397: Scary Things

“Have you picked out your Halloween shape yet?”

Why did I have to ask that? I assumed I knew the answer. C.W. always takes the same shape: his beloved three-headed monster, but I just had to bring it up. There he sat, looking a lot like some character I’ve seen on television a lot lately, but I can’t remember his name. He’s always standing behind the president in news clips, looking so sincere that chocolate candy wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Anyway, I thought He would say “me” as his shape again. He says going as himself is the only way most people can see the “real” C.W. It makes sense, and draws a lot of attention. But no.

“I’m going as a real person this year.”

“Oh.” I nodded toward him with a question look.

“Oh no,” he said. “Not this one. I field-tested it and it scares the kids too bad.”

“Who then?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It’ll be the greatest Halloween costume the world has ever seen.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’ll be such a great costume that it will make Hillary Clinton turn herself into the FBI.”

“No, C.W., no.”

“I’ve received over five million letters asking me to.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re a poot-headed goose if you don't believe me.”

“Come on, get serious.”

“I’ll have ten thousand of my brothers marching outside, protecting our blood and soil, if you don’t let me.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“What isn’t?”

“How you’re threatening to appear on Halloween.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“I believe so.”

“I forgot. And, oh, I have to go.”

“So you were just kidding about all this?”

“About all what?”

 

The best "incumbency insurance"
any president ever had. - C.W.

“Halloween.”

“What about it?”

“How you are going to appear.”

“Oh, I don’t know yet how I’ll appear.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Now I have to go.

“Where to?”

“I have to purchase a large pumpkin to use as my head.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

396. Truth

  “Want to go for a walk?” C.W. came into where I was reading. He had assumed what is rapidly becoming his favorite shape, the Galilean.

“Not with you looking like that,” I said, “you know how much road-rage you cause in the South.”

“We’ll stay off the main roads,” he said. “Besides, I have a problem.”

“You have a problem? How can the savior of humankind have problems? Did your last batch of wine go sour?”

“Up yours,” he said. I knew that he was serious.

“Let me get a walking stick.”

“It’s the Falloonian Elders again,” he said once we were out of earshot from our farmhouse.

“I thought you had soothed things over with them.”

“Oh, this isn’t about that speech I gave at the old-folks home.”

“The one where you told them they were exceeding expenses and were going to become expendable?”

He ignored me. “Each day has problems of its own. This is a new one,” he said. “Well, verily I say unto you that it is a recurring one, but much more serious. The rain falls on all of us, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “the just and the unjust.”

“Everyone,” he said, “The tellers of truth and the ones who know not truth.” He paused, “Although,” he said, “that last bunch has been getting away with a lot of crap lately.”

“Are we talking politics here?”

He had perseverated on his last thought and ignored me. “The sun riseth on their evil daily.”

“Is that the problem?”

“No,” he said. “The Elders think I seek to exalt myself. You know as well as I that I only seek to be humbled.”

I stopped and thought for a few seconds. “Let’s get back to that,” I said. “Tell me what’s bugging you.”

“I am being persecuted for my righteousness.”

“What righteousness?” I said before I thought. “You know I catch a lot of grief on account of some of your stunts.”

He turned and glared at me. “Were I not blessed in being a peacemaker, I would terminate our friendship.” He paused and I could feel him relaxing, “But,” he said, “I suppose you are also blessed when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

I suppressed a groan. “Why don’t you just tell me your problem?”

“You know I am the truth and reality for you Americans,” he said. “No one comes to the Elders except through me.”

“So what is the problem?”

“I am being falsely accused of ahmekencheatep.

“Of what?”

“Don’t you remember when I told you that, back on Falloonia I had wanted to become what we call a “chronicler of imaginary cosmic pathways?”

“Yes,” I said, “our equivalent of a writer of fiction.”

“Close enough,” he said, “someone who binds himself not to the truth, but to forgetfulness of reality.”

“A writer of fiction.”

The trick of being a good liar
is to have an honest face. - C.W.

“But not harmful fiction, unlike those who write for that imitation news channel named after a small furry animal.”

