The Wages of Pasture
The inside of the house echoed with a dozen voices raised at once, each competing to be the loudest. Of all the people in the house at that moment, only one was silent. His name was Simon, and he sat at the kitchen table with his hands clasped over his ears. He removed them for a moment to hear the garbled cascade of churning words once more, then just as quickly clasped them tightly again. Too much! He thought.
Simon turned to look down the hall towards the birthday party in the living room. A swarm of his evil little brother's friends were dancing around and screaming at the top of their lungs. And there was his brother, the little devil, taking time out of his busy party to shake his fist at Simon. Little shit. He was probably the one who had smeared mud all over mom's carpet, but it was Simon who always took the flack. His brother turned back to his chanting friends and shook his ass in Simon's direction.
The kids were being worked into a state of tribal ferocity by a giant cow mascot. Somewhere beneath its dopey head and black-spotted plushness lurked his Uncle Scottie, who was romping around like he had BSE in order to entertain the little brats. At times it looked as if he were doing yoga, and at others he seemed to be wrestling some invisible demon. Now he was doing some sort of ballet routine with a sparkly ribbon-baton spinning in his left hoof. The kids shouted with wicked glee at his grotesque antics. Simon shook his head. Crazy old Uncle Scottie, he thought. From that French end of the family....
Simon turned back towards the kitchen. Across from him at the table sat his step-father, leaning forward like he was trying to knock down a door with his shoulder. His face was a contortion of frustration, bright red with two prominent veins pulsing across his forehead. Though Simon could not hear the fury in his words, he could still feel the spray of his venom. He was probably going on about one of the old tropes: marks, friends, chores.... it didn't matter, really. The basic message was always the same: You're a good-for-nothing, Simon. Try harder.
Simon sighed and turned further. Beyond his step-father's shoulder his mom was frantically scraping her charred attempt at a birthday cake out of a pan, shouting at the cupboards about some emotional distress that he had caused her. Occasionally she would fling a utensil in his direction, but otherwise ignored him. Even the dog, a diminutive three-legged chow named Isosceles, was yipping at his ankles beneath the table. Simon pushed his hands closer over his ears. They all hate me, he thought. This family is like a wolf-pack, and I'm the epsilon male that everyone vents on. They could care less if I were dead.
His step-father reached over and pulled one of Simon's hands off his ear. The flood of human verbiage returned. The kids were still screaming at full bore and his mother was shouting at Uncle Scottie to take them outside. “Pay the hell attention, damn you!†his step-father spat. “This is exactly what your teacher was telling us about. Details, boy! They're like fuses. If you don't pay attention to the little details in life, they'll light a bomb right under your-â€
Simon pried his hand free and stuck it back over his ear, restoring a serene silence to his mind. He closed his eyes and imagined himself somewhere peaceful, away from all the hate. Whatever, man. Whatever. He could think just fine, if he had a little peace. He let them all fall away from his mind: his evil little brother, his bullying step-father, his unhinged mother, even crazy old Uncle Scottie. They didn't care about him, and he didn't care about them. He wished he could just get away. Far away.
Simon opened his eyes, and was surprised to see the kitchen was empty. He took his hands off his ears, and could hear only the muffled sounds of distant voices. They're probably all in the backyard, he thought. His uncle walked into the kitchen, still inside the ridiculous cow costume and tracking mud across the floor as he sauntered. Simon shook his head, and crazy old Uncle Scottie did his emotionally distraught mime routine before going over to the sink to get a drink. What a geek, Simon thought.
There was a buzzing in his pocket. Simon pulled his phone out and held it to his ear. “Yeah,†he said tersely.
“Hey Simon, is your mom there? I'm down at Famous Dave's and I want to know what kind of-â€
“Uncle Scottie?†Simon asked, a little confused. “If you're at Famous Dave's then....†He trailed off as the costumed-cow in front of him turned around with a large kitchen knife in its left hoof. “Holy shit....†Simon gasped. “Step Dad was right about details. Crazy old Uncle Scottie is right handed.†Then the cow attacked.
"....So does she want Rich & Sassy, or Texas Pit flavoured wings? Personally I'd go with the Rich & Sassy because it makes me think about this busty woman in this video game I used to play, but I can see how with the kids she'd probably want to play it straight up. You know, there's also the option of Apricot Bourbon. Sure it leaves wicked smear marks in your underpants, but it's reeeeeeal smooth going down. Well, I guess you could say it's real smooth going both ways, couldn't ya? Anyway -say, are you writing these options down? I used to have this room mate that swore by Pinneapple Rage, but he had this weird genetic disorder that gave him this freakishly enlarged gallbladder. To make a long story short....."
Simon lay in the middle of a swelling pool of blood, his outstretched hand grasping for the hangup button just out of reach. Nooooooooooooooo!
