Life in the Witch House
Jul. 12th, 2007 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonAs I approach the apartment I see my downstairs neighbor, Hippy Longstockings and her boyfriend, Professor Messiah hanging out on the front porch. He lays indolent across the porch steps, propped up on an elbow, half naked in just a pair of cargo shorts and stroking his Jesus beard thoughtfully while Mz. Longstockings strums folk ballads on her guitar. Above them, from an open window, you can hear the Colonel screaming a steady stream of curses and death threats.
"What's going on?" I nod towards the window. They both look up at me as if being awakened from a trance. They look at each other with telepathic intimacy and then back at me.
"I'm working on a new song" Longstockings says enthusiastiaclly.
"It's really good" the Professor adds, "we've been working on it all night. This prompts him to look over and offer an intimate smile, the kind shared only by lovers or the mentally handicapped.
Suddenly I yank the guitar from Longstockings lap and swing a quick homerun with it into the side of the Professors head. There is the most wonderful music in the world: a delicous crackle of smashed wood accompanied by a cascade of snapped chords reverbetating. "I know you've been working on it all night you pair of fucktards..." I yell in an adrenalin induced rage "I know because i've been up all night listening to what sounds like Throbbing Gristle gang raping Tori Amos at four in the fuckin' mornin'! What are you two walkin' abortions smokin' anyway? Because I need a hit just to kill the noise still ringin' in my skull ... oh and here's a clue sweetheart: Next time, tune the FUCKIN' guitar before you decide to play the same chords for eight hours straight. Alright? Think you can handle that or shall I hum you a few bars..."
They both look at me with curious puppy eyes. I snap out of my revery and with a pregnant sigh try again.
"I meant with the Colonel" I point at the window where the sound of a kitchen cabinet being bayoneted is wafting down from the second floor.
"Ohhhh-yeahhhhhh" Longstockings coo's, slipping into her thoughts and waddling clumisly through the current of memory. She lifts a single finger in a gesutre of affirmative recognition, looks up at me and shrugs, "I don't know!"
"I think it had something to do with his cats" The Professor offers, picking a pot seed from his beard, gives it a sniff, nods and swallows it.
This is no good. The Colonel loves those cats. More than life itself actually. He has precisely twelve cats in what he calls his "Platoon". At night, just before bed, he gathers them all in the hallway, where they line up impossibly in three rows of four. First he takes role call. Individually reading out each cats name. Then he reads them something inspirational. Sometimes it's the poetry of Andy Roonie, sometimes it's passages from Sun Tzu's the Art of War and sometimes it's passages from old cowboy romance paperbacks. When he has finished, he sings the National Anthem, which some of the cats have apparently been trained to join in with a chorus of screeching meows and then finally he fills the twelve bowls with dry cat food before heading off to bed.
"I came home and he had the front of his door all hotwired" Longstockings muses, lighting a clove up and looking at the window thoughtfully.
"TRAITOR!DESERTER!COWARDS ALL OF THEM!!!" drifts out the Colonels window, floating toward the horrified little girls trying to ride their bikes across the street.
"'Hotwired'?" I ask lighting up a smoke of my own now.
"Yeah ... it's all over the landing. I almost cut myself on it this morning..."
"You mean 'Barbwire'?"
She looks at the Professor, the Professor rolls his eyes Northeast and begins stroking his beard in meditation. His brain marinates for a second until he looks back at her, nods approvingly, then she looks at me in turn and nods a 'Yes'. Just then there is a loud crash from inside the building. A cascade of footfalls stomps down the stairs. The screen door swings open and the Colonel is standing there. Under a vintage WW2 era helmet a pair of beady eyes stare in feral rage through a pair of thick glasses. His red bathrobe hangs open revealing a t-shirt stretched taut across his belly that has a green bereted skull commanding the reader to "Kill 'em all/Let God Sort Them Out", a pair of pale stick legs vanish into a yellow and green pair of swim trunks that are decorated with dozens of tiny cats all over them.
But never mind that. The Colonels holding a twelve gauge shotgun in his hands!
"Do any of you 4-F's know what happened to Privates Barnes last night?"
No one answers. No one knows how.
"He didn't report for morning muster" he sneers.
Still nothing.
"Well?" the eyes dart between the three of us. I take another drag off my smoke not sure if whether it'll be my last or not.
"You mean your cat?" The Professor ventures, "Dude he's probably just out doing... I don't know cat stuff"
The Colonel narrows his gaze in on the Professor. Through clenched teeth he gives this Clint Eastwood whisper: "Now you listen here Timothy Leary and you listen good... My-Men-Don't-Go-AWOL... is that understood?!?!?!"
Well right about now I figure my best chance is to run and hope that the colonel begins his murder suicide spree with the kids here, buying me a few minutes to get out of shooting range. I'm stepping backwards off the porch slowly when all of a sudden I hear a high pitch wail behind me.
We all turn around to see a kitten sized Calico sitting there behind me. It has an eye patch on somehow and a Purple Heart Medal hangs from his collar. It looks at us then gives another wail.
"Barnes" the Colonel squeals, "You made it back! I knew this draft dodger was lying."
In response the cat leaps up and is caught in the cradle between arm and firearm. The Colonel turns his back on us and lumber up the stairs, fussing affectionately over the Private.
The three of us watch him disappear up the cat piss soaked hallway and vanish around the corner.
"What was that all about?" Longstocking looks at the Professor confused.
"Don't worry about it Baby" he lays a reassuring hand on her thigh, "We gotta be ready for your debut tomorrow... from the top!"
