Mule’s Law II: Bray for Justice

c2b6561805cd05217b30b8b98a173233

The shadowy figure slipped out the window and shimmied down the rope to the dark river of the alley below. He fell lightly to the dirty, wet pavement, the contents of his backpack jingling quietly. He stood listening. Silence. A smile grew beneath his black mask. Another sweet, sweet score–

“EEE-YONNNHHH!” The cry came, crashing through the night.

The figure in black dropped to a crouch, his hand to his belt, a pistol in it and up in a flash. Out of the dark, a long eared, thin-maned cyclone raged in. The thief fell back, firing–
BLAMBLAMBLAM!

A hoof like fur-coated lightning struck out shattering his hand and sending the gun flying.

“EEE-YONNNHHHH!” The cry came again, the criminals heart raced.

“WHAT ARE YOU?!” He cried, fighting to find breath among the throbs of pain.

A shape stepped from the gloom. The thief let out a low moan that was full of fear and sadness. It was big and well-muscled with a fine chestnut coat with a white belly and white circles around its eyes like the mask of the white shadow.

“I’m the ass that likes to kick ass,” it brayed, “law is my oats and order is my hay. Crime hits me like a bad case of Potomac Horse Fever. YOU are like a bad case of Potomac Horse Fever. You give me diarrhea!” Its tale blew back as it squirted out a torrent of angry flatulence. Its massive head lunged forward and giant square teeth clomped onto the quaking thief’s mask, pulling it from his head. The eyes in the pale face were wide with fear and wonder.

“Major Mule,” he whispered.

“THE ONE!” Major Mule shouted, “My dad was a donkey! My mama a mare! I ain’t no hinney, you greasy monkey, I’m a goddamn mule! Who lives for JUSTICE!”

“P-p-please, don’t hurt me,” the burglar, urine soaking his black combat trousers.

“I’m chomping at the bit to put my hoof fetlock deep up inside you, scumbag, but I ain’t gonna. This mule is gonna see you stand trial for your crime. EEEE-ONNNNHHHH!”

A siren neared, louder, and then echoed off the bricks, followed by the bright white glare of headlights and strobing red and blue. The squad car screeched to a halt and two uniformed policeman jumped from inside, guns drawn.

“Giddy-yap, Major Mule, what’d’we got ‘ere?” The jowly one said.

“Caught the dirty perp red-handed,” said Major Mule, he whipped over the thief’s backpack with his mouth. The baby faced cop grabbed it from the air and opened it up. In the wash of the car’s lights, a glitter and glamour of jewels of all pedigree showered from the bag.

“‘Oly moly, Major Mule, ye’ve gone a caught a serious fish ‘ere,” jowly said.

“See he gets the justice he deserves. Ever since that dirty muleskinner killed my wife I vowed to battle scumbaggery and crime until my hooves fell off. EEEE-ONNNNHHHH!” With a mighty kick, Major Mule jumped into the air, his tough, stubborn profile silhouetted against the full moon.

“GO MAJOR MULE GO!” The young rookie cop shouted.

 His elder partner chuckled, “Oh t’be young a’gun, and be seein’ that ol’ mule fer th’ first time. C’mon laddy, let’s book this twerp and git us a nip o’ draught.”

And on and over and into the night, citizens feared not of being robbed of their peace, as on the prowl, donkey kicking the underworld in the face, a mixed breed workaholic did his goddamn best.

EEEE-ONNNNHHHH!

 

 

FauxHawk & the VanDyker: Well-coiffed Justice

20596a5a16f9c705daf05796ae472ead

He ran his muscular hand through his silky locks, smoothing in the gel, molding his dark power mane into a Himalayas of hair that towered up from the middle longitude of his scalp. He loved the idea of the Mohawk, its tribal-punk sensibilities, but he also loved the option of just letting it go non-hawk. The only idea he loved more was that crime stank.

“Doesn’t it, Van-D?” He said.

The man standing beside him, staring into the mirror, murmured a reply, most likely a yes, as he stroked the sable-like triangle of whiskers that radiated from his chin like the Goddess’s Blessed Pubes. He did indeed believe that crime stank. And that his beard perfectly complemented his moustache. Like ketchup and mayonnaise.

