pappy smeeday

Pappy Smeeday,  a murderous birthday story in one part,   the first part being the beginning part and the ending part,    and not really having a climax or plot or anything,     this possibly being because it does not have      the good sense to follow conventional storytelling structure,       by Halsted M. Bernard.

That is what we called the old man. At least, to his face. Behind his back we called him “Grampa”. He would have killed us.

Pappy Smeeday didn’t have any eye sockets, just eyeballs sitting on his cheeks, and he used this to his advantage. He would often accuse bank tellers of miscashing his Social Security check because how could he see what happened inside the pneumatic tube as it traveled — supposedly! — from teller window to the window of his wheezing Gremlin?

“Those damn tellers. They’re in league with the government,” Pappy used to say.

And one of us would have the stellar foresight to retort, “Uh, of course they are, Pappy. They cash your federally-appointed funds.”

Pappy would lovingly backhand whoever had the stupidity to speak up and snarl, “O, come off it, Budgie!” He called all of us “Budgie” because he said we reminded him of little retarded birds. “Go grab me another pint of V8 and close those blinds, how many times I have to tell you them government men switch the lawn gnomes with infrared sensors in the middle of the night.”

Ah, Pappy. Pappy, why did you have to be abducted by aliens? You had so much to teach us. Of course, Mom said you died, but I didn’t believe her, not even when I found her with the bloody trowel standing over your prone form. No, Pappy, some of us don’t lose hope for all things good and American, like your eyesocketless face, rampant psychoses, and penchant for V8 juice.

The end.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.