Longstocking resumes strumming, while from the Colonels window a speaker crackles the Star Spangled Banner as sung by John Wayne. I nod. Flick my cigarette out and turn around, changing my mind about the whole 'going home' thing for now.
*-No cats, hippies or guitars were harmed in the making of this blog.
"What's going on?" I nod towards the window. They both look up at me as if being awakened from a trance. They look at each other with telepathic intimacy and then back at me.
"I'm working on a new song" Longstockings says enthusiastiaclly.
"It's really good" the Professor adds, "we've been working on it all night. This prompts him to look over and offer an intimate smile, the kind shared only by lovers or the mentally handicapped.
Suddenly I yank the guitar from Longstockings lap and swing a quick homerun with it into the side of the Professors head. There is the most wonderful music in the world: a delicous crackle of smashed wood accompanied by a cascade of snapped chords reverbetating. "I know you've been working on it all night you pair of fucktards..." I yell in an adrenalin induced rage "I know because i've been up all night listening to what sounds like Throbbing Gristle gang raping Tori Amos at four in the fuckin' mornin'! What are you two walkin' abortions smokin' anyway? Because I need a hit just to kill the noise still ringin' in my skull ... oh and here's a clue sweetheart: Next time, tune the FUCKIN' guitar before you decide to play the same chords for eight hours straight. Alright? Think you can handle that or shall I hum you a few bars..."
They both look at me with curious puppy eyes. I snap out of my revery and with a pregnant sigh try again.
"I meant with the Colonel" I point at the window where the sound of a kitchen cabinet being bayoneted is wafting down from the second floor.
"Ohhhh-yeahhhhhh" Longstockings coo's, slipping into her thoughts and waddling clumisly through the current of memory. She lifts a single finger in a gesutre of affirmative recognition, looks up at me and shrugs, "I don't know!"
"I think it had something to do with his cats" The Professor offers, picking a pot seed from his beard, gives it a sniff, nods and swallows it.
This is no good. The Colonel loves those cats. More than life itself actually. He has precisely twelve cats in what he calls his "Platoon". At night, just before bed, he gathers them all in the hallway, where they line up impossibly in three rows of four. First he takes role call. Individually reading out each cats name. Then he reads them something inspirational. Sometimes it's the poetry of Andy Roonie, sometimes it's passages from Sun Tzu's the Art of War and sometimes it's passages from old cowboy romance paperbacks. When he has finished, he sings the National Anthem, which some of the cats have apparently been trained to join in with a chorus of screeching meows and then finally he fills the twelve bowls with dry cat food before heading off to bed.
"I came home and he had the front of his door all hotwired" Longstockings muses, lighting a clove up and looking at the window thoughtfully.
"TRAITOR!DESERTER!COWARDS ALL OF THEM!!!" drifts out the Colonels window, floating toward the horrified little girls trying to ride their bikes across the street.
"'Hotwired'?" I ask lighting up a smoke of my own now.
"Yeah ... it's all over the landing. I almost cut myself on it this morning..."
"You mean 'Barbwire'?"
She looks at the Professor, the Professor rolls his eyes Northeast and begins stroking his beard in meditation. His brain marinates for a second until he looks back at her, nods approvingly, then she looks at me in turn and nods a 'Yes'. Just then there is a loud crash from inside the building. A cascade of footfalls stomps down the stairs. The screen door swings open and the Colonel is standing there. Under a vintage WW2 era helmet a pair of beady eyes stare in feral rage through a pair of thick glasses. His red bathrobe hangs open revealing a t-shirt stretched taut across his belly that has a green bereted skull commanding the reader to "Kill 'em all/Let God Sort Them Out", a pair of pale stick legs vanish into a yellow and green pair of swim trunks that are decorated with dozens of tiny cats all over them.
But never mind that. The Colonels holding a twelve gauge shotgun in his hands!
"Do any of you 4-F's know what happened to Privates Barnes last night?"
No one answers. No one knows how.
"He didn't report for morning muster" he sneers.
Still nothing.
"Well?" the eyes dart between the three of us. I take another drag off my smoke not sure if whether it'll be my last or not.
"You mean your cat?" The Professor ventures, "Dude he's probably just out doing... I don't know cat stuff"
The Colonel narrows his gaze in on the Professor. Through clenched teeth he gives this Clint Eastwood whisper: "Now you listen here Timothy Leary and you listen good... My-Men-Don't-Go-AWOL... is that understood?!?!?!"
Well right about now I figure my best chance is to run and hope that the colonel begins his murder suicide spree with the kids here, buying me a few minutes to get out of shooting range. I'm stepping backwards off the porch slowly when all of a sudden I hear a high pitch wail behind me.
We all turn around to see a kitten sized Calico sitting there behind me. It has an eye patch on somehow and a Purple Heart Medal hangs from his collar. It looks at us then gives another wail.
"Barnes" the Colonel squeals, "You made it back! I knew this draft dodger was lying."
In response the cat leaps up and is caught in the cradle between arm and firearm. The Colonel turns his back on us and lumber up the stairs, fussing affectionately over the Private.
The three of us watch him disappear up the cat piss soaked hallway and vanish around the corner.
"What was that all about?" Longstocking looks at the Professor confused.
"Don't worry about it Baby" he lays a reassuring hand on her thigh, "We gotta be ready for your debut tomorrow... from the top!"
Longstocking resumes strumming, while from the Colonels window a speaker crackles the Star Spangled Banner as sung by John Wayne. I nod. Flick my cigarette out and turn around, changing my mind about the whole 'going home' thing for now.
*-No cats, hippies or guitars were harmed in the making of this blog.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From way up here on my cross...
on 2007-07-12 11:21 pm (UTC)A great story. I always enjoy the parts that happen in your head the best.