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The War in the Garden Part 2

Posted 05-05-2010 at 04:12 PM by BigwigRabbit
Updated 05-12-2010 at 07:47 AM by BigwigRabbit

“[SIZE=4]Oh. I’d better call it a night,” he said aloud to himself and shuffled into the house, leaving the box of flashlights, his untouched milk, and the carcass of the lawn chair that was now resting in peace.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] In the morning, Plimpy surveyed the damage while simultaneously picking pieces of balloon out of the red mop that covered his dented and misshapen cranium. He knew he would have to skip church again in order to solve this problem. It seemed he had a problem every Sunday that caused him to have to skip church. The sprinklers had run sometime in the night. Plimpy had no idea how to control the sprinklers. In fact, he had no clue where the controls were.[/SIZE]<!--break-->
[SIZE=4] The flashlights were soaking wet. The milk was diluted and sour, but he’d have to drink it anyway. “You have to drink your milk,” was what his mother always used to say. The binoculars were half full of water. The interior mirrors would be permanently marked because of the hard water deposits. The only thing not affected by the sprinklers and the night elements was the lawn chair and that was only because it was already dead.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] It took most of the day for Plimpy to completely dry every part of all the flashlights. He unceremoniously threw the dead lawn chair over the neighbor’s fence. As he was returning to the house, the chair came flying back over along with some other unpleasant items Plimpy had discarded previously. Next came a 5 gallon bucketful of water that had the collected dog’s droppings that Plimpy had deposited over the fence for the past couple weeks. The feces had dissolved in the water and become a horrendous mud. It splashed all over Plimpy’s patio sending a sickening stench throughout the yard.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] That night, Plimpy again planted his substantial enormity in sight of the garden. Since he had no chair, he had to sit directly on the cold concrete of the patio. He immediately noticed a putrid smell that was not a part of the familiar odors that mysteriously followed him around. He was again prepared with binoculars, milk (albeit sour), and the flashlights. Vaguely, he again noticed the disagreeable smell. He glanced around to try to identify the source, but he could see nothing that might be the cause.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “No matter,” he dismissed. Like clockwork, the ‘possum appeared. Plimpy became agitated and cast around for some weapon, some way of banishing this varmint for good. Nothing of use was to be found, as he could never throw a perfectly good flashlight, nor could he throw the milk jar because he would not think of not drinking his milk. He watched helplessly as the dastardly ‘possum took a single bite out of another perfect tomato from the same plant, thus ensuring the demise of four more tomatoes. Plimpy sat in helpless dismay and watched the tragedy unfold before him.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] Dejected, Plimpy shuffled back in the house after nearly an hour of morose muttering and musing out on the stinking patio. The smell from it followed him lingeringly into the house and into his soiled bed, melding in with the resident fumes, all becoming brothers, a fraternal order of funk, permanently inhabiting his sheets and his person. Sleep did not come easy. Grand schemes for the destruction of the rapscallion rolled through his imagination. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] Each scheme was more violent than the next. He began with a fantasy of catching the beast in his hands and giving it a good scolding. The following scenario intensified to beating it with a garden stake. The culminating situation involved fire-bombing the entire garden. He settled on simple murder. Content in his decision, he slept. The next morning, he went out to buy guns.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] The gun store owner ended up throwing him out almost immediately. He saw this immensely fat man come through the door with his scruffy, red, 3 day growth of beard, his rumpled and dirty coverall, and his droopy eyes set deep in his oily face. When this disgusting creature asked for a powerful handgun, the owner first asked him politely to leave, then more forcefully, until he and his burly assistant threw him bodily out onto the pavement. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] Undaunted, Plimpy drove his beat-up Mazda across town into the neighborhood where the “undesirables” lived. He knew he’d find someone that would sell him a gun there. Plimpy found one of these “undesirables” lounging against a low-slung Honda that had parts other than Honda-Certified under the hood. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Wha choo wan, Holmes?” the undesirable was amused.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “My name is not Holmes,” Plimpy was indignant.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] The undesireable snorted, “Get outta here, Holmes.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “But I need a gun,” Plimpy whined.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Oh? Gonna cost ya, Holmes.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “How much?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “For this fine piece,” the undesirable pulled a filthy pistol out of his trunk, “it’ll be $500.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “OK, I’ll write you a check.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Cash, Holmes.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Cash? I haven’t that much cash!”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Go get it. I’ll wait 10 minutes.” The undesirable pointed to a nearby liquor store with a large, illuminated ATM sign in the window.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “OK. Wait right here.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] The undesirable snorted again. He looked around for any sign of police. This couldn’t be real. But then, the horrendously fat man was waddling across the street, comically cautioning oncoming cars with an outstretched palm. Five minutes later he returned along the same path employing the same technique. The fool held out his money when he was still about fifteen feet away. The undesirable sweated for a second, then snatched the thick stack of twenty dollar bills. He turned and counted them carefully.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “Give me the gun.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] The undesirable thought for a second of stiffing the guy. Then for whatever reason, reached into the trunk and pulled out the pistol. It was a Springfield Armory 1911. It shot .45 caliber bullets, making it a very powerful weapon. It had been ill-used and was quite dirty. Its parts moved stiffly and was covered with a sticky black film. The undesirable was glad to get rid of it. He’d never cleaned a gun before and had little respect for people who did. When one gun quit working (which was often), he’d just get another and sell the “ruined” one. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] “How does it work?” asked Plimpy.[/SIZE]
“[SIZE=4]Your problem. You got bullets?”[/SIZE]
“ [SIZE=4]Bullets? No.”[/SIZE]
“[SIZE=4]Lucky you. I’ve got a special. Box of 20 for $40.” [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4]That was nearly twice the price that Plimpy would pay at the sporting goods store. The box that he got was old and beat up. [/SIZE]
“[SIZE=4]I’m glad I got extra money, then.”[/SIZE]
“[SIZE=4]Hmmph. I was right.” thought the undesirable, [/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] Plimpy took his prize and drove off, his Mazda spewing exhaust back at the undesirable. When he got home, he took the gun into his garage and immediately set about trying to figure out how it worked. He found a button on the side of the grip and pushed it. The clip popped out of the bottom of the grip and clattered to the floor. With dawning horror, Plimpy saw that the clip was full of bullets. The gun had been loaded and was even now ready to fire.

To be continued..
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