Just say the word "goose."

 

Patrick is playing a serious game of duck-duck goose where the Varsity elite all squat in a semi-circle brandishing extremely sharp medieval instruments of torture. Patrick has to be very careful as he slightly taps their head for fear that he will slightly muss their immaculately gelled hair and Buck’s water tower fro. Every time he taps an athlete on the head Aron Prowman makes little farting sound with his lips, which Patrick initially thought was the sound of his corduroy trousers ruffling together.  Mario keeps on commenting that Patrick is taking too long. Eric the Red keeps saying that the reason he is taking so long is because he is viewing the athletes as eye candy, and can’t decide which athlete he would like to lick like a candy cane.

 

            Coach M. comes in momentarily to supervise the situation and asks Patrick to just hurry on with it why don't you, telling him to take one for the team ordering him to take his punishment like a man before he realizes that his own fly is unzipped. But Patrick keeps walking, keeps gently petting the top heads of his adversaries like he is afraid they could snap and infect him with rabies at anytime. Patrick once remembers Coach M relying very heavily on Judith Goldstein to offer his cursory discourse on Judaism, asking an exhausted Ms. Goldstein, worn out from correcting coach M when he asked that is it true that the reason why Jewish clergy have so many Rabies is because they play with bats. Aron Prowman continues to make farting sounds. Patrick picks up his gait, continuing to haul what is known throughout the gilded hallways of CLS as some very serious Mcreynolds ass coach M slowly raking the hyphen of his forefinger across his neck as if in slow motion making little searing sounds from his lips. Patrick just can’t for some reason decide which of the athletes to go goose on. Aron Prowman just so bluntly informs Patrick that if he doesn’t state the ornithologically correct feathered name for goose than his good friend Jebediah the Bullfrog is gonna be like seriously ostriched and soon. Marcellus Buck is holding a pencil sharpener he says is for helping Patrick someday sing soprano. Patrick keeps on slightly ruffling the top of each heads and saying the word “duck” as if in Sarge Cockout Bombardment physical education for Losers where Coach M brought the Irish in to once again refurbish the gymnasium and that each wailed bricks in the direction of Dave and Pat and Hale.

 

            Patrick picks up his pace, walking with almost a shuffle like he is trying to hurry up and vacuum Casa McReynolds before the Prescott's arrive, still slightly tapping them each on the head when he sees Allan, video camera still wedged into his hard hat like some sort of hammer, walking around behind him in perfect cadence with his steps. When Patrick asks his younger sibling just what in the hell he thinks he is supposed to be doing here, Allan begins blathering on about chronicling the visual suffering tacitly inherent in the wheels of time. When Patrick responds to his younger sibling bullshit he can almost swear that the oval lens somehow winks at him and that the wink looks almost like that of a wink Dakota North would somehow give Paul Ironhorse in one of VonB’s role-playing all out imaginary fracases.

 

            “Shit.”

 

            At the moment Patrick says the word shit in his dream Javon Worthington talks about sticking his medieval blackjack somewhere the sun does not shine if Patrick just doesn’t hurry the fuck up and say the word “goose.” He continues to oscillate faster, as if watching the planets in the 70’s gymnasium orbit in fast-forward. Allan says the word Time again and he swears that the limbs on the varsity elite start to transition into little numerical stilts and slashes. Eric The Red standing like the statue of Ol’ CrazyHoof in the tobacco store somehow forming a numerical one. Marcellus Buck placing his arms over his head in the fashion of a Volkswagen Beetle transitioning into a two. Peruvian Victor of all people is removing his head from his shoulders and lies it down near his like it is some kind of helmet. The head seems to expand into elongated hoop along with his body it forms the number ten. In the middle Coach M is wearing a monocle looking down into a miniature sun dial that seems to have sprouted from the top of his wrist before he outstretched both of his arms in the fashion of a child playing helicopter and begins to oscillate in a circle ordering Patrick to say the words faster and faster. Allan is still Toto to Patrick’s Dorothy as Patrick says the word goose, unaware of which number he just so happens to be coddling, looking behind the slope of his shoulder into the vacant lens branching out from his brothers helmet, duly noting that the winking eye has been supplanted with a peripheral view of a clock and that Patrick himself is lodged inside the clock as the accelerated minute hand, his brother Allan being the hour hand circling in front of the stagnant numerical configurations of the varsity elite, the planks of Coach M’s arms stretched out in wingspan fashion, his body drilling into the center of the oval, ordering Patrick to move faster with every ruffled step he takes.