshole."
And so he moved on, finally coming to the stone pathway that led to the wrap-around porch in the front.
"Who do I spy over yonder? Could it be the misled prophet? The man who's car the great god smote yesterday evening?"
Keith looked up. On the porch swing sat that damned asshole he had gotten into a heated theological debate with the previous evening, while he had been shitfaced. The Priest, he had been calling him. The guy leaned back on the swing, long hair strewn all about, one hand with it's four fingers stuck in the front of his sweat pants, apparently combing through his pubic hair. As Keith approached the porch, he just shook his head.
"Got it all wrong, Priest. It wasn't your silly imaginary friend. It was the tree itself that smote me, sacrificing itself to do so like a faithful fucking suicide bomber."
"Do something to piss it off?" A voice asked. Keith turned around just in time to see a familiar face walk around him and up the steps, sitting on the swing beside the preacher. It was the girl who offered to suck his dick for a smoke.
"You left your girlfriend alone in the car?"
She shrugged. "Not my girlfriend. So the tree, you piss it off?"
"It's possible. I mean, I'm not tree hugger, for one thing," he said. "And it was probably just pissed at me for sacrificing all of it's brothers to the pages of my unsuccessful fiction."
"Ah, but are you aware that the tree which has fallen atop your car fell from the property of the man who lives next door, who just happens to be a real preacher, unlike me, a novice priest?"
"Do you ever give it a rest, Bible-boy?"
"No rest for the enlightened," he said.
Keith shook his head from side to side. "That's 'No rest for the wicked,'" he said, "and I slept just fine, thank you. And who are you, Al Fundy? Don't want to get your hand too close to your dick, now, do you? You might touch it wrong and end up drowning in the lake of fire."
"Oh, I'll be in heaven, my man. You'll be in hell."
"Good for you. And good for me. I was never much one for heights, anyway. And it just so happens that I prefer warm, dry climates."
"Do you take anything seriously?"
"I take everything seriously," he said. "I merely elect to offer my words dressed in the sly garb of sarcasm. My working theory is that if I express myself more bitingly things I say will have a greater tendency of sinking in."
"What," he asked, "you trying to get through to me or something?"
"Perhaps. I kind of like the challenge of trying to pierce through your armor of ignorance."
"Come on," he said. "I'm open-minded. That's why you invest time in arguing with me, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's true," he said, lighting the cigarette, "those with open minds are often my targets. Those with cautiously open and critical intellects as well as those whose gaping skulls stretch wider than the circumference of Paris Hilton's pussy. Those whose minds yawn so dangerously wide that if they ever made the grave mistake of bending over too far their precious gray matter would give into gravity and hit the floor like a basketball-sized blob of raw hamburger."
He shook his head. "The hate that fills you," he said, "it may be the greatest sin of all."
"No," he said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth, sizzoring it between his index and middle finger and then pointing it at the man, "I wouldn't imagine that to be the case, and here's why: hate is passion. It implies profound disappointment, which further implies it's prerequisite, which is caring. Hate is not the act of not caring, but rather the wedding of care and a deep, gut-retching, heart-aching sense of disappointment or betrayal. Hate and caring aren't antithetical. Now, if there was sin, and I'm not dumb enough to think there is, but if there was such a thing as sin, and so a chance for their to be a greatest sin of all, I would put my money on that sin being indifference, not hate. And as I'm sure you'll agree, I am anything but indifferent."
"Finally, my brother, a nugget of wisdom amidst your infinite sea of shit."
"'Peanut of wisdom' would have produced more fitting imagery, but alas," he said. "And speaking of shit, might either of you know where I can find the indoor outhouse in this commune of drunkards?"
"Upstairs, third door on the left," said miss sucky-sucky for a cig.
"Much appreciated madam," he said, and nodding to the priest, "Al."
He stepped inside and ascended the stairs, finally seeing a door on which it was written, in thick black magic marker, Bathroom. He knocked lightly, and when there was no answer he opened the door.
"Hey, buddy."
Without turning around to face the speaker, Keith lifted up his hands and threw them to his sides. "Fuck, can't a guy just pinch a morning loaf around here? My cheeks are clenched tighter than the doors of fucking NORAD, damn it, I just want to take a shit." And then he turned around and said, perhaps a bit too quickly and loudly, "What the fuck is this?"
The guy just looked at him. Keith held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect, it's just that I've never seen, you know..."
"A black man?"
"No, I've seen plenty of black men."
"A midget?"
"No," he said, "I've seen plenty of midgets. I mean, on television, never in person."
"So?"
"So what?"
The black midget just stared.
"Okay, look, it's simply that my eyes have never rested upon a real live black midget, that's all. I mean, I didn't even think they had black midgets."
"They? Who are 'they'?"
"Look, sorry. Really, I'm on the side of diversity. It's just culture shock, that's all. Enculturalisation. An involuntarily xenophobic reaction, natural, however sadly, to human psychology."
"Spare me the psych 101, beanpole. Latching onto the field of psychology to justify your archaic prejudice won't save you from my wrath."
Keith shrugged. "What are you going to do, gnaw off my ankles? Get me in a knee lock? Use my testicles as punching bags?"
"You're just digging your own grave, smart ass."
"You called me beanpole," he said, pointing at him. "Don't expect me to take that shit from you anymore than you'd take me calling you a Nair-serenaded Ewok or a sentient toadstool."
"Sure, lay it on thick, asshole, just realize you represent everything that's wrong with the world. Judging people based on external characteristics is a shallow tendency for a species such as ourselves, which considers itself so advanced. What an astounding lack of empathy you've displayed. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be black and also be a midget?"
"I imagine you're a target for a lot of discrimination, and I didn't mean to be an insensitive prick, okay? You just surprised me. And attacked me, and so I defended myself. Truly sorry, but I've got to take a dump before it blasts out the back of my jeans and I ruin," he looked around at the yellowed, chipped walls, "this exquisite paint job. So to get back to you calling me down, what is it I can help you with, dear sir?"
"A condom," he said. "If you got one."
