The art of animal magnetism, whether welcome or inappropriate, is a practice learned and layered, developed over many years of creature husbandry and strategic manipulation of various beasts. When pursuing your undergraduate degree at Pitt as an adolescent (after preschool AP Classes and the trading of your recess credits for internships and work credit at the local vet labs and animal-dependent sustainability courses on the outskirts of Lawrenceville and Morningside), you deleted every useless bit of information on the topic of Confrontation with Animatronic/Radioactive Cyborg Beasts, except for one. From Barnyard in Your Backyard: A Beginner's Guide to Raising Chickens, Ducks, Geese, Rabbits, Goats, Cyborg Dogs, Sheep, and Cows in Pittsburgh by Gail Damerow:
"The dark can be an especially dangerous place, especially when pure blackness is punctuated with the glowing eyes of the undead Eunuch Raccoons of the Allegheny. But the likelihood of survival in such a situation has been increased exponentially by Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl's creation of a revolving curfew center for nocturnal animals. The revolving curfew center, which involves welcoming delinquent night creatures into a new neighborhood every month as a means to keeping these raccoons, opossums and roaches off the street and providing a nurturing work environment for them to make pies, may be coming to your neighborhood soon! Don't forget to check your internal calendar and ready your homestead for visitors--you never know how many manicotti you'll need when the weasels show up! Brought to you through partnership with UPMC."
You reach for the light switch and dial 311 in the same motion, but only your phone call goes through, as a chilled, scaly tail impedes your motion to light the room. You swat it away and flip the switch--mandatory speaker phone kicks in: "Hello, You've reached the Offices of Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl. If you are calling about food stamps to feed unexpected guests, press one... ." You hang up.
The stretched necks of now-visible raccoons resemble Popoids, a crunching, expanding and contracting toy similar to Legos you remember from your childhood. The starving bandits stand around a wooden trunk bookended by the head and rear of a New England Alligator, whose tail was probably what kept you from turning on the light, you think. Each raccoon holds a piece of official mail with your address, today's date, and your name. You, obviously their host, haven't kept track of the days and nights, and since your city-approved squat is stuck in the in-between of two neighborhoods and is debatably in neither and both at the same time (depending on government handouts and take-backs), you feel you've been both cheated and blessed, though you're not sure of the latter.
Doc knows this. Don't ask yourself how, but he has already told the raccoons, who refused to leave your grounds and accept refuge in more up-and-coming neighborhoods (like Lincoln-Lemington and North Perry), that we cannot provide for them. The alligator, obviously just a modern-day pack horse/oven, awaits instruction from the raccoons, who hurriedly begin pouring into the alligator's trunk your pie and pastry flour, Earth Balance and fruit.
"I can't handle anymore roommates right now," you tell the raccoons. "And aren't you all still pissed about our past?"
The raccoon with the longest, slinkiest neck shrinks back to a normal size, reaches into the alligator's trunk, and pulls out a shoofly pie.
"A shoofly pie?"
The raccoon nods and holds it up as a peace offering.
"That's about as expected as a raccoon riding a bicycle."
You look around the room and notice all the miniature frames and 12-inch wheels eschew, evidence that the kitchen is also now a bike workshop for your guests. Do you need this right now, at this time in your life?
You take the pie from the raccoon and shake his still-evolving hand. There's no suspicion here--you just eat the pie and laugh at how absurd it all is. The University, the Health Care, The Immortal Mayor, the hospitality of your guests, who should still probably want to kill you.
"Hey, did you dissect those other chimeras yet?"
"What? Where is that voice coming from?" you ask. "Jeffy?"
"Yeah," she says, letting herself in from the kitchen window. The raccoons all sniff at her ambiguity, or maybe its her authority that has them interested. You don't know--either is a new smell and worth the interest.
"I called 311 and, uh, requested your home address," she says. "This is one of the finest city-approved squats I've ever seen! Can I get the tour to see if, ah, the wiring in your bedroom is up to code?"
"I've got to feed these raccoons, Jeffy. There's no time for inspection. And what the fuck do we do with this alligator?"
The long-necked raccoon, answering your question, flips a switch behind the alligator's left front leg, and the reptilian parts retract back into the trunk, pushing out another pie from an enormous coin slot, this time berry. The raccoons all rush up to the pie and wave us off. Doc joins them, as another pie slides out from the trunk.
"Look, we're either going to fuck tonight or we're going to dissect those chimeras," Jeffy says. "It's your choice. But I really do have to inspect your wiring, if you know what I mean."
"Wait, don't you think that this whole scene is a bit pointless? I already knew you want to fuck me. Is any of this even necessary for the story?"
"Story, what story?"
No comments:
Post a Comment