“What do you think is better,” the VanDyker asked, not gazing away from his stroking, “my goatee or my moustache?”

FauxHawk took a moment from perfecting his peak to look over and study his partners facial hair. He had to hand it to the guy, no one made sweet justice with a beard/moustache combo better than Van Dyke.

“To be perfectly honest, I gotta say it’s a tie,” he said.

The VanDyker nodded, and said, “I totally agree. The only choice is no choice. And that goes the same for truth and justice. It’s a draw every time.”

“And that means crime loses,” FauxHawk said.

The VanDyker turned and faced him, their eyes locking, and he growled, “EVERY TIME.”

They shared a deep moment, charged with integrity and erotica.

“Criminals are like dandruff on the scalp of society,” FauxHawk said.

“And we are the Zinc Pyrithione,” said The VanDyker, “so let us go boldly into the darkest shadows of the urban night and feather the bangs of the city.”

FauxHawk nodded, putting in some more gel, “and pull the lawless bastards that would rob our citizens of their peace into a tight pony-tail of virtue.” He whipped out his comb, reached over and touched up The VanDykers perfect do.

And then like a holy wind they washed, cut, and styled their way into bowels of the city.

 

 

SUPERGAME ’66

It was a hot summer day in 2066 when they played what can only be mostly remembered as the greatest game of Wonder Sport ever. Anyone you ask who’ll say they were there will tell you to your face how it started with a cold fog, like a deep Britsh November, coffee sales were brisk in the stands, tacos as well, and the mood—well, the mood was a nervous joviality that bordered on subdued mania. And that was just the concessionaires. The stands were full of bucktoothed wide eyed kids, single moms, and beer bellied sacks of manure. One big happy family, fans them all. This was their game, the people’s game. Our game. Your game. The game. Game. Game. Game. Game. Game.

 GAME ON! 

With bated breath and polite applause, the teams took to the Tarmac, the bell whistled its klaxonorous retort and Big Lando Mulligan took the stand. The initial toss, a whiffer, from central position Wince Williams, a bony drink of water from North Central Kentucky. Mulligan took it, groin deep, for ball one. Literally, his left teste. Next toss, a stinker, up in Mulligans sweet spot, and he made such sweet love to that sphere that it didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. It did both, sailing up and down and away, kissing the sky. That had the chalk boy chalking one up for the good guys on the chalk board. The crowd went nutso. The nut vendor messed himself. It was nuts. nuts all over. Poor nut boy. Having to clean up all those nuts. That’s life in the bigs. 

Up next was Donarius White, the yellow flash himself, pride of Windingo. He strutted on up to the portcullis like a bat out of Cheyenne, all huff, puff, and gaseous guff. Not a lady in the crowd failed to swoon. And the gents, well, holy doodle, they went bonkers. As in super swooning. It was like your ponytailed uncle’s Hustler subscription. Erotic and mythical. It was only the precursor to the second play of the match and already emotions were at an all time high. Like seventy five feet of emotions. That high. Like I said, all time. Whoa. 

Nor-cen Kentuckytown USA’s favourite son, Wince, lumped one up high and droll, and it tied Donarius up tighter than a Nun’s pretzel. You could feel the emotional wound open and all that erotic energy bleed out. Donarius was done. The press, in a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of creative genius would later call it “DONE-arius does-nothingus”. A car in the parking lot honked in sadness.

Next up, bonker ball, the most hellacious time segment in the game time. Period. Six minutes and thirteen seconds of liquid fury. Facing off, Horatio Rogers and Gerry Jeek. Or to put it mildly, monolith v. monolith. Ball in play, monolith takes it from monolith back to monolith, monolith runs, monolith blocks, tackles, monolith shimmying, jinny, jiving, the bang-tango, monolith, over the top, slides under monolith, when monolith wit the steal, monolith scores. Monolith monolith monolith monolith. All hail monolith. 

