An’ my how his Cats Love to Dance - Short Story by Jim Meirose

 

An’ my how his Cats Love to Dance

Short Story by Jim Meirose 

Home am I, yes, and, Spleen Ben is name, my. Cake-carrot. Home is he that sure, for know we, because Mister Spleen does personally deliver each and every cake-carrot. To all those out-households. All those out-households over there needing cake-carrot, plus all the normally generated et-ceteras the presence of masses of cake-carrot do devise. Con-specticley Don’s dives succeed within the households of Ben Spleen. The many and the varied home-households of Spleen; Spleen if you please. Some round-big ‘nd large-square, but some, the opposite. Ben, if you please. Spleen, if you do. Yes. No. Ben Spleen’s slash, if you dipsy-sipsie-please. Yon boolies! Mein tabletop drips with quashed Ben Spleens. Sans cake-carrot, f’course. F’course—bit off mainly by them same four big horror houses. Horror houses of spleens horror house spleens of horror, all those spleens, houses of multi-atchoos! Gesundheit.

Thank you.

Gesundheit, atchoo, thank you.

Gesundheit! Atchoo, thank you! Gesundheit.

Atchoo, thank you gesundheit. Atchoo.

Taser-locked bullies joy-joint, aka; house of trouble. Late night trouble. Taser-locked bullies joy-joint aka house of trouble all denny-denizens come the heck out, Wright now. Do it outright. Outright. Taser-locked bullies joy-joint aka house of trouble every single denny-denizen, and that means you too, punk. Come the heck out, Jack Wright, right now. Or else, for you no saviour. Yes, none. Taser-locked bullies joy-joint aka house of trouble every single denny-denizen, and that means you three half-up that wall there, also, come the heck out, Wright, now, or else no saviour ever, nor forever, for you.

Robot robot. Robot.

Physical pain physical pain physical pain robot robot robot, erudition.

Physical pain erudition.

Erudition.

So; Ben Spleen, he of the esquire, to boot, come here now. Deliver. Now. Right now. You-he big Ben of the esquire come here right now. Deliver these. Right here. Right now. Deliver this cake-carrot. Robot erudition physical pain, our savior, else, Wright, right out heck the come also half-up that wall there. Ben, physical pain for wherever don’t matter, just come right now and deliver up that actual physically present Mister Spleen. Come. Taser-locked bullies joy-joint aka physical pain down spleen, off, ‘da denny-denizens, whomsoever’s of those left down ‘dere sidewise, hup. Deliver us, hup. Hup. Robota-robot hup hup hup hup, these cake-carrots. Hup hup, hippo. Hey, Ben! Look there; there’s a large animal there—yes, I know, but isn’t it easy to come to work when you know the work’s helping people? I mean, look; now, here come boot to Mister Esquire there, this cake-carrot being delivered right now by some big mister. See that?

Yes, we see. And it’s very, very true, but—I’m sorry, excuse me.

What?

That I couldn’t help but laugh, I’m sorry, plus; get this right; n’ not that large animal there, that’s our wet hippo. See it? See? Unattainable touch. Hippo. Mister Spleen’s unattainable touch come deliver this piped-up-hot cake-carrot, right now. That wet. Mister. Right. That wet hippo. Right now, mister Ben. How ‘bout it? That certainly is a large animal you got there, mister Ben, that soaked down wet hippo. Don’t you think? Don’t you think especially over this fine piped-hot mess of cake-carrot it’s even more so? This one delivered by that same big Ben Spleen? Fine from the spleen-house, these cakes, and that hippo, all this cake-carrot, and that hot hippo, that hot, wet, hippo. That mighty fine wet, hot, big hippo—yum! Yum! Cut me another slice there—and another. Yes, there. N’ after much yawning when done for. Done for the day to the night physical pain. Don’t you think so, Mister Spleen? Don’t be afraid, go on and just say it. Don’t you really and truly think that’s so, Ben? Tipsy a bit now?

Tipsy a bit?

Too much, eh, big Ben? Too much?

Tipsy a bit, now’s our Mister Spleen?

That so? S’ that so?

Lookout our silly Ben—our big Ben Spleen.

Tipsy baby to bed, now. Aw. Aww.

Tipsy baby mister Ben, get down to bed now, ‘fter a hot days’ deliveries of yon cake-carrot ‘nd yon, but yes, no, eh, tomorrow’s another day, father Spleen. Rome was not built in a day, so, yes, and no. For sure, no.

Mister Spleen, he’s hit the hay. An’ my how his cats love to dance. ‘s you’ll see.

Now.

Him; him into the under of those big covers laid out there. Under the dark over the under those big covers laid out there Tucumcari’s ‘lso coincidentally dropped hot down in his bed. Dreaming of big Missus Licklitly Sphlint-her. Same Licklitly Sphlint-her whose jaggedest razorley superthin cutnail came ripping at this here, but far enough away, so. Point left roll right arrow straight-stretch, deliver us to where we’re at, lord, flush flow’n slide-slip out that big new teflillonical way. Slick, sure. The twilight. Cake-carrots o’er tabletops of fine households, but; only eat your fill. Eat your cake, fill carrot, your fill. Now. Now—what is there to watch tonight? Flip it. No. But; why do you always laugh at me when I say that?

