Artorius Castus

The ‘Hood, the Herd and Nikes

Posted in Politics by Patrick Truax on October 4, 2007

Murphy was annoyed. He was tired after a long shift, and the minimal sleep he had gotten the night before. The noise in his new ‘hood was getting bad. Things were fine when they first moved in-it was a brand new neighborhood with brand new houses. Then after all the sub-prime borrowers inked their names, the neighborhood filled up with subprime community dwellers. Murphy grumbled to himself, “that shooting and subsequent party last night across the street kept me up all night!” As he pulled into his driveway, he saw his roomate standing on the front step waving at him frantically. Murphy sighed, “Now what? he muttered as he stepped out of his car…

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket…and stepped right into it.

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“#&%@*&%$#!” Murphy cursed.

“I tried to warn you,” said Mort, the roomate.

“Where did all this crap come from? The circus freaks have been gone for 3 weeks!”

Murph was recalling the rude shock they had received upon moving in and discovering that the brand new development was also the Summer Home of Zanes Circus and Freak Show. All summer long, the smell of exotic animals permeated the ‘hood, so strong and toxic, that it penetrated into houses even with the air conditioning running full blast. But it was the droppings that was so bad. Animal dung all over the neighborhood, left by different species of Circus creatures. The animal that made the biggest mess of course was the

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then the

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and finally a creature that shit (shat?) on everyones lawn that Murph and Mort couldnt identify.

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It was nightmarish. But they had been gone for weeks, where were all the pies coming from?

Murphy jumped from one dung free spot to another dung free spot,in order to reach the from steps.

“Leave the shoes out here, dude’, said Mort.

“I plan to,” he replied. “Got any ideas where all of this shit is coming from?”

“I do,” replied Mort. “I think its those people that live behind us.”

“Well, why are they crapping all over the front and back of my house?”Murph demanded.

“You will just have to see for yourself,” said Mort, holding the door opened for Murph. At least it was those old shoes and not the brand new Nikes he bought last night, Mort mused.

They walked to the back part of the house where the kitchen and dinng room were and which looked out across the backyard and into Mortimer’s suspects house. He handed Murph some binoculars and said, “Take a look”.

The first thing Murph saw was the pile of trash on the patio.

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But it wasnt until he panned upward and peered into their dining room window that he realized where the dung was coming from. He gasped, “It cant be!” He cried,”How would they fit?” But sure enough, there he was right there in their dining room.

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“I cant believe it!” Murph said. He looked back at all the trash that was piled up and saw the Ho-Ho’s, the doritos, the Krispy Kreme, and the empty pizza boxes. “Buffalos!” He gasped to himself. First ‘bangers and drug dealers, then the circus freaks and now this!

“Those arent ordinary buffalos,” Mort said. “They are buffarillos! They lay around the house all day watching Judge Judy and the Fresh Prince, while harfing down pizza, soda, cookies, ice cream, poptarts, and the occasional grass clippings to aid in digestion. It doesnt work so well. But I have been watching them from the binoculars are afternoon.”

Well, this was a fine how do you do! Murph sighed and put the binoculars down on the counter. Well, at least he was off tomorrow. He will get this mess sorted out then by calling the health department and the police and have them pay a visit to the Buffarillos. When they saw all the pies laying around and the trash piled up, they would take action. As he was looking for the remote, he eyes landed on the box that housed his brand new Nikes.

Murph was proud of his new shoes. Still in the box, they were Nike’s top of the line tennis shoe. With thick tongues (preventing a complete lacing up), even thicker ankle supports, and a built in GPS, Murph would be the hit of the Chameleon Saloon. Simply because the shoes went nicely with his tapered, acid washed jeans, wife beater shirt, and dirty Norfolk Southern hat. The shoes commanded respect! Murph had wanted those shoes ever since the “Convict”, Murph’s favorite `athlete` on “Raw”, had showed up one night wearing them. So enamored with his new shoes, Murph almost missed the idea forming in his head.

“Why dont I put them on and go show show those ‘Rillos who is boss around here?” Murph knew that the sight of those $329.00 tennis shoes would probably force any foe into capitulation. Then he remembered the minefield between his and the Rillos home. Not to mention any vermin feeding on the huge pile trash he might encounter.
“Wait a minute! What about the GPS on the shoes? I can mark all the pies and avoid them with the GPS!” He yelled for Mort and a flaslight as it was getting dusk and he didnt want to miss a sigle pie.