Keith stopped his poop dance. He just stared.
"What?" The midget snapped, glaring at him suspiciously.
"I mean, yeah," Keith said, moving again, reaching in his pocket for his wallet, "Yeah, sure, I got a condom." He dug it out and held it out to him, but the midget didn't even look at it. He didn't remove his eyes from Keith's eyes.
"What?" Keith said, shrugging.
"Exactly," he said. "What? What was that look?"
"What? What look?"
"The look you gave me when I asked for the condom. What, you're wondering if it would fit me? You thinking because I'm small -- "
"No, no, look," he said, "It was just curiosity, that's all. I mean, they say black guys have big cocks, right? And midgets, I'd imagine, typically have small ones. But, you know, you're a, well, a black midget, you know? That's all."
He just glared as Keith continued to extend his arm, condom in hand.
Keith sighed, dropping his hand, looking to the ceiling. "Okay, fine, I'll ask. So is yours, you know, below or above average or average or what?"
"You're a jackass."
"Indeed. I'm going to go now," he said, throwing the condom on the ground, opening up the bathroom door and shutting it behind him, then locking it.
"Jackass," he said from behind the door and Keith nodded in solemn agreement, even though the midget couldn't see him.
Inside the wallpaper peeled, revealing the rotting walls, and an old-fashioned tub lay to his left. There was a dust-stained rug in the center of the room and a bulb hung from the ceiling on a wire with a pull-switch. To his right, a cracked and stained sink, atop of which was a mirror, cracked at an angle down the center, splattered with age-old grime, toothpaste and hair follicles.
"Where the fuck's the toilet?"
On the ground, in the space where the commode should undoubtedly be, there was a wooden board with a brick laying atop it. Curious and yet somehow knowing he would regret it, he knelt down, placed his book and mug of coffee beside him and pushed the board to the side as he looked down. There is where he saw the face of a girl atop a bed, her long red hair sprawled across the pillow, her hands gripping the headboard. she was entirely naked, her legs were spread and the head of a man was deep down in between the narrow end of the V. She opened her eyes with a surprised look at the sight of his face just poking their out of the ceiling. They were wide eyes, very wide eyes, but quickly, all too quickly she clearly settled into the circumstance, and threw him a wicked grin and a seductive gaze.
And all this, it was really hot and all, but he really, really had to shit. So he mouthed to her, "Where's the toilet?"
She lifted her head up above the pillow, moaning involuntarily as she fought to keep her eyes open. Her back arched, her chin eclipsing her face, her breasts rising, her arms now down to her sides and spread, fingers spasming, as if trying to grip for something. And finally he heard her choke of silence, that sound of peace, that little death. And as her body came to a rest, with her flushed face and wild eyes and her hair all coated with sweat, she looked up at him and her slender red lips mouthed the words, "Thank you."
He gave her a thumbs up and repeated, voiceless, "Bathroom?"
She lifted her hand and pointed first up and then to the left. He took his gaze away from the hole and looked to his left, where he only saw the window with blinds. Looking back down at her, showing the confusion on his face, she returned by mouthing, "Window." He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes widening, and she giggled delightfully. The man between her legs lifted up, looking at her briefly before turning his head upward, where his eyes met those of Keith's. "Hey! You fucking perver--," he began, but before he could finish Keith slid the board back over the hole and placed the brick back atop it.
It took Keith a moment. That guy, he knew him. He knew that face.
From cradle to present, Keith had never been much of a winner, to put it mildly. He had gotten kicked out of the army, he never won an award, he was always picked last for the team in gym class, he never got the girl. His sole moment of fame was when he was five years old and this narcissistic French kid, Adrien-Antoine Bagley, challenged him to a game of king of the mountain. His boots had no tread, so Keith, despite his short stature and spindly body, was able to quite easily whip his ass.
That face down below the hole where there should be a potty, that was Bagley's face. Add on twenty-five years, and it was Bagley. Keith was almost sure of it. But there was that slight tinge of doubt.
"BAGLEY?" Keith screamed through the covered hole.
"What?" A voice screamed back.
Well, that settled that.
Looking to the wall, Keith suddenly noticed the words "Poop Shoot" written in magic marker with an arrow pointing towards the window. Below the graffiti was a toilet paper roll and above the window it was written, "Do not shit on the blinds." He grabbed the string beside the window and pulled. The blinds rose with a violent zipping sound. There were brown fingerprints on the yellow-stained siding and black splatter on the sill. He looked outside the open window, down to a story below and saw the large mound of shit caressed by a thick halo of too-green grass.
He shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me," he said aloud to himself.
He took some TP and covered the sill and then, after looking around outside the window, sat down and stuck his ass out just beyond the frame. He sipped his coffee, careful to maintain his balance, and tried to hold his book open with the other hand by pushing his elbow against his knees, but this grew too difficult, too uncomfortable to allow sufficient attention for enjoyable reading, so he figured he might as well just get this done and over with as soon as possible. And so he pushed.
Oh, how he pushed.
It sounded like a wet gunshot, then an equally squishy rapid machine gun fire. He could feel the shit literally exploding out his back end; his ass, he thought, had become a crap cannon. He could hear the splatter as it hit the mound below. And in the midst of all this shit-shooting he heard noises, noises so strange that it couldn't be coming even from his own digestive system. Voices, it sounded like.
"Hey!"
And then he let a loud one rip, though it was not "let" so much as "had to." He didn't turn around and look out the window, either. He was terrified at the thought.
"You sick bastards!" He heard an old woman's voice scream.
He withdrew his bum from the window, wiped his ass, and threw the wad of toilet paper out towards the ground below. Habitually he reached to flush, but, realizing his folly, just closed the blinds and pulled up his pants. He reached down for his smiley-face cup of coffee, stood up, and went to take a sip -- only to watch it and feel it explode in his hands in time with a gunshot. And this one was a real gunshot. A bullet had ripped through the blinds, ripped through the windows.
He screamed and hit the floor.
"Ya can't shit out the window, you primitives! It's un-fucking-sanitary!"
