COPYRIGHT April 2007
Wordcount: 802
premise: begin with "You would not believe what happened to me." The next sentence must be truthful. The rest of the story must contain waves upon waves of complete brown stuff. End with "and that's why I didn't have anything written to bring in today."
You simply would not believe what happened to me...
It all began with the bumblebee that I found in my kitchen the other day. The bumblebee would have had my immediate attention, even if it were not three feet long, dressed in a tailored suit, and speaking to me in a New Jersey accent.
“I am deeply sorry to have to trouble youse.” began the Bumble. “But I am here on a matter of some importance.”
“Oh? How can I be of assistance?” I stammered, trying to remain calm. All the while, I tried to nonchalantly locate a plausible weapon in my peripheral vision. A run-of-the-mill flyswatter was not going to work on this boy…but it was just possible that I had left a shovel by the adjoining dining room door.
“Youse have a Honda, right? A red Honda?” I nodded as a sinking feeling in my stomach told me where this conversation was going. “On the day of April, ah,” He consulted a small notepad that he had pulled from his double-breasted pocket. “April first, in the year of two-thousand, seven…Youse were seen leaving the scene of an incident involving one Jimmy the Monarch.”
I recalled seeing the orange and black triangle reflected in the rear view mirror as it bounced on the pavement behind me, but that hardly seemed an appropriate conversational point.
“Jimmy the Monarch? But that was a complete and total accident. He came out of nowhere. He hit my windshield at top speed. I couldn’t stop.”
“Jimmy was prone to hitting the nectar hard, and he could be somewhat erroneous in his judgment after a fresh patch of clover.” mused the Bumble amicably. “But that’s neither here nor here. The Family has demanded restitution of youse. I am here to pull off five of your legs.”
“The Family? You mean to tell me there is actually a Butterfly Mafia?” I asked, not really registering his last statement.
“They prefer to be called the Honorable Order of the Lepidoptera.” stated the Bumble. “Now, about those legs, please.”
“Gee, buddy, I’m afraid that I’m gonna have to pass.” For all of his Goodfella bluster, the Bumble had seemed a fairly polite and straightforward bug, and I felt really bad that I could not be more cooperative. Of course, I did not feel nearly as bad as the Bumble did when my shovel sliced him cleanly in half. The blade snagged only briefly on his pressed, silk shirt before leaving him in a divided state of being.
“I shall convey your sentiments to the parties involved.” sighed the Bumble as the top eighteen inches of its body crawled out of the door. Its multi-faceted eyes bore no malice, only a look of tired resignation. The Bumble looked down at itself and shook its head sadly. “Damn, that was my favorite shirt.”
* * * * *
They must have come in from every state in the Union. For days, Moths and Butterflies of every size, shape and color besieged my house. My lawn looked like an elaborate Indian tapestry. They were no longer delicate little creatures flitting from flower to flower…no, no, no…palpable menace dripped from every fluttering wing. The air became yellow and hazy with dust created from those wings. I could take it no more; I walked to the door and stepped out onto my porch. Millions of eyes watched my house and waited. What happened next was inevitable…and it was their own damn fault. The first sneeze that erupted from my nose cleared bugs for thirty feet. The rapid succession of blasts that followed rattled windows eight miles down the road. The dust began to clear, and all that remained of my improbable enemy were the remnants of torn antennae and the occasional thorax. One solitary, snot-covered wing floated gently down from the sky.
I slumped onto the porch, exhausted and wished vainly for a Kleenex.
It was over. I closed my eyes, allowing the throbbing in my head to eventually subside. When I opened them sometime later, I found a hawk sitting in front of me, rolling a cigarette around in its beak.
“I hate to trouble youse.” said the Hawk as it pulled out a small notebook from its Armani jacket. “However, in the course of recent events...” Here the Hawk gestured at my lawn with one wing, before going back to its notes. ”Jonny the Jay was knocked completely out of his place of residence, I.e. his nest, and every single one of his feathers has been blown off. As an additional sadness, he received a knock to the head, and he now believes himself to be Don Knotts. On behalf of the entire Corvidae Family, I am here to seek restitution…”
…and that is why I did not have anything written for today.
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