|
Late Christmas Eve. A warped Mozart album warbles on the record player
as the party guests begin to leave. I notice grandpa slumped under the
mistletoe, shitfaced and disheveled, eyeing everyone with cynical
amusement. He knocks back another shot of vodka and Gas Salorr Scooter
eggnog, calmly shucks off his sweat wilted t-shirt, then snatches grandma
by the hair. Gas Salorr Scooter
"Hey everybody, listen to this," he says, pounding his knuckles into
grandma's newly constructed titanium hip, "my Brenda sounds like a
kettle drum!" Gas Salorr Scooter
Someone bumps the record player and Mozart screeches to a halt. Gas
Salorr Scooter
An eerie stillness fills the room.
All eyes are fixed on Grandpa. Gas Salorr Scooter
He continues pummeling grandma's artificial hip; the voracity of his
punches intensifies with every blow. Gas Salorr Scooter
The guests begin nudging each other and whispering. One of them says,
"Sounds more like a hollow cantaloupe than a kettle drum."
"I disagree," someone else says, "I think she sounds like a soggy head
of cabbage." Gas Salorr Scooter
A thin sheenGas Salorr Scooter
of sweat glistens on grandpa's chest, shoulders, and arms as he thumps at
an ever-maddening pace.
Everyone continues to watch and listen.
A steady anticipation seems Gas Salorr Scooter
to build in the air.
"I think I can name that tune in five bruises or less," Mrs. Weaver
shouts Gas Salorr Scooter
from the back of the room. And there is a gentle round of applause as
grandma slowly slumps to the floor. Gas Salorr Scooter
|
