Two gang members, Pooky and Slasher, decided to seek a bit of revenge against a rival gang member named Ragu, a behemoth creature who they swore was Bigfoot disguised as a human. The root of the plot kicked off when the man disrespected the pair of tough guys at the town’s 4th of July picnic. It seems that Ragu’s melting ice cream cone dropped a clump of chocolate ripple smack dab on Slasher’s brand new firehouse red Chuck Taylors, staining the uppers a color that strangely reminded Pooky of pistachio, his favorite flavor.
Since Ragu weighed just north of 265 with none of those pounds being of the porker variety. Nope. All muscle. So they came up with an end-around. They’d kill Ragu’s father, the thin and wiry, hatchet-faced accountant who worked at Petey Perkins’ Hardware store next to the Piggly Wiggly out on Rte. 1.
After a couple of days of planning and surveillance, the wannabe murderers decided to smother the Ichabod Crane lookalike while he slept. And they’d use his own pillow as the murder weapon. Everyone knew the old beanpole suffered from a serious hacking and wheezing case of emphysema, the direct result of puffing away at cigarettes, one behind the other, for the past forty years or so. No one, especially that goofball police chief, Pooky’d said, would ever connect them to the killing.
Exactly three days later, at precisely 2:12 a.m., Slasher and Pooky slipped through a window and into the home of Ragu and his father. It was dark, warm, and humid. Slasher’s Hannah Montana t-shirt was wet with sweat and clung to his flesh like a surfer’s wetsuit. Pooky on the other hand, was the cool one. But only so because he was too stupid to know that murder was, at the very least, a heart-pounder of epic proportion. So basically dumb, not cool. However, in spite of not perspiring, when happy, Pooky’s feet took on the combined stench of sour milk and burnt asparagus. This was one of those nights.
The two tiptoed through the dining room and then a hallway that led to the stairs. Up they went. They’d watched the place at night and had learned the location of the old man’s bedroom and that’s where they were headed, down the upstairs hall and to the right.
Two minutes later they were standing in the dark beside the accountant’s bed. Thirty seconds after that, with Pooky on one end and Slasher on the other, they shoved the spare pillow over the face of Ragu, Sr. Two minutes passed without so much as a peep or a wiggle from their victim. Slasher eased up his end of the pillow. In the nearly dark room, with only a sliver of creamy moonlight smeared across his forehead, the guy looked absolutely dead, so Slasher released his grip on his end of the pillow and Pooky tossed it on the floor.
The dead was done. Revenge was sweet.
Four hours later, the rail-thin accountant awakened from his sleep and slipped the nasal mask from his nose. The other end of its flexible plastic hose was attached to the CPAP machine sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He reached to switch of the machine that pumps forced air from the room into his nose, sort of like a scuba diving apparatus for people who snore horribly and often stop breathing in short bursts while sleeping.
While reaching for the switch he saw an overturned bottle of Trazadone, the powerful sleeping medication prescribed his doctor. He’d had insomnia since he was a kid. Nowadays he wins that battle by having two shots of orange-flavored vodka and a sleeping pill one hour before hitting the sack. At the end of that hour he’d best be in the bed because for the next several hours he’d be almost comatose. Lights out. An earthquake wouldn’t wake him.
So each night, there he lay, on his back with a constant supply of fresh air zooming into his lungs. Therefore, the actions of Slasher and Pooky were entirely in vain, and they were wholeheartedly surprised to see their “murder” victim greeting them with a cheery “Good morning!” when they entered the hardware store to purchase more ammunition for their Daisy BB guns. That’d planned to go shoot a few cans down by the creek after school. But, after seeing a very healthy and living and breathing dad of Ragu, they decided to come up with a plan B. So off they went, riding their bikes toward a setting sun.
So, I suppose the moral to this super-silly tale is to always be certain the victim in your tales is not wearing a CPAP mask, drunk, and on powerful sedatives when the villain strikes.
Hmmm … mask, drunk, and on powerful sedatives. And I promised to never mention politics and politicians on this site.