And then another gunshot rang out. He crawled across the floor towards the door, but as soon as he went to reach for the doorknob more shots rang out. Was there more than one shooter? He saw a hole blast through the door and he knew he wouldn't be going out that way, as he'd have to stand up to unlock the damned thing. He suddenly remembered the hole under the board, however, and so crawled towards it as gunshots continued to be fired and he heard screams and rumbling all throughout the house. He moved the brick and slid the board across as he heard pounding on the side of the house just outside the window.
Then a large rock slammed through the blinds, sending them crashing to the floor, and he crawled hands-first into the hole, trying to wriggle his way through the narrow passage, but his belt got stuck and he ended up hanging halfway down into the room below him.
No one was inside so far as he could see. He put both hands on the ceiling and pushed, pushed, and he fell onto the bed, his pants off and now dangling up above him. He strove to pull at them but they refused to come loose, so he gave up and ran towards the door. He could still hear shots ringing out.
"What the fuck are you doing in my room?"
Keith spun around to find a naked man in a pink robe loading bullets into a gun on the dresser behind him. It was Bagley. He wasn't looking at Keith.
"Oh, I don't know," Keith said cautiously. "Just thought I'd, you know... drop in."
"Well, pervert, take a load off, why don't you," he said, turning around with his gun, which he did not point at Keith, motioning to the bed with his other hand in a sarcastic fashion.
"Thanks," he said, "But I just did that upstairs, out of the window to be specific, and it seems I inadvertently inspired a war in the process."
"Yeah, well fuck this," he said, turning towards Keith, waving his gun around. "I'm gonna use my gun as well, and if that doesn't fuckin' work, I'm calling the cops."
Keith held up his hands it defense. "Look, it's not my fault, man. I didn't have a choice. I was getting shot at. I couldn't make it to the door."
"No, no, no. I'm calling because the neighbors are pumping lead into our humble home, you fucknut, not because you birthed your pants-less self out of my goddamn ceiling."
Keith put down his hands. "Oh."
"And how do you know my fucking name?"
The man in the pink robe walked towards the door, reached out, grabbed the knob and opened it before they heard the scream. Someone was yelling, "cops," and at the sound of that it was like a flip of a switch. Keith didn't know who had yelled it, but whoever did, the voice went off like a gunshot and you could almost feel it drill through your chest. Immediately everyone ran, and while Keith never looked at himself as one who faithfully followed the herd, he did not senselessly rebel against it, either, and the terror that flooded him told him the right path to follow.
"Dude," Keith said as he walked towards the door and the other guy remained in the room, "you coming?"
"No, 'dude', I'm hiding," he said, "but you have yourself a blast."
He didn't stay around to argue. The path was straight to the back door of the house like a bat out of hell. Spotting the back door, he grabbed the knob and pushed it open. Several people were behind him; he wasn't certain how many, exactly, and he didn't have the inclination to waste time and energy trying to discern the identity of his fellow fugitives, either. He didn't get far until he was the gut, then the body of a cop step out from the side of the house. He stepped dead in his tracks and looked behind him.
Passed perhaps eight people behind him he saw another cop step out from the other side of the house -- specifically, out from behind a large pile of shit. He looked like the sort of guy you'd expect to be a drill sergeant. Not a guy you wanted to piss off. He was thin, muscular, had on that wide, circular-brimmed sheriff's hat and wore large, reflective sunglasses. His posture revealed his arrogance, and as he looked up at the pile of pooh he just shook his head, waving his hand in front of his face and looking away for a second.
"Whew," he went, "nice little toilet you got here. You fellas know how many health regulations your breaking here?"
He stepped closer, hand on his holster, and adopted a more sinister look. In a threatening voice he went on to say, "Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to listen up, because this is what I want each and every one of you to do. All of you put your hands against against the wall over there and don't say another goddamn word until I tell you."
They all traded glances.
"This is not a request," he barked. "And I don't have all day here. I'd sooner throw all you little shits in the slammer right now, so move. Now."
They all slowly spread their hands against the side of the house. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw the priest, who had spread out his legs as well, but the cop, with his hands on his belt, came up and kicked him in the side of the shoes. "I don't remember saying a goddamn thing about spreading your legs. You hear me say anything about spreading legs, Hoss?"
"Naw, Hank, don't believe I did," said the badge-blessed barrel of lard.
"Now I'm just gonna ask this once, and one time only," he said. "Which one of you took a dump out of that there window up above us round-'bouts forty-five minutes ago?"
No one responded.
"Well," he said, "okay then. Mrs. Jones, would you come over here a moment, ma'am?" As he said it, he waved his finger towards someone out of their sight, behind the shit pile. Soon, out stepped an overweight woman with a poof of gray hair and permanent frown.
"Now, Mrs. Jones, you know what a police line up is, don't you now?"
"Why yes, sir, I do," she said. "I seen it on television."
"Good," he said. "That's good. Now what we're gonna do here is a police line up of sorts. Think of it as a sort of game, if you'd like; a game you can call, I don't know, 'Name that Ass.' Now you're certain you could identify those unholy crap-castin' pair of cheeks, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir," she said. "Yes I do."
"Okay," he said. "Drop 'em, boys."
All of them with their hands against the wall started trading glances again.
"I wanna see a standing parade of fuckin' moons, boys," he barked. "Now drop your drawers boys, drop your drawers. I'm not gonna say it again."
Keith dropped his boxers just enough to reveal his ass and left it at that.
"That's him! That's him!" Keith heard the old woman say. His heart leaped in his chest, but when he turned to look, her finger and the sheriff's eyes was posting at the priest.
"Calm down, Miss."
"But that's him!"
"I understand, but just keep your pants on for a polly-pickin' minute," he walked up to the right side of Keith. "Sir, what did I say? What did I fuckin' say?"
Keith sighed. "Okay, look," he said. "Hold up just a minute. It was me, all right? I shit from the window."
"Shut up, son!" The Sheriff screamed into his ear. "No use takin' the fall for one of your goddamn amigos, the ass has been identified. You hear me, motherfucker? The ass has been identi-fuckin'-fied!"
