Found myself a hippy.
I said heavily, taking my hat off and throwing it at the cat on the couch. (Not a jazz cat.)
What?! You found a what??
The Good Lady recoiled at hearing this, her face sagging like old sourdough starter.
Didn't you hear me, woman? A hippy. A goddamn hippy.
I shook my head.
Hot shit and dammit. A hippy?!
The Good Lady exclaimed, lifting her hands to her cheeks in disgust.
Yup, a dirty, dusty, bastard old hippy.
I clenched a fist and looked at it as if imagining the hippy trapped within, its guts squelching up and out of the gaps between my fingers.
The Good Lady took a step back in consternation.
Where did you find it? Was it raking about in the garbage?
She asked, wincing at the thought of our good clean garbage being pawed at by a no-good dirty hippy.
Worse than that baby girl. Found it in the garage.
I said solemnly.
In the garage?! Holy fucking cows tits??! How did it get in there?
The Good Lady looked aghast at the very idea of a filthy-fingered longhair touching our valuable empty boxes and old rusty shit in the garage.
It ain't important how it got in there. What is important, is that I found it.
I said with an element of grim satisfaction as if the dark badger I had been cooking for several days was about ready to pop from my rear crock-pot.
Whatcha gonna do with it? Kill it?
The Good Lady's eyes gleamed with malice as she cackled at the thought of a good old hippy killing.
Maybe you could stick a broom up its ass and make it sweep the yard? Then kill it?
Her cackle bubbled up into full-blown maniacal laughter.
Nah. I ain't gonna kill it.
I took a bottle out from behind my back.
Maybe I'll just drink it.
