What if?: The Tragical Comedy

Friday, May 05, 2006

The Tragical Comedy

Sent by irrelephant. :) He's a super over-achiever and used three sentences. :p They've been italicized.

I am in awe that you took on the Skinny McAdams line. ROFL.
*^*^*^

He looked at his watch. 6:30. With disgust, he exhaled audibly. He had missed the train. 'Oh yes, that's just great,' Ron thought to himself. 'Keep the number one rising star in the television industry waiting.' Not being the sort of guy to start weeping over upended dairy products, Ron Peck, top advertising agent, was already spinning on his heel. He burst out of the train station like a man on a mission, because he was--he had to get to a land-line phone to get a word in to "Skinny" Kenny McAdams, the star's personal assistant, get the meeting rescheduled. With fresh ideas bursting in his head Ron stepped off the curb and into the path of a speeding beer truck. He died instantly, not knowing what hit him.

A small crowd of gawkers had gathered around the still-cooling body. The paramedics had nothing to do but stand around and pass a cigarette hand to hand. A hard-faced state trooper had already taken statements, and was sitting sullenly in his car, waiting for orders. Mary pulled away from the fringe of the crowd. She had been through far too much today--her lawyer had called to tell her that not only was her divorce case going badly but their vacation together in the Galapagos Islands had to be put on hold, as his wife was coming home unexpectedly from the Brixton All-Women's Bridge Tourney. Mary walked a fair distance away from the scene and hailed a taxi, eager to be away.

"Fourth and Main," she mumbled to the cabby, a slender black man with a tumble of oily black dreadlocks hanging out of a huge red rubberband. "Twenty bucks more if you get me there in fifteen minutes." The driver nodded amiably to her, turned the radio to a Carribean-music station and wheeled the cab into traffic, eliciting honks of outrage from behind. The cab stank of old cigarettes and hair oil, but Mary took little notice of it. She was lost in her own past, mumbling to herself. Her thoughts came around as they often did in times of crisis to a young man, her one-time lover in high school, and their breakup. Her lips moved, softly uttering "Oh, Skinny Kenny," just as the cab was torn in half by the onrushing 11:15 freight train to Mannheim. The cabdriver was thrown clear of the car; his dream to outrun the train to the crossing still burning hot in his mind. And he did beat the train, if hairs were to be split--it was the back half of the cab that hadn't made it across, was still being shoved, screeching and rolling down the track, pushed by the relentless engine. Strangely enough, her last thoughts were of her and Kenny, and the life together she had thrown away. Mary knew she should have worn underwear that day; Kenny didn't like women going commando, and when he found out he coldly returned her class ring.

The cab driver, driven to a state of near-madness by the accident and his guilt in the slaying of that strange woman, could only utter the last words he heard from her, over and over, a mantra driving him on, making his shaking legs propel him up the middle of the street, his left arm hanging nerveless, half of his dreadlocks torn from his head. "Skinny Kenny...Skinny Kenny...Skinny Kenny..." Blood spattered on the ground from numerous cuts, but he was like a man possessed. He knew he had to get to the bar, he had to find the fat man and tell him.
At The Buck Stops Here Tavern and Grill, twenty faces turned as one to to take in the apparition that loomed in the doorway--a young black man, clothing torn, covered in blood, his head lolling on his neck, a car's rear view mirror still miraculously grasped in his hand. A gasp ran around the room but it wasn't enough to stop everyone from hearing the words that hissed from the cab driver's mouth. "Skinny Kenny." As though those words were the only thing binding his soul to his body, the man collapsed to the ground, dead.

The fat man at the end of the bar knew something was wrong, bad wrong, when he heard his name from that dying ghoul's mouth--Ron needed him. He shoved and pressed his bulk out of the tavern and onto the street, trying to sprint his three-hundred pound bulk up the street toward his apartment, his phone, and the only thing that gave his life meaning anymore--his dog, Vienna, the star, his only hope. Pasty-face and gasping hotly, the fat man thrust his pudgy legs one in front of the other, up to his building's door, across the lobby, up the stairs, sweat darkening his shirt and pouring down his blotched face. As "Skinny" Kenny McAdams hauled his corpulent body to the top the stairs, the pain raced through his left arm like a shot of boiling heroin. Stumbling forward, he barely made it inside his apartment before he fell over and died. It was only when the paramedics rolled his corpse over that the true tragedy was revealed: Underneath lay the lifeless body of Vienna, the lovable star of the SouperPup dog food commercials.

4 Comments:

Blogger Irrelephant said...

No, not an overachiever, just a sucker for the long shot and the rimshot and the shot in the dark, and perhaps the opportunity to make a funny. *S*

5:03 PM  
Blogger Irrelephant said...

So when do I get official "Contributor" status so I can stop bothering your email with my stories? *wink*

5:04 PM  
Blogger Giovanna said...

dude, if you are going to write this often, yes I will send the invite out to you. I need to log out and back in though, and I am rushing this AM, but I will try to do it.

5:52 AM  
Blogger Monica said...

HA! Well Done!

7:46 PM  

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