Keith turned his head to the right, his voice gone, but that's when he realized that the sheriff had not been initially speaking to Keith, but to the person to his immediate right. Keith looked down. It was the midget.
"Now what did I say!" He screamed at the midget.
"Look, I'm a black midget," he said, "if she knows her own ass from a hole in the ground she can pick a small black ass out of a line-up of big pasty white ones."
"I do not discriminate!" He screamed. "Now, drop your pants, my friend!"
"I'm not your friend," he said. "And excuse me for saying so, officer, but I fail to see how she could mistake the size and the color of the ass. I'm not a suspect."
"That is not the issue here," he screamed. "The issue is that you have disobeyed a direct order!"
He turned around and looked up at the cop, rammed one of his stubby little hands into the bend of the other, which he lifted sky high, tightening all his fingers into a trembling ball save for the one, lone, middle digit. "Take that gun and ram the barrel up your ass."
"WHAT?"
He put his hands down and tried to size him up, as futile as that was in the literal sense. "You heard me."
"Cuff ..em, Hoss."
"Hands off, Porky."
Hoss stopped and looked at the midget. "What did you call me?"
"Just drop your pants," Keith whispered to the midget. "It isn't worth it, man. They're not going to listen to reason and your arguing isn't helping. Just drop your damned pants."
The sheriff turned to Keith. "You will only speak when spoken to, damn it!"
Hoss, still frozen in position, said, "Did you just call me porky?"
"Shut up, totem boy," he said, turning to Keith and pointing a finger at him as his eyes flared. "I know the reason you want me to drop my drawers."
"Oh, don't be sick."
"I'm well endowed, buddy," the midget snapped. "And you know what? I think I want to watch you cry."
"Leave the python in his cage!" The sheriff cried, wiggling his gun frantically.
"Boss!"
Everyone stopped as the sheriff and deputy dough-boy looked up to see a bare white ass leaning over the sill.
"Hoss?"
The deputy pointed up towards the window. "I think there's someone in the bathroom, boss."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Yes," the midget barked, tugging on the sheriff's pant legs, "yes, Watson, there is. A big, steaming pile of shit."
He knelt down to get face-to-face with the midget. "I will kill you, motherfucker. I could punt you across this neighborhood like a goddamn football."
"Oooo!" The midget said, making a sarcastic shudder.
Then they all heard the door slam. Hoss had went in through the back door. Just then they watched as the white cheeks separated and gave birth to a rain of shit that hit the pile and splattered all over the sheriff and the midget.
"Eeegh!" They both said.
Keith listened as the deputy pounded up the stairs and slammed open the bathroom door. "Freeze! Police!" And then there was a scream and a crash and a snapping sound. No gunshot, however. It soon became evident, as the glass and wood rained down, that it was the window that had broken, and that the scream had come from the man who owned that ass that had been at the window, and Keith looked up just in time to see the impact. Everyone silent, there lay a half-naked man on top of a huge mound of human shit.
"Oh god," the preacher said.
Keith uttered, "Oh ill-humored gravity."
His back was arched, his head turned away to the side, his legs spread with one bent at the knee, and his little piggy-wiggly four-incher flopping to and fro, and condom still partially hanging, flopping to and fro in the cool summer breeze.
It was Bagley, king of the mountain.
"My dick's bigger!" Keith said, pointing to the flopping cocktail weenie, bouncing up and down like an excited child.
"Nothin' on the scale of this beanpole, beanpole," he heard the midget say behind him as he instinctively turned around, about to come face to face with another defeat.
Opening his eyes, Keith groaned. Having been dragged back to consciousness by the sound of tiny bubbles popping, he now found the side of his face resting in a puddle of his own drool atop the plastic-wrapped monster couch he vaguely remembered crashing on the night prior. His mouth tasted downright toxic; a lethal cocktail of booze, vomit and cigarettes. He lifted up his head to find a scary tattooed guy on one side of him and a girl in a Catholic school outfit on the other, her skirt up, her Hello Kitty panties exposed. He straightened out his oversize flannel shirt and ran his fingers through his wild, overgrown hair, sighing hoarsely and slowly trying to crawl onto the floor.
Instead, he fell, and he fell face first and hard, though the impact was softened by the shag carpet he had fallen upon. He looked around, hardly able to believe what his eyes beheld. All across the living room were bodies; save for the absence of blood and decapitation, it looked like a field in the wake of a long, enduring battle. Clearly, this was the side that had lost.
Making it to his feet, though finding himself terribly off balance, he stepped over the mass of people and wandered about the house. In the kitchen, amidst a sea of empty bottles of booze and a few dozen half-eaten bags of chips he found, in the corner of the counter beneath a cabinet, a coffee machine, which was certainly a sight for his sore eyes, not to mention an easing one for his spinning, spinning head. Even better, within it was a pot of coffee, and upon smelling it, he found it fresh. He opened the cabinet above and found a black mug with a huge, yellow smiley face on the front. He sniffed it, and though it smelled fine he washed it out in the sink anyway before pouring himself a mug full of java.
He then stepped out the door at the back of the kitchen, which led to the back porch; there he found a guy and two women, all enjoying their hangover morning with coffee and smokes. Keith groggily nodded to them and mumbled good morning as he wobbled down the steps between them, stepped into the back yard and made his way to his car, his piece of shit Celebrity, atop which a heavy tree rested. He vaguely recalled this having to do with events that had transpired the day before.
Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his keys and unlocked the back door, placing his mug of coffee atop the car and rummaged around in the back. Soon, he found a suitable book, which turned out to be Charles Bukowski's Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook, after which he slammed his car door, grabbed his mug of coffee and, preferring not to squeeze through the three sitting on the back porch again, made his way to the side of the house.
He walked wearily through a labyrinth of cars, finally loosing his balance, falling sideways and slamming his shoulder into a car window. Though he didn't hit the ground, as soon as his shoulder slammed into the glass a head popped up. She had blond hair with pink streaks and squinted her eyes to look at him. Beside her in the back seat he saw another girl, naked, passed out, her legs spread. His eyebrows darted up his forehead, but he then quickly held up his hand, smiled feebly and mouthed, "Sorry," before he started to wobble away as fast as he could in his still-considerably-intoxicated state. Behind him, however, he heard the window rolling down.
