Enter Irrigation (or how i lost the war)

I handed my papers to the security guard and smiled.

“Nice day,” I said.
“Yep.”
“That lady before me really gave you a run for your money.”
He laughed.
“Seems like a man in your position would have insisted her fat ass stay on this side of the fence.”
“What about your fat ass?”
“I’m asking the questions, little man.”

I was thankful when the sun came out from behind the clouds and shone over my shoulder directly at him.

“When’s the last time you showered?”
“Yesterday.”
“You stink.”

He sorted through my papers without looking at me.

“Okay, you can go through.”

I walked through the brick archway into Le Manz’ garden where his wife grew tomatos. I fondled the loaf of money in my pocket and thought of Le Manz’ wife. She has no idea that I will die today.

The Reluctant I

Randall Smith was wearing a very nice watch. I watched it hang loosely from his wrist as a symbol of his wealth and power and aloofness. Why bother wearing a watch at all? People came to him on his own time. It would be no surprise if it was set to some arbitrary hour and he only referred to it when making conversation about what time of day it must be because, after all, it is getting dark.

His wife brought him a scotch and looked at the papers laid out in patterns on the table. She did not make eye contact with either of us but stood silent for several minutes while Randall sipped his scotch.

“Do these look familiar to you?”
“No, sir.”
He turned to his wife who then promptly left.
“They are emails I received from your son categorized by subject, each cluster of emails in chronological order.”
“I have never seen them before. I did not know the two of you communicated.”
“We don’t, Jack. These are death threats categorized by the ways your son saw fit to kill me. Can you think of any reason he would threaten me like this?”
“None.”
“Be honest.”
“You’re a prick.”
“That’s better.”
“You lie to others for profit. You are a bigot.”
“What else?”

Mrs. Smith peeked through the door at Randall’s back. It was silent again.

“You realize I could have your son arrested.”
“He is only ten years-old.”
“A very clever boy, I thought he might be college aged.”
“He is only ten and probably thinks that because I did not get a bonus this year that you are responsible for his not receiving a go cart for Christmas.”
“He really is very clever. On February 3rd, a Sunday, at 4 in the afternoon he had me hanging by my waist from a rope 30 stories in the air and rats gnawing on it where he had poured lamb’s blood.”
“Ghastly.”
“My only question is what does he do for fun? Does he have friends his age that he plays with?”

A rustling noise could be heard from behind the door where Mrs. Smith was standing. The door was opened wider now and her shadow was visible against the far wall.

“Friends? Yes, he has friends that he stays with after school sometimes until very late. They play baseball and other games.”
“Has he ever played Safari?”

Randall’s wife was moaning like an ape. Randall did not notice or chose to ignore it, but it was unmistakably his wife. Her shadow danced across the floor and wall and her voice was impassioned.

“I’ve never heard of it, Mr. Smith. Do you think your wife is alright?”
“It’s a game where a man and a boy take off their shirts and sit in the dark and pretend to be hunting the elusive raptors native to the safari jungles.”
“No, I’ve not heard.”
“It can be frightening.”
“I imagine so.”
“Would you like a scotch?”
“No, thanks.”

Randall collected the emails and threw them in the trash can beside his desk.

“I won’t press charges.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”
“There’s only one condition.”
“Of course.”
“I must meet the boy to clear up the matter about the go cart.”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps he could stay with me a while. My wife is a great cook and the housekeepers would adore him.”
“About your wife, Mr. Smith-“

Mrs. Smith burst through the door looking disheveled, her panties around her knees and her hand glistening wet.

“What time is it, Jack?” Randall asked.
“It’s late.”

JUST BECAUSE I HEARD IT THROUGH A FRIGGIN GRAPEVINE DON’T MEAN IT AIN’T TRUE.

I love honesty. When I see a person that I know is honest, I hug them. It just feels really good to meet and know honest people. In fact, it’s only honest people that get to be a part of my “Grapevine Network.” I travel all over the world just to meet people who agree with me, honest people, honesty being the only qualifying trait needed to make it into my exclusive network.

When something special happens, like the birth of a baby or a nasty breakup or an indiscreet night on the town, I go to my “Grapevine Network” to get all the details. By enlisting only honest people, I can be assured that what I hear is the sweet Lord’s gospel. When natural disaster’s strike, the “Grapevine Network” is my first source of key statistics like death tolls and property damage.

So when you hear someone say they heard it through the grapevine, be sure they don’t mean the grapevine network because I have a database with all the members’ names and can tell you right away if they’re lying. Obviously if they lie then they are not a part of my network and if they say the words “Grapevine Network” then I can probably sue them for libel or infringement of some kind and maybe we could hang out with my court settlement, get some yogurt together.

Peace out, niggas.

I PRAY TO GOD THAT ALL THE CHILDREN OF THE EARTH SLEEP WELL TONIGHT.

I read recently that our planet’s nutritional resources will be depleted by the year 2015. No chicken, no apples, no wheat, no water, nothing. It will all be wiped out on account of the asteroids. Actually, first the transformation of the atmosphere’s composition will stymy the proliferation of edible plants, the ensuing food shortage causing chaos across the globe. Then the asteroids will rain down and wipe our sorry asses out. So I sure hope the kids sleep well tonight because they gonna die before they graduate high school. Peace out, niggas.