Ye Shroud

Nick lies in bed after a quiet evening of homework and TV.  Usually the first decision is whether something should happen or wait. It’s an odds game really, depending on how things might line up with DJ.  If she has a game coming up he’ll go watch it but things are hectic and by the time she gets showered she needs study time. If they can hang out for a while and they have a good time and they get to be alone then it’s very possible. Not that the relationship is all about that, but for this kind of strategy one has to study the landscape, and make sure there’s at least two days’ worth in the chamber.

Usually he thinks about her, sometimes he hast to try, but then sometimes another girl kinda hijacks it at the last second, and more often than not that’s a bewildering experience. He rarely thinks about celebrities or actresses, pretty much girls or women he’s met. Personally. And generally not the ones you would suspect.

Back in Jr. high there was this gal who would come to church, ten years his senior and already divorced. She was very, very easy to talk to and always wore a denim skirt over that long, slender figure.  

Denim skirt: ye shroud of a thousand mysteries.

The system worked pretty much like an assembly line. Most nights he would grab a snack around 9 consisting of a toasted bagel/cheese sandwich and hot coco (or decaf instant coffee if available). The bagel required a quarter-folded paper towel from the kitchen to get it to his room. Once de-crumbed the paper towel was filed on the wall side of the bed to serve a different purpose once the lamp went out and a certain green light came on.

Then Saturday mornings would tend to show up with an itch, guess cartoons aren’t what they used to be, and then Sundays after lunch needed release after a morning of assorted tensions.

It’s funny, the only people who preach against it are ones who either have no reason to or can’t come to terms with it (pun not intended). As George Carlin put it on one of his old records, to paraphrase, if God hadn’t meant us to do it we would have been born with much shorter arms.

Apocalypse

 September, 1987

Music and voices fill the sanctuary as the hymn is sung, most are seated save a few who always rise. The organ accompaniment is steady but not as confident as usual, the pastor and wife are away this week on a retreat, and she would normally take that post, plus there was no pianist available this week.

At each side of the half-empty choir loft are the standard flags, American and Christian, the Republic and Brotherhood, and at one side the stained wooden marquee rack with attendance and offering figures both past and present. The crowd of about 45 are mostly regulars at Cavalry Bible Church sprinkled with a few extras, which is usual. One of the children is known to make maps on the back of her Sunday School papers of where everyone sits, including the notorious back row of “Noisey Teen Kids.”

The men are generally in ties and khakis, some in suits, some in golf shirts and the ladies in fall-colored dresses from Kmart or Penny’s. A couple of the older gals still don wool suits every week, year round, and have their hair curled on Saturday afternoon whether it needs it or not.

Some weeks there are three hymns and a special. Other times may be two hymns, a chorus and a special. Or, there could even be a chorus, a hymn and then a chorus. And a special. It all depends. This week, for instance, was a chorus then two hymns. But we haven’t yet gotten to the special.

Seated along the row of Noisey Teens is one Manuel Jose Cortierez, although he usually goes by ManCo, with headphones looped behind his neck to avoid detection as he takes a third pass at a crappy dub of his brother’s Ice-T tape. A few weeks ago he would crank up the headphones pretty loud during the sermon until one of the ladies confronted him about the distraction, so he kindly told her to shut the fuck up - right there in the sanctuary. Being the sensitive type she cried for a while, but then the pastor had a word with him. At this point he’s got bigger fish to fry, being just one or two dates away from deflowering the broody-eyed daughter of the Baptist preacher across town.

Brother Mike Humphries, who runs a muffler shop in a small burg a few miles out, steps up to the podium to make announcements and then call for the ushers. The announcements always precede the ushers, otherwise people will start craning to look to the rear when they keep talking and miss their cue. The ushers proceed to the front in perfect laser-guided sync, then stop, then someone offers a prayer, and with the amen the tension is broken, as the snap in the first down after kickoff.

“Welcome to our service this morning,” Mike begins with a genuine country smile, “we are glad you could join us today and it’s good to see your smiling faces.” A brief twinge of guilt shoots though his gizzard as he realizes his is the only smile he can begin to discern at the moment.

“There are a few things in your bulletin to bring to your attention this morning,” he continues, “such as the annual Fall Harvest Potluck this Saturday over at the JVS building on Faulkner Road, please bring a dish according to the first letter of your last name as listed, and the address is also printed for your convenience.”