"Hey," a girl's voice said. Then, louder, "Hey!"
He spun around and looked at her. She ran her fingers through her long hair, her head now out the window, staring at him through her round reflective sunglasses. "Yes, alluring, muff-munching stranger?" He said to her.
She cocked her head. "Huh?"
"Nothing," he said. "Good morning. How can I help you?"
"I need a smoke."
He shrugged. "Sorry. Only got a few left."
"I'll suck your cock for a cigarette."
"Well," he said, nodding, digging into his pocket and then holding out the pack for her, "someone's got an oral fixation. What can I get for a carton?"
She pulled one out of the box and put the butt of it in her mouth, leaning the tip of it towards him. "Okay, we can fuck," she said as he lit her cigarette for her, and then, as she took a drag and breathed it out, pointing the cherry at him as she held the cigarette between two fingers, "but don't poke me in the brown eye."
"No issue there," he said quickly. "I mean, to each their own, but my crotch-thrusting pus projector -- "
"Your what?"
"My blue-veined goo-gun..."
"Huh?"
"My custard-chucking cobra, my cyclopic sperm-spitter, my -- "
"You mean your dick?"
"Yeah," he said, "my dick, it doesn't bob in the trough in the midst of the twin rear flesh tsunamis. It doesn't cruise down the two-humped sub-spine fissure. It doesn't dock in the posterior port. It considers the whole thing going the wrong way down a one-way street. Going in the exit, you know? On the off ramp. Just not my thing."
"Well, okay," she said sweetly. "There's always my pussy."
"There's always that," he said, nodding. "But could I take a rain check on that, perhaps? I've got to go download some funky fudge bunnies like you wouldn't believe."
"What?"
"You know, I need to toss out a brown trout, toot out a tootsie roll, hurl a Ho-Ho, chuck out a nut-wart-ridden rectal log, blast out a butt-brownie, evacuate some bowl eels, squeeze a steamer, birth a butt-scud. Cast a curled, corn-infested rump-slug into the ever-hungry hole in the mighty porcelain sea."
"Got it," she said, holding up her hand. "Rain check. Run before you have an accident, euphemism boy."
He turned his head sideways and looked at her. "You know what a euphemism is?"
She extended her middle finger at him. "Go take a shit, asshole."
And so he moved on, finally coming to the stone pathway that led to the wrap-around porch in the front.
"Who do I spy over yonder? Could it be the misled prophet? The man who's car the great god smote yesterday evening?"
Keith looked up. On the porch swing sat that damned asshole he had gotten into a heated theological debate with the previous evening, while he had been shitfaced. The Priest, he had been calling him. The guy leaned back on the swing, long hair strewn all about, one hand with it's four fingers stuck in the front of his sweat pants, apparently combing through his pubic hair. As Keith approached the porch, he just shook his head.
"Got it all wrong, Priest. It wasn't your silly imaginary friend. It was the tree itself that smote me, sacrificing itself to do so like a faithful fucking suicide bomber."
"Do something to piss it off?" A voice asked. Keith turned around just in time to see a familiar face walk around him and up the steps, sitting on the swing beside the preacher. It was the girl who offered to suck his dick for a smoke.
"You left your girlfriend alone in the car?"
She shrugged. "Not my girlfriend. So the tree, you piss it off?"
"It's possible. I mean, I'm not tree hugger, for one thing," he said. "And it was probably just pissed at me for sacrificing all of it's brothers to the pages of my unsuccessful fiction."
"Ah, but are you aware that the tree which has fallen atop your car fell from the property of the man who lives next door, who just happens to be a real preacher, unlike me, a novice priest?"
"Do you ever give it a rest, Bible-boy?"
"No rest for the enlightened," he said.
Keith shook his head from side to side. "That's 'No rest for the wicked,'" he said, "and I slept just fine, thank you. And who are you, Al Fundy? Don't want to get your hand too close to your dick, now, do you? You might touch it wrong and end up drowning in the lake of fire."
"Oh, I'll be in heaven, my man. You'll be in hell."
"Good for you. And good for me. I was never much one for heights, anyway. And it just so happens that I prefer warm, dry climates."
"Do you take anything seriously?"
"I take everything seriously," he said. "I merely elect to offer my words dressed in the sly garb of sarcasm. My working theory is that if I express myself more bitingly things I say will have a greater tendency of sinking in."
"What," he asked, "you trying to get through to me or something?"
"Perhaps. I kind of like the challenge of trying to pierce through your armor of ignorance."
"Come on," he said. "I'm open-minded. That's why you invest time in arguing with me, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's true," he said, lighting the cigarette, "those with open minds are often my targets. Those with cautiously open and critical intellects as well as those whose gaping skulls stretch wider than the circumference of Paris Hilton's pussy. Those whose minds yawn so dangerously wide that if they ever made the grave mistake of bending over too far their precious gray matter would give into gravity and hit the floor like a basketball-sized blob of raw hamburger."
He shook his head. "The hate that fills you," he said, "it may be the greatest sin of all."
"No," he said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth, sizzoring it between his index and middle finger and then pointing it at the man, "I wouldn't imagine that to be the case, and here's why: hate is passion. It implies profound disappointment, which further implies it's prerequisite, which is caring. Hate is not the act of not caring, but rather the wedding of care and a deep, gut-retching, heart-aching sense of disappointment or betrayal. Hate and caring aren't antithetical. Now, if there was sin, and I'm not dumb enough to think there is, but if there was such a thing as sin, and so a chance for their to be a greatest sin of all, I would put my money on that sin being indifference, not hate. And as I'm sure you'll agree, I am anything but indifferent."
"Finally, my brother, a nugget of wisdom amidst your infinite sea of shit."
