A Scottish Trip

by

Mike Pulaski

I left the house when I saw the dead male spider on the bathroom floor.  The female was not far away, live and sated.   When I reached the street, MacDuff was already carrying aloft the King's head, 

dripping zlomdue

onto

his arms.

There is no worse time for a citizen.

“Deeee---dah-dee-da-deeeeee”, said the crazy woman.  My leading forearm says “Outta my way, sick bitch.”

Boarding the plane, I duck left then right around the camel's wool idiots who think they know what's happening in Scotland. The perfume and staccato sqwee-sqwaww of purple haired maids send me to the loo early.  The barf bags were already used and put away slippy. 

I guess they didn't hear the news or listen to the Scanner: Whistles, sirens, tweets and  rushhhhing that played over, over and over for those who are paranoid enough to notice.

I did.

“Deeee---dah-dee-da-deeeeee”, I say. 

And go on my way.

A Plight Attendant hands me a SkyPhone:  "We're sorry to have to inform you this way, sir, but your employment with the Company has come to an end. For more information about the actions you may take, please pound the star key. To leave a message for your supervisor, pound one. To receive your severance pay, pound two . . .insert your Master Card for more options."

From my seat near the window, I took notice of the congregation of royalty around Lockerbie.  I bet those bulges are personal SAM launchers, because some of the Dukes are congenitally mad.  I fingered my plastique supply for reassurance.

The graymalkin tiptoes gently under my feet, musking my calves;  I step lightly scented because I believe in cats.

I am sure that Harold will reach out from the grave to seize my success, but the King himself is long under the earth.  His wife's self-mutilated body, sodomized by her father and brother, is enough to keep the gossip-mongers from latching onto my throat.  It is sweat equity that brought me here, and I won't let some dead monarch sic his witches on me.

As the captain announces our landing approach, I get a note from the Gurrll wearing labia-clinging slacks: "It was such a pleasure having your watchful guidance.  Our agents will assassinate the perpetrators as soon as they step onto the tarmac.  Stay close to me.  I want to bend over their bodies and smell their blood while your head is next to mine."

A comet hurls from its galactic catapult and the digitalis-yellow stars throb arrhythmically overhead while I wonder where the murderous bastards will bury the bodies.

It must be here.  Scotland is a small, cold country.