Written on Sun Dec 15 2019 @ 9:07 AM PST
Pst. That’s like pppsst, hey you! Come over here. I’m a special forces member on an operation as you can probably tell from my camoflage and M4 assault rifle and the green facepaint on my face. I’m about to raid your next door neighbor and although I am sitting in a bush on your property, I need you to stay quiet and don’t alert your neighbor.
We’re going in on the count of five minutes, but I just wanted to know, do you have any coffee? I forgot to drink some back at HQ.
And you’re like, wuuuuut? Isn’t there an ammendment to the constitution about providing coffee to special forces who are occupying your bushes?
“I think I will decline.”
“nooo waaaay bro, I’ll only ask this once!”
“that’s what they all say. but the moment you feed a stray animal, that animal will keep coming back for life.”
“I swear. Just this once. Then I’m gone and you’ll never see me again.”
“That’s what they all say. But the moment you ask another person next week when you are on a raid to steal Russia’s pancakes, and you forgot to drink coffee again, you’ll ask the neighbor of the house of pancakes for coffee, and they’ll say no. Then you’ll remember my generosity and come over here begging for more.”
“What? No! I would never. That.. wouldn’t happen.”
“It wouldn’t happen?”
“It wouldn’t happen. Because I’m more inline with the cosmos than a person who would do that.”
I just gave a blank stare to this SF who had his head turned to the side, trying to look cute. His mouth hung open as he made a frown.
“You’re trying too hard. You do this every operation, don’t you?”
The SF straightened shook his head and cocked back his neck.
“Who me? Nah, brah. I ain’t like that. I have my own coffee maker and everything. I just.. I just forgot to have a sip before I left.”
I couldn’t even belief him.
“What kind of coffee do you buy?”
The SF took too long to reply to such an easy question.
“I buy Starbucks!”
Now I knew he was a liar.
“You fascist porcupig. Nobody with a soul and a taste for coffee buys Starbucks home brew.”
The SF quit trying to look cute. They reached for their M4 assault rifle.
“HEY HEY HEY! Not on my lawn, Mr. mudda fucka!”, I pointed a finger at the SF’s dirty face.
The SF crossed his arms instead.
“I didn’t want coffee anyway. Who would want your coffee anyway?”
I smirked and walked up to my front door. Standing on my porch, I pulled on the chain around my neck which brought up my collectible Donald Duck whistle. I smiled as I brought the butt end of Donald Duck up to my lips.
The SF pouting SF on his belly under my bush looked up at me. Realizing what I was about to do, his expression went from sad to shock in an instant.
The bill of my 352 of 100,106 collectible Donald Duck whistle vibrated violently, comically fluctuating in size and emitting wads of spit.
The neighbors on the block rushed to their windows to see what was the matter. A few of them ran out of their houses and into the street, all focused on the direction of the signature Disneyꟹ sound.
“My ears! My eaaaaaaaars!”
My neighbor in the street cried out in utter pain. His hands covered his ears as I could hear an audible pop of his ear drums rupturing before blood poured out between the gaps in his fingers.
He let out a last shriek of pain before passing out and collapsing in a shallow pool of his own blood.
I removed my lips from the 352/100,106 collectible Disneyꟹ Donald Duck whistle.
“Damn, I knew I should have read the manual.”
The neighbor of the house the SF was about to raid was on their front porch, leaning towards the street and hanging onto their colonial style house’s pillar and looking in my direction.
“I heard the noise. Is it true? Have the Yanks come to gut me?”
I nodded once, slowly.
My neighbor shouted in stressed belief, panicked and ran back inside. I could hear shouting and the whole family scrambled within.
“get the suitcases!”
I felt a sense of pride as I had protected my community from the dangers of the others.
I looked over at the SF, who was now dead. The shock of the whistle had certainly killed him as well.
Across the street, more neighbors who had been looking out their windows ran to their doors and out onto their porches and lawns.
One small lad in a PJ onsie with one of those flaps that lets you unbutton so you can poop slid open his vertically opening window and climbed through it. He spat out the binkie in his mouth before climbing up a bonsai tree to get a better view. The single corkscrew strand of hair on his head wobbled.
A couple neighbors ran up to the SF who had excreted all the face paint from his body.
“I claim this one!”
A neighbor shouted out, holding the SF’s corpse above his head.
“No, I think I should get it. He assaulted my onion last weeks.”
Another neihbor put hands on the SF, pulling it closer.
“Now, now, now. I think we can all agree that SFs have rights.”
The fat neihbor in 100% genuine demin said as he approached, walking with a rearward lean.
“Oh, I guess you’re right.”
The neighbors holding the SF placed him on the ground gently. The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim took off his cotton shoes before stepping on my lawn.
He tiptoed over to the SF who was in a T-pose on the green.
“Now let’s see what the SF’s last wishes were.”
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine leather crouched down to the SF. With a #2 pencil, he tilted back the SF’s head, and inspected the mouth for an obstructed airway.
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine leather reached down the SF’s throat and pulled out a loaded M1911 pistol, two Mk2 grenades, and a M7 bayonette. he tossed them off to the side then gave the signal to the two quarreling neighbors.
“ok, go ahead.”
One neighbor leaned in above the SF’s face, and the other placed one hand over the other atop the SF’s belly.
“I’m beginning the procedure.”
The neighbor pressed down roughly on the SF’s belly. A puff of air was exerted from the deceased SF’s lungs, and a last wish blurted out of it’s mouth.
“Peanut butter chocolate cake at my funeral.”
