Ed Toad Watches Death at Work

Ed Toad witnessed the assassination. The moist heat of the day was relentless, and Ed sought relief in the cool tropical garden, camouflaged by lush elephant ears and giant ferns. He was dozing beneath the green glow of the plant canopy when a housefly landed on his forehead. It was a small irritant but enough to cause him to lift his drowsy eyelids and brush the pest away.

As Ed watched the fly retreat, his peripheral vision picked up movement over by the pool. A turn of his head and a series of blinks drove the drowsiness from his eyes, and he spotted the victim-to-be. The victim seemed edgy; he would walk a few paces and then stop, turning his head back and forth, as though he was checking to see if he was being followed. Ed brushed a palm frond to the side and scanned the area. He could see no one else but the victim in the vicinity. His gaze returned to the doomed soul.

Ed thought about making a noise, just to let the victim know he was there, however he decided it might prove to startling so he remained silent. As Ed watched the starts and stops of the victim, he speculated on the reason for the obvious nervousness. Perhaps the victim is a spy, thought Ed, and he’s here to meet his contact. He also considered there may be a romantic tryst about to take place, and the victim was anxious about a jealous husband. All sorts of scenarios played out in Ed’s head.

As Ed constructed possible scenarios, the assassin waited, frozen in position and cocked with a hair trigger. Patience, speed, and mercilessness were his strengths, and he used them often. If you were to ask him he would say he didn’t particularly like killing, but he might add he didn’t particularly not like it either. It was his nature, and he didn’t question it.

The assassin watched the victim’s cautious movements, planning the timing of his strike. It’s a dangerous world, thought the assassin, but no matter how cautious you are if I want you dead, you will soon be cold meat.

A sweet, soft wind rolled through the garden. The victim paused, sniffing the damp air. Ed Toad watched and conjured up another possible story to account for the victim’s being there in the first place. As the wind rustled the vegetation, the assassin struck with speed and savagery. Death was almost instantaneous. The assassin carried the body away, perhaps as proof of the deed or to hide the evidence.

Ed looked on, neither surprised nor frightened; he had seen it before. As calm and quiet returned to the garden, Ed emerged from his cover and walked over to the scene of the crime. A damp red spot littered with small, green bits and pink viscera were all that remained. Ed shook his head. “Someone really ought to stop that cat before he kills all the lizards in the garden,” he said to himself, and then hopped back into the plants.

(c) 2008

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Ronny Vladso Learns the World Sucks for Leopards

After months of badgering, Leona Vladso finally gave in to her six-year-old son’s demands. “Fine Ronny, I’ll tell you about your father, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty story.”

Ronny Vladso knew his father was dead, however, he did not know the details of his death or his life. Every time he asked about his old man, he mother would only say, “He’s entertaining God.”

As Ronny sat in a rigid, hardwood, kitchen chair, Leona paced in front of him. “I only knew your dad a short while before he died,” Leona began. “I met Bosco—that was your father's name, Bosco Peppitone—at the corner of Desmond Avenue and 126th Street. I had just finished my laundry and was carrying it back to my apartment. As I neared the corner, I heard this clicking noise…click, click, click. It was semi-rhythmic, and I could tell the sound was a product of wood being struck. Turning the corner on to Desmond, I collided with Bosco. My laundry and your father took a tumble on the sidewalk.”

Ronny’s eyes were wide as he listened to his mother’s account. “What happened then?”

“I asked him if he was hurt, and he said ‘no,’ and then helped me gather my clothes. As I watched him picking up my panties, I noticed for the first time how handsome he was, just like you. I also noticed he was wearing a plaid mini-skirt, high-top sneakers, and a t-shirt from a ZZ Top concert. I gotta tell you Ronny, that was weird, but the really weird thing was the hair on his legs. It was about three inches long. Below his skirt, he looked like a mountain gorilla.”

Ronny’s mouth fell open. “Was he a monster?”

“No honey, in fact he was quite sweet. You might think that someone with gorilla legs would be scary, but I thought his hairy legs were beautiful. He spent a lot of time grooming his legs. He used expensive shampoos and conditioners, and he brushed them every evening.”

