Muddled

     Beating, keeping time like a caveman, the funky drummer pounds deep down in the core of Mickey Moodswing’s ribcage. Guided by voices and the machine gun messages running through his mind, the exhilaration of the current storm front whips his adrenaline into a tizzy. The sheets of monsoon rain keep falling, filling the nooks and crannies of the small city vista with tepid mosquito breeding Jacuzzi resorts. This infraction on the part of nature simply cannot stand, man. The line, in Mickey’s vibrating mind has been drawn, and like shades keeping out the light, all other tasks and chores (we’ll lump personal hygiene into the list somewhere) are kept out there in the void outside the window frame. 

     Goddamned puddles are everywhere he looks as he runs full blast, tears of joy streaming, belying the fertile feelings of frustration simmering ‘neath the surface, jumping with all the dwindling strength he can muster, feet first, into a whopper of a puddle. Sporting a hot pink bicycle helmet and well-worn pair of Scotch-plaid galoshes and a hokey, brick colored cape with a gold (PK) messily embroidered into it, Moodswing quickly recovers and bolts through the driving rain with all of the determination of a bulimic girl ‘scarfing’ down pumpkin pie in another wacky act of futility. The next puddle leers at him with the dour look of a Soviet loan shark. The rain drops dance on its surface as the racing, raging storm drives Moodswing on into his puddle killing frenzy. 

     The local villagers leer then sneer at the funny little man so intent on keeping nature from crowding out the concrete with these pooling abominations. His exploits are well known throughout the village and have become more of a nuisance or tiny headache than anything. Some citizens swear they can see puddles dancing in the maniacal gleam of his eyes. Most people just shrug their shoulders and mutter something like, “The only thing he is hurting is the helpless puddles.”

     And who hasn’t been annoyed, or roused into a quiet rage, at one time or another, by the contents of a puddle slowly seeping into the seams on the side of their shoes? Sometimes there can be an outright sock soaking brought directly from the tyranny of puddles. The tell-tale squash-squeak-squash of a puddle victim creeping embarrassingly through a 7-Eleven convenience store, or a family friendly porn store never ceases to arouse contempt for the puddle in Moodswing’s piddling heart. So, in his own obsessive way, Mickey thinks he is saving the world, one menacing puddle at a time.

     Even a stupor hero with a seemingly never ending supply of puddle fighting energy needs to take a break a refuel his engine. Mickey prefers Carne Asada burritos (plus sour cream, doused in salsa) from Alberto’s taco shop. After necking down his burrito like a pelican at the pier, Mickey takes off again towards the next available foe with guacamole/beef grease/sour cream stains coating the front of his black Dickie’s cargo shorts like some sort of culinary Pollack painting. With the rain forecast to last throughout the day and into the quickly approaching Pacific night, Moodswing has enough work in store to burn off the contents of the last thermo-nuclear burrito injection. 

     The puddles keep multiplying and Mickey keeps attempting to splash them into the edges of existence; however, in the full focus of his hocus pocus, Mickey fails to see the maroon ’78 Buick Le Sabre, with the huge dent in the driver’s side door turn the corner onto Emerald Blvd. Scott and the sub-human crew of ex-High School classmates are well into their second 40 oz. bottles of “Old English 800” and well basted by the roiling smoke of Camel Wides and California cannabis , the throbbing sounds of West Coast gangster rap tingling their minds with low-end bass grooves and sordid tales of savagery and criminal-minded exploits. The minion currently melting into the threadbare fabric of the front passenger seat spies through his drooping, bloodshot eyes our stupor hero clashing energetically with the puddles. 

            “Scott, puddle dork up on the right. Let’s get ‘im.”

            Scotty boy replies, “Done…and done.”

    Scott punches the gas pedal and the V-8 leaps into action and gains speed on Puddle Killer. Even with the fuzzy buzzing bees dancing around in his head his timing is perfect. Moodswing, caught in the throws of his passions, never notices the barreling Buick even as it hits the mother of all puddles in the gutter next to him. The two foot of easement happens to be the perfect distance for the torrential wave to crest and land on his face with great force. The echoing laughter rolls through the otherwise empty street and out stupor hero collapses onto the ground and sobs until there’s nothing left, but puddles of tears.