All the neighbors watching turned to eachother and collectively murmured their opinions on the SF’s last wish.
“Oh, that’s a good one.”
“I would have chosen the same thing!”
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim rose from his kneeling position, and did a golf clap to get everyone’s attention.
“Alright, you heard the thing. Betty Crocker, would you be so kind as to make that cake?”
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim faced the house across the street which possessed an amateur cook dwelling there.
Betty was hiding behind the colonial pillar because everyone had colonial pillars in this town. She was wearing a blue casual dress with short sleeves and a quaint collar commonly worn in the 1950’s and she already had her red and white custom made cooking apron on, with a matching head bandanna which is meant to stop sweat from dripping down the wearer’s forehead.
Betty ran inside and began cooking up a peanut butter and chocolate cake just as the SF’s last wishes had described in detail.
The neighbors and I waited patiently. The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim tapped his feet a few times.
Betty ran out of her house at one point with an empty cup. She ran to the neighbor’s house next door.
“caAAnnn i.. I HAvE a CuP of shuuUUGarr?”
Betty was awfully nervous. Betty Crocker always gets nervous when she goes outside. Betty Crocker’s cooks a mean dish, but she isn’t confident except for when she is a cookin’. As the saying goes.
“I’m sorry, I’m all out of sugar as I am a fourth wave vegan and I do not eat sugar due to the fact that it is prepared on bone…”
“OH Shut the FUCK up!” Betty Crocker grabbed the neighbor’s door and slammed it in the neighbor’s face.
“If I have to deal with one more fucking stupid ass vegan cumquat, I’ll fuck them up so hard that the moon comes to Mars!”
Betty stormed off to the next house.
“maAyy I plLeaAsee hAuVe A cuP of SuGAR?”
“Oh sure, Betty Crocker, please, come inside while I get that for you.”
The Betty Crocker went in the house that was yellow and actually not a collonial house and closed the door behind her as she went in and the neighbor went to the kitchen with Betty’s cup and they had plastic containers for their sugar, they didn’t just keep the sugar in the paper bag that the sugar came in when they purchased the sugar from the store. It was a big plastic container too, the kind that you may see in someone’s house who really loves cooking, because ants are attracted to sugar so maybe that’s why they kept the sugar in the plastic container, but it was probably more actually in the plastic container because the owner of the kitchen had a good sense of interior design style, and paper bags are usually frowned upon because that is a raw container that the product comes in when you buy it, and not something you are really supposed to use to store something long term in, because it’s just not suited for that purpose, it can rip or tear, and sugar can spill out the seams in the bottom even though the paper is held together quite rigidly with some sort of food safe glue.
“ohH, ThAanK yuuuou FoR thIs SUGAR.”
Betty said the above phrase after the neighbor poured the sugar.
“I will bBe GOinG nOw.”
“Ok then, have a peaceful day!”
The generous neighbor smiled and waved from their kitchen as Betty Crocker showed herself the door and let herself through that door.
Betty Crocker left the house and went back over two houses to her own house then she went in her own house.
The neighbors in my yard just kind of held their positions as we all waited for BeTtY CrOcKeR to finish making the chocolate and peantbutter cake.
“IT’S PEANUT BUTTER AND CHOCOLATE, YOU DOLT!”
Betty Crocker screamed from her kitchen.
“Hey Betty, I know you’re confident in the kitchen and all, but if you could just not yell at me when I’m narrating that would be wonderful. Doing that kind of breaks the fourth wall, y’know what I mean? So if you could abstain from such outbursts while I’m not doing dialog, but rather NARRATING the fucking story, that would be wonderful, Mmkay? Thaaaaanks.”
I deleted the next line of what Betty Crocker was about to say because it was even more offensive than the time she screamed at the vegan.
Ok so the neighborts and I just kind of waited for Betty Crocker to finish baking the cake.
One neighbor looked at their watch. Another scratched their head. The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim tapped their foot on the ground a few more times.
“oKaY, CakE is SerVeD.”
Betty was instantly on my lawn and handed the fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim the cake before running back to her house.
The pan was hot and it burned the fat neighbor in 100% genunine demin’s hands. Smoke rose from his hands and we could all smell the smell of burning flesh. I don’t think he noticed because he was so fat.
“OK, the funeral for this is in session. Let’s have this cake.”
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim looked around for somewhere to set the cake. He nodded at the two neighbors who had squeezed the SF’s last wish out of the corpse.
The two neighbors flipped the SF on his back, it’s joints now a tacky consistency thanks to Rigormortis.
Next the two neighbors posed the SF’s limbs towards the ground, forming four legs of a carcass table. The camo colored cadaver table held it’s position as the joints of the SF completely hardened up.
“Just in time.”
The fat neighbor in 100% genuine denim smirked as he placed the burning pan on the table. The melted skin of his hands came off with the pan as he slid it onto the horizontal back of the SF.
“Now we eat this cake, in remembrance of a thing, that did another thing that someone somewhere might have appreciated, but the thing was not so appreciated in the area which it had occurred. Amen.”
The crowd amen’d in unison and began eating the peanut butter chocolate cake. There were no silverware so everyone just used their #2 pencil to eat the cake as if it were a shishkabob.
A few time passed and only one neighbor died from poisoning.
The SF’s body simultaneously dissipated as it’s final wish was granted. The neighbors clapped. The two arguing neighbors who had argued so intently over the SF, had become friends and agreed to share a piece each of the remaining battle dress uniform.
It was an interesting day, but it was a day indeed.
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