Maybe that, but—no.

Because something about your lips—when you say that particular thing—strikes me funny—anyway, flip. It rolled clickety snap guggly-eyed beast eh uh hey, what the hell kind of a drama’s all this—but. That backdraft’s too cold. Mistaken, too cold. What gives, Poppy, oh? Mistaken, Poppy, mistaken, too cold roll to fix and forget, up to before now, get down, grip down your dark, grasp, try, to see if-if ‘f this’s right now.

If you please, Poppy? Sometime today?

Yes.

Seems so, maybe. Eck, so what’s there to watch tonight, again—but off this’ sides? Show about babies. Rat terriers so small, too much, but, look there, by the very hand of God, I’ll be off this here frightwig’s octuo-tobula, if I do say so yourselves.

Uh. What’d you say, mademoiselle?

Catch that one? And that?

Well! I’ll be damned! Whoop!

Go on. Keep on reading this crapshite, hey, pop. Yah, we dare ‘ya. But—eh tuck those lasts under. Before everybody forgets.

Thank you.

But anyway—so Anna whoop whelping the big dog under a flying my way big fat blimp of a zeppelin that most don’t know what to accurately call it, all right? We two were walking that night, and what we did witness. The ad banner’s lit ‘ll neonly off cross sides to right under all we see’s a long wide blank belly with the bellybuttoned pilot-centered cabin—God it must be so lonely in there, plus that high, and also quite a bore. When things are right. Plus the engine all whirr-humming low. All vibrating near the soothe-frequency to lull, and lull lower—dangerously low, a’ mamsa-fact, mister. You want to know why these so often crash? There’s your answer. Uhhhh—but, no, jump! Jump-scare wakened, all of you! All of you, all of you! By my fine expensive uniform! Look at this! Raw! Now see how the slammed down hard fist on the gel-soft sweet dish becomes all just this expandi-gross oily spatter. The nerve of that man! Who died, and made him God? There are many of you, but just one of him. Carve him down, master. Sweet! Carve him down all the way, right now. Here’s a sharp to use. A sharp, sharp enough for the job. After all, when pushed back at, he is so very soft. Very soft. You know? Do you know?

Yes. But, I suppose being funny’s better than being repulsive.

Quite true. Or gross.

Yes. yes. But it’s true its so easy to come here to work. Thank God we got this.

Easy to knife down.

Yes, thank God.

Easy to knife.

Yes. But. So many hate their jobs. You know. Anyway—nodding, eh, as though blanket soft, but bu t ut bu when ‘is blimplilinnio-zeppelin’s structure unexpectedly hits the ground, waking’s not only impossible but, even if redone as possible, would not do any damned good at all. Zoot suit. Cram—fraud! All. And all the ads in the world will not bring him back. Not. All the ads. The ads in the world. Even your superior knife skills aren’t sufficient to bring him back.

Right, Petunia? We know you’re back there!

Oh.

Oh.

So. Ah, all just kidding.

Okay. So. Where should we be now, oh, yes—time to rise with this, Mister Spleen, yes, here he comes, ah, here he is, there he goes. He went that way. Get up, run fast. Look alive! Don’t fall out of him, please. At least not at this speed. That would be messy, and probably, quite fatal. Help him back to’ his ‘gether, leave those old nights behind, push him through that pinhole of a dawn into out past and toward. A question, big Ben; who died and made that getup your God? Eh there, Mister Spleen, stop there. Pay attention; what says do this first, and that second, and then that third ‘n that fourth out to who knows how many of them—eh, Ben. How’s it hanging today—oh, she’s out back warming up the propellors. What? What propellors, you say? The one’s I wish were there—hey. I’ve said this before. You know the reason. We’ve all said everything we’ve got to say before. So why are you always asking for more reasons? You’re the one’s forgotten them all. Not me, or her—here, sure what’s this? Ah, your load’s ready, Ben Spleen. Get going deliver that carrot-cake; or those carrot-cakes. However many remain, big Ben; big Ben Spleen. Deliveries must continue for as long as how many remain; go carrot-cake—what? There’s a problem?

No. That’s no issue. Maybe it’s always been carrot-cake, Ben. Maybe up ‘til now everything’s been a lie. But yet—got to go on, Ben. Go on, get. Yes you! Get going! Get going to all those out-households over there still needing cake-carrot, regardless, plus all the normally generated et-ceteras which the presence of masses of cake-carrot do devise. Keep running. Heh. Heh. Keep on going just like this, Ben. Keep on going. Forever, like you’re doing now.

Eh Ben?

Don’t pretend, don’t—ah, yes. Good. You’re still there.

Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous venues. His novels include "Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer"(Optional Books), "Understanding Franklin Thompson"(JEF), "Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection"(Mannequin Haus), and "No and Maybe - Maybe and No"(Pski's Porch). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose