.
He poke his long rifle through the bush, white heat of the African sun scorching his neck and-
B L A M!
The panda took it in the gut, black and white and red all over. The bear staggered silly, his knees weak, and finally collapsed on the dusty Serengetti plain. Lukedor, his gun still smoking, turned to his African manservant Makumba, exchanging a dignified high five.
Their celebration didn’t last long- another panda grazing at the foot of the monadnock had stopped at the sound of the gunpowder blast. He locked eyes on Lukedor. And he began to charge.
Makumba- naked as usual- panicked, ran out into the clearing, shouting in godless gibberish and befouling his unpompered buttock. It was just the diversion Lukedor needed: as the panda turned to witness Makumba’s humiliation it slowed its run, and that’s when Lukedor fired, piercing the great beast’s head and neck.
“AIIIIIII-EEEEEE!!!” The wounded bear let out a great bellow, existentially vexed. Still on his feet he turned and ran at the chocolate native.
Makumba fell to the ground, unable to find the sign of the cross, wishing he’d been converted to Christianity.
The panda stood over him, rearing back with his paw, nails sharpened, ready to tear his prey to shreds.
That’s when Lukedor jumped on the animal’s back, his Bossie knife in hand. The bear reared back, and for a moment Lukedor rode him as one would a bronco. Before he was thrown clear he reached 'round and slit the panda’s belly wide, its intestines spilling slow onto a paralyzed Makumba like a can of baked beans being poured down a sink.
Lukedor, heart of aluminum, absolutely unfazed, “I say, chum: might be time to make our way back to bungalow and get some food while the sun is still high. We'll venture out again after our meal and-”
An enormous panda leapt from behind Lukedor, toppling his pith helmet and sending him to the ground. Lukedor whipped his pistol from his belt and pushed it in the bear’s mouth, firing.
The panda’s brains were blown out the back of his head like a fantastic idea, splattering Makumba who was still too petrified to move.
Lukedor got to his feet and restored his pith helmet. He packed his pipe full of tobacco and opium and lit up, his lungs filling with the heavy smoke of success.
“So... wot do you say about lunch?”
Makumba, covered in goo, spat out a few panda teeth, rubbing his belly intently. He had been a man of few words since he had lost his tongue in a rabbit attack, but he took a deep breath and spoke in determined profundo: "Rum."
Lukedor smiled, the mutilated corpses around him going hazy. "Well-spoken, my heathen amigo."
.
Giuliana.
Giuliana.
I remember when you were mine, when you were tiny, when you were brand new, and even your parents didn’t know who you were.
And I danced around the hallways of the hospital, with you, in my arms, in my pocket, in my blanket, you were safe. You were sound. And I fed you with my heartbeat.
Giuliana.
Giuliana.
I remember coming to the house when you were sick, drinking you juice and putting the cold rag to your fevered head. And you blinked your eyes each time I whispered your name.
And I let you stay up and look at the late movie with Peter Boyle. And you wanted my Coke. And I told you I would love you until the end of forever.
Giuliana.
Giuliana.
I remember your holy smile in the dark auditorium. And the look on your face when you held your award. And I didn’t cry at all, Giuliana... I swear to you I never cried, not even one bit.
And Giuliana, just- I wonder where you are, if you are alright. I hope that on stormy days in May you think of me.
For the summer days we spent chasing dragons in the grass when the sun wouldn’t go from the sky.
This old man is no poet. But I had to write this to tell you: you are still mine. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Love... until the end of forever.
.
.
The sign, it said: “Abortions- 50% Off,” so I turned to her and said, “Honey, let’s do it. Let’s now get it done.”
She looked up and laughed, “I’m not even dressed...” but I brought us to the parking lot, past the protestors with their dire signs and cardboard warnings, into a gravel spot beside the building dusty.
Inside a woman named Patty offered us hot chocolate and Thin-Mint Cookies, a gift of the girl scouts... We were well on our way to a lovely day, to a memory we could cherish forever, something we could tell our grand-neighbors about.
We wouldn’t have to do it if I had stayed in our bed, if I could have resisted the soft folds of her satin sheets. And we wouldn’t have to do it if her denim skirt had been six inches longer. Fabric was to blame... we probably would have had a kid....
In the waiting room she leans back and tells me, “Bogart is my favorite ‘High Sierra’.”
And I say, “I know, baby, I know that...” And now my heart is scrambled eggs.
On the way back stopping off for cantaloupe, and watermelon, and pineapples. “Life is a farmer’s market,” I said, but she just laughed and rolled her eyes. We made it home and played the ‘Airplane’ DVD. Kids fly free...
When the shit hits the fan...
And now we’re on board this flight together, and I’m praying that God will land us safely.
.
