2.b.v
The light was
vivid and primary. Like the glow of the
4th of July or the pristine sheen of the 1950’s. Clean and pure, but ultimately
unsustainable. A collection of brightly
garbed masked men and women sat gathered around a conference table.
“Motion
denied. Again,” said Ben Buck, the
Dollar Man.
“We haven’t
even taken a vote,” said The Elephant.
“Sure we
have. The last five times you brought it
up. We voted. All neighs except for your sad, lonely yay.”
The Elephant
glared at Donkey then tugged his golden belt buckle up over his ever swelling
belly and pinched at the scarlet spandex molesting his porky thighs. He’d have to design a less constrictive
uniform soon. This one made him seem all
love-handley and paunchy.
“The Union
gives off the impression that we support labor unions and–”
“Oh, Christ
stop!”
“–and we all
know what havoc the unions have wrought on our economy over the years,” The
Elephant said.
“Listen to
you,” Donkey yelled. “You sound like
some fat-cat corporate tycoon just looking to squeeze more revenue out of the
little guy.”
“That’s
business. You make it sound–”
“Low? Dirty?
God look at you. Elephant and
aptly named. You’re getting fatter all
the time.”
“And you’re an
ass,” The Elephant said.
“Quiet. Both of you,” Miss Pension said, fidgeting
with her mauve colored domino mask.
“We’re supposed to be helping.
The Greed’s out there again and we’re bickering with each other like a
bunch of–”
“Republicans?”
“Screw you,
Donkey!” The Elephant yelled.
“Yeah, I’ll
bet. And with all the illegal immigrant
workers you support I’ll bet you’ve got a Tijuana
connection where you can get just that.”
The Elephant
bellowed and slammed his fist against the conference table. His belly, thighs, back-fat, wobbly triceps,
and double chin jiggled with aftershocks.
“That’s
it. Elephant Charge!” he called out and
ran toward Donkey.
Donkey
sidestepped the charge in one quick, hopping movement, positioning his hands on
the ground and thrusting his legs in the air.
“Burro Kick!”
he shouted as both feet slammed into The Elephants hindquarters.
There was s
thudding, slapping sound and The Elephant pitched forward into a filing cabinet. There was a crash of metal and paper
documents exploded into the air and scattered across the floor. Donkey streaked toward The Elephant and
leaped into the air, cocking his fist back.
“Donkey
Punch!”
The Elephant
pivoted and called out, “Ivory Tusks!” as he jabbed his rigid fingers up into
Donkey’s gut, knocking all the air from his lungs. Donkey writhed on the ground, gasping.
A shadow
seeped into the pristine light like a cloud obscuring the sun, spoiling an
idyllic picnic. The Elephant advanced,
wiping sweat from his forehead with a thick, meaty hand. A sticky substance clung to the back of his
fingerless, spandex gloves, leaving thick tendrils like melted cheese between
his face and his fingers.
“It’s him!”
Ben Buck, the Dollar Man cried. “The
Greed’s here. He’s got The Elephant!”