outlined in black marker. A place for everything and everything in its place , was another of Father’s mantras, so I knew just where to find the tool I’d come for. In the company of dusty hammers hung a twelve-inch hand sickle with a curved blade. This tool was commonly used for reaping grain, but yours truly had a much different use in mind.
Whistling happily as I worked, I clamped the sickle’s wooden handle into a vise fixed to the workbench, then gently worked a cigar stone along the crescent-shaped blade, just as Father had taught Angeline. Using smooth downward strokes, I sharpened that edge fifteen times on one side and fifteen times the other, before wiping away the burrs and grit with an oily rag. When I was finished, that sickle was ground sharp as a razor, and I couldn’t wait to test it out on that pervie pediatrician and his sleazebag sidekick, the Mexican butt fucker.
Following a proud but forgotten Ponca tradition, your trusted servant intended to pay homage to the warrior spirit by taking trophies from my vanquished foes. But not their scalps. Oh, no, dear friends. The souvenirs I collected would send a message loud-and-clear to pervies everywhere, teaching those bastards a history lesson they’d never forget…
Bad boys lose their binkies.
With Doc Aldrich propped in the chair before me, I reached into the pillowcase and lifted the sickle by its hardwood grip, worn smooth by two generations of Gottschalks. Stretching the good doctor’s prodigious pickle to its full length, I aimed the crescent blade at the thick, fleshy base and, with a snap of the wrist, hacked into the shaft.
Unfortunately my maiden effort lacked conviction and failed to cut through cleanly.
“Oh, stubborn, eh?” I muttered.
So I swung harder--one, twice, three times--chopping away like a Canadian lumberjack as the sitcom audience applauded and the dog snored--until Doc’s mighty oak was felled at last.
Timburrrrrr!
Number two on you r trusted servant’s Halloween hit list was going to be a bit trickier. Jose Morales, the former camp counselor, had the rear apartment in a four unit building in the city of O’Neill-- appropriate given his fondness for corn-holing young boys. Problem was, firing my snub nose .38 around so many neighbors was bound to draw unwanted attention, so I had to improvise.
The light was off over the Mexican’s door stoop but I could hear crappy Mariachi music coming from inside the apartment. It was obvious that pervie didn’t want any trick-or-treaters coming to his door. The bastard was cheapin’ it.
Well, screw that party pooper. I pressed the doorbell anyway-- and because my buns were frosted in that tiny dress, I kept right on pressing until the porch light finally flicked on and the door yanked open.
I thrust my pillowcase forward. “Trick or treat!”
“What the hell is wrong with you, pendeja?” growled the husky, twenty-something Chicano. “Didn’t your momma teach you you’re not s’posed to knock when the light ain’t on?”
“It’s on now.” I rightly observed. “Trick or treat.”
The pervie threw out his hands in exasperation. “I don’t have no candy, chica. Do you see any candy?”
“Trick or treat,” I said again.
The Mexican stared at me in disbelief and pointed at his head. “Loco,” he spat. “Just stay there. I’ll find something.” And he walked back into the apartment cursing to himself in Spanish.
The moment that pervie was gone, I pulled the sickle from the pillowcase and slipped through the open door. I discovered him in the kitchen, crouched before the refrigerator looking for something to toss in my bag. As he was removing an apple, the Mexican spotted me from the corner of his eye. I swung just as he turned, the blade catching him flush in the neck.
The blow must have severed his carotid artery because blood spurted across the room as if blasted from a
Whistling happily as I worked, I clamped the sickle’s wooden handle into a vise fixed to the workbench, then gently worked a cigar stone along the crescent-shaped blade, just as Father had taught Angeline. Using smooth downward strokes, I sharpened that edge fifteen times on one side and fifteen times the other, before wiping away the burrs and grit with an oily rag. When I was finished, that sickle was ground sharp as a razor, and I couldn’t wait to test it out on that pervie pediatrician and his sleazebag sidekick, the Mexican butt fucker.
Following a proud but forgotten Ponca tradition, your trusted servant intended to pay homage to the warrior spirit by taking trophies from my vanquished foes. But not their scalps. Oh, no, dear friends. The souvenirs I collected would send a message loud-and-clear to pervies everywhere, teaching those bastards a history lesson they’d never forget…
Bad boys lose their binkies.
With Doc Aldrich propped in the chair before me, I reached into the pillowcase and lifted the sickle by its hardwood grip, worn smooth by two generations of Gottschalks. Stretching the good doctor’s prodigious pickle to its full length, I aimed the crescent blade at the thick, fleshy base and, with a snap of the wrist, hacked into the shaft.
Unfortunately my maiden effort lacked conviction and failed to cut through cleanly.
“Oh, stubborn, eh?” I muttered.
So I swung harder--one, twice, three times--chopping away like a Canadian lumberjack as the sitcom audience applauded and the dog snored--until Doc’s mighty oak was felled at last.
Timburrrrrr!
Number two on you r trusted servant’s Halloween hit list was going to be a bit trickier. Jose Morales, the former camp counselor, had the rear apartment in a four unit building in the city of O’Neill-- appropriate given his fondness for corn-holing young boys. Problem was, firing my snub nose .38 around so many neighbors was bound to draw unwanted attention, so I had to improvise.
The light was off over the Mexican’s door stoop but I could hear crappy Mariachi music coming from inside the apartment. It was obvious that pervie didn’t want any trick-or-treaters coming to his door. The bastard was cheapin’ it.
Well, screw that party pooper. I pressed the doorbell anyway-- and because my buns were frosted in that tiny dress, I kept right on pressing until the porch light finally flicked on and the door yanked open.
I thrust my pillowcase forward. “Trick or treat!”
“What the hell is wrong with you, pendeja?” growled the husky, twenty-something Chicano. “Didn’t your momma teach you you’re not s’posed to knock when the light ain’t on?”
“It’s on now.” I rightly observed. “Trick or treat.”
The pervie threw out his hands in exasperation. “I don’t have no candy, chica. Do you see any candy?”
“Trick or treat,” I said again.
The Mexican stared at me in disbelief and pointed at his head. “Loco,” he spat. “Just stay there. I’ll find something.” And he walked back into the apartment cursing to himself in Spanish.
The moment that pervie was gone, I pulled the sickle from the pillowcase and slipped through the open door. I discovered him in the kitchen, crouched before the refrigerator looking for something to toss in my bag. As he was removing an apple, the Mexican spotted me from the corner of his eye. I swung just as he turned, the blade catching him flush in the neck.
The blow must have severed his carotid artery because blood spurted across the room as if blasted from a
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