The Cab Driving Terrier

“Into my heart” ¡My rat’s ass!

I was trying to flag a cab and my rat’s ass heart was no help.

I could see how brilliant and horrible the fire in Sir Thomas’s eyes was. God His self was shading His eyes with His hand.

And with a brilliant place-kicking motion, Sir Thomas kicked the Ace of ♠ from my hand, sending it flying end-over-end through the museum’s upright organ.

I kept breathing, even though I was officially brain-dead. I had called a brain surgeon after I fired up the Folgers™, but her line was busy. I looked like a raspberry baby bundled-up in purple and green asbestos.

¡No one fucks with my Ace of ♠!

The cowboy moved like a cab driving terrier gone cuckoo. I had been waiting for him to make his move - and now it was time for me to try to remember what the fuck I was gonna do to counter it.

-¿Whom destroyed that motherfucker Mardren? -This was the first thing I can remember Uncle... err... Sir Tom say. Usually all you’d hear was a rude rumbling from within his armor.

I knew that I was a half-dead motherfucker, but is it really “whom destroyed”? Isn’t it “¡Cab driving terriers of the world unite!”

Sir Thomas didn’t respond and I wasn’t surprised. Not only was he one stupid jackass, I also didn’t say all of that out loud. But, in a unique move that I’m still pondering, I spat onto the back of my hand and rubbed my palms together.

Carly pushed me in the back of my dull, aching throb.

-¡Hey! ¡Sideshow Mike! -She said-. ¿Have the vultures given your cologne to the Contras?

Sir Thomas was a cab driving nose picker all right. He’s probably pickin’ up trash by the side of the freeway on weekends also.

-¿Are you shitting me? ¿The vultures did what?

-Yeah -Carly was gnarly-. They had an election. First, they voted your cologne off the medicine cabinet shelf and out to the Contras. Those Contras may be nasty little motherfuckers, but now they’re gonna smell the part.

-¿Wha’?

-And, second, they converted all of your clothes into purple tunics. They’re being altered at Jim the Tailor’s right now. ¿Are you down wit all of this shit?

I sat down and my Ace of ♠ sat down with me. My hand was trembling like it thought that I was out of my mind.

-When the ships were down, you were off toking a bowl with Old Man Mardren. The vultures are all part of life’s purple pageant. After they converted your clothes to purple tunics, they converted all of your possessions to coal. So now you have a huge coal and purple tunic collection.

-¡To coal! -Sir Thomas repeated, laughing. His laugh had a profoundly metallic aftertaste that reverberated throughout the museum-. That’s one bad-ass charcoal and tunic collection, Mike. ¡¿What the fuck are you gonna wear to dinner parties?!

Rivers and rivers of tears were raging behind my eyes as I pictured my self sipping mint juleps in a purple tunic with Chevy Chase.

Sir Thomas was pointing-out how much of a rat’s ass I was.

And I didn’t like it.

-Then, good sir, I would ax you to please die horribly.

-¿What? -I looked at my Casio® watch, but it was reluctant to tell me what time it was. The cab driving cowboy had my Ace of ♠, but now I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. I was too busy trying to get my watch to work-. ¿Is it brunch yet? ¿How am I supposed to know if it’s brunch when I can’t see the second hand for the third?

Sir Thomas shook his head in disgust.

-¿You can’t see the second hand for the third? -He asked-. ¿When are you gonna see the cold goo for what used to be Mardren? I think, young man, that you’ll see it when heck freezes over and is converted into a hockey rink for paranormal engineers. You won’t know which aileron hit your ass on the way out

-The cowboy moved through the museum like it was a gigantic lavatory-. Everyone here, at this very moment, is my friendenemy. I’ve just been fucking with you.

-¿Wait? -I was sending my self mixed signals. I was ordering from the menu when I should’ve been menuing from the order-. Wait, ¿am I your friend or enemy?

-Yes -Sir Thomas may not be the logic king, but he sure was a putz. A putz who someone had poured acetate on - I think dad had had a hand in that - and when he tried to articulate why he didn’t want acetate poured on him, he started rapidly oxidizing. Cheerio and pip-pip.

I lay down and offered my hand.

This time when I touched his metal hand, it wasn’t to keep him from skewering me like a shish kebab.