I dont care if you laugh AT me insted of WITH me, so long as you laugh.
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The rickety screen door was blocked by a chairbound old beast who'd somehow bucked and thrashed from inside his resin shell to propell the wheelchair up to where his plasticated knees pressed it shut. I said to him, "PLEASE let me in."
Though his grin was smug, sattisfied and jovially Clintonlike, the cruel yellow eyes of the satannic monster blazed with monstruos evil. He hissed like a thuosand vipers, "GO IN THE TOOLSHED YONDER, AND BRING ME A HACKSAW BLADE."
I dared not qeustion him. Not when he makes that "face" and also that "Exorcyst" voice of his. When I came back in, the old basterd instructed me to cut the laquered layers of plastic off of him in two spots: The places where the palms of his monkey paw hands were glued to rest on his knees.
"CUT A CLEAN SEPARATION, 'TWEEN MAH HANDS AND KNEES. BUT DO IT IN A WAY THAT NO ONE CAN SEE THE GAP YOU DONE CUT," he instructed in a low whining growl. Nervuously, I look the slendor half inch blade off the hacksaw, and in my bare hands, threaded the naked blade into the gloppy joint of laquer. Tiny shreds of plastic crumbs peeled off the area as I cut, and curled onto the stained carpatted floor.
"CAREFUL, BOY. JEST CARVE THE PLASTIC, NOT THE GRANDPAP. WHY, IF YOU CUT TOO DEEP AND SO MUCH AS NICK MAH DAINTY SCALY SKIN, I'LL SHOVE THET THAR HACKSAW BLADE UP YER ASS SO FAR IT'LL SCRAPE THE TARTER OFF YER TEETH."
Somhow i worked up the nerve to ask him what I was doing this for. He struggoled to grin at me. "SO IT WILL BE EASIER FER ZEKEY TO TAKE THIS HERE ROBE OFF ME. HEE HEE HEE."
I did not know what the hell he was talkin about. It seemed contrary to what he'd planned all along.
Two large burly blond men with blond eyebrows and big jaws, wearin turtelneck sweaters and camel colored blazers jumped out and surveyed their odd surroundings (and they are odd), as if they were the first men on Mars. As Cathyann once told me (though she never told me why), women all seem to be in agreament that there is nothin more reppulsive than a blond haired man.
The two big bruisers stomped stiffly arround the yard like a couple of curious zombies lookin for their car keys. Somtime during the night Spike must of come inside the trailor cause just as I stood up, he ran into the livingroom from inside the bathroom with his pants down where he'd been makin a dump.
"The danm krauts are here!" he spat, stroggling to put his shoes on. Spike bolted outside and stombled down the creaky porch stairs. The two frowning Germans marched up to Spike. They exammined him up and down with this sort of impatient just-smelled-a-fart-face that you allways see Peter Jennings make on the news.
"Dudes. Wuzzup," said Spike, tryin to calm things down.
"Vhere is der Trabant," one of them groaned. "Vee haff come for der Trabant," said the othor in a stilted robotic monotone. Their huge wide pale rosy faces were frozon and pained. I went downstairs and they staired at us with flared, unmoving nostrils, furrowed brows, and lips pursed like a child being forced to unwilingly kiss an ugly spinstor aunt with a cold sore. Arrogent Aryan basterds.
Spike led them back to the barn where the car sat gleaming and new. Poor Junior was allready up for an hour pollishing it. Spike is a pretty cool guy who dosent usualy get nervous, and this time he did not. But he eagorly wanted to sell the danm car, so he coud upgrade to a eight cylindor Soviet-Era Ladamobile Yes, as much as he denies it, Spike has our fammily's peculior "collector's bug" though his toys are more expensive.
The Germens looked ovor the Trabant but did not seem impressed. But they didnt reject it outright, eithor. Then they poked their fat necks in to check the upphoulstry and started jabboring in German.
Their giant neckless eraser heads with comicaly little hair on them and small crimson ears slowly withdreuw from the tiny car as they stood up straight.
"VEE SMELL POO," one of them hissed.