“Okay,” I said. “So why is that a problem? People read real fiction all the time most would agree that it is good for them.”

He stopped and pulled a small dead branch from a tree. He thrust it toward me like an attorney producing evidence. “It is not the healthy who need a doctor,” he said, “but the sick.”

“Elucidate.”

“I’m not sending fiction to the Elders I’m sending truth. The reason I was created and came into this world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”

“And well they should.”

“The Elders don’t believe me. The say I lie. They say that an honest alien does no deceive but a false witness—me, they say—pours out lies.”

“What are they saying you lie about?”

“Only that you American band of homo sapiens has elected a man as ruler who would start wars causing millions of deaths, would allow the unhealthy to die, bears false witness hourly, loves riches beyond all things, covets his neighbor’s wife, rules according to the color of one’s skin, thrives on intemperate speech, promotes the wicked to violence, mocks the differently abled, enters into divorce—and you how that gets under my skin—ignores those who mourn, mocks the righteous, and hates those who are poor in both spirit and riches.”

“I see.”

“Oh,” he said, “and they can’t believe that he hates aliens. They think we are lovable and have come here to testify to the truth.”

I turned to him. “My friend, I’m afraid that in these frightening times, that is a dangerous thing to do.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

395. Shopping

It’s always interesting to take C.W. shopping. First of all, he picks his shape carefully. Once, he came to Walmart as a 300-pound woman in shorts that weren’t much more than red thong underwear with a tattoo on one leg that said. “God knows what,” and one on the other leg that said “you’re thinking.”

I usually make him walk ten feet behind me. Today, though, he seemed fairly normal … for Walmart. He looked as though he might have been a farmer once. He wore a “Make America Great Again” baseball hat and faded overalls. Where they had worn through, he had red patches shaped like valentines sewn over the holes. A pair of scuffed black loafers completed the ensemble.

Not bad for Walmart, as I say. We walked along together, that is until I stopped to examine a freezer of ribs. When I had decided they were too expensive, I turned and he was gone. Did I dare hope that some sort of “Alien Rapture” had occurred?

No such luck. I heard him call me. “Hey Big Dope,” he yelled from two aisles down. “Come listen to this.” When I tried to ignore him, he yelled it again. I had no choice but to ease my cart toward him.

I found him standing close to a heavy-set woman with stringy red hair talking on a cell phone. She wore shorts, the legs of which seemed to cut off any blood that might make an attempt to complete a complete circulation. A tank top allowed a large portion of her stomach to cascade over the top of her shorts.

She would have looked like a standard Arkansas bar-haunter except for a bright rose tattooed on her neck, the stem extending beneath her tank top. This made her look more like a standard Arkansas bar-haunter with an ill-conceived tattoo. Walmart stores are full of them.

Anyway, C.W. was leaning in listening to her conversation. As I approached, she yelled into it, “So I told him he could jist ferget about gettin’ any more off me until he come around and faced the music, and by god I meant it.”

C.W. pointed at her and said to me, “She’s missing something called ‘her monthly.’ Is that a check or something?”

I said nothing. The woman lowered her phone and pressed it against one meaty thigh. “Do you mind?” she said, “I’m talking here.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

She started to say something. Then she looked at me and smiled. Two of her front teeth were missing and two were capped in gold. She looked at C.W. and nodded toward me. “He a friend of yours?” she said.

I left then, fast. C.W. followed along behind. As we walked away, I could hear the woman yelling into her phone again. “He can jist go waller around with one of them whores at ‘The Dance and Duck’ as far as I’m concerned."

We approached the baking goods section. As usual, there were a couple of elderly ladies parked there, examining the various cake mixes. As we passed them, C.W. said, “What does it mean when a woman says she missed her monthly?” Two heads snapped toward us.

I hurried on. When we reached the end of the aisle, C.W. pointed toward the personal care area and said, “I need to go over there. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” I said. “You’re not about to pull that one on me. You do remember that’s why you don’t get to come here with my wife anymore, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

 “You don’t remember yelling across the store to her that you had found the feminine products section?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why indeed? I don’t suppose you remember stopping an assistant manager and suggesting that he display the Ramen Noodles over by the condom section either, do you? That store over in the college town? Ring a bell?”