“Why was he dressed so silly?” asked Ronny.

“That’s what I wanted to know. I mean he looked like a waiter at a gay biker restaurant.”

“What’s a gay biker?

“Never mind. Anyway, I asked him about his attire, and he told me he was a busker. I had no idea what a busker was, and then he showed me his clanking sticks, began banging them together and starting doing a slow soft shoe. He told me a busker was a professional street performer; a person who plays music or performs some kind of act for tips.”

“Dad was in show business?” asked Ronny.

“Sort of,” said Leona. “So, Bosco asked me out for coffee, and we really hit it off. Next thing I know, Bosco and me had moved in together, and I was pregnant with you.”

“Did you let the hair grow out on your legs?”

“What?”

“Now that you and Bosco…I mean dad…were married, did you grow gorilla legs too?”

“Uh…no honey, I didn’t.” Leona didn’t want to tell the boy she and Bosco never married.

“Ok. So mom, how did Bosco die?”

Leona really didn’t want to get into Bosco’s death, but she knew she would have to deal with it eventually, why not now? “Honey, your daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t a great busker. Between his busking and my job at Penguin-on-a-Stick, we could barely keep food on the table. Bosco was determined to make it as a busker, and he was also determined to provide a good life for us, so he decided to relocate his busking from the corner of Desmond and 125th to Wall Street, just south of the stock exchange. He felt those mega-rich stock traders would surely be a higher-paying audience for his talent.”

Ronny got a quizzical look on his face. “What’s a stock trader?”

Leona’s face grew somber. “It’s just another word for ‘asshole.’ Now listen up, I’m only gonna talk about this once, so pay attention. With the bills piling up at home, Bosco was feeling pressure to increase his business so he started to incorporate new bits into his act. Banging sticks together and doing a soft shoe just wasn’t enough for the jaded stockbrokers. Your daddy learned to yodel and juggle cats. He slid garden snakes up his nose and out his mouth. But what really did Bosco in was his decision to become a stick-banging mime.”

The boy appeared confused. “What’s wrong with being a mime?”

Leona sighed. “You are too young to understand Ronny, but people hate mimes, and stockbrokers hate mimes worse than they hate poor people. After the close of trading on a Wednesday, a month after Bosco’s relocation, he painted his face white and started pretending he was banging sticks together. A large group of stockbrokers came by on their way to their favorite bar, and Bosco jumped in front of them and really started working is stick-banging pantomime. At first, the brokers tried to ignore him, but your dad was relentless. Finally, one of the men had enough and told Bosco to get out of the way. Your dad was a stubborn man, and he was determined to mime his ass off. That was unfortunate. According to witnesses, briefcases began flying and wing-tip shoes lashed out at Bosco. When the group of irate stockbrokers fled, Bosco lay dying on the sidewalk. Before an ambulance could arrive, a woman in a faux leopard-skin coat came by. She picked up Bosco’s real sticks and crushed his skull with them. I’m sorry you had to hear about this Ronny, but you wanted to know. The world can be a cruel place.”

The boy hung his head…thinking. Leona hoped the story hadn’t traumatized her son. Finally, Ronny looked at his mom. “You know mom, the world really is fucked up. Why would someone kill a faux leopard just to make a coat?

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Shamed By My Eating Utensils

Several weeks ago, I sat down at the dining room table to a meal consisting of corn on the cob, small red potatoes, and a nicely marbled rib-eye steak. After slathering I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter on the corn, I picked up my fork in my left hand and my serrated steak knife in my right. I plunged the tines of the fork into the steak, and as I was about to draw the knife across the end of the meat, a flash of light from the overhead fixture glinted off the knife and blinded me momentarily. In that brief moment of blindness, I heard, “Are you sure you want to do this?” The voice was clear, acute, and clearly male.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room. There was no one else present but me. “Hello,” I said. “Anyone here?”

“Yeah, I’m down here,” the voice answered. It came from the table.

