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When the Walls are Paper Thin
cc&d (v259) (the November/December 2015 issue)




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whacking off heads

Fritz Hamilton

    WHACK!
    WHACK!
    WHACK!
    “What is that I hear, Luca?”
    “Fred, what you hear is the Islamic State whacking off heads.”
    “It seems that we too are standing in the line of the whacked.
    “Indeed we are, Fred. The last whack we hear will be the knife decapitating us.”
    “Since you are in line just before me, Luca, I’ll be cognizant of you being whacked, but you’ll be beyond that & won’t be conscious as I’m whacked.”
    “That seems to be so, Fred.”
    WHACK!
    WHACK!
    WHACK!
    “They’re getting closer, Fred.”
    “Yes they are, Luca. Prepare to meet thy maker.”
    “I’m going to give Him a piece of my mind, Fred. This is a shitty way to go.”
    “I wonder how many of us get to pass pleasantly in our sleep, Luca.”
    “That’s a moot question, Fred, at least for the likes of us.”
    “I wonder how many of our fellows truly likes us, Luca. I think most just don’t give a shit that we’re whacked or not. It’s kind of like seeing the garbage removed. We appreciate it, but it’s not like a good quiz show. We’re whacked, but so what?”
    WHACK!
    WHACK!
    “How do you feel now, Luca? They’re almost upon you. You can even smell the blood.”
    “I wonder if I’ll have a split second to smell my own blood, or if it’s all over as soon as the blade penetrates.”
    “I doubt if you’ll have time to inform me, Luca, but it may be a quick call.”
    “If you have anybody to call, Fred, you’d better do it now. Did they leave you your cell phone?”
    “I never had a cell phone.”
    “Then you’d better shout as loud as you can, Fred.”
    The Islamic State arrives, big head cutters with sharp knives bleeding at their sides. They position Luca with his head sticking out. He is gasping & whimpering as he should. This isn’t child’s play. They are singing patriotically like, “Give me a head to whack. I’ll put it in a sack. It will rot black, & stink to holy Hell. We wish him well, but he won’t come back, but give no slack. Say goodbye & give him a whack,” & in that sad condition, he’s off for perdition. Bye-bye, fool, you smell like the stool you shit in yr pants. Now here come the beetles & the ants, as you become a ghoul. Bye-bye, fool.
    Over & over they sing this song, & before long, they cut off yr dong. Bye-bye, fool! They bury you in yr stool. Bye-bye, ghoul!
    NEXT!
    That’s me!



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