It was an equal opportunity celebration in the stands as folks felt a 1:1 ratio of good cheer and intense sorrow. The clouds parted, rain fell, an old man lost his shoe. And when the smoke and dust and mist and halitosis finally cleared, there towering over the gravel field up on the big board, chalked up and official, the final score of the most legendary, jaw-dropping, mind-bending, soul-crushing, up-lifting match of sports in the history of sports since Yahweh and Allah went SupremoMano y SupremoMano on the handball court over who got to lay claim to Australopithicus. 

1 – 1.

Tie game.

You couldn’t have written a better script.

Sports.

Let me mansplain lasagna to y’all

guido-crew1So dude has broz comin’ over to beer and pasta and Netflix and chill. First off, these dudez are broz, ‘standee? They’ve got manly beards and sweet Chelseas and they’re into rad tribal shit like motorbikes and greasing the iron with their fuckin’ sweat. And these dudez do not get nervous. They get intense. And they also get hungry, real hungry ‘kaysee? ‘Cause broz are totally into being chefz and may actually be chefz who are out there being all up in it (AKA the WORLD) being intense and theyz have a lot on their mindz and soulz and muzclez, so broz need a lot on their platez. These guyz are super real, you can tell by their tatz. They’ve got skulls and snakes and titty piratez on the all over and also some cute shit too. Because of the emotionz. And no fuckin’ lolz. ‘Cause it’s for realz. So when you bake that lasagna it’s not just friggin’ meat and sauce and cheese and pasta. It’s a fuckin’ beast of a slab for a Man Damnimal. First get your ass out of your head and make those pasta sheets fucking fresh. Broz don’t nosh on no dried shit from no box from the nineties. No way, these are dudez whose emotional dial is permanently on bro. And fuck if they don’t nosh their pasta fresh. Stone ground wheat and no shit filler and eggs fresh from no bitch-ass hens but pure coq and roll, ‘standee? Okay, take that can of Ditchwater perineum flavoured tomato sauce and ram it up your icing hole. You see, true hombrez get the fuck off on slowly simmered sauce that gives God hizself the wet tuna, so get a big Calphalon pot and pick some fresh basil and some sweet romas from the fucking farmer’s fucking market and stew that shit up. Stewz! Brewz! Broz! Now that better not be regular ol’ grease-baggin’ ground beef you’re getting ready to slop in there. Dudez be enjoyin share-chuggin’ bro-style their Snakeskin hammerhsmashed triple IPA so don’t think about beefin’ them, ‘standee? No, you take that cow dung and grip it and stick it and lube up and pull that pork and juice it in and smooth it on then layer over some of tasty thrice smoked pork belly and top that off with some venison sausage drip. Ground it and pound it, bitch! Damnz! Okay, throw that no name garbage can low-rent cottage cheese in the river and send that river to fucking hell and get some artisanal curds up in that pASSta. Manz gotz a cheeze fetizh ‘coz he’z horny for cheeze that taztez like the puzzy he eatz nightleez. Do yo understand how super good dude is? Fuck yes you do. Now dole some mac n’ cheese on that slab. Layer that gourmet shit up like it was a kick-ass condo where you live in the fucking penthouse full of bad-ass gourmet furniture and shit that dude and his broz are stone chillin’ on watchin’ a rad Ed Hardy fashion show on an awesome-ass huge-ass flatscreen teevee. Once the slab is ready, bake that shit hardcore in the convection oven until it’s bubblin’ fuckin’ crispy and smellin’ fuckin’ tasty. And yo better get that oil in the fryer heatin’ ’cause this slab is ’bout to get fuckin’ real for real real. Broz don’t fuck around with lasagna, yo. They bake that shit. And then they fry that shit. Deep and steep. Get it out and then drop it in and let that brew battered pASSta turn motherfuckin’ gold! Dudez are tight on that shit between broz when they nosh chow with MMA SPLASHDOWN VII kickin’ ass on the plasma and that lasagna better be fuck as fuck for dude and his broz. ‘Standee? Word.