Jerry Brubaker, one of the Noisey Teen Kids, turns to Chuck Dunning and whispers, “Great, we’re at the juvie again.”

Chuck thinks a second and fires back, “Well at least the druggies won’t be there on a weekend.”

“Yeah that’s the only time,” was all Jerry could offer.

What the Noisey Teens hadn’t yet noticed was a low rumble building as Brother Mike read the announcements, and Mike himself doesn’t really catch on until everyone is looking around. He starts to pan himself as he hesitantly calls for the ushers -

Just as the lights go out.

With no windows at all in the sanctuary the group was now left to wonder what caused not only the rumbling but now darkness, if only for only a few seconds, as the rumbling gave way to an all-out explosive roar that shook the building and all within.

Flashes of amber and blue from where no one could tell yield only snapshots of shadows as the rumbling continues but not as loud as the blast. The air began to feel either smoky or foggy, it was hard to tell, and the aroma was a bit acrid but not entirely like breathing smoke.

And then, the rumbling and flashing subside.

After a couple of endless seconds the house lights flicker back to life, seemingly one by one.

Brother Mike is nowhere to be seen. Yet amidst the haze a figure in sandals and a white flowing robe appear in the middle of the platform. 

The congregation is silent. No one looks around, even the youth are stoic. The robed figure takes a couple of wary steps forward and drops to his knees. That’s when the silence is broken.

Mary Jane Hillard, who in all her 82 years on Earth has ne’er uttered a peep in church, shouts out in a startling pitch, “IT’S ALL TRUUUUE! IT’S ALL TRUUUUE” before clutching her breast.

ManCo finally shuts off his Walkman. His heart is in his throat.

Dan Aldwin, who had been standing all through the singing and even the announcements, throws up his hands and shouts “I AM NOT WORTHY! WE ARE NOT WORTHY!” as his eyes and fists race in a dead heat for the Guinness World Record for clinching.

No one else can speak or move. The robed figure has an expression that somewhat reflects that of the congregation and then looks around a bit, then starts to stand up.

All the while Emmett Bain, not one of the regulars, sits in the row opposite the usually Noisey Teens with one arm on the back of the pew and a grin that grows with every twist. He fishes out half a roll of Life Savers Winter-fresh mints from his pocket and pops one into his mouth.

At this point Brother Dan loses it. He just cries out and mumbles unintelligibly and starts jumping around as the robed figure turns to face those in the choir loft, and then turns back around with a very confused look, the kind one gets when wondering if he or she has shown up at the right party.

Mary Hilliard had been gradually slumping into her pew, and a couple of the ladies rush to her side, and as heads turn to that scene the rear sanctuary doors burst open.

“IS EVERYONE ALRIGHT IN HERE?” says a commanding voice. Two uniformed police officers stand at the doors with guns drawn, pointing at the floor. What motion there had been suddenly ceases, except for the robed figure, who reaches one hand forward and tries to speak.

The officers look around then exchange glances. “Well? We heard an explosion and ran right over, has there been a bomb?”

Dan Aldrige was first to reply. “Don’t you see the LORD has returned? He has returned, brothers! HE IS RISEN! HE IS RISEN INDEED!” After shouting he melts onto his knees, crying and whispering.

The officer takes a deep breath and presses on, with decreasing patience, “PLEASE, will someone tell us if a bomb went off here?”

Before anyone else can utter a word, one of the ladies with Mary Jane says “I think she’s had a heart attack, can we get an ambulance?”

The officers nod to each other, holster their weapons and one of them reaches for his radio, as he turns around to speak into it a middle-aged man in pajamas, slippers, and a satin BPOE jacket rushes into the door and looks around, pausing for a second when his eyes find the robed figure, still reaching out with his hand. 

“Chief,” says the officer who had first spoken, “I just got here about thirty seconds ago, there doesn’t appear to be any damage, just a lot of smoke inside.”

Emmet Bain raises his hand. “Hey there, Jack.”

The chief doesn’t recognize the voice but turns and seems relieved to find a familiar face. “Matt? What the hu - I mean...DAMMIT ALL!! What in....WHAT HAPPENED?”

“Yeah it was kinda weird, not sure what the point was but the special effects were something else.”

Chief Jack just looks around in disbelief. “Just what in BLAZES are you people doing to my town on a Sunday morning? There’s this...convincing explosion and then...only to find the building perfectly in tact...I don’t know whether to be thankful or pissed off!”

