The Scene: A pavilion in the center of a field that is fronted by a row of disheveled quonset huts. There is a parking lot past the field, and a driveway that leads to a dirt road. There is a sign next to the road that has been lettered with a can of orange spray paint: “Fat Camp Heer”. An obese man in too-tight satin jogging shorts and a t-shirt with dirty brown stains stands at a podium in front of several overweight teens standing in loose clots.
Uncle Zombie:Hey kids! It’s that time again! Time for you to gather your distended bodies ’round and listen up! It’s a lovely day here at the Expanding Acres Day Camp for the Gluteally Gifted and today we’re going to talk about several topics that are near and dear to your plaque-choked 12-year-old hearts!
An anorexically-thin assistant struggles mightily to lift sheets of construction paper onto a waiting easel. The first sheet displays a list of topics:
- Twinkie Filling as a Condiment
- Fantasy Baseball Trade Strategies
- Humiliation as a Weight Loss Aid
The fat man smacks at the board with a riding crop.
Uncle Zombie: Now, I know, and you know, and you know I know, that pot roast just ain’t pot roast without some creamy goodness. But some of you have parents that don’t understand the visceral joy that comes from sucking down a mouthful of cream along with your beef. They don’t realize that it’s a chemical reaction in your brain that makes you do these things, that you’re born with it. They think you’re making a choice. But Uncle Zombie knows better. So go ahead, kids, and use that creamy filling as you see fit. After all, it’s all free calories as long as you purge! Remember the camp motto: Purgers are Surgers!
Uncle Zombie: Ex-squeeze me a momento.
The fat man produces a flask that had been hidden in the front of his underwear. He turns to the side and tries to hide, by holding one hand up to block the view, that he is taking a healthy pull of liquor.
Uncle Zombie:*belches wetly*
The fat man, now wavering a bit, swings and misses with his riding crop.
Uncle Zombie: Annnnnnnd now we’ll talk about shome trade etiquette. Brenda, if you will.
The anorexic assistant passes out, falling against the easel. The first page falls off, revealing a screenshot of a FireFox window.
Uncle Zombie: And here, azh a pershonal favor to me, ish our Fantashy Basheball Exshpert, a graduate of thish very pogrom, put your blubbery fins together for The Shooter, Rod Beck!
There is a wet slapping, like that of a dozen sumo wrestlers doing jumping jacks. The fat kids are applauding.
A large, mustachioed man stands up and walks to the front of the stage. He’s smoking an unfiltered Lucky Strike down to the last half inch while lighting a new one off its dying ember. He’s wearing a soiled, 10-year-old Cubs jersey, unbuttoned, with a Led Zeppelin t-shirt underneath. He has a 40-oz. Malt Liquor in his free hand.
Shooter (to Uncle Zombie): You better have those fucking negatives.
Shooter: All right. Listen up, lard muffins. I got as much patience for stupid as I got tendons in my arm. Which is none.
Shooter:*Belches wetly*
Shooter: So keep your fat holes shut. I’ma tell you how to win at Fantasy Baseball, because ever since that shitfuck Riggleman put me in the Giants game I haven’t been able to pitch a goddamn fit without my elbow making a sound like a goddamn untuned banjo.
The mustachioed man moves his right arm back and forth rapidly. Strains of “Dualing Banjos” are audible from inside the joint.
Shooter: So I wind up in fuckin’ Iowa in a fuckin’ trailer for four fuckin’ months.
He leans forward on the podium, stressing it to the breaking point.
Shooter (confidentially): And let me tell you. It gets goddamn lonely in Iowa. And I should have closed the goddamn drapes.
The fat man waves and points at the incriminating pictures he is now holding.
The mustachioed man stares a long time in the direction of the photos and takes a drink from his now-lukewarm Colt .45. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barks.
Shooter: As I was saying. Fuck Iowa.
Shooter: But let’s start with the obvious about Fantasy Baseball. What do you see here?
He points in the direction of the screenshot on the easel.
Shooter: A goddamn travesty. This ain’t how you get shit done in the big leagues of pretend baseball, dumplings.
Shooter (voice rising): You bring this weak shit to my house, you get a ride on the goddamn PAIN TRAIN.
He paces angrily in front of the easel, breathing heavily. A cacophony of candybar-wrapper crinkling can be heard from the sparse crowd.
Shooter: First off, Big Al Buttfuck there isn’t worth A-Rod straight up right now. Nevermind Your 2007 National League Cy Young Award Winner. And secondly, what the shit is this fuck about dropping Piazza and his fucking dwarves rather than including them in the trade? I’ll tell you what it is. Bush. That’s what it is.
He finishes off his 40 in a single, extended pull. He turns and throws the bottle into the field. Joe Carter appears out of the tall grass with a baseball bat and weakly pops the bottle to Mark Grace. Both disappear back into the grass.
Shooter (under his breath): I still got it.
Shooter: Where was I. Fuck I’m buzzed.
The wind picks up, swirling candy wrappers in the breeze. And for a moment, it looks like snow. And for a moment, Rod Beck remembers Chicago in 1998.
Somewhere, a banjo plays.
FIN
Brilliant! You had my sides splitting with laughter.
This is a new high (low?) for you. I applaud. I especially enjoyed the general feeling of discomfort throughout the piece… Faulkner-esque.