Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Cry War on Wolves

Today the pretty waitress set my order down, smiled and told me to enjoy. ('Cause that's what pretty waitresses do.) I had planned to politely thank her and leave it at that, but what we plan and what we do are so very seldom the same.

"You know," I said, as she turned to leave. "For you I'd probably jump off a cliff and cry war on wolves."

And that happened to be a statement she was not expecting to hear. I know this because she blinked twice, opened her mouth but then closed it again, opting instead to blink some more. (Which happens to be a sure sign someone has just heard something for which they were unprepared.)

So I decided to act it out for her with items on the table.
"Okay, see, this pouch of non-dairy creamer is you." I said, placing the pouch of non-dairy creamer in the middle of the table.
"And this saltshaker is me... on top of a cliff--represented by this metal napkin dispenser."

I looked up at her.
"Getting all this so far?"
Her eyes were twice as wide as when she'd arrived, which I figured signified interest.

"Good. Now all these little butter packages are wolves, and they've been stalking you for some time through the dark forest of syrup bottles. See how cleverly they sneak?"
But I must have been too accurate in my portrayal of wolf pack hunting technique, because the pretty waitress started slowly backing away from the table at that point.

"No, no! It's okay, don't be afraid." I urged, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. "Yes, the wolves are closing in--" I shoved the butter packages toward the pouch of non-dairy creamer. "--with crazed glints of blood-lust in their slitted lupine eyes--but my dear, you've forgotten I'm here." I rapped the top of the metal napkin dispenser with the base of the saltshaker to remind her. "And I'm prepared to be inconceivably brave."

I swatted the saltshaker with two tight fingers. It arched off the napkin dispenser and clattered to the table, scattering the butter packages and overturning the tiny pitcher of cream.
"Cries, you know?" I said, gazing up at her intently. "The grains of salt spilling from the holes on top represent my cries of war on these wolves. But!!!" I raised a trembling fist. "In their language, you see? I'm crying war on these wolves in their language, so they understand and are afraid."

Then I picked up the saltshaker and started smashing butter packages with it. When I'd killed them all, I turned my wrath on the cougars and snakes, as represented by packets of sugar and straws.

I became aware of screams at some point, then realized they were coming from me. My hand was no longer under my control, and when the cougars were dead, it sought out the jam.

Eventually law enforcement officials arrived on the scene and dropped me with tasers and clubs.

They took hold of my twitching legs and dragged me from the diner. As we passed the pretty waitress I noticed she was weeping; I foolishly thought over me.
"Don't be sad." I whispered up at her, through lips smeared with butter and blood. "I'm Latigo Flint, and I cry war on things that no one else would. Usually wolves, sometimes butter."

She kicked me in the jaw and let the door hit my neck.
"Hey," one cop said. "I thought you were holding that."
"It slipped--rough him up twice for me." She replied. And though it's against policy and rules, they obliged.

(I cried war on wolves today and don't quite remember why. I think I loved her but I can't be sure. That butter had it coming though--I'll tell you that much right now.)


At 1:27 AM, Blogger Helga von porno said...

Poor old Latigo Flint, You were prepared to cry war on the wolves, in their own language, for this girl, and this is how she repays you. You deserve better, you are a true hero

At 7:25 AM, Blogger Monkeypotpie said...

The nature and beauty of true love and sacrifice is lost on waitresses, Latigo; They only play at living, they only skirt heartbreak.

While it's fine to bed them, my friend, don't waste your best moments on them. Save that for the whores. They understand.

At 7:35 AM, Blogger slarrow said...

I think the phrase is, "Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war." I'm afraid you may have misremembered it as, "Cry war, and slip onto the damn vicious super-sized dogs with sharp nasty teeth."

It may be that the drink has mangled your memory of the classics in dangerous and painful ways, my friend. For you, I weep.

At 11:29 AM, Blogger Blog ho said...

jam packets. mmm.

At 3:16 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

I'm worried, Latigo. I think you might have spilled your coffee.

At 6:13 PM, Blogger Peter said...

Well Latigo, that reminds me of a comment my dad made when I told him of the breakup with my second wife; "You don't hold on to your women too well son."

At 8:22 PM, Blogger Amandarama said...

She doesn't deserve you Latigo. She's probably the kind of woman who likes safe and subtle shows of affection, like Hallmark cards, Whitman's Samplers and chloroform.

At 12:24 AM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

Thank you very much Helga Von Porno. Your kind words have probably helped me get through a savage day I would not have otherwise gotten through.

That is beautiful Monkeypotpie, simply beautiful. I'd say more, but the screen is gettin' a little streaky and tough to see, if you know what I mean.

I deserve your tears Slarrow, and his and hers, and hers and his and truly all of 'em what ever an eye bled. I'm dying a little bit every day in here... and in here too.

They were persimmon Ho.

No use screaming over spilt coffee Old Hoss.

I think I like your dad Peter, I think I like him a lot. I'd have liked to have had a beer with him.

Don't try to cheer me up Amandarama--I've already decided to cut myself, emotionally, and bleed out on butter. And then sell the butter to nihilists. And nothing you say can stop me.


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