Mike Tyson At The Walmart Deli

Deli

It’s Saturday and I’m at Walmart picking up my groceries. I get a cart with a busted wheel so things are already bad when I get to the deli.

Behind the counter is a young brother with big ears that stick out underneath his tight blue hair net. I think those ears are supposed to go inside but that must hurt him too bad. I never seen him before but his badge says “Avery” which I like cause it’s where I keep my pigeons at home.

The deli has powerful lights that make all of the food real bright. The ham and salami blaze like fire, and the turkey breast slices are like white spotlights that make my eyes hurt. I can still taste the joint I smoked this morning. I wanna get my meat and get out of here.

There are people everywhere waiting for their tickets to be called. I twist my bad cart up to the ticket machine and tear off a ticket but I get three instead of one, so I smash the machine with my fist. I say sorry to the people standing around but the motherfuckers are all staring at the floor like I’m a stone cold killer. It makes me furious because I ain’t that guy anymore. But I drop my head and count to ten like my therapist told me.

When I finish counting I see a blonde lady with a bob haircut and a snotty toddler standing in front of the sausages being all herky jerky. She’s angry about there being no hot dogs and wants to speak to the manager. Avery says the manager is out sick. She pounds her little white fist against the bright glass and I step in and say she should be respectful to the young man with the big ears because it ain’t his fault there’s no hot dogs. She tells me to mind my business which she shouldn’t do because the last person who told me to mind my business was that limey Julius Francis who I knocked out in under four minutes. I bare my teeth at her and take a bite out of a nