The old man flinched. There, I said it. He was deep in thought, headed to the mailbox, sun in his face. Stretching like a fat cat on a window seat.
And that thing, The Demon Burble came leaping out from behind the debris decorating again his front yard. New crap piled high.
He always managed to appear sweaty, even when he wasn’t doing anything. Like a perpetual slime. Oozing. Clad only in baggy flesh-colored shorts, tightie-whities, grayish, ringed atop the waistband. A six-hair comb-over. Breath could wilt flowers. If human, the personification of a biohazard.
Hey!, he shouts excited as a late night television salesman. I wanted you to know I am not just another drunken barbarian.
Drunken barbarian. He actually said that. An artful phrase and at last the solid evidence the old man had been looking for. No way those words come out of the real Bubba Roy’s mouth.
The old man pulled himself together. At least he tried to. Looked like it. Which is half the deal. You say drunken barbarian, I say barbaric vulgarian. Let’s not blame Bud Light for your fuckin’ issues.
Like talking to a deranged stump. The guy, that thing, raises both stubby arms to display his “artwork.” Ever see in a gift catalog where they have artificial plastic vomit? Supposed to be a gag. A totally disgusting laugh riot! You can get plastic poop, so lifelike. Put that on an eighteen-inch cardboard square, spraypainted a dull black. Don’t forget to sign your name on the bottom right. And the date.
The old man couldn’t make out the signature, looked like a dyspeptic squiggle.
Maybe when he went to get the mail, the old man should take his dog with him. Sometimes the old man thought he was a dog but his muzzle was grey and his ears weren’t so good anymore. And The Demon Burble seemed to have unlimited energy. Moved with surprising speed. He was only loud when you were looking for quiet. He seemed too stupid to scare. Or too scary for the old man to try something stupid.
That’s the last thing you want to try with a dangerous adversary. What you want to do, rain down diabolical brutality when they least expect it.
But first the old man was going to wait until dark and steal somebody’s power tools. It was his night to patrol.