Fatman And The Creature*

 

"Don't bother me. I'm... I'm pollinating." Photo by Joe

"I don't see how that's any of your business, but as a matter of fact I have had plenty of girlfriends," Fatman declared with righteous indignation. His wandering companion, The Creature, was needling him again. "Besides," he continued, "it's not like you're one to talk. I figure I ain't ever seen you with a dame, not once."

The Creature retorted with some odd clicks and slurps and grunts that only Fatman could understand.

"Yes, I know that's because you're a creature. But when I was a kid, even our old bloodhound had a girlfriend. Never seen you with a girl creature. Just sayin' - maybe don't give me so much guff about a thing you ain't exactly excelling in."

More clicks and guttural sounds from The Creature.

"Sure, bub. She's from Canada. I wouldn't know her. Whatever you say. Let's change the subject..."

Growls, a snort, two coughs and a long throat-clearing.

Fatman stopped shuffling westward and removed what was left of his cap, clutching it to his chest. "You're right. It is the 27th. I completely forgot the anniversaries. Here's a moment of silence to honor my dearly-departed mom and pop. May they rest in peace... What? I know I've never told you what happened to them. I don't want you making fun of me - or them."

Weird noises from The Creature.

"No, they did not jump into the lion yard at the zoo and get eaten. What's wrong with you?"

Snorts and gurgles.

"Obviously they were not cut down by tommy gun-wielding gangsters. My folks were good people. Never so much as crossed paths with the mob. They ran a candy shop. That much, you know. But if you're going to keep tossing ridiculous guesses at me, I might as well tell the stories. There's not much to them, anyway. Mom forgot her hairnet once in all her years in the shop. Just our luck - it was on taffy-pulling day. Not a lot of people know how powerful that machine is. Pulled her head clean off. Ruined a batch of peppermint."

Alarmed squeaks.

"I'm not being callous. Just stating facts. Anyway, exactly one year later, my old man was making a batch of cinnamon hard candies, and-- no, he didn't choke on one of them. Stop interrupting. Good guess, though. He inadvertently inhaled some cinnamon and coughed so hard he fractured his skull on a metal shelf."

Subdued grunts and a sigh from The Creature.

"Oh, that didn't kill him, no siree. One of the nurses at the hospital did. With a pillow. She said he was never going to wake up anyway, so she wanted to free me or some such nonsense... No, no - it's okay. She was probably right. Although it did trigger my year and a half of grief-eating, leading to my metamorphosis from a regular fellow named Arthur, to a stinky old hobo called Fatman. But it's still okay. I got an okay life. I got more lint than the average 'bo..."

The Creature emitted a question-y sort of sound.

"Oh, I do! I adore lint. It's not merely currency, to me. I like to pull mine from my pockets, roll it into a big fuzzy ball, and just stare at it and pet it. It's almost as entertaining as reading hobo graffiti on sheds and telegraph poles. I'm also pretty handy with a buck knife, and my skills in the area of squirrel cuisine ensure that I'll never go wanting for company, out here on the road. Speaking of which - it's getting late. Better nab me some dinner before the little fellers all head to their nests. I hear Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick and a couple of her gal pals will be passing through on their way east. I further hear that one of her friends likes her men a little portly, so I'm fixin' to make this a good night."

The Creature was pointedly silent.

"Oh I see what you're doing. I don't care what you say or don't say. A man can dream, can't he?"

*(Note: There was no creature)