once again Patrick is waiting and Hyacinth is
a no show. Patrick knows this. She never seems to come when she’s suppose to or
else she comes too soon. Sometimes she prevaricates, saying that there’s just
no possible way the two of them could be friends much less ever pass for
lovers.
Patrick waits, Hyacinth promised that
she’d be here, too. After sending her what he thought was a discrete message
via something his father concocted then lost via a friendly wager called
“electronic-mail” which he though Hyacinth would receive only for some reason his
cryptic pig Latin missive was somehow forwarded to every solitary computer
affiliated with AT&T and Sprint. Patrick had quite a bit of explaining to
do last night when the pentagon called and demanded he decode his own global
disseminated message for fear of soviet missiles and nuclear holocaust
engulfing north America before the 9:30 news. Apparently the soviets thought it
was ‘cute’ that a pimply teenage whiz-kid utilizing finest in technological
advances to forward his little crush that, in a gesture of universal peace, the
soviets are UPS’ing four crates of their finest distilled Vodka—a gift that
Warren claims that his son will not even be allowed to sip at his wedding, or
in the next world, once his father is through with him.
Patrick then decided to drop Hyacinth
a little nighttime visit. After gaming with the two dave’s and Tim last Friday
night until two-thirty in the morning, Patrick exchanged two of Helen’s frozen
readily thawed homemade lasagna’s to Von Behren for three hours bike rental.
Tim always openly guffaws Patrick when he performs his real life superhero bit.
Tonight Patrick is clad almost entirely in black Turtle neck with sleek nylon
jogging pants, waving a stately Adios
to Tim and the dave’s before he realizes that he needs to come back home and
put on a winter coat, gloves and scarf on lest he catch his death in
jowl-chattering late November frost. Unfortunately for Patrick, the only coat
he can find off hand is one of Amy’s hot pink day neon day colored French
trench specialty, which sends both VonB and Hale rolling in fits of laughter and
leads Tim to comment in between lasagna chomps that it is way too
dangerous out there for Patrick to ride alone this time of night sporting such
a gay-ass looking coat for reverse camouflage.
“This isn’t about danger,” Patrick
says, pulling his ski mask over his head again, pretending that he is in a
sci-fi film, sent back in time to cull the cherry of one young, scientifically
fertile individual. “It’s about love, baby.”
Von Behren and Tim both chuckle as
if watching late night stand-up on cable. Clad in Amy’s hot pink neon day
colored trench coat, Patrick looks like a homeless drag Queen futilely
endeavoring to rob a Salvation Army soup kitchen in an effort to stay warm.
“Love my ass,” responds Tim
abruptly. “Where the hell does this broad live anyway, Anchorage?”
“Nebraska,” Patrick responds,
shouting back at a quizzical lipped Tim that no, Nebraska just so happens to be
the name of the street she lives on, dumbass.
“You look like super gay-ass Eskimo
man. Due to lack of phone booths, I hope you find a convenient Barbie igloo to
change into your outfit before the evil snow man of the northern tundra sticks
his carrot beak into your lower cavity.”
“Von Behren,” Patrick says once
again, almost like he is objecting in a courtroom. “Might I again remind you of
one Meredith-Elise last year? Might I remind you of the mission you deployed
and successfully completed?”
“Patrick, Meredith-Elise was
different. I was actually getting some around the clock with her. I actually
felt how David and Cabbages feel on a daily basis. You haven’t got a prayer
with Hyacinth. I mean, her dad can’t stand your hairy Irish ass.”
“Love is always Risky Business,
sir.” Patrick says, inserting a BB into the top of his gun, before placing the
gun into the side pocket of Amy’s coat. “I should know. After all, I saw the
movie when I was only five years old, while all the rest of my peers were
getting off on the fucking Secret of Nimh, I was out visually experiencing the
security and social convenience of modern day prostitution.”
“Patrick!”
“Listen, VonB, I won’t be gone
long.” Patrick shoves a flask of Super Solvent Solution into the opposite side
pocket. “It’s just really important that I talk to Holly tonight. Really
important for all of us as a whole.”
Tim is laughing so hard that he is
already on the ground. With a sweet and sour smirk wedged into his face, Tim
informs Patrick that the next time he is invited to spend the night gaming, he
will specifically allow Patrick to win in his own RPG for the first thirty
seconds before blowing his creations back to Kingdom come. Von Behren
interrupts.
“Patrick, just go. It’s already
pushing three a.m. and I need my bike back by five-thirty for my paper route.
Here,” Von Behren steps outside, hops up and down. “I’ll jog with you to the
entrance of the nuclear woods and meet you back there in exactly two hours.
That way you’ll have ample time to seduce Hyacinth and I’ll be able to reclaim my
bike and be on time for my employment.”
The two of them take off. Tim
remains floored in laughter.
“Better hurry up. Hollis’ abode is
two miles past the Nuclear Woods, and the majority of it is uphill.”
“I know,” Says Patrick, who appears
to be out of breath even though he is pedaling and Von Behren, the track star,
is slightly jogging in front of his handlebars as the boys clip down Sterling
avenue. The late November sky is clear and lucid. Tufts of frost are scattered
in patches of grass. In less than two minutes Patrick arrives near the entrance
of the nuclear woods where the tree branches appear to wave and greet him as a
swift November gale rushes chills through the bones of both Patrick and his
companion.
“Remember Patrick—meet me back here
in two hours. Last time you had my bike you had it for like three days and
having to hoof my entire route royally sucks—let me tell you, specially on
Sunday.”
“I know,” Patrick nods again. His
neon day colored hot pink trench coat resembling an effeminate sasquatch keenly
spotted by late night coast-to-coast listeners. Patrick’s right hand jolts out
from hear his waist.
“One two hours, sir.” He states,
pumping Von Beheren’s paw north and south
as if pumping for water. “or you can have my nads dilled and pickled.”
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