“That couldn’t have been me.”

Big Dope is such a good husband, always
offering to go shopping for his wife. - C.W.

“Then who was it that suggested that same day that they move the Mountain Dew drinks over to the firearms section?”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else,” he said.

“Like the unknown person that slipped the ‘Day of the Week’ panties into my cart last time we came here?”

“Someone did that?”

I started answer, but he had stopped beside another woman yelling into a cell phone.

“This time,” she said to an unknown listener, “I let them keep him in there until he dried out. I told them I didn’t care if he was a deacon. If First Baptist wanted him, they could go get him.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

394. Writing

“Hey, come here and read this.”

Groan. Even in the next room, the scene was clear. C.W. has taken lately to “shaping up,” as he calls it, like the president. It’s not only unnerving, it scares my wife’s cats. Nonetheless, I walked in to where he sat in front of a pile of papers, all printed with neat margins. He flipped through them and handed me one. I read:

“As he gently bit her nose, one hand began to scratch the toes on her right foot. She moaned, ‘Oh darling, you do that so quickly. Don’t slow down.’”

“What the …?”

“You like it, right?”

“What the …?”

He looked directly at me. “Go ahead, be honest. I can take it. That’s one of my strong points. What do you think?”

“First of all, what is it?”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m writing a novel. I have this friend, a well-known cinematographer, who likes steamy scenes, so I wanted to include a little of the type of literature or art intended to arouse sexual desire.”

“You mean erotica?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“If so, I think you missed the boat.”

“What boat? Are we going on a cruise? I haven’t even packed.”

“It is a figure of speech.”

He thought. “Wait one,” he said. He took a pencil and pad that lay on the coffee table and began to write. “Your figure is like a fine speech delivered in a soft husky voice in a candle-lit room.” Then he looked back at me. “So, what about part I read to you?”

“I … uh … is it supposed to be a sex scene?”

“Of course. Bet it got your old heart pumping, eh?”

“It was awful.”

“You jerk, nasty man, bad friend. You’re jealous, that’s all.”

“I thought you took criticism well.”

“Screw you. What was wrong with it, if I may ask?”

“For one thing, biting noses and scratching toes do not spark sexual desires in someone.”

“They do where I come from.”

“But your audience is here in America.”

“It is a great thing to bring some enlightenment into a dark world, and I am so good at it,” he said. “Wait one.” He turned back to his writing pad, wrote and said aloud, “He slipped a hand under her bra, hooked his fingers, then ripped it upwards from her body and over her head. It made a sound like a long length of duct tape that was being pulled from a cardboard box, and she moaned again. ‘Not so gently,’ she said. ‘Be strong and harsh.’ She head-butted him, making him see stars. This time, it was he who moaned.”

He stopped and smiled. “Writing is fun,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Don’t leave that stuff lying around where my wife can see it.”

“Oh, Mrs. Big Dope loves my work,” he said. “She thinks I ought to send it to all the local publishers.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, she even suggested that I send it in under your name to avoid legal entanglements when the royalties start rolling in, me being an alien and all. She said you would do the right thing about splitting the money.”

The problem with your species seems to be
that there are more people writing than
there are people reading. - C. W.

“I see,” I said, and I was actually beginning to. “She really liked it?”

“Oh,” he said, “she was absolutely evasive, no … wait … effusive, that’s it. She was effusive in her praise.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she even helped me send excerpts to some of your Facebook friends and former clients.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Want to hear her favorite?”

“Why not?”

He shuffled through the sheets. “Ah,” he said, “here it is.” He read:

“As he moaned his pleasures and continued to follow his intentions, she succumbed to the rush of her desires and smashed the plate of fish entrails into his waiting face. His eyes rolled upward in pleasure. With her other hand, she attacked his left rib cage, causing him to erupt in uncontrolled sexual giggling, sputtering and making a sound much like that of a pig breaking wind under water. They both trembled with joy.”