I looked down and thought for a second that the meat was talking to me. I poked it with my fork; it was definitely dead. “Over here,” the sharp voice called from my right. I slowly moved my eyes to the right and noticed the knife in my hand was quivering. The knife spoke. “Yeah, it’s me, your knife. I’m sorry to interrupt your supper, but I think you might want to reconsider eating this meat.”

“Yeah, me too,” chimed in my fork. Its voice was unmistakably feminine.

“Did I take my medication this morning,” I wondered aloud. I then remembered downing them with my morning coffee. I decided it would probably be fine to join this discussion so I asked, “Why shouldn’t I eat this steak? It’s dead, it’s cooked, and I really love the taste of a good steak.”

“Well for starters,” lectured my knife, “your cholesterol is a little high. Red meat—actually any kind of meat—can raise your bad cholesterol. You seem to have forgotten your doctor said she was going to put you on some meds if you didn’t lower your cholesterol. Yet, here you are, about to stuff your face with dead cow. You're pathetic.”

“No I’m not; my dog is path….”

“Give it a rest,” cried my fork. “Speaking of dogs, would you eat one of your dogs or cats? Would you blow a hole in their head with a compressed air gun and make spaghetti and Italian greyhound meatballs?”

“That’s sick.”

“Would you eat a cat burger?”

“Alright, you can stop it right now.”

“The point is,” said my knife, “you wouldn’t eat those animals because you know them and know they are self aware, possess some intelligence, and they’re cute. Lambs are cute, cows are cute, yet you eat them.”

“Yeah, but….”

“Butt head.”

“So, are you telling me I should become a vegetarian?”

“Duh. Look, maintaining a vegetarian lifestyle is better for your health. You won’t be contributing to the needless slaughter of millions of your fellow creatures. There are lots of other reasons, including economic ones, environmental ones and others, but we’ll go into those later. Right now, put me down, walk away, and go eat some tofu.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I whined. “Listen, I’ll give your argument consideration, but I’ve already got this fine piece of meat in front of me, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“If you try to cut into that steak, I’m going to stab you,” my knife warned. By this time, my dogs had wandered in. Suddenly, my knife began rapidly cutting bits of steak while my fork tossed them to the dogs. In no time, my meal had disappeared.

Since that day, I’ve been working my way into a vegetarian diet. I do cheat. When I feed the dogs, I steal a spoonful of Natural Balance canned food for myself. It tastes like chicken.

© 2008

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A Theory From My Button

Today, I dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a pullover, short-sleeved, white shirt with a collar. The shirt did not have a designer emblem on its front or back; I generally hate giving large companies advertising space for free. There were three buttons on the shirt, all of them near the neck. I never wear shirts that have been buttoned all the way up; it is much too restrictive for me. Neither do I wear shirts unbuttoned below the second button; that seems to be a sign of a man who is trying to hard. The two-out-of-three button arrangement is the style I prefer on sports shirts.

Shortly after I finished buttoning the two lower buttons, the middle one spoke to me. “What’s up with all these twigs and leaves on the floor,” it asked.

“The Cheegle brings them in,” I answered.

“You know,” my button went on, “I don’t get out of the closet that often, but it seems to me that little dog is acting like a bird that is gathering material for a nest.”

I was a little surprised my button knew about bird nesting; it had never mentioned the subject before. “I think you’re right,” I said, “and I think that is very perceptive of you.”

“I have a theory,” said the button.

“Yeah, what’s your theory?”

“Well,” said the button with great authority, “by observing all the dogs that live with you, I think a case can be made that dogs evolved from dinosaurs. All I have is empirical evidence, but it seems to me to be a plausible theory.”

“To be honest,” I told the button, “I believe your theory is rather daft. I think the prevailing scientific belief is that dogs evolved from wolves.”

“That’s true,” my button said, “as far as it goes. But, you need to go back further than wolves. Where did wolves come from?”

“Wolverines?”

“Very funny. Wolves came from dinosaurs who came from birds, ergo, your dogs are birds.”

“Get out of here. The six dogs that live at this house came from a shelter.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Not very. No offense, but you are only a button after all.”

“I understand. Uh, you might want to take a look at the dog bed in the corner. I think the Cheegle laid an egg.”

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