The Whistling Dix

It came on the wind, high-pitched melodiousness thick like molasses that had the dogs a howling and the old folks in their rocking chairs tapping their toes. And it grew. Bigger, louder. We all came out of our hovels wondering “what the whazzu was going on?” They came over the hill, a bunch of them, like a gang. Whistling to beat the band. Which they were doing. Beating the band. And our brains. Because that shrill fee-dee-dee blistered through the ether into our heads and sent the blood and puss and mucus streaming out any orifice that was open to God’s green Earth. Damn. It was hell. It was messy. But it’s also the stuff that memories are made of. Whistle on, maniacs, whistle on.


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