“Honey,” I screamed. “Get in here. You got some ‘splainin’ to do.” I rose and heard the sound of running footsteps and the back door slamming.

“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished. I’m just getting to the super-glue part.”
           
See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

393. Policy

Slept in this morning and C.W. was already busy with my computer when I walked into the living room. I had my morning coffee and was scarcely awake. He had a shape I’d not seen before, sort of a cross between the actors Don Knotts and Jim Nabors. He was wearing farmer’s khakis and a John Deer baseball hat and was typing away.

Careful not to disturb him, I sat quietly and took a sip of coffee. After a moment, he quit typing, looked at me, and said, “Morning, Poo-poo Head.” Then he waited.

“What?”

“No,” he said, “Too sissy.” He ignored me and went back to his typing. I heard him muttering to himself, “Just like everything else, they think this is easy.” He typed for a few seconds and then looked at me again. “Morning, you stump-broke female of the species Bos taurus, family ‎Bovidae.”

As one might imagine, I sat in stunned silence. He punched a single key and said “Save.” He smiled and started to speak but stopped and began typing again. “Slant-eyed lawn jockey.” He waited for a reaction.

“Stop it,” I said. “Please tell me what you are doing.”

“Busy,” he said, “Got to finish this assignment by Monday at noon.” He started to type again, but stopped, and looked at me again. “Fart-sniffing wiener dog.” He gave a shrug that implied, “What do you think?”

“I’m giving you one last chance,” I said. “You know I have the ‘hot-line number’ to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Working,” he said. “I told you I had a job.”

“A job?”

“It’s not a job. It’s an adventure. You wouldn’t understand you sun-dried douche-bag.” He gave me that look again.

“Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Who are you working for and what are you doing?”

“I’m working for myself, my own company.”

“And what company is that?”

“Taunts in Twitter Style,” he said. “Want to see some TITs?” he said, holding up a pile of papers. He shook them at me. “You short-stack pile of steaming … ,”

“Stop it,” I said. “Where did you get the idea for this company?”

“From a man named Vince,” he said, “you dried-up testicle bag.”

“I’m calling the Elders,” I said, if you do that one more time.”

“Go ahead, you sewage-sipping half-pint.”

I slumped in my seat. “This ‘Vince’ man, who is he?”

An entrepreneur,” he said, “I think he’s in the entertainment business. Something about the sport or activity of grappling with an opponent and trying to throw or hold them down on the ground, typically according to a code of rules.”

That stopped me. I just sat there shaking my head. Then, realization started coming toward me like a gray horse emerging from the fog. “Are you talking about Vince McMahon of World Wrestling Entertainment?”

“Who else, you dingleberry-nibbling midget?”

He's Number One, or
says he is, anyway. - C.W.

“He’s paying you to think up taunts?”

“He’s the go-between man, you crap-collecting moron.”

“I think I understand.”

“About time, you scab-scratching imbecile.”

“Vince McMahon is contracting with you to think up taunts for his professional wrestlers.”

This time, he looked at me with confusion.

I continued. “I don’t think,” I said, “that they would allow some of those on a family-oriented TV show, even a pro-wrestling show.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, “you scum-sucking child of a hairless baboon.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “I’ll have no problem with any censors.” He laughed to himself and repeated, “Censors my ass, you knuverhataklu.”

“You what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “They don’t allow me to use Falloonian.”

“Even on pro-wrestling? They would probably come closer to understanding Falloonian than they would English.”

“Some of those fans are earth-born, I'll have you know. A few are, anyway. And why do you keep harping on pro-wrestling?” he said, “you piss-ant’s underbelly.”

“Aren’t you into serving the entertainment industry?”

“Heavens no,” he said, “you skunk-sodomizing simpleton.”

“If not for pro-wrestling, then who for?”

“If you must know,” he said, waving a hand at me, “I’m helping out with foreign policy, at the highest level.” He paused and raised one eyebrow. “And I do mean the highest level, Loser Man.”

             
See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.