An hour later, after all of the visible pies had been marked and stored in the Nike’s memory, Murph was ready for his confrontation with the Rillos. “I’ll bet they are the ones taking all of the banana moon pies from the 7-11,” Murph grumped as he struggled into his fishing waders that would allow him to wear the $329.00 shoes outside the waders. After all, the sight of those shoes coming down the Rillo walk, should strike fear into the hearts of the filthy beasts living there. Finally, he was ready to go. Mort stood back and inspected Murphs gear for the treacherous walk to the house directly behind his. With Mort in an upstairs room with a powerful flashlight for additional guidance, Murph aligned the GPS one final time, and with the constellation of GPS satellites all above the horizon (well at least three of them were, and thats all that was needed), he got the welcoming buzz that his path was marked through the buffalo excrement. Looking stealthy and very covertlike in is olive green waders with bright white Nikes on the outside, a white wife beater and his hat,on backwards of course, to round out the gear on this rival to a true black ops agent.

GPS requires more than one satelite to work. Its a question of triangulation. You need three of the satelittes below the horizon to get an accurate picture of where you and where you are going. The signals are downlinked to Sunnyvale, California, and sent to NORAD and a number of other places for distribution. The civilians at Sunnyvale were in charge of maintenance on the GPS birds, or satelites.

“Colonel, we need to restart the software package on -897,” The man from Sunnyvale said on the phone to his military counterpart.

“Stand by,” the Colonel said, as he punched another number advising NORAD of the 10-15 minute outage on -897.

“Bob, go ahead and shut her down and bring it back up,” the Colonel told the man from Sunnyvale. Bob started the restart sequence and leaned back to finsh reading the Racing Forum.

Murph cautiously opened the door and made his way around the side of the house with no problem. The GPS was a veritable Rudolph, lighting the way through bad territory.

This function requires a restart on all on board computers. Do you want to proceed?”The computer asked. The man from Sunnyvale leaned over clicked yes, and went back to this weeks Aqueduct races.

Murph was about halfway across the backyard when his shoes beeped. He looked down and saw the fatal words scrolling across the top of the shoe where the toes were.”Lost connection, please standy”,

“Now what?” Mike stood there frozen, for right in front of him was a

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Murph abstractly noticed the perfect swirling of the turd, as he contemplated getting out of the minefield without getting Rillo waste products on his $329.00 shoes.

Restart aborted, returning to last known good sequence”

The computer in Sunnyvale said. The Man in Sunnvale swore and leaned forward to see what was wrong. “Ah, I forgot to shut down the telemetry computers,” He said. He would let the sat run until he had eveything ready for the restart.

Murph sighed in relief when his shoes came back online. Guided from above by Sats and Mort with a flashlight, he easily made it to the Rillos side walkway, which he noticed was devoid of any droppings.

“All systems ended, ready for restart”The computer said. Bob reached over and hit restart.

By now Murph had rounded the corner and was standing at the front door of the Rillos. He knew he looked like a bad ass in his waders, his faded Quiet Riot concert shirt with the sleeves cut off, and an ancient Norfolk Southern lineman’s hat. He reached up, yanked the screen open, and pounded on the door. He let the screen close and got into his best defensive stance of the “Convict”‘s. The door open and the Sr Rillo stood there.

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“Hey, what gives you and your family the right to shit all over my property?” Murph demanded.

As Mr Rillo was about to reply, a low rumbling sounded from his digestive tract, reaching all the way to his foul mouth and rear and let one rip that injected more methane into the atmosphere than anything man made ever did. And these animals were protected?

Murph was initially stunned by the ferocity of mr Rillo’s expulsion. Now he stood transfixed by the mess made which somehow wound up between Murph and Mr Rillo.

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Trapped now, Murph began to wonder just who had the upperhand-he with his daring plan involving real secret agents tools, or this mass of shaggy flab who had to wash himself with a large swiffer attached to a flagpole. The flatulence was now starting to oxidize and was getting bad.

“Sorry ’bout that!” Mr Rillo chuckled. “We can be pretty excratory at times.”

“Why do you and your Buffarillo family have to crap in my yard?!” Murph demanded, gagging from the fumes of Mr Rillos carpet bomb fart. “Especially your daughter Buffarillo who ate the whole friggin salad bar at Chin Goks Southern and Chinese Food Emporium, last week!”