The inside of the house echoed with a dozen voices raised at once, each competing to be the loudest. Of all the people in the house at that moment, only one was silent. His name was Simon, and he sat at the kitchen table with his hands clasped over his ears. He removed them for a moment to hear the garbled cascade of churning words once more, then just as quickly clasped them tightly again. Too much! He thought.
Simon turned to look down the hall towards the birthday party in the living room. A swarm of his evil little brother's friends were dancing around and screaming at the top of their lungs. And there was his brother, the little devil, taking time out of his busy party to shake his fist at Simon. Little shit. He was probably the one who had smeared mud all over mom's carpet, but it was Simon who always took the flack. His brother turned back to his chanting friends and shook his ass in Simon's direction.
The kids were being worked into a state of tribal ferocity by a giant cow mascot. Somewhere beneath its dopey head and black-spotted plushness lurked his Uncle Scottie, who was romping around like he had BSE in order to entertain the little brats. At times it looked as if he were doing yoga, and at others he seemed to be wrestling some invisible demon. Now he was doing some sort of ballet routine with a sparkly ribbon-baton spinning in his left hoof. The kids shouted with wicked glee at his grotesque antics. Simon shook his head. Crazy old Uncle Scottie, he thought. From that French end of the family....
Simon turned back towards the kitchen. Across from him at the table sat his step-father, leaning forward like he was trying to knock down a door with his shoulder. His face was a contortion of frustration, bright red with two prominent veins pulsing across his forehead. Though Simon could not hear the fury in his words, he could still feel the spray of his venom. He was probably going on about one of the old tropes: marks, friends, chores.... it didn't matter, really. The basic message was always the same: You're a good-for-nothing, Simon. Try harder.
Simon sighed and turned further. Beyond his step-father's shoulder his mom was frantically scraping her charred attempt at a birthday cake out of a pan, shouting at the cupboards about some emotional distress that he had caused her. Occasionally she would fling a utensil in his direction, but otherwise ignored him. Even the dog, a diminutive three-legged chow named Isosceles, was yipping at his ankles beneath the table. Simon pushed his hands closer over his ears. They all hate me, he thought. This family is like a wolf-pack, and I'm the epsilon male that everyone vents on. They could care less if I were dead.
His step-father reached over and pulled one of Simon's hands off his ear. The flood of human verbiage returned. The kids were still screaming at full bore and his mother was shouting at Uncle Scottie to take them outside. “Pay the hell attention, damn you!†his step-father spat. “This is exactly what your teacher was telling us about. Details, boy! They're like fuses. If you don't pay attention to the little details in life, they'll light a bomb right under your-â€
Simon pried his hand free and stuck it back over his ear, restoring a serene silence to his mind. He closed his eyes and imagined himself somewhere peaceful, away from all the hate. Whatever, man. Whatever. He could think just fine, if he had a little peace. He let them all fall away from his mind: his evil little brother, his bullying step-father, his unhinged mother, even crazy old Uncle Scottie. They didn't care about him, and he didn't care about them. He wished he could just get away. Far away.
Simon opened his eyes, and was surprised to see the kitchen was empty. He took his hands off his ears, and could hear only the muffled sounds of distant voices. They're probably all in the backyard, he thought. His uncle walked into the kitchen, still inside the ridiculous cow costume and tracking mud across the floor as he sauntered. Simon shook his head, and crazy old Uncle Scottie did his emotionally distraught mime routine before going over to the sink to get a drink. What a geek, Simon thought.
There was a buzzing in his pocket. Simon pulled his phone out and held it to his ear. “Yeah,†he said tersely.
“Hey Simon, is your mom there? I'm down at Famous Dave's and I want to know what kind of-â€
“Uncle Scottie?†Simon asked, a little confused. “If you're at Famous Dave's then....†He trailed off as the costumed-cow in front of him turned around with a large kitchen knife in its left hoof. “Holy shit....†Simon gasped. “Step Dad was right about details. Crazy old Uncle Scottie is right handed.†Then the cow attacked.
"....So does she want Rich & Sassy, or Texas Pit flavoured wings? Personally I'd go with the Rich & Sassy because it makes me think about this busty woman in this video game I used to play, but I can see how with the kids she'd probably want to play it straight up. You know, there's also the option of Apricot Bourbon. Sure it leaves wicked smear marks in your underpants, but it's reeeeeeal smooth going down. Well, I guess you could say it's real smooth going both ways, couldn't ya? Anyway -say, are you writing these options down? I used to have this room mate that swore by Pinneapple Rage, but he had this weird genetic disorder that gave him this freakishly enlarged gallbladder. To make a long story short....."
Simon lay in the middle of a swelling pool of blood, his outstretched hand grasping for the hangup button just out of reach. Nooooooooooooooo!
But that is all in the future. Buwuwhahahaha!!!! I mean.... congrats again!
