113 Le fond du baril

It was the last step in his pointless bicycle riding life, and he thought he was about to go to heaven. The heavy wood chair he raised high, his foot he raised to hit the floor for leverage, and the chair would crash lethally over the little baby Drew’s head. He was elated, and didn’t notice the upchuck rainbow, mostly earth tones and vanilla, spirited to the exact spot where his foot would land.
“The shot!” It was the zealous ejaculation by the only Little Leaguer who was able to see inside the Plip Plop Coffe Shop from the rooftop redoubts. What the other baby had done with vomit rivaled a throw from center field for an out at home plate, ball-mitt-tag faster than an umpire’s blink. Reluctant Dissenter #2 slipped on the mess and made a stripe of tummy overload and peptic acids across the shiny hardwood floor. Word flitted along the rooftops until it reached below to Uncle Joe, playing handsie with the Administrative Assistant. To the news of an insult to his young but morally burgeoning anti-litter campaign, Joe started, “Motherf___!” but his practically officious new lady calmed him with a tender “Joseph.”
Sheriff Keene read Uncle Joe’s mind fifty yards away.
He remarked, “Making a bigger mess instead of helping to clean up this one isn’t nice.” He shot the Reluctant Dissenter with his trusty H&K .45, a de facto Police Special for a special policeman.
“Dead!” whispered Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja.
“What?” pressed _____ _____ to Ross Valley.
“Sheriff!” protested the white haired beauty, a mere progressive reflex.
“It’s okay,” he replied mildly, his wont.
As a comfort he added, “Not a problem.”
“It is a problem,” worried the Plip Plop’s proprietor. “There’s not enough room in the dumpster for these bodies, especially not with this lug. . . . Maybe we can cram them all in if we took off their crash helmets . . .”
“I can do that for you!” Swami Skinrash giggled. He eyed a few ankle bracelets on bare legs. “I will help to carry the corpses!”
The five bicycle riders entered the cafe who’d slipped into town just before the Little League retinue were aloft. They huffed at the sight of heaps, “This is us!” (“We,” a pre-teen San Anselman said under her breath, too polite to correct them openly. But such vigilance, however well-mannered, was reflexive in the town’s punctilious youth.) They cursed, they shouted vulgarities, they threatened, they mentioned lawyers, they mentioned that they were lawyers. (They didn’t mention that their bicycle addiction prevented them from being good lawyers; it was how they met, in the bottom ten percent of their class, butts of obvious puns.) Baby Drew would have none of it. He swatted all in a row as if they were pinochle cards fanned by his little training bicycle’s tire spokes.
“Oh no!” The proprietor put his hands to his head. “Now there definitely isn’t enough room in the dumpster! Kids today!”
The white haired beauty thought he was kind of cute when he was beside himself, and kind of sweet when he relented about the kids, and he was proprietor of the Plip Plop Coffe Shop, master of fate; and it was almost noon – and she wasn’t getting any younger and, after all, that morning she’d vowed to get laid tout de suite.
Over her shoulder she caught his eye and stated with an undertone of musicality, “I’ve got some room in my dumpster.”
Little naifs like baby Drew and the other baby would certainly visualize a ten or twelve cubic foot container left by the curb or in the driveway at the mature beauty’s residence. A sturdy steel dumpster, painted red if belonging to one disposal company, blue if its competition. But adults knew she was speaking of other things.
It was the power of suggestion and the great power of le mot juste that effected what happened next in the heaps and at the end of the vomit stripe, where Reluctant Dissenter #2 was sprawled with a hole in his head and there was blood on the floor. While baby Drew toddled over to the other baby for high fiving, rescued and rescuer and their meeting of minds, a rasp and a sussuration and a great groan evolved to a higher pitch, as if out of one maw of lycra and foolish flesh. But they were heaps of two, three, four, and more around the cafe floor, between tables, and where the lines for ordering and picking up lattes had been, and at Mikkim Ttommott’s toes (which explained occasional dips into naturalism on her great cinquecento homage).
The bicycle riders rose from the dead because they couldn’t resist the mature sensualist’s perfect summer’s day in San Anselmo suggestion. They’d return to death in short order, but briefly a sound was borne by rising heaps, twisted and turned bicycle bodies up for the last hurrah.
“Woooooo!” they shouted, as their kind always have. There were whoops and “Woof woof!” in the aftermath. Finally they collapsed. In the piles, the contortions and the bold Tour de Wherever colors challenged Mikkim Ttommott to avoid tending toward Mannerism.

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