The (not-so) Chortling Monk

nemesis-of-nudist-high-priestBrother Giggles Guffawaw Wazoo was feeling a little low. And understandably so, I mean, the dude had taken a vow of hilarity and was currently suffering from what can only be described as a seriously decent case of the heavy blues. He hadn’t been able to muster so much as titter these last sombre days since the funk took hold of him, and needless to say, it was affecting his practice. Sure there had been times since he had joined the Brothers of the Holy Order of Uproarious Cachinnations when he had not felt the funny so enthusiastically as St. Hee-Haw (bless his goofy grinning soul) would have ordained so drolly from on ha-ha-high, but he still had managed to chuckle his way through it. And dang dong darnit if he hadn’t always come out stronger for the jocular struggle. But these days, Brother Giggles was feeling pretty  dang dong low. The other members of his comedic sodality had noticed, and to their credit were doing their merry best to lift him out of his lugubriosity. Rogue banana peels, whoopee cushions, and knock-knock jokes to beat the band were just some of the myriad attempts at getting their Cimmerian chum back on the knee slap, but so far it had been to no avail. And please, make no mistake, he appreciated them for it, a heckuva lot, but it was just, well, tough to find the funny. Somewhere, deep down in his emotional bag, where he had for so long kept so much boffola, sadness had seeped on in and up. Maybe it was the children in Africa, so hungry and cancer ridden. Or the many wars where the children found themselves scared and hungry and riddled with cancer. Or the children in the crumbling inner city schools with no lunch and no money to pay for their pencils or cancer medicine. It was too dang dong much.

So he prayed hard and long and fast to heaven and Hee-Haw above to send the buffoonery back into his life. To take away the black. The sour. The doom. And deliver him to Humdingerton.

He knelt, tears streaming down his face, beseeching with all his
Dear God, you great and wise old obstreperous side-splitter, please help me. Give me the strength to bust a gut. To just let me ha-ha-ha again. Bring the funny. Amen.
What he wanted was laughter. What he got was a miracle. Of the hilarious kind…

Lenny Dace, Agent to the Gods

5_2Yo babs, the Lenny Dace here. Howzit? Sweet. |Listen, I’ve got Krishna interested in that east-west crossover thing that Yahweh’s developing with that trickster Sun-Wukong. What’s not to love? Bananas, elephants, beards, deserts, jungles, slings and arrows! C’mon, it’ll be bank–as in, box office super bank! Yeah, yeah, I know, just get into it. I’ve also got Shango available right now. Uh huh. Uh huh. Exactly, he’s itching to work with Old Man Coyote. I know they haven’t finished casting that Wily Cheaty Sneaky Pesky Trickster Man of the Old West project yet, so whatdyuh say? Uh huh. Uh huh. Gotcha. Great. And you? Morrigan? Okay, okay–no, I’m just thinkin’ here. Get her together with Cronus. I’m serious! Listen, picture it, the Castrator side-by-side with the megalithic military Mother Goddess herself?! It’s gold, baby, gold! Right, right, get back to me. How ’bout Hathor? I know, she had that thing with the thing but it’s old news. Under the bridge. Honest, it went under the goddamn bridge and floated the fuck on outta here. Nah, nah, listen–it’s over, it’s done. So? Makunaima, huh? I’m listening. Get ’em down in the jungle. Steamy sex, big snakes, human sacrifices–I like it! Let’s do a deal. Anything else? What’s that? Are you–you can’t be–how the hell are you supposed to do A Seven Gods of Good Fortune picture without Ebisu? What do you–HE’S THE GODDAMN GOD OF GODDAMN FISHING! He’s essential. Okay, wait, let me just–right, lamp this, I’ve got Moschel available, we slot him in. You don’t what? He’s the fucking Baltic God of Dairy ferchrissakes, we just get those eggheaded buttwipes to work in some kind of lucky yogurt angle. You got any better idea? Exactly, don’t worry, it’ll fly, I guarantee it. One last thing, I’m looking to set up Erzulie-Mapiengueh. I’m thinking a taught courtroom thriller something along the lines of The Verdict meets Saw. Maybe get Ereshkigal, go dark, real dark. Yeah, well, let me know. Okay, yeah, sure, lunch sounds good. I’ll be in touch.