Sticky Fingers and the Musical Porcupine

In his youth, Nedward had a little musical porcupine.  At the dinner table he would on occasion surreptitiously slip it onto one of the vacant wooden seats.  There the musical porcupine would sit, motionless, until an unsuspecting member of the family reclined on the lamentable little fellow, thus obtaining a long, pointed, knifelike quill in their weary rear end.  Consequently, the victim would emit an acute, cochlea-shattering musical scream, followed by a cacophonous cascading string of spontaneous (and often genuinely creative) expletive obscenities slowly fading into a universal grumble.

On the night Nedward's father came home late from work, tired, hungry, irascible, the rest of the family having already commenced with dessert, young Nedward was scooping great gelatinous globs of pudding into his mouth with his bare hands.  This only further incensed his already agitated father.  And as those malevolent Fates had woven it, Nedward had inopportunely concealed his musical porcupine on his father's seat that evening.  After washing up, his father came to the table, mumbling something about his son's obscene table manners.  Thus upbraiding Nedward's etiquette, he proceeded to sit down.  The verbal concerto consequently erupting was enough to found a religion on. 

     "Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus Keeeeeeeeeeeeriiiiiiiiiiiist!  Goddamn the devil that blasted porcupine gone stigmatize my righteous ass with Lucifer's sin tipped horn itself ! . . . Sonofa - I'm gittin' the shotgun goddammit I'll vaporize the critter send it back to the fires of burning hell a fine red mist ! . . . Nedward! - your little ass is gonna be red and raw - red and raw you hear me you little . . . "

Pleas of the gentle mother go unnoticed.

The father grabs at the animal, pricking his hands in the process, exponentially provoking his anger.  Shaking in paroxysms of fury, he flies into a maniacal rage. 

     "For the love of God I'll blast him right here goddammit . . . looooooordy lordy lord . . . where in the godforesakenblazes is my shotgun . . . "

Storming out of the dining room, he shortly returns with loaded shotgun.  Ignoring his family's screams of horror, he points the weapon at Nedward's musical porcupine.  Single bead of perspiration hangs on forehead . . . falls to the floor in slow motion . . . nervous tick in eye . . . quickened pulse . . . breath heavy and difficult . . . veins on neck stand out like taught twine . . . brows lowered . . . eyes slanted . . . lips slightly quivering . . . like a crouched animal poised for attack . . . interminable silence . . . time stands still  . . .

With a twitch in his right hand, Nedward's father whispers hoarsely through clenched teeth.

     "Say your prayers to the devil, you satanic little bastard . . . I'm sendin' you home . . . "

He squeezes the trigger.

A final pathetic musical whimper is drowned out by the vast cadencial roar of the gun.  Nedward raises his arms in the smoky air shaking his sticky fingers in hysterical anguish.  He had become a man.

© Sartisohn 2003