"'Peanut of wisdom' would have produced more fitting imagery, but alas," he said. "And speaking of shit, might either of you know where I can find the indoor outhouse in this commune of drunkards?"
"Upstairs, third door on the left," said miss sucky-sucky for a cig.
"Much appreciated madam," he said, and nodding to the priest, "Al."
He stepped inside and ascended the stairs, finally seeing a door on which it was written, in thick black magic marker, Bathroom. He knocked lightly, and when there was no answer he opened the door.
"Hey, buddy."
Without turning around to face the speaker, Keith lifted up his hands and threw them to his sides. "Fuck, can't a guy just pinch a morning loaf around here? My cheeks are clenched tighter than the doors of fucking NORAD, damn it, I just want to take a shit." And then he turned around and said, perhaps a bit too quickly and loudly, "What the fuck is this?"
The guy just looked at him. Keith held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect, it's just that I've never seen, you know..."
"A black man?"
"No, I've seen plenty of black men."
"A midget?"
"No," he said, "I've seen plenty of midgets. I mean, on television, never in person."
"So?"
"So what?"
The black midget just stared.
"Okay, look, it's simply that my eyes have never rested upon a real live black midget, that's all. I mean, I didn't even think they had black midgets."
"They? Who are 'they'?"
"Look, sorry. Really, I'm on the side of diversity. It's just culture shock, that's all. Enculturalisation. An involuntarily xenophobic reaction, natural, however sadly, to human psychology."
"Spare me the psych 101, beanpole. Latching onto the field of psychology to justify your archaic prejudice won't save you from my wrath."
Keith shrugged. "What are you going to do, gnaw off my ankles? Get me in a knee lock? Use my testicles as punching bags?"
"You're just digging your own grave, smart ass."
"You called me beanpole," he said, pointing at him. "Don't expect me to take that shit from you anymore than you'd take me calling you a Nair-serenaded Ewok or a sentient toadstool."
"Sure, lay it on thick, asshole, just realize you represent everything that's wrong with the world. Judging people based on external characteristics is a shallow tendency for a species such as ourselves, which considers itself so advanced. What an astounding lack of empathy you've displayed. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be black and also be a midget?"
"I imagine you're a target for a lot of discrimination, and I didn't mean to be an insensitive prick, okay? You just surprised me. And attacked me, and so I defended myself. Truly sorry, but I've got to take a dump before it blasts out the back of my jeans and I ruin," he looked around at the yellowed, chipped walls, "this exquisite paint job. So to get back to you calling me down, what is it I can help you with, dear sir?"
"A condom," he said. "If you got one."
Keith stopped his poop dance. He just stared.
"What?" The midget snapped, glaring at him suspiciously.
"I mean, yeah," Keith said, moving again, reaching in his pocket for his wallet, "Yeah, sure, I got a condom." He dug it out and held it out to him, but the midget didn't even look at it. He didn't remove his eyes from Keith's eyes.
"What?" Keith said, shrugging.
"Exactly," he said. "What? What was that look?"
"What? What look?"
"The look you gave me when I asked for the condom. What, you're wondering if it would fit me? You thinking because I'm small -- "
"No, no, look," he said, "It was just curiosity, that's all. I mean, they say black guys have big cocks, right? And midgets, I'd imagine, typically have small ones. But, you know, you're a, well, a black midget, you know? That's all."
He just glared as Keith continued to extend his arm, condom in hand.
Keith sighed, dropping his hand, looking to the ceiling. "Okay, fine, I'll ask. So is yours, you know, below or above average or average or what?"
"You're a jackass."
"Indeed. I'm going to go now," he said, throwing the condom on the ground, opening up the bathroom door and shutting it behind him, then locking it.
"Jackass," he said from behind the door and Keith nodded in solemn agreement, even though the midget couldn't see him.
Inside the wallpaper peeled, revealing the rotting walls, and an old-fashioned tub lay to his left. There was a dust-stained rug in the center of the room and a bulb hung from the ceiling on a wire with a pull-switch. To his right, a cracked and stained sink, atop of which was a mirror, cracked at an angle down the center, splattered with age-old grime, toothpaste and hair follicles.
"Where the fuck's the toilet?"
On the ground, in the space where the commode should undoubtedly be, there was a wooden board with a brick laying atop it. Curious and yet somehow knowing he would regret it, he knelt down, placed his book and mug of coffee beside him and pushed the board to the side as he looked down. There is where he saw the face of a girl atop a bed, her long red hair sprawled across the pillow, her hands gripping the headboard. she was entirely naked, her legs were spread and the head of a man was deep down in between the narrow end of the V. She opened her eyes with a surprised look at the sight of his face just poking their out of the ceiling. They were wide eyes, very wide eyes, but quickly, all too quickly she clearly settled into the circumstance, and threw him a wicked grin and a seductive gaze.
And all this, it was really hot and all, but he really, really had to shit. So he mouthed to her, "Where's the toilet?"
She lifted her head up above the pillow, moaning involuntarily as she fought to keep her eyes open. Her back arched, her chin eclipsing her face, her breasts rising, her arms now down to her sides and spread, fingers spasming, as if trying to grip for something. And finally he heard her choke of silence, that sound of peace, that little death. And as her body came to a rest, with her flushed face and wild eyes and her hair all coated with sweat, she looked up at him and her slender red lips mouthed the words, "Thank you."
He gave her a thumbs up and repeated, voiceless, "Bathroom?"
She lifted her hand and pointed first up and then to the left. He took his gaze away from the hole and looked to his left, where he only saw the window with blinds. Looking back down at her, showing the confusion on his face, she returned by mouthing, "Window." He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes widening, and she giggled delightfully. The man between her legs lifted up, looking at her briefly before turning his head upward, where his eyes met those of Keith's. "Hey! You fucking perver--," he began, but before he could finish Keith slid the board back over the hole and placed the brick back atop it.
It took Keith a moment. That guy, he knew him. He knew that face.
