By: Cody DiCavalcante
It was a hot night. Everything was starting to take the form of a ficus. I hadn’t been this damn hot since Elvis re-enacted the Chinese definition of synergy. It wasn’t long until I saw two soldiers come out of the summit cabin, with their guns shooting into the soil, their bullet incubators still shining like lighthouses in the distance. The moonlight offered its pre-pubescent innocence onto the ground and made everything noticeable; rocks, blown-off fingers, rectal thermometers, blood that actually took on a black tint in this nightly globe of horror. I saw a Yerferstine tree next to me. These trees were natural toothpaste growers, so I yelled in its face, “Coffee covered donut tires”, then it dispenced toothpaste from its trunk. It sparkled like an avatar’s tranquility. I could see the soldiers in the distance start to play patty-cake with each other. This was a new game to them. They enjoyed it. Oftentimes if one of them was off-key, the other would have to surgically remove their cocyx. It was an ancient ritual of the Nepalese thundersmokers. They were a strange tribe, wore lettuce on their arms and wrote their alphabet with the slobber of a dried kangaroo spleen. I took the only device that I had with me in this place and began to put it to my teeth for a quick rinse before the battle with this tribe, my finger.
I was closing in on the soldiers when all of the sudden a giant cement truck came barreling around the cliff. Limp Bizkit was blaring over the intercom in the truck. His lyrical anomolies were marching off all over the desert. It must have been Roco, the Russian ex-space cadet that helped build modulators for the soldiers. I knew everything about these people. You had Cary Grant, not to be confused with the Hollywood actor. He was a ruffian, loved to accuse tiny bugs of stealing his candy coated nectarines. He was what Germanic folk called a “Shindo Kayaya”. I didn’t have time to go into a mental biography of every scum-sucker that was out here. What I did have time for, was executing judicial duty onto these military personnel. Roco parked right outside the cabin. He was about to walk inside when he stopped. Fuck, he know’s I’m here. That wasn’t the deal though, he had a 6th sense for his shoes, he knew when they were untied. He bent down and did bunny ears. I laughed in the hard place of a boulder. After he spent about a minute on each shoe, he walked inside and joined the others. This was it. I dashed behind a rock then stretched my quad’s. I felt the sweat drip down my face as I painstakingly turned my neck towards the cabin. They soldiers were back inside now, looking at Sinister’s Magazine and picking out their favorite mating calls in Mike Bronson’s book, “Too Hot to Stop”. I pulled out a grenade from my knapsack and clenched it for dear life. This could be the end. This could stop the fighting that has been raging througout the land for 16 goddamn years and for it to be over a child falling off a bike, I’m ashamed to call this a national battle worth fighting. The kid is a Sheikh now for crying out loud. He’s got the whole nine yards. Grapes dropped in his mouth by beautiful women, O.A.R. concert tickets every celestial leap year (Not to mention mandatory meetings with the Blue Man Group every Thursday), Baskin Robbins unlimited bucket (which I have to say makes Dairy Queen’s infinite barrel of ice-o-cream look like child’s play). I was now a few yards away from the cabin. I needed a distraction…
I was becoming increasingly agitated now. There wasn’t anything in this stinkin’ place that was useful. I then remembered I had bought a midget wizard about 200 miles west in the town of Pork Lint. This place was a guy’s dream station. Some of the most beautiful pigskin’s in the history of mankind had been used here to train the likes of Bret Favre, Peyton Manning, John Elway and even Jack “Fiorella Steakhouse” Stack. I pulled him out. Fuck. He was still sleeping. After purchasing and re-awakening them with prized salts of the Dead Sea, it takes 300 hours for them to wake up. I checked my watch that had a countdown that would go off when was ready to awaken from his nightcap with psychosis. 3 minutes. I didn’t have time for him to wake up, so I just used him as best I could while he was under the influence of sleep. I peered into the cabin window. They were now lighting their hair on fire with a well-played record that had been sitting in the blaring sun all day. I bent back down and gave one more stretch of my quads. My face began to look deeply into the wizard’s closed eyes. “SHIT! Little man, you better help me out with this or I will be in deep shit! Shit deeper than the shit you once were in when your mom, Uncle Buck got sent off to Kendra Spaulding’s House!” I pushed his knees into his stomach. He gave a little snore as I adjusted him into fetal position. I closed my eyes and began to see my goat, Ariana. She was walking like rain and throwing up grass that she used to eat as a remedy for her upset stomach. “This is for your Ariana!” Then it happened. The wizard woke up. I once again was in mental concoction for far too long but this time it brought me fortune.
“Hi, young sharon dorsey! How are your hooves today? May i wash your gum for you?” The wizard said in a high-pitched squeel.
“Shut up ya idiot! You’re gonna get us killed!” I whispered harshed into his face
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak anger. Do you want to try again? For it seems I have no time for a two-timing ignoramus such as yourself!”
“Alright, let’s do this.”
I threw the wizard into the cabin then waited for the perfect moment. I then heard my friend Jarson laugh from inside.
“What the fuck is this? This looks like the wizard that Argon bought back in Pork Lint. Argon, you out there?”
I came around front and then saw my friends. They were dressed up as the enemy for tonight’s actual ploy of destruction. Well planned friends, well played. I felt I was in a house of cards and I was the jester among kings and ace’s. Well, round 2 in one night isn’t so bad.