HEY!
What happened?! Where am I?! Do I smell bananas?! These are the questions that niggle the confounded minds of the Queso Club. As far as we can discern, the past several weeks have passed by unnoticed while we were frozen in carbonite in some dugong's sea cavern. With each day we find more clues that slowly decipher the shrouded mysteries of that time. So far, the biggest clue is that we are currently underwater; however, since we now find ourselves in an octopus's garden, is seems that we were at some point rescued from our more sinister circumstance, one that came to require covert absquatulation. We assume that the octopus landlord, Glub-Glub, is responsible for our deliverance, but, since he can make no other sound than the occasional and endearing "glub," we are yet unconfirmed in that assumption. Our primary hope rests upon a mysterious figure called Chris Baxter. We introduced ourselves to this legend by reading ornate archaic calligraphy that we discovered impressed upon clay tablets within Lord Glub-Glub's personal treasure chest. (Perhaps he entrusted us with the tablets in order that we may interpret them for him.) Anyways, we have come to enjoy our aquatic lifestyle and to wait patiently for Baxter. In the meantime, we have decided to share this report and to include a silly short story that was written by SmoothJazz a number of years ago. Be aware that the tense, grammar, and organization of the story is flawed and not perfectly lucid. Just enjoy it for what it is. With that being disclaimed, let us commence!
NOPE
(yes that is the original title of the story)
I was taken directly to the police station after pulling a handgun on a young woman that walked into my corner deli this afternoon. Being a slow day as usual, I was flabbergasted that a pedestrian happened to be window shopping and witness the event. I suppose it was a bit drastic on my part, but it was the only solution I could see. I wonder how that young woman is getting along. Have the police already located her in some other market or at her place of living? Will she tell them the whole story? What will the inquirers think? Will they believe her? I cannot help but ponder these crucial issues while I recline in a creaky wooden chair that’s hampered to the hard, cold floor of the interrogation room.
I have to say that I quite enjoyed the short trip across town in the back of the squad car. I was, however, saddened that the two officers who removed me from my place of business would not turn on the siren when I asked them too. At least the officers were nice enough to take it easy when I posed no resistance to the arrest. They were surprised when I gladly confirmed the witness’ story that, as I was told, was reported only half an hour earlier. I couldn’t shake the feeling that they found me to be odd.
Once at the station-or “downtown” as I often hear in movies-the same two officers escorted me to a holding area and retreated behind a steel door. I took a seat between two others, a bulky man with a scar above his left eye and tattoos on his arms and a brittle woman with tattered clothes and mangy hair. My introduction was met with scowls, and the man spat at me. I was glad to have made some new friends. I wonder if they would testify for me. I don’t think the case will be taken that far though.
One of the officers returned a few minutes later and, interrupting my game of duck/duck/goose with my new friends, led me down a new corridor. This corridor was lined with identical barred doors and was harshly lit by swaying ceiling lamps. We entered this barren box and I sat down in this chair, looking across a metallic table surface at the officer who remained standing in front of the door. I was just about to ask him if he was a wombat when he spoke.
“Mr. Cuttingham, do you know why you are here? Do you understand that you have broken federal law by threatening that young woman?”
“I have not forgotten pulling my gun on that young lady,” I say in response, “but I believe that I have done the right thing. If the government wants to disagree then so be it. By the way, sir, are you or have you ever been a wombat?”
“What do you mean the right thing? You have just admitted the threatening a young woman with a handgun in your deli! We even have a witness! Actually, I’m half wombat.”
“I said ‘young lady,’ did I not? I don’t think you comprehend my motives. It was for the common good, I assure you that. As for the witness, he/she was not in my shop at the time and does not understand either. He/she was only window shopping. Me too! However it was my father that was the wombat. My mother says I’m just like him.”
“Frankly, I think you’re a right prat. I must leave to attend to other matters. You are to remain seated until given permission. If you desire to make one and only one phone call you may. I trust that this whole deal will be sorted out soon enough. Your father must have been one unique fellow.”
“I do not desire to make a phone call at this time. He still is. His sixty-fifth birthday is Tuesday at 11:44 AM.”
“I’ll send a card. I hope he likes monkeys with goggle eyes.”
I watched him leave, locking the door behind him. I sat transfixed, waiting. I did not have to wait long. The other officer that was in the squad car gave the door a clanging rap and informed me that the young lady had arrived at the station. I look forward to seeing her again. She was exceptionally nice last time I saw her. I hope the police believe her. I don’t think they feel too sure about my account.
I figured she would be questioned separately, but after a while the door opened and she stepped in, smiling, followed by the half wombat. The half wombat had a stubborn, disbelieving look on his face. He also didn’t take too kindly to me thinking that out loud. After both entered the room the young woman took a seat across the table, slouching happily into a chair similar to mine. The half wombat kept a close eye on me to make sure I didn’t attempt to attack the young woman. He still doesn’t understand the situation.
I half expected the half wombat to say something funny, but no such joke came. Instead the young woman broke the silence.
“Hello, Mr. Cuttingham. I had a few nibbles of that roast beef before this lot showed up at my house,” she says, indicating the half wombat, “It was delightful.”
“Thank you, dear. All my life I’ve been able to roast beef, but I have yet to pee soup. Say, did you know that the officer watching us is a half wombat?”
“That’s enough about my ancestry!” exclaims the half wombat. “I want to know why you threatened this young woman.”
“Would you care to explain, young woman. I’ve had enough of this guy for a while,” I say.
“Sure,” she says, “I went into the store for a drink of water, but Mr. Cuttingham took care of the problem.”
The half wombat stood rigid in profound surprise then said, “You had the hiccups.”
Well, there ya go folks. Who would've anticipated that ending? I know that I did, because I wrote it. I hope that you have enjoyed this, and we will try to get the blog up and running again sometime soon. I know that you can't wait. If you in fact can wait, then you ought to get that checked out. Shalom!
Superbly,
SmoothJazz
