Under The Wagon

The boy walked slowly away from the fire, farting quietly.  Another boy was also by the fire.  Periodically the fire crackled higher as a fart hit the flames.  The sky was devastating in its emptiness. Loneliness stretched over the plano like a threadbare Mexicali blanket. Wolves howled, making him realize just how incredibly lonely and devastated he was.

Reckon those frijoles might been on their last leg, he said.

Well Chester, I figure as long as these pants-splitting farts don’t prevent me from losing my virginity to Margarita at the fall barn dance, I reckon that be alright.

Why did you call me Chester?

That ain’t your name?

I thought you were Chester.

No I’m not Chester.

Well then who the hell are you?

I GOT NO FUCKING IDEA.

I don’t even know which one of us is talking right now.

With that the boy died suddenly in a tragically violent incident that ultimately went unavenged to illustrate the capriciousness of life.  Later the other boy talked about philosophy and God in mangled Spanish with an old man who farted hilariously anytime he said Dios.

THE END

[note: This story will be amusing to exactly three people in the entire universe.  Two of them will never read it.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, General Musings //