Today’s Words:
seize
greaseball
yo
nutters
bulbous
homeowner’s association
high-falutin

“Yo!” screamed the scrawny crossing-guard. “Are you nutters? That ain’t a toilet!”

The old man looked up from his task, diligent as he was, squatting over the drainage grate at the edge of the street taking a huge and sonorous dump. He looked confused, as if the added input of the guard’s salutation had derailed his feeble ability to focus.

“You can’t do that here! What’s wrong with you?” continued the young man, oblivious to the old man’s obvious inability to comprehend the inadequacy of the receptacle he had chosen for his deposit.

The crossing-guard, whose name happened to be Alan, seized the half naked man’s arm as if to pull him off the street, but mid-pull, thought better of it. Alan had spied the soupy consistency and greenish shade of the old man’s business and decided it would be better to keep his distance.

As if Alan’s touch had awoken something, a smattering of clarity swept over the old man’s face and he seemed to be gathering his few remaining wits about him. He struggled with his surprisingly-clean pants and managed to reassemble himself more quickly than Alan expected.

Now he seemed to be younger than Alan originally thought. There was a strange lurching sensation in Alan’s stomach, and he felt woozy and disoriented.

“Excuse me young man–I’m looking for the Elvish Pinkerton Homeowners Association –might you know where it is?” the not-so-old man asked Alan brightly, with no trace of doddering or crazy.

The man’s offal seemed to have disappeared too. It was as if the incident had never happened, and Alan was thoroughly nonplussed.

He looked more closely at the ground and realized that the grate was only painted on. And the paint looked like it was actually licorice strips.

“I say, did you hear what I asked you?” queried the man again, while great wings unfurled from his shoulders.

Butterflies erupted in Alan’s stomach, and he quickly looked around him. The asphalt now resembled snake-skin slowly undulated under his feet.

“Fuck” he whispered under his breathe. “How did they find me?”

“Now young man, there is no need to swear. If you could just direct me to the Elvish Pinkerton –”

Alan shoved the man, who was now more of a griffin-creature with a bulbous human head attached to a lionish body with talons and wings.

***

OK, I’m bored with this!
Emma