A Theft at Badge Oak Harbor

Often I question, why does this stuff happen to me? I KNOW the kid next door stole one of my chickens. I put on my trousers and shirt and marched right on over to the crummy little shack where he and his mother lived. The first knuckle joint on my index finger turned white from the pressure I applied to the doorbell. The button turned orange each time but no sound came, and my loud door rapping fell upon deaf ears apparently because I got no answer.

I went ‘round the side of the house and I saw the thieving boy’s mother sitting out, reclining, and it surprised me. It surprised me to see this woman out back sunbathing because she was so obese. She was stuffing herself with candy M&Ms and many of them were strewn in a small parameter surrounding her large, swim-suited torso. Too, there was a clucking—FROM MY CHICKEN. My chicken, yes, was waddling around this fat bitch pecking at M&M candies. “WHY is it that YOUR SON has carried off MY CHICKEN?!” I demanded.

She dryly responded, insulted my intelligence and ethnicity, and told me to go eat a sausage. I huffed, grabbed my cock, and headed home. On the way, I kicked the old hag’s mailbox down. ’MILL 10 BOROUGH RD.’ now bore a more accurate representation, I fancied, as it now lay upon the actual asphalt of the street it was named for.

I dropped my chicken back in its coup behind my own house and then, against my better judgment, headed down to the tavern. It was only 3 blocks away. I say against my better judgment because there’d recently been a grisly murder there and it was purported to be haunted now. The tavern housed a baby grand piano that a quite storied, though slight in stature, pianist had once famously played. It was a landmark of sorts. Of great enough sorts that once I reached the tavern, it had drawn out the local news and a great crowd had gathered.

This was at least a week or so since the crime occurred. I made my way in and saw at the focus of the hullabaloo were the town priest and rabbi both, and they were simultaneously performing rites to, I guess, exorcise the tavern of its deceased spirit who had become an economic nuisance. The bar was gathering a crowd with its entertainment, but they all stood outside and were entertained for free.

I saw another of my neighbors, Betty, a salon stylist, and not a thief or an obese, standing nearby. She was a bit of a silly gal, but no nonsense otherwise. She was holding white paint she’d just brought from the hardware store a block up; I gathered the trim on her house was in need. We looked on as the two holy men were waving their hands before the front glass window. I overheard the on-sire reporter report that the writing “IGOTYOUWHE”had appeared of nowhere on the glass, and ghostly it was I had to concur. A new letter in the line of un-spaced figures had been appearing every hour.

Torahs and Bibles alike were thrust double-fistedly at the machination. Suddenly, a glimmer of blonde shot through the crowd, like a phantom. It was Betty. Her paint canister was now open, quite apparently, as its content violently dashed against and ran down said glass. Huh. There was a hushed response from all present. A terrible outburst came anonymously from the crowd directed at Betty, followed by another opposing voice taking Betty’s side. Soon the whole block was clucking in the heat of argument and the upset passion reminded me quickly of my purpose here—a damn drink.

I moved gladly past the mass just in time as the rabbi was doused in a Clementine-hued paint. The scene was disgusting and my scowling face was no doubt ugly as I walked in. The bartender was sitting out in the main area at a high table, perched on a stool. The man, good-naturedly or not, I’m unsure, asked me not if I wanted a drink, but a job at his “haunted house.” I was furious. I pushed his seat back under the table, and exclaimed “a JOB?” I hesitated and looked about the room. There was a sign that announced the soup de jour was French onion. I was pretty hungry now that I reckoned about it. Using my same volume and tone of voice, I resolved to end this bad joke of a day and addressed the bartender who had a steering wheel belt buckle, “I’LL HAVE THE SOUP, THANKS.”