From cradle to present, Keith had never been much of a winner, to put it mildly. He had gotten kicked out of the army, he never won an award, he was always picked last for the team in gym class, he never got the girl. His sole moment of fame was when he was five years old and this narcissistic French kid, Adrien-Antoine Bagley, challenged him to a game of king of the mountain. His boots had no tread, so Keith, despite his short stature and spindly body, was able to quite easily whip his ass.
That face down below the hole where there should be a potty, that was Bagley's face. Add on twenty-five years, and it was Bagley. Keith was almost sure of it. But there was that slight tinge of doubt.
"BAGLEY?" Keith screamed through the covered hole.
"What?" A voice screamed back.
Well, that settled that.
Looking to the wall, Keith suddenly noticed the words "Poop Shoot" written in magic marker with an arrow pointing towards the window. Below the graffiti was a toilet paper roll and above the window it was written, "Do not shit on the blinds." He grabbed the string beside the window and pulled. The blinds rose with a violent zipping sound. There were brown fingerprints on the yellow-stained siding and black splatter on the sill. He looked outside the open window, down to a story below and saw the large mound of shit caressed by a thick halo of too-green grass.
He shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me," he said aloud to himself.
He took some TP and covered the sill and then, after looking around outside the window, sat down and stuck his ass out just beyond the frame. He sipped his coffee, careful to maintain his balance, and tried to hold his book open with the other hand by pushing his elbow against his knees, but this grew too difficult, too uncomfortable to allow sufficient attention for enjoyable reading, so he figured he might as well just get this done and over with as soon as possible. And so he pushed.
Oh, how he pushed.
It sounded like a wet gunshot, then an equally squishy rapid machine gun fire. He could feel the shit literally exploding out his back end; his ass, he thought, had become a crap cannon. He could hear the splatter as it hit the mound below. And in the midst of all this shit-shooting he heard noises, noises so strange that it couldn't be coming even from his own digestive system. Voices, it sounded like.
"Hey!"
And then he let a loud one rip, though it was not "let" so much as "had to." He didn't turn around and look out the window, either. He was terrified at the thought.
"You sick bastards!" He heard an old woman's voice scream.
He withdrew his bum from the window, wiped his ass, and threw the wad of toilet paper out towards the ground below. Habitually he reached to flush, but, realizing his folly, just closed the blinds and pulled up his pants. He reached down for his smiley-face cup of coffee, stood up, and went to take a sip -- only to watch it and feel it explode in his hands in time with a gunshot. And this one was a real gunshot. A bullet had ripped through the blinds, ripped through the windows.
He screamed and hit the floor.
"Ya can't shit out the window, you primitives! It's un-fucking-sanitary!"
And then another gunshot rang out. He crawled across the floor towards the door, but as soon as he went to reach for the doorknob more shots rang out. Was there more than one shooter? He saw a hole blast through the door and he knew he wouldn't be going out that way, as he'd have to stand up to unlock the damned thing. He suddenly remembered the hole under the board, however, and so crawled towards it as gunshots continued to be fired and he heard screams and rumbling all throughout the house. He moved the brick and slid the board across as he heard pounding on the side of the house just outside the window.
Then a large rock slammed through the blinds, sending them crashing to the floor, and he crawled hands-first into the hole, trying to wriggle his way through the narrow passage, but his belt got stuck and he ended up hanging halfway down into the room below him.
No one was inside so far as he could see. He put both hands on the ceiling and pushed, pushed, and he fell onto the bed, his pants off and now dangling up above him. He strove to pull at them but they refused to come loose, so he gave up and ran towards the door. He could still hear shots ringing out.
"What the fuck are you doing in my room?"
Keith spun around to find a naked man in a pink robe loading bullets into a gun on the dresser behind him. It was Bagley. He wasn't looking at Keith.
"Oh, I don't know," Keith said cautiously. "Just thought I'd, you know... drop in."
"Well, pervert, take a load off, why don't you," he said, turning around with his gun, which he did not point at Keith, motioning to the bed with his other hand in a sarcastic fashion.
"Thanks," he said, "But I just did that upstairs, out of the window to be specific, and it seems I inadvertently inspired a war in the process."
"Yeah, well fuck this," he said, turning towards Keith, waving his gun around. "I'm gonna use my gun as well, and if that doesn't fuckin' work, I'm calling the cops."
Keith held up his hands it defense. "Look, it's not my fault, man. I didn't have a choice. I was getting shot at. I couldn't make it to the door."
"No, no, no. I'm calling because the neighbors are pumping lead into our humble home, you fucknut, not because you birthed your pants-less self out of my goddamn ceiling."
Keith put down his hands. "Oh."
"And how do you know my fucking name?"
The man in the pink robe walked towards the door, reached out, grabbed the knob and opened it before they heard the scream. Someone was yelling, "cops," and at the sound of that it was like a flip of a switch. Keith didn't know who had yelled it, but whoever did, the voice went off like a gunshot and you could almost feel it drill through your chest. Immediately everyone ran, and while Keith never looked at himself as one who faithfully followed the herd, he did not senselessly rebel against it, either, and the terror that flooded him told him the right path to follow.
"Dude," Keith said as he walked towards the door and the other guy remained in the room, "you coming?"
"No, 'dude', I'm hiding," he said, "but you have yourself a blast."
He didn't stay around to argue. The path was straight to the back door of the house like a bat out of hell. Spotting the back door, he grabbed the knob and pushed it open. Several people were behind him; he wasn't certain how many, exactly, and he didn't have the inclination to waste time and energy trying to discern the identity of his fellow fugitives, either. He didn't get far until he was the gut, then the body of a cop step out from the side of the house. He stepped dead in his tracks and looked behind him.
Passed perhaps eight people behind him he saw another cop step out from the other side of the house -- specifically, out from behind a large pile of shit. He looked like the sort of guy you'd expect to be a drill sergeant. Not a guy you wanted to piss off. He was thin, muscular, had on that wide, circular-brimmed sheriff's hat and wore large, reflective sunglasses. His posture revealed his arrogance, and as he looked up at the pile of pooh he just shook his head, waving his hand in front of his face and looking away for a second.
"Whew," he went, "nice little toilet you got here. You fellas know how many health regulations your breaking here?"
