Whispers. There they were again.
Whispers, whispers. Like midnight leaves in a summer breeze. Cousin Harold kept hearing more whispers.
“Wtf!”thought Cousin Harold. First he checked his ass, due to an unfortunate situation last year when he’d mistakenly eaten a cookie laced with high-grade medical marijuana and ended up believing he was a dog romping on the playing floor with his host’s beast, named Jack.
And every time Harold would let one rip, he’d scour the living room and kitchen on his hands and knees looking for the source of the ‘bark.’
Thus poor Cousin Harold’s endless search ever since for the mysterious whispers. A victim, finally, of his own disturbed flatulence. Still, it did make him long for the old days when the other kids would see him and yell, “Pooter’s coming! Pooter’s here!” and head for the hills….
‘I know it. It’s that Terry and Crankypants, they’re cooking up a conspiracy. Those fuckers are doing it, I know’ murmured Cousin Harold. ‘I’d best check up on them.’
Cousin Harold slowly climbed the stairs, sneakily, he thought, moving with great stealth and wisdom to eavesdrop.
Upstairs however, Terry and Crankypants were engaged in what they believed was a mature discussion, at last relieved of the presence of Cousin Harold, with his endless interruptions, eructations, and laughter at his own jokes.
Terry said, “Shhh. Listen. That crazy fucker is coming up the stairs.”
Crankypants, ever the dissembler, and provocateur, whispered, ‘Let’s make him believe we don’t know he’s there.’
‘Ok,’ Terry said, delighted to have a co-conspirator to help him from the tremendous migraines of never being able to get back at Cousin Harold, his knob of a brother. In fact, if anyone other than Crankypants, who had her own evil grin, had seen him that moment, he would have been giving off a glow.
As Cousin Harold settled back on the stairs to listen, Terry and Miss Crankypants revved it up.
Terry, “I really like his poetry. Especially the one about honey. If I remember rightly, it goes like this – and by the way, this is my favorite of his fuck poems – so let me recite:
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to fuck you. Fuck. And you. And you too. Fuck fuck fuck. Suck. Suck suck suck. That’s it, bitch. I love you. Fuck fuck fuck.’
Crankypants acted as if overcome by emotion, “Oh, Terry, isn’t he brilliant! A literary giant. I understand why all those beautiful women and beautiful barely legal girls end up on his Facebook and following his blogs.”
All the while she was grimacing as if passing the stone that closed the door on the tomb of Jesus. It was that kind of holy reaction.
She absolutely could not stand the mere intimation that Cousin Harold was slavering over those juicy wenches.
Cousin Harold listened, wide-eyed and tempted to blare out his hiding spot, “Those fuckheads! Fuck me gently! I’m going to have some ‘teaching’ to do.
Cousin Harold started reminiscing about giving pivots(the sudden and slight push down on the back of the head of the surprised victim, causing their neck to take up the sudden weight and spring up like one of those early drinking bird old gomers used to put up in the back of their rear car windows), and enjoying the person’s outraged resistance to another.
Terry and Crankypants were thoroughly enjoying Cousin Harold’s discomfort. Now they were the genius!
Which prompted Terry to begin again, “Yes, he’s such a genius!” all the while twirling one finger against the side of his head.
And this of course made Crankypants all aglitter with joy, since finally here was a fellow of like-mind, one who believed as she did, that Cousin Harold may well be a genius, but he was one disturbed fucker.
Suddenly, their conversation turned serious, with Terry giving off waves of brotherly concern. If Cousin Harold has been there, he would have asked, ”Are you melting?” enlivening another display of outrage on the side of both Terry and Miss Crankypants.
“I’m worried about him, you know. He has no money, you don’t have any but you have hillbillies for fambly, still Harold has nowhere to go, and his health isn’t the best what with all those high-blood pressure pills(thereby confirming Cousin Harold’s belief that no one connected his high blood pressure with Miss Crankypants manner of behavior), the sleeping pill, the anti-depressant, and the pill for that godawful hiatal hernia,” Terry said.
And what about the fact that he’s getting older, with no employment to show for all these decades. His government pension when he does get one will probably come postage due, the dumb ass.”
Miss Crankypants concurred,”I know, Terry. He’s got nothing and nowhere to go. I’m afraid when we get to Kentucky he’ll probably starting making fun of my Mom and Dad and they’ll throw his ass in the pond. I mean, I love him as a friend (and here Cranky winked), but there are limits.
If anyone’s going to throw him in the pond, it ought to be me.’
And here Terry and Miss Crankypants roared with laughter.
Terry said, “And if you did that, then we’d have to arrange for long term care for him. And I sure got an idea , or a few we could implement.”
Miss Crankypants practically shat herself with excitement, “What! What!” temporarily forgetting that Cousin Harold was probably listening. And reminding Cousin Harold again of the look he’d get whenever Crankypants would prattle endlessly about something he considered irrelevant and he would start making the sound the aliens make in the movie Mars Attacks! ‘Ack, ack! Ack, ack ack!’
She almost grew blisters on her ass every time he did that, and especially when it was in front of other people who mistakenly considered her normal.
‘That fucker,’ she thought to herself.
“I know”, said Miss Crankypants. “Remember when he threatened me if I didn’t shut up, and who’s he to talk, he never shuts his pie hole, always yakking and talking about his bullshit and (at this point Terry tuned out…)…… and then said he’d drug me, tie me to a wheelchair, put a hat on my head with a little pillbox and flower coming out of it, and put lipstick all around my lips as if I was drunk and leave me at some church, with some fucking sign on me..”
“We can do it to him! I know.”
“Let’s say we plan ahead. We’ll get him to some place where there are no slim white women who are in any way attractive. We’ll tell them he loves big dumb fat nurses, and that he has a problem with constipation.
That way they’ll make sure that he’s forced fed laxatives, and his dick will die a lonely death!”
Crankypants piped in, “And we’ll tell them that he can’t stand chocolate, he hates porn, and he loves Baptist preachers coming to proclaim the Word at least once a day! Plus he believes in daily enemas, likes to have someone read that Patterson asshole’s works to him, and he most assuredly needs company every day and night as often as possible, and if the person is self-possessed and opinionated, that would be best as he loves know-it-alls!”
Terry and Miss Crankypants were practically starting to believe in Santa, and Jesus and magic all at once. They could almost not contain themselves.
Cousin Harold sitting on the edge of the stairs had practically turned into one long fart of rage and disgust.
“And not to forget, Terry, he cannot possibly live without his television, and rap music. All that ‘bongo bongo bongo I don’t wanna leave the Congo‘ he starts yelling the minute what he calls k-rap music comes on is just a fib to make it less obvious how much he adores being yelled at by enraged retards,” said a delighted Miss Crankypants, imagining her life with a Cousin Harold held hostage by the system he disdained.
“And, Terry said, “he must have his Reader’s Digests, and any literature by Christian Scientists, 7th Day Adventists, and most specifically, Scientology, which I believe he quoted something from Elmore Leonard’s books, applied of course to something else, as “‘ice cream for freaks.’”
“Perhaps, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, will make an exception and drop in…” whispered Crankypants.
It continued, and Cousin Harold was alight with methane and revenge.
He began to plan.
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Dean J. Baker is the award-winning author of 20 + books of poetry, prose poems, plus social/political satires.
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