At the mention of the slur that all Buffalos hate, Mr Rillo’s eyes widened, a snort expanded his nostrils and a fart rivalling the power of the firestorming of Dresden or Leipzig in ’43 and ’44 was unleashed. “They CAN do it on demand,” thought Murph as he realized he didnt have the tools to take care of this situation.

Murph had had enough, it was time to leave and let the proper authorities take care of the Buffalo situation. At least his shoes were intact. Shoes! Murph needed to make sure the GPS was still working and bent over to see that it was not, the Man in Sunnyvale had restarted a software package that required the whole restart of one of the vital GPS sats for Murphs’s $329.00 shoes to work.

“Shit!” Murphed cursed appropriately. He gingerly dodged the cowpie in front of him and turned to head down the clean Rillo sidewalk and walked right into

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketpThe Mother and Daughter.
“You ate the whole salad bar at Chins’s!” Yelled Murph, standing there in his green waders, $329.00 shoes OUTSIDE the waders, the faded concert shirt wife beater, and the ancient hat. A sound behind distracted Murph, he turned around to the Senior Rillo lining up for another attack

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There was nothing for it, Murph had to run, and the quickest way back to the house was through the minefield of digested and discarded tacos,pizza, moonpies, ice cream, beer, ho-hos, McDonalds, and God knew what else. A loud rumble spurred him on, he would have to trust Mort with the flashlight. The expulsion of beefy gas was mr Rillos worst yet and Murph took off for his own house and safety. He rounded the side of the house and

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It was a big one, too. The spatter from the impacting $329.00 shoe on the Buffalo pie, produced spectacular results. The dung shot all the way up to Murph’s hat and a good portion of it went down into the $329.00 Nikes, and leaving a lastimg impression of the GPS shoes in patty.

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Hearing the pursuit of the whole Buffarillo family, Murph got up and started running across the lawn, and every other step,

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First it was this one

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Then back to the one he had admired on the way over

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and lastly skidding to halt on his side on the one right in the front door of Murph’s house

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As Murph lay there covered in Buffalo excrement, bemoaning the ruination of his $329.00 shoes, he heard Mort thumping down the steps to open the door. “Dude, why didnt you use the GPS to come back? You were moving to fast for me to see everything!” Mort said.

Murph laid there, reeking of Buffalo excrement, while the computer in Sunnyvale said, “Restart sequence complete, all systems nominal”. The Man from Sunnvale notified the Colonel that -897 was back on line, and went back to ‘Form, while the Buffarillos went back home had a bucket of KFC each.

Mort noticed all the excrement on Murph’s face and arms and said, “Jeez, dude, sit tight, Ill get you some toilet paper!”

Murph stared up th street at more drama occuring in the ‘Hood, and said

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“forget it, Mortimer, the Buffalos are back inside…”


9 Responses

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  1. Patrick Truax said, on October 6, 2007 at 7:54 pm

    A sort of true story regarding a relatives neighborhood..

  2. Anonymous said, on October 6, 2007 at 8:05 pm

    Could be any neighborhood in America.

  3. Anonymous said, on October 7, 2007 at 12:39 am

    the ‘rillo were found guilty of littering, were ordered to clean up the many, many meadow muffins that had been deposited thru out the hood. They were also ordered to breakdown Mt. Trashmore, their backyard buffet, but so far, have not done so

  4. Patrick Truax said, on October 7, 2007 at 12:42 am

    Keep the pressure on! What you need is a covert op one night where you stealthily make your way to the patio, and move Mt Trashmore out to the very front of the “Rillo house..

  5. Elizabeth said, on October 7, 2007 at 3:12 pm

    “move Mt Trashmore out to the very front of the “Rillo house..”

    My thoughts exactly.

  6. Patrick Truax said, on October 7, 2007 at 3:16 pm

    The scene is going to get ugly before it straightens itself out..

  7. kris said, on October 7, 2007 at 8:40 pm

    Why the hatred of acid wash jeans?

  8. Patrick Truax said, on October 7, 2007 at 8:43 pm

    See the movie “Joe Dirt”..

  9. kris said, on October 8, 2007 at 12:14 am

    In that case, complete the look of acid washed jeans, wife beater, ridiculous shoes and a mullet. Which one of these two guys is your protagonist? (top of page 5)

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