He stepped closer, hand on his holster, and adopted a more sinister look. In a threatening voice he went on to say, "Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to listen up, because this is what I want each and every one of you to do. All of you put your hands against against the wall over there and don't say another goddamn word until I tell you."
They all traded glances.
"This is not a request," he barked. "And I don't have all day here. I'd sooner throw all you little shits in the slammer right now, so move. Now."
They all slowly spread their hands against the side of the house. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw the priest, who had spread out his legs as well, but the cop, with his hands on his belt, came up and kicked him in the side of the shoes. "I don't remember saying a goddamn thing about spreading your legs. You hear me say anything about spreading legs, Hoss?"
"Naw, Hank, don't believe I did," said the badge-blessed barrel of lard.
"Now I'm just gonna ask this once, and one time only," he said. "Which one of you took a dump out of that there window up above us round-'bouts forty-five minutes ago?"
No one responded.
"Well," he said, "okay then. Mrs. Jones, would you come over here a moment, ma'am?" As he said it, he waved his finger towards someone out of their sight, behind the shit pile. Soon, out stepped an overweight woman with a poof of gray hair and permanent frown.
"Now, Mrs. Jones, you know what a police line up is, don't you now?"
"Why yes, sir, I do," she said. "I seen it on television."
"Good," he said. "That's good. Now what we're gonna do here is a police line up of sorts. Think of it as a sort of game, if you'd like; a game you can call, I don't know, 'Name that Ass.' Now you're certain you could identify those unholy crap-castin' pair of cheeks, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir," she said. "Yes I do."
"Okay," he said. "Drop 'em, boys."
All of them with their hands against the wall started trading glances again.
"I wanna see a standing parade of fuckin' moons, boys," he barked. "Now drop your drawers boys, drop your drawers. I'm not gonna say it again."
Keith dropped his boxers just enough to reveal his ass and left it at that.
"That's him! That's him!" Keith heard the old woman say. His heart leaped in his chest, but when he turned to look, her finger and the sheriff's eyes was posting at the priest.
"Calm down, Miss."
"But that's him!"
"I understand, but just keep your pants on for a polly-pickin' minute," he walked up to the right side of Keith. "Sir, what did I say? What did I fuckin' say?"
Keith sighed. "Okay, look," he said. "Hold up just a minute. It was me, all right? I shit from the window."
"Shut up, son!" The Sheriff screamed into his ear. "No use takin' the fall for one of your goddamn amigos, the ass has been identified. You hear me, motherfucker? The ass has been identi-fuckin'-fied!"
Keith turned his head to the right, his voice gone, but that's when he realized that the sheriff had not been initially speaking to Keith, but to the person to his immediate right. Keith looked down. It was the midget.
"Now what did I say!" He screamed at the midget.
"Look, I'm a black midget," he said, "if she knows her own ass from a hole in the ground she can pick a small black ass out of a line-up of big pasty white ones."
"I do not discriminate!" He screamed. "Now, drop your pants, my friend!"
"I'm not your friend," he said. "And excuse me for saying so, officer, but I fail to see how she could mistake the size and the color of the ass. I'm not a suspect."
"That is not the issue here," he screamed. "The issue is that you have disobeyed a direct order!"
He turned around and looked up at the cop, rammed one of his stubby little hands into the bend of the other, which he lifted sky high, tightening all his fingers into a trembling ball save for the one, lone, middle digit. "Take that gun and ram the barrel up your ass."
"WHAT?"
He put his hands down and tried to size him up, as futile as that was in the literal sense. "You heard me."
"Cuff ..em, Hoss."
"Hands off, Porky."
Hoss stopped and looked at the midget. "What did you call me?"
"Just drop your pants," Keith whispered to the midget. "It isn't worth it, man. They're not going to listen to reason and your arguing isn't helping. Just drop your damned pants."
The sheriff turned to Keith. "You will only speak when spoken to, damn it!"
Hoss, still frozen in position, said, "Did you just call me porky?"
"Shut up, totem boy," he said, turning to Keith and pointing a finger at him as his eyes flared. "I know the reason you want me to drop my drawers."
"Oh, don't be sick."
"I'm well endowed, buddy," the midget snapped. "And you know what? I think I want to watch you cry."
"Leave the python in his cage!" The sheriff cried, wiggling his gun frantically.
"Boss!"
Everyone stopped as the sheriff and deputy dough-boy looked up to see a bare white ass leaning over the sill.
"Hoss?"
The deputy pointed up towards the window. "I think there's someone in the bathroom, boss."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Yes," the midget barked, tugging on the sheriff's pant legs, "yes, Watson, there is. A big, steaming pile of shit."
He knelt down to get face-to-face with the midget. "I will kill you, motherfucker. I could punt you across this neighborhood like a goddamn football."
"Oooo!" The midget said, making a sarcastic shudder.
Then they all heard the door slam. Hoss had went in through the back door. Just then they watched as the white cheeks separated and gave birth to a rain of shit that hit the pile and splattered all over the sheriff and the midget.
"Eeegh!" They both said.
Keith listened as the deputy pounded up the stairs and slammed open the bathroom door. "Freeze! Police!" And then there was a scream and a crash and a snapping sound. No gunshot, however. It soon became evident, as the glass and wood rained down, that it was the window that had broken, and that the scream had come from the man who owned that ass that had been at the window, and Keith looked up just in time to see the impact. Everyone silent, there lay a half-naked man on top of a huge mound of human shit.
"Oh god," the preacher said.
Keith uttered, "Oh ill-humored gravity."
His back was arched, his head turned away to the side, his legs spread with one bent at the knee, and his little piggy-wiggly four-incher flopping to and fro, and condom still partially hanging, flopping to and fro in the cool summer breeze.
It was Bagley, king of the mountain.
"My dick's bigger!" Keith said, pointing to the flopping cocktail weenie, bouncing up and down like an excited child.
"Nothin' on the scale of this beanpole, beanpole," he heard the midget say behind him as he instinctively turned around, about to come face to face with another defeat.
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