During
Halloween Graham Sheldon somehow manages to project an illumination so that
half of the planets look like either carved pumpkins or popular Halloween
flavored fright-night horror heroes; i.e., Mars is wearing a hockey mask,
Neptune has Wolverine-assenting claws and a derby mass, Mercury bears fangs,
Saturn has what looks like dual wine corks jutting out of it’s side for ears.
The Sun, still hovering usurps a completely demonic flare which coach M insists
is good for negotiating contracts later on while he completely ignores Graham
Sheldon’s astute observation that, for what could be perceived as human eons,
mankind has been worshipping the sun, the sole generator of life and how one
day the sun will simply fail us all together, and destroy us. Coach M,
overhearing the last half of Graham’s hypothesize, simply swaps his hand in
front of his face as if aiming for agitating mosquitoes and says the word Bosh,
that won’t be for another couple of
million of years. If your can engender a functioning mobile of the universe at
this girth and immensity, can you imagine what future scientists will be able to
engender when the need for a new heaven and a new earth is all but imperative.
Somehow overnight, cobwebs have
sprouted like underarm hair between the stuffed mascots who now, also, juggle
miniature jack-o-lanterns between their lips and the gilded blindly white
splashes of light adorning the narthex become bleak like that overnight, and
screams and yelps are heard swooshing throughout the day, echoing in the din
resonance adding to the overall grisly fright-night eeriness of the
hallway.
The unfortunate thing about this
Halloween is that, since it falls near
the weekend of the NutCreek Plum Harvest festival, the disadvantaged
handicapped CLS student known as the Loser will be assigned costume fittingly
to the arrival of their guests. Every year, as an endeavor to open the welcome
hand to our jewish friends and neighbors, Coach M instituted the Nutcreek plum
festival and annual Hog Roast—a Harvest in the Hood as it has been labeled over
recent years, where after spiking the cider with Cognac Marcellus Buck and
Javon Worthington somehow went further down Starr street and sprayed bullets in
what appeared to be a retaliation to a gang related altercation.
A week before Halloween this year
Coach M mandated Sgt Kockout to assign the various members of the Losers
community to dress up as Minor prophets in an in effort to show hospitality to
the Old Testament All-stars in the school and Harvest Festival before they
receive what Coach M refers to as a good ol’ fashion Old Testament Ass kicking,
so to speak. Likewise, Jeremiah Noel was
a shoe-in for with Obadiah. VB is Hosea. Dejuan, who just ironically happen to
be thumbing through a copy of Moby Dick at the time, landed the role of Jonah,
Dejuan who later sniffed down heavily into his collar and asked Pat in
confidence if he thinks that the reason he was co-signed that role is because
he smells like albacore tuna. Lynford claims he had dibs on Haggai, bitch. It
was almost unanimous that Larry Lloyd Baker fits the part of Nahum to a t.
Patrick, who was hoping to monopolize his advance this Halloween seducing Holly
a la an incognito Shrily once again, elbowing VonB in the rib cage as he counts
to eight with both his lips and his eyes, saying that he should have no trouble
gaining access to the Women’s locker room with that wig on with optional bowling
ball in tow, was disappointed to be assigned the mandatory role of Habbuk Allan, being promoted was told to leave that
spelunking headlight he always wears on top of his head at home and don the
role of Micah. Shithead and his sister Deeba got Joel and Amos, respectively;
Buster, seemed to be paying more attention scrutinizing the sanguinary content
of his beans and wieners when Sarge pointed to him and said simply Zephanaih.
Peruvian Victor who seems to slink around the school and around Dr, Kennedy Marshal’s
office and just make sincere warbling noises would be Zacari. Which leaves,
Hale, exhausted from his extensive training for his annual autumn streaked,
walked in late to the fifties gymnasium where Lyford himself sat crossed
legged, informing a sweat tonsured coffee-cup in paw Hale that he has the role
of some prophetic dude Hale took to be Italian named Mal-latch-ee, saying,
surely maybe, he was like for his time, the Armani of Arimathea.
Patrick walking out of the gym
royally pissed, saying that the only thing he ever gets when he goes out
trick-or-treating dressed up like a minor prophet is a pillow case full of
proverbial guilt. Von B, telling Patrick that it’s not that bad, despite
Meredith-Elise’s jeering witticism on how the word minor all-but correlates
perfectly with other parts of Von Behren’s prophesized anatomy, most notably
his shepherds staff.
Patrick feels like the whole scene
has happened once before, sans the invitation to the failed coup as the minor
prophets arrive, one by one, the night of the Old testament all stars
basketball game. Vonb, Allan and Patrick each wearing towels around their
heads, fake beards, and housecoats, Allan got carried away and wore a full
bed-spread sheets and sunglasses, walking around with a heavy middle-eastern
accent with sunglasses, calling himself the sheikh, telling the Varsity Elite
girls to go ahead and get a physical. For reasons that is just hard to explain
properly, the top of Jeremiah Noel’s head looks like it is giving birth to
Harem, due to the fashion in which the towels are folded over his headgear,
prompting enough interest that even a very Adolf Hitler moustached attired
Coach M peeped inside asking if, maybe a little bit later on in the evening,
both himself and lil’ devil Wiltz could pop in for a few seconds and rub the
magic lamp, Aladdin. Buster showed up
wearing leiterhosen and Birkenstocks and gray socks that stretch up past the
caps of his knees, looking confused when Patrick reminded him that he was
suppose to be a minor prophet he just bit down hard into something extremely
fried and battered. Dejuan comes in dressed as a believable Jonah, giving what
looks like a wooden leg, a pipe, and something that passes as a harpoon saying
the word ‘Yar’, over and over again. Patrick still wonders if the old Pecker
that stands guillotine and stuffed above Dr, Kennedy Marshals door ever said
the third thing that Hale swore it could say a year and a half ago when the
failed campaign to blow up the school transpired into nothing more than dust
that even God would have a hard time using to sculpt out the book of Genesis
with.
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Allan
as Minor Prophet, “Get a Physical!”
“For fuck’s sake I hate this shit.”
Notes Patrick, sitting in the far end of the finance for eternity gymnasium,
ducking down behind Jeremiah’s brothel valence Obadiah headgear, trying to fire
up a filched Benson and Hedges, as the Varsity Elite continue on with their
full court warm-up drills, Marcellus Buck wearing a fake gold tooth and bushy
seventies afro nailing shots from up and down the court, uttering out the word
‘money’ after every other shot. The Nut creek Plum Harvest festival officially
convenes in Logan Field, after the Varsity Elite, who already in less than one
complete month of Competition post a 42-zero record, a stat which makes Patrick
wonder how the fuck to these kids do anything else but have time to play hoops.
Lately Aron and Mario have been
cavorting almost hand in hand, doing a slight little skip outside the Mens
waiting for Jeremiah Noel to come in and be, as he has been called over the
last couple of weeks Obadiah “Bullfrog” Ostrich. Patrick has been skirting
around the school talking about Habbuk my hairy irish-buttock, wondering how
Larry-Lloyd Baker can spend what seems like eternal eons relaxing in the café
Hemlock, toting long meditative drags on the hookah Meredith-Elise and Cabbages
just installed for pre-Holiday merchandise rush and not get called out to
center court to welcome the visiting team. The hallways are completely morose
and sad, especially near the narthex and Patrick wonders that maybe all the
incorrigible retina-damaging slants of blinding light maybe wasn’t that bad
after all. Patrick hears the subtle clatter of heels and cackles and ducks behind
near the cobweb riddled baptismal water fountain as he sees Coach M giving Lil’
Devil Wiltz a spanking, a flaccid tail looking like you could plug it into an
extension cord in hell, dangling from seemingly out of the crack in her red
spandex contoured ass.
Coach M stumbles into Reverend
Morningwood dressed up in long overflowing robes looking rather pope-ish. The
sight of Coach M Adolf Hitler, Lilian Wiltz’s Satan and Reverend Morningwoods
head of Vatican Pope Crysler building skyscraper chapeau shaking hands and
talking about how they plan on completely creaming the competition tonight is
compounded when Bev Pine and Dr. Kennedy Marshal waddle up next to them smiling
with their chins, offering what appears to be two enthusiastic thumbs up, Gene.
“Shit,” Patrick thinks, squatting
even further beneath the shell shaped Baptismal font until espying the five
shadows lumbering like money-grubbing ushers into the finance for eternity
gymnasium, waiting for what Coach M. i.e. Adolf Hitler refers to the New Jerusalem
jerk offs, to enter the arena.
“Fuck,” Patrick thinks, frisking
beneath the helm of Warrens’ corduroy housecoat for a Benson and Hedges, hoping
that his fake beard Helen constructed out of grisly shaped sink cleaning
brushes fails to catch aflame. Patrick figures out that perhaps he too can play
hooky from the ensuing antics of the gymnasium, shoot the shit with
Meredith-Elise and Cabbges McGranahan and maybe even see if he can cozen Judith
Goldstein into some long overdue conversation.
Patrick walks another ten feet,
near the central of the narthex, where it sounds as if arcane spirits are
erupting beneath every tile he steps across. He sees Aron and Mario yanking
Jeremiah’s exotic looking headgear down the hall, tugging him into the Mens,
with Levi Watts standing directly behind him, laughing in a way so that his
chin protrudes out from the lower portion of his neck like a skateboard ramp.
“For Fuck’s sake,” Patrick thinks,
not wanting to have to go into the Mens and hoist Jeremiah out of a squalid
toilet while dressed up as a fucking old testament prophet, thinking to himself
that he has endured enough of this shit. That this is it. Maybe if he pulls a
one-eighty and heads back into the gym he can recruit Von Behren and really
fuck some shit up. Pulling a 180 Patrick tells one of the visitors to go squat
on a dreidel and spin counter clockwise Isaiah, before realizing that the
student addressed him solely in recognition of his minor prophet moniker and
not, as Patrick mis-perceived as “Hay Guy.”
The gym continues to erupt into a
mixed cultural fountain in what Meredith-Elise refers to as Hasidic and
Heathen. Tonight the café Hemlock is selling opening night Nut Creek Plum
Harvest festival t-shirts and day glow sticks—the t-shirt (which Meredith Else
designed herself, henceforth they are classy with meager sales and overt
literary references stitched in to the motif) boasts a picture of Marcellus
Buck dressed up as a money grubbing Shylock, scalping out a pound of protruding
basketball shaped flesh from his lower fashion in the manner of a hernia victim
and horrific pain. The words THE MERCHANT OF MOONEY embellish the top in font
that looks like it could have been devised and contorted in animal shape
balloons by the Garcia Clan next door.
Patrick tries to scuttle into the door without Coach M making a big deal
about why he is out in the hallway when he is supposed to be living his role as
a viable, living minor prophet and doing absolutely nothing at the far end of
the gym accept watching the comets pummel the ever living shit out of their
spiritual antecedents. The members of
the synagogue looking at coach M in his plastic half-comb moustache as he
lifted up his palm and offered out a heartfelt Heil as he welcomed them to the
festivity on the Friday night. Mister
Mooney likes to call their style of play Old Testament, Old School before
obliterating them. Three of the Visiting teams rabbi’s are busy shaking hands
with coach M, Devil Wiltz and the pope as Patrick slips back into the
gymnasium, looking for Von Behren’s as to confide in.
Although Allan seems to have the time of his life slinking
behind the taut blue mini-skirted ass of
various varsity elite cheerleaders, giving them a little slap on the ass
and telling them all about oil fields and how he has vacancies for bellydancers
in the hookah-scented harems of Saudi Arabia, which just so happens to be the
richest country in the world by the way before
plopping a cherry ring pop around the planks of their fingers and
telling them that this will last well into the oil field cloud of the next
world before giving them a slap on the ass and telling them to get a physical.
Patrick thinks that Allan is just having way too much fun with all this,
Patrick, walking up earlier to a very emotionally disturbed Bell Jar toting Von
Behren despising Meredith-Elise, trying to impress her with the soul
syncopation of his rhymes while simultaneously showing disdain for this annual
autumn ritual by publically announcing out loud that he doesn’t give a fuck
about Habakkuk, a response which elicits a wayward die friend of lecherous foe.
Patrick can’t seem to understand what Von Behren did that was so abysmally
wrong which makes Meredith have to take her residual anger out on him and the
fellow losers all the time—thinking that perhaps the social oppressed of the
school need to stick together in order to maintain a standard of moral
resiliency.
Opening match is about to begin.
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