Parenting 101, part three
When last we met, Satan Jr.’s father (also known as me) had gone to his bedroom to get his shotgun. He’d decided that gun play would amp up the story he was in, plus snag the all-important male demographic. Also, in lieu of foreshadowing, expect a little housewife porn along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey. Females are a much easier demographic to snag, but still: porn=good, even of the housewife variety.
If you recall, Satan Jr.’s father’s suddenly bizarre behavior had created tension between him and his offspring, which any taker of a creative writing class can tell you is important in a story, including one as weird and self-conscious as this.
Anyway, when I came back out to the living room carrying the shotgun, my son actually looked up from his handheld device. I haven’t seen him look up from his handheld device in years and the sight of those big blue eyes brought back memories of the flannel-festooned 90s, when handheld devices were simply dicks or dildos.
“Howdy,” I said, surprised.
“Howdy?” he said and stood up. “What the hell are you doing? Why do you have the gun?”
“I thought it might be interesting to bring into the story.”
“What? What fucking story? What’s wrong with you? Put it back.”
“I can’t. That would be anti-climactic.”
“You better not fucking hurt him!”
“Now, why would I do that?” He started to speak, but I walked passed him and went out on the porch. Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. I longed to hear distant coyotes yipping, but there was only the tv playing in the next trailer over. It wasn’t even a Western either, but some reality program called “So You Think There’s A Point?” I listened to the audience applauding, knowing their eyes were glazed over, and sighed.
“Fuck this,” I whispered to the night.
Satan Jr. joined me on the porch. “Father,” he said. “Are you ok? For reals, I’m worried about you.”
“For reals?”
“Yeah. The gun, the cowboy hat, the drawl.”
“Drawl?”
“You’re drawling.”
“I ain’t neither drawling,” I drawled.
“There! You just drawled.”
“You git yorn ass back in the trailer, boy. Pa’s got some bidness to take care of.” I went to the car and drove away, wishing it was a pickup. Satan Jr. stood on the porch, his eyes filling with tears.
When I got to town, I whipped into Bob’s Tobacco Barn and bought me a Ram Rod cigar. A cheroot, the Ram Rod is a delightful little cigar that kind of looks like a turd and is flavored “with a belt of bourbon”. It is made in Pennsylvania using only tobacco grown in Kentucky and Tennessee. They cost about nothing apiece, but Bob’s Tobacco Barn was having a special: 250 Ram Rod cigars for a buck fiddy. I only bought one, using my special wheat penny, which was all I had left over after coughing up the dough for the new tire. Immediately upon the transaction’s conclusion, I stuck it in my face.
“What do you think?” I asked Bob, who sat languidly on a bar stool behind the counter perusing a Screw magazine. He sported obvious and therefore disconcerting wood.
“‘Bout what?”
“Is it phallic?” I rolled the cigar from one side of my mouth to the other with my tongue.
“Follicle?” Bob asked boredly, not looking up. He was, by the way, entirely bald.
”Phallic,” I said distinctly.
“We’re real busy here, fella. If you don’t mind.” He flipped the page noisily and I caught a quick glimpse of a big breasted woman with a banana sticking out of her vagina.
“Excuse me,” I said and left, sporting a little wood myself.
Back in the car, I switched the radio station over to country and headed over to Serenity Estates trailer court, where the evil Brett Tool dwelt with his mom and, in all likelihood, a cadre of half-siblings. Serenity Estates trailer court was where all the poor people lived, unlike the trailer court where I lived, Paradise Estates, which was where all the rich people lived. Har, har.
I found the rusted-out puke green trailer that Satan Jr. had mentioned and parked a little ways off, giving myself a clear view of the door. I grabbed the shotgun, which was laying across the backseat, and cocked it. I lit the Ram Rod cigar and waited.
What is Satan, Jr.’s father up to exactly? Is he really going to assassinate the evil Brett Tool, Oswald-style? And how come he thinks he’s a cowboy all of a sudden? Is he ok? Shouldn’t he seek counseling or at least the ear of a sympathetic friend? Does a guy this weird and alienated even have friends? And what about Satan, Jr. himself? He was left standing on the porch with his eyes filling with tears. It is very likely that he is upset about something. Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion or part 4, depending on what the writer wants to do! Thank you, and don’t forget to visit our sponsor! Or even our other sponsor! Take care now :)