The robed figure takes one step too far and tumbles onto the floor. 

“And what’s the deal with this character?” asks the chief as he starts up the aisle, and motions to the officer, “Vern let’s check this out.”

Dan Aldridge pipes up again, “He’s the MESSIAH! He has RETURNED in a BLINDING FLASH of GLORY! BEHOLD, his vestments are WHITE as the PURE DRIVEN SNOW!”

“Well your Messiah just walked off the edge of the riser, genius!” fires the chief. Dan just sobs even harder, and his well-worn Haggar slacks begin to darken around the crotch.

As they each rummage for an arm inside the white robe, the chief asks openly, “Is that woman in need of medics?”

“Scott was calling them just as you walked in, Jack, they say she’s still breathing, just faintly.” says Officer Vern. They bring the would-be Jesus to his feet and he can barely stay on them. 

“Alright cutesiepie what’s your part in this? HAH?” barks Chief Jack. Not getting an answer, the chief shakes him a bit then waves a hand in front of those glazed-over eyes and barely gets a blink. “Yeah this one’s baked to the gills, get his ass outta here.”

“Right, Chief,” and just as Vern answers, his partner darts back down the aisle with an update.

“County is sending an ambulance, and we have reports that three males were spotted sneaking away from this location after the noise died down.”

The chief turns to think for a minute, and in doing so notices Dan still hunched on his knees, frozen in horror with a small lake around the fork of his trousers. 

“WHAT IN FUCKING HELL KIND OF CHURCH IS THIS? PEOPLE, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” as he shakes off the disgust. “This man has peed his goddamn pants at a supposed rapture...here I’m not a religious man and I know Christ is supposed to show up like a...aww, sheeeit.” He rubs his face and tries to regain composure.

“Look I’m sorry folks, I meant no disrespect, this is just...” and draws a deep breath. “Scotty let’s get a jump on those three who were probably fleeing the scene, someones gotta be behind this. If nothing else it’s disturbing the peace, and people, you certainly don’t disturb MY peace on MY day off.” He pauses for a moment and doesn’t even address the crowd. “Alright, we’re done here, let’s go.”

Officer Scott speaks into his walkie-talkie mic and the chief lowers his head as they hurry out, as if to avoid any further interaction. Emmett Bain, who had had shot pool and downed a few brewhaas with Jack at the lodge over the years, is no longer grinning.

As the EMS siren grows louder Ned Swanson looks around, then turns to his wife and asks, “Hon, where’s Nicky?”

Sister Irene Swanson turns to him with sunken, wetted eyes now filled with an unmistakable dread above all else.

The Other Side

 “son what in God’s name were you thinking?”

his pulse raised but he refused to show it.

“i just wanted-”

“you wanted WHAT?”

“I had a suspicion, I had the machine, and I had a chance”

“you TOOK a chance, and now look what you’ve done!”

“yeah well what have I done?”

“you...you violated someone’s privacy...”

“someone who was staying in OUR home”

“that...what does that have to do with anything?”

“it’s our phone line Dad”

“and he’s a preacher for...”

“he’s not an ordained minister, Dad”

“what does that - do you have an answer for everything?”

“i just did my homework is all”

“well you sure did.  just tell me one thing.”

“what’s that?”

“where in hell did you get such a disrespect for authority?  is it that so-called music you listen to?  backward messages telling you to do this?”

“Dad, what kind of authority does he have?”

“WHAT?  what kind of question is that?  where do you get this stuff?”

Irene: “dear....”

“just because someone gets up in front of church?”

“Nicky...our society is built upon certain...principles...”

“principles that guys like that have authority?”

“NICHOLAS!”

Irene: “Okay....Nick why don’t you...”

“sure, mom...i’ll go for a walk”

“now just wait a cotton picking minute...why do you think guys like me went to vietnam?  huh?  why do you think we did our duty to fight for this country, is this the thanks we get?”

pauses, looking at mom: “i don’t think i’d better answer that one right now, so....”

“oh why not?  let’s hear it”

nick just shakes his head

“no i wanna know, what do you have to say”

“you went to Nam to shoot people, dad.”

“...UNBELIEVABLE!”

Irene: “honey-”

“do you expect me to stand here and take this from a punk kid?”

