Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Newsletter -- Spud's Eye for The Lady

My newsletter staff was in the mood for love that night, taking down The Lady on the Fourth of July, and I've been in the mood for revenge. Big, violent, terrible revenge, the kind you don't come back from. And I'm confident my grievances will be satisfied. If the righteousness of my cause counts for anything. These guys knew what they were getting into. They knew my rule, "Hands off The Lady!"

With Danny's demise yesterday and exit from the scene, I had to choose, Let us see ... who's next? Suddenly a thought flashed in my mind, How about Spud Tuber? They had The Lady on the ground and that's where potatoes come from. Spud was burrowed down with her and stripped to his skin that night in lovemaking. I've been practically consumed with rage ever since, and now as I replay my memories of her in the grasp of my least-favorite Tuber, that's the topper. It's time to uproot and ship him out.

I have to tell you, folks, rage is a killer. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept. All I can do is pace the floor and cuss the heavens. I'm usually a guy respectful enough not to take the Lord's name in vain, but in endless rerunning of this sickening memory I've spewed so many oaths and imprecations that it certainly would've brought down the storehouses of thunder and lightning on my head if I didn't know within myself such treasures of grace. It's good to be loved unconditionally.

Maybe that's why The Lady allowed these prisoners all over her, just too loving a nature. But that doesn't make sense. She can see, she has feelings, she can tell they're the scum of the earth. The other thing I can't see is how the Potato Man could have had any illusions about his chances with The Lady, due to his hideous form and equally clumsy personality. It's ridiculous. I can only conclude it must be the same for Spud as it is for many other losers, they never see how inexcusably horrible they actually are.

But I've also been thinking, it doesn't seem like a case of a loving nature. She could've flirted with them and left they high and dry. That would've been funny. Instead she willingly succumbed to Tuber that night, and I'm endlessly appalled.

Was there some underground chthonic allure simply too powerful for her? Was it Tuber's connection to nature, the call of the wild, the charm of the primal? Maybe a guy like him looks better to a lady in the dark; certainly in the light of day this potato's not blue ribbon stuff. Whatever it was, there they were, him with his big spudly hands, similar to The Thing of comic book lore, pawing the goods, every beautiful piece of her under the filmy fabric of her dress.

Now, about the newsletter... Danny managed to fill Spud's head with notions, as he was parroting the same line as Danny, "Ahm gonna take your newsletter and make it mine. Ahm gonna take The Lady and make her mine." I had to laugh to myself, thinking, I never thought Potato was that into writing a newsletter. I mostly wanted him for grunt labor, to carry boxes of newsletters to the post office. His talents are few. Yes, he may have the instinct to breed -- and that's where the Lady would come in -- but every three-legged idiot dog knows how to do that. But you have to admit, when it comes to newsletters neither three-legged dogs nor potatoes are any good.

When I confronted Spud about The Lady, I believed I had the upper hand. But as it turned out he wasn't about to go down easily. I vowed I would slice him into enough french fries for an army. He glared at me and I glared back. Then all hell exploded, and there we were, in fierce hand to hand combat. Spud had me in a bear hug and was about to squeeze the life out of me, when I pulled a knife from my pocket and plunged it in his back. He released me and staggered back.

Regaining his strength, Tuber lunged at me, got hold of me and lifted me, and was about to break me in half over his knobby knee, when I pulled out a second knife and plunged it in his mid-section. He staggered back again. And again -- potatoes never learn -- when he lifted me again above his head and was about to thrust me against the broad side of my garage and to a certain death, I pulled out my last knife -- and this is unpleasant, but it's what you sometimes have to do to a potato -- I plunged it in and cut his eyes out. If I'd been hungry he was ready for the microwave.

I fell to the ground and watched Spud Tuber fumbling about on the ground, like Samson, looking for his eyes, as if his Make-a-Wish was to take one last look at The Lady before complete blindness overtook him. But it wasn't to be. Even had he found his eyes, The Lady was inside retyping a new article, on my parents' teachings on pacifism. And I wasn't about to authorize a coffee break.

With Tuber down, I delivered probably the saddest words I've ever spoken to another living creature: "Spud, I once believed you would be my right-hand potato. It really bums me out to slice you up like that. But look on the bright side, you're not crinkle-cut." I put in a quick call to the work release farm and the black prison bus came and took him away. From three quarters of a mile away I could see him shedding a tear, his tear ducts now completely open air and probably running 24/7.

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