I know it’s late.
Chalk it up to the cost of doing business.
This week more than most, it’s imperative I go out of my way to make eggstra sure my message is received loud and clear. In order to guarantee that specific outcome is the only one to take place, I will perform a ritual bloodletting during the witching hour while the black cat chases its tail around an orange, Cheshire moon.
If you’re wondering how I’ve come to know the specifics of channeling the dark arts, play my opponent’s debut vignette backwards. Turns out he spills the beans right out of the gate.
The tricky, little, treater.
The scene on the flat screen behind me is of the Moon Cat.
You saw the time of day at the top.
I’m wearing my company red, athletic snap away jumper with black Adidas stripes.
T-Shades, as always, are back.
Hair… you know.
However, before I plop myself on the cozy confines of the 97red couch for the official bloodletting of, Angel De Bolas Pequeñas, a warning. I’m going to say some things that might be construed as discouraging. Most, if not all of it, is true.
Yes, that one.
The pride of the patch.
“Prior to me, Father COOL, exorcising your demons, I’d like to give credit where credit is due.” I press my hands together, thankful for God’s grace. “Bless the kind and caring Lord for making me keen to the Lewchimp Santelescope Fever taking over the bowels of the Emperor’s midcard.” Prayer over, my sincerity remains. “You’ve been a phenomenon on a freakish rise through MY ranks. Your Trump colored face, satanic rituals, and bulk candle buying have managed to keep you without defeat– all while frying not one, but two eGGs in the process.”
That’s the look on my face anyway.
“Somehow, you, Lucky Saintangle, managed to defeat Zebulon Marteen, the old man(ours), AND qualify for War Games all in the same match. Granted, you were more of a third leg for that romp, Zeb wasn’t a Bandit at the time, and I would wind up getting them both in anyway.”
And CBD if we need him.
I got all the Bandits in.
“Still, until Stoovy Dooby Doo changes it in the record books to Danny Boy and his third, impish leg, I’m counting it. Not only because I think it’s a laudable accomplishment on your part, but also because Doozer hates when I bring it up.”
Don’t get me wrong, Santahistamaniacs. I’m not selling your aphrodisiac short. Zeb also hates when I mention it in passing every time I see him. It’s just, your headless horseman’s next incredible feat against the Bandits is the one that really gets Zeb’s line tangled.
“Then, as if the delights of a double yolk were not enough for your seemingly insatiable appetite, you, Louis Shin, Bandit Killer, go and best our young, verile, sensational, bright, prodigious upstart all by your lonesome. DID THE DEED YOURSELF. On the day Zeb aced his interview and hatched from his shell!”
Dizzy from utter amazement I almost faint.
“I’d like to think young Zeb might have had other things on his mind while he was out there inside the newly discovered 10th circle of hell. Regardless. Zeb twice. Doozer once.”
Disgusted, ashamed, and ready to rectify, I spit on the floor below me to clean the sour taste from my mouth. My right hand placed on a fictional bible, I swear from the center of my nonexistent heart. “Lucian, for your prior transgressions against the Bandits, and not because of something inane like goat sacrifices and cat worship, you will receive my FULL attention on Saturday Night.”
A pause. Hand still placed, though.
“Let me tell you exactly what the BDJ total care package entails. You will receive one yellow misting. One terminal kick to your face. And one loss on your sterling record.”
“Don’t fret just yet, Luke. There’s more. Much, much more. Not only do you get a Maestro certified, Saturday Night Special, you also get this shovel.” Proverbial. Though it doesn’t stop me from doing a quick scooping motion. “You’re going to need it after I’m done digging up the rest of the news from yesteryear, so you can bury it once again.”
Wretchedly, my smile grows. “Rejoice, orange faced man! Yearn no longer, *potential* HATE member!”
Boy, do I have some swell news for Lucian. I hope he is sitting down. This is some Feliz Navidad has come early type of stuff.
“Cancel the search.” Suspense. “I found him.” Confusement. “I’m not kidding, Lucky. And believe you me, it’s a cat shit CRAZY story to say the least.”
Apple, meet tree.
“Turns out I’ve known your Dad for quite some time.”
I sit back, allowing the blinding effect of my newsflash to wear off.
“I can remember the first time we met, me and your old man. I was driving past Home Depot looking for cheap labor, and there he was. Four bags of mulch and 3.8 miles later, we set up a schedule and it’s been pre wall sneaking into the country ever since. Gosh, crazy to think he ran next to the car with two bags of mulch slung over each of his shoulders the entire way. What stamina. What backbone. Never broke a sweat, either. Was just happy for the opportunity.”
It was impressive.
Like beating Doozer once, and Zeb twice is impressive.
“And let me tell ya, the grass and shrubs at One Bandit Way have never looked better.”
Lucky’s padre is an artist with a weedwacker, and a surgeon with hedge trimmers.
A true renaissance man.
“It may pain you to know, but he’s a great guy with a HUGE, loving family. I saw all ten of them smiling and hugging just the other day when they came to maintenance the yard. They were all so happy to escape from that Prius, it was touching.”
After shedding a nonexistent tear, I regrettably continue. “Shit. Sorry man. I’m realizing now that it continues to slip my mind to tell him you are looking for him. I just found out about the connection recently, so don’t hold it against me.” Truth. “If it’s any consolation, take refuge in the fact he’s doing a better job at trying to save the planet.”
Gee, I wonder when he wasn’t?
“Though, because deep down I am a family first type of guy, I will make it up to you. Your padre is on the mower every other Tuesday at 10:00 AM if you want to stop by the eGG Den and say hello. No shenanigans, though.”
That seems awfully nice of me.
There’s a reason for that.
“And trust me, I’d much rather give you his contact information, address, or anything else of relevance instead of you setting off the egg sensors at the front gate. But, seeing as I always pay him in cash I never bothered to ask for any of that stuff.”
Hopefully Lindsey doesn’t need that type of thing for my taxes.
“It’s funny. Your dad always tells me after a hard day’s worth of laboring, Cash is KING, Mr. Cancer. No ice! The first few times I had no idea what he was saying since I don’t speak Spanish– just a few words. So, his son would have to translate for me. Finally, I brought out some ice cubes and that really got a good laugh out of everyone.” Done jesting on Bergman-like levels, I revert back to form. “Let me clarify, the son he acknowledges translates for me. Don’t want to confuse you anymore than you already are. His name is Rapido, or at least I think that’s his name. It’s what your dad is always shouting at him. Nice kid. Altar boy at St. Lucian’s church. The place of worship doubles as a bodega, and they have family friendly cock fights on the first of every month.”
We’ve gone to a couple.
Me, Papi, and Rapido.
They make tacos there worthy of a seance.
“But yeah… turns out it’s a small world afterall, huh?”
“Speaking of, I’m kind of shocked Disney hasn’t smacked you with a lawsuit yet for infringing on their rights to both sleepy and hollow, you pumpkin pussed, fuck.”
See ya Saturday.
Don’t forget your HATEr in training shirt.
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