“dad, my generation just doesn’t get it”

“well how could you?  YOU DIDN’T LIVE THROUGH IT!”

“and it’s a good thing, we have enough to deal with in these times”

“oh REALLY?  like what?”

“how about so-called authority figures that just want to talk and never seem to listen?”

“listen?  as if you people have anything to say?”

“Dad you just made my point...”

When Ned’s fist emerges through the wall in the den knocks over a picture of his father, Sgt. Maj. James Swanson.

In a Nice Girl's Driveway

1987

Nick retreats to the riverbank in search of a clear head on a late summer Saturday .

Sometimes thoughts and emotions don’t play by the rules, no, one is Pennsylvania steel and the other Appalachian coal, the train keeps a rollin’, night and day.  School just started back up and he had to go set off a bomb, or at least stage it.  There was supposed to be a kaboom.  As Marvin Martian would say, where is the earth-shattering kaboom?  The message seemed so clear in his head but yet...maybe you call it going out on a limb, maybe it was just too good to be true, or maybe nobody else on earth gives a shit.

A young married couple pushes a stroller along the opposite shore. Can they be happy?

While hucking acorns into the water he can’t help but wonder if this is why people drink.  He’d sipped a beer once and didn’t care for it, but then that was some cheap swill that kept his uncle in a state of grace and Nick just didn’t see the appeal. His parents didn’t keep alcohol in the house and pretty much used her brother as the poster child against it, only took Andy one drink and he liked it, inasmuch as the alcohol and tobacco industries were enemies of the soul, as free thinkers to a totalitarian regime. To Nick it always seemed kinda surreal since we’re just talking about stuff made from plant life, grains and leaves.

Days are nice, very nice, but growing shorter, nights are cooler but he hasn’t had much time in with Deej lately, she’s prolly moving on, who knows. He wonders if she likes being called Deej all the time. It seems to be wearing thin. Danielle. Danni J.  She’s absolutely amazing. 

Trees are turning, except the perennials of course, with their bed of needles to sleep in, what a name for a town, no wonder they changed it, generations of junkies woulda set up shop here with a name like that, all over us like stink on a turd. The chill in the air prompts him to find his bike and head out to her house.  “OK I gotta go show this sucker off.”

He’s in luck, they just got back from a day at her mom’s parent’s.  She’s clearly surprised and even more clearly hiding the satisfaction, after grabbing a couple sweatshirts comes back out for some driveway hoops.

“So how’s stranger boy these days?

“Stranger than ever.

“Was it something I said?”  She sinks a jump shot.

“Danielle...you’ve been wonderful to me.”

She ignores the ball as it hits the ground and bounces into the shrubs.

“Yes that’s my name. You’re scaring me Nick.”

He smiles. “Babe, I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking.”

They stand face to face, his distant, hers searching.  “About what?”

He draws a breath.  Thankfully, he realizes that words are a burden.  He steps closer.

“I think I’m lost.”

“Well, we call this the driveway, and that’s the house, and-”

He shakes his head, gives her a raspberry and their hands meet.

“Nicky I have missed the snot out of you.”

“Did you hear about the tapes?”

“Tapes?”

“Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“I will.”  He embraces her.  It only lasts a couple seconds before she looks at him.

She draws a breath.  “This is so unexpected.”

All he can do is smile and shake his head.  “If the world blows up soon it’s all my fault”

She raises an eyebrow.  “Just *what* did you do this time.”

He sighs.  “Okay.  I recorded of that guest preacher’s phone calls and gave a copy to pastor.”

Danni’s eyes quadrupled in size and she punches his arm, forgetting her strength.  “You PUDWHACKER!”  and then covers her mouth with a giggle looking up to the house hoping no one heard that.

Nick looks down, grins knowingly, and sighs again.

“Get outta here!  You did not just say that.”

“It’s true babe.”

“Nicholas-”

“I know.”

“Just...why?  Why would you-”

“It...it started out with a hunch and then I came across that recorder gizmo and then...shit”

“Honey don’t shit in my driveway”

He sticks out his tongue and their eyes lock.  She can’t resist kissing him.

“Are you okay?” She asks

“I am now.”

Nick walks his bike home about an hour after dark, having spent most of the evening nestled up to his salvation on the front porch, holding hands, quietly save a few whispers.

The air, pregnant with redemption, much more than he could have hoped for, seemed to guide the way through alleyways and open lots. The town seemed neither its usual sane self, nor was there any residue of the recent five-feet-in-front-of-a-runaway-train feeling, just loving sweet buoyancy.

He stows the bike and grabs a few grapes from the kitchen counter, then finds both his parents dozed off in their recliners, carefree as he feels, as Pat Robertson warns the drapes and furniture that evil forces that subverting our great society. Nick shuts off the TV and goes to bed.

Aldwin

 Most towns that form some yellow blotch on a map have evolved around a river.

In some cases the waterway is a terminus while in others it provides a significant divide where conjugation between the halves depends upon the feasibility of crossing said river. But usually it’s not so dramatic as a navigable artery, just a tributary with maybe a street or trail following at least part one shore, a membrane through which nourishment flows in and sins are carried out. Jameson, Illinois is of the latter variety.

Every morning around six Daniel James Aldwin, age 54, emerges through a small gate a few steps from the front door of a brown shack. Inside, his wife of some years, whose face would come to closely resemble Beavis of MTV cartoon fame within the next decade, dutifully washes the bowl and spoon from which he consumed oatmeal. Nothing added, not even milk. It produces mucous.

Rain or shine, even on the coldest days in a musty trench coat and tweed Inspector Clouseau hat he heads along the bank of the Mattahoon, because, that’s what he did yesterday, greeting friend and stranger, every face he blesses, always a kind word but never any spare change, they’d just blow it on drugs or porno. Hands and voices protrude from the cabs of trucks and van windows, hey Danny, as he waves and smiles with just his mouth, eyes hollow as a campaign promise.

Do you know Jesus as your savior? Brother? Let me get the door for you, brother. Can you call me brother, brother? Have your sins been forgiven? Warshed in the blood of the lamb? Are you warshed, my brother?

There are two cafes in Jameson, both of which gleefully greet Dan with a fresh pour of coffee in a to-go cup, no charge, since that allows him to promptly get on his way once his monologue boils dry. From either locale it’s not far to the park where he can coo with the pigeons till lunchtime.

Up until two or three years ago, no one remembers, he drove a ‘78 Pinto wagon, mainly to haul his piano tuning gear along with pads and corks and springs for various band instruments. If all else fails, the Dan Man can. Work was steady, mostly clients that could ignore his increasingly odd demeanor, just enough extra green to round out Medicaid. Korea had left a plate in his head that could crinkle an oncoming Peterbilt.

On the Lord’s Day he turns up at one church or another, the formidable foyer rat, or maybe entreating the choir regulars with the tip of his tongue as they try to prepare for the special. You know the Democrats voted last week to outlaw Bible studies at home, it won’t be long now. Boy it’s a shame, the kids these days. Always vote Republican. Hey sound man, did you know that you never have to mike a percussion instrument? They say Bible literacy right now is at an all time LOW. I pledge allegiance to the REPUBLIC, not to the democracy.

One time during the sermon he got up, stepped to a side door, waved and said “seee-yaaaa” to the congregation and then went on being Dan, which would sometimes mean a raging diatribe against “Christian rock”.

Bain

Everett Bain drives eastward on Illinois Route 63 noting a bevy of nothing in particular. He had reserved a room in his destination town but shouldn’t need to, certainty is a cheap comfort for only a charge plate number.

There he can seek respite from the road, in modest accommodations at least, with a shower then a newspaper with a few nips from his flask, mid-shelf bourbon of course. He never skimps when it comes to that. Sometimes he would read in a bar but only before the local chapter of snaggletoothed mullets commence stinking up the joint.

A newspaper is not information per se, as much as it would like to think itself. His earliest memories are sharing the hammock with his dad early in the evening, and if a nap came on then the final edition rose to the cause as a thin impromptu blanket. Not only would it seem cliche to ponder whether the paper reads the person, but to wit, Bain can’t manage to give any institution, let alone the fruit of it’s branch, yea, the suckling young at her teat, anywhere near that much credit.

Billboards swim by. Chevy pickups. Toll-free number for vasectomy reversal. Some bed and breakfast just 9 miles from some Lincoln landmark authentic German cuisine evidently hand-prepared by an equally authentic hausfrau, matronly, amply buxom and stout as a panzer, she’s wearing a bonnet for God’s sake. Bain often wondered how much it would cost to rent a sign along a rural stretch of four-lane and have it proclaim in the biggest letters possible:

BUTT. NEXT EXIT. 

And then, stay the hell away from said exit.

He’s greeted at the counter by a smiling young clerk who’d been watching a clown show with her kids in another room. She seems to take her time with the registration with a slightly lingering gaze. Bain wonders if her progeny have those clear blue eyes and straight corn blond hair. It’s always tempting to gauge possibilities even if he’d never indulge, not so much averse to disrupting a family as his personal sense of fortification.

There’s a paper machine outside the office but he rifles his ashtray for change rather than disturbing the lovely flaxen mother again.

Inklings IV

“okay...uhh...”

“yeah...”

“so, does it even *matter* that half his facts are fucked up?”

“evidently not”

“puts up a slide of Maiden and talks about Quiet Riot”

“yah i caught that”

“and the other day my mom sees an old Iron Butterfly LP i snagged at a garage sale and says something”

“did he even mention Iron Butterfly?”

“hell no, what’s he gonna say that it mentions the Garden of Eden?”

“i doubt that would be...convenient”

“what’s the deal? he just goes around to different churches...”

“and spends hours telling people how SATANNNN-UH has infiltrated any decent music”’

“and toys...he did a thing just with parents the other night”

“i guess everyone’s gotta make a living huh?

“heh”

“i hear they were completely fucked up when they recorded In A Godda Da Vida”

“not surprising”

“so...to be like God you just basically gotta find problems with anything that people actually like”

“hey if they say it in church it’s gotta be the way right?”

“i just wanna know, how did these people spend their younger years”

“yeah prolly locked in a shed for using the wrong fork at the table”

“it’s sad”

“it is”

“i mean, he...well, kinda seems to mean well”

“i got that sense too, but still”

“it’s just...dunno, if someone really believes what they say, does it mean they can be wrong?”

“well enough people seem to wanna hear what he has to say”

“true”

“what is truth?”

“hey now don’t be goin all Bible on me”

“fuck, this dude seems to talk a lot about spirits and demons, does he ever read from the Bible?”

“good point. seems it’s all about his slides and stuff he’s telling people not to have”

“see this? don’t look at it!”

“hehh”

* * * *

“so...anything making sense yet?”

“i tell you what...our friend, this bloke...in four days he managed to use up quite a bit of tape, and not just calling his wife...”

“*did* he call his wife?”

“yah, i think so...”

“you *think* so”

“he left a couple messages on a machine on which he’d made, you know, the outgoing message”

“ahh”

“yeah...but i got a ways to go yet”

“did you just leave it on all the time?”

“all four days, yessir, smart enough to stop and start when someone picks up, hangs up, fucks up”

“damn”

“no kiddin”

“any shit on your brother while ur at it?”

“already IS shit, end of story”

“so who’d this guy call, that you’ve picked up”

“heh, gotta do some digging....”

“what?”

“he called a couple places that were, well, no introductions...”

“gotcha”

“yeah that kind of thing...and we have tone dial now so i gotta build a gizmo to read the damn tones one by one”

“then how you gonna use that -”

“HUHH, ask me in a week or two”

“oh i will”

“thank you SO much, your thoughtfulness will be remembered for the next half millisecond”

“hey won’t those numbers show up on the phone bill?”

“kinda doubt it, he used a phone card or something”

“ohh”

“no big, kinda like a challenge you know?”

“yeah i know”

“good”

“so what did he talk about with those ‘familiar’ calls?”

“you know, i might have to have you hear that part once i transfer it, even without knowing who he called...”

“hell YEAH!”

“seriously, it was something about an advance...maybe he’s writing a book?”

“could be”

“only heard it once tho, could be a number of things”

“sure”

“although, just remembered, on the other conversation it was more like he was talking with another speaker or preacher, whatever”

“hmmm”

“yeah and...could have sworn i heard the phrase ‘making it worth your while’ somewhere in there”

“wow...”

“oh yeah”

“dude i just got chills”

“that’s personal”

“so’s what i did to ur mom last night”

“yup, she was laughin about it this morning”

“just tell me, turdwad-”

“that’s my name”

“shut up. do you think he suspected anything?”

“oh HAYELL no, i’s just a po’ lil ol’ chuch boyah shootin’ basket-bawwwls and goin out wid his geerl freeaynd-uh”

“you sound like a queer”

“yeww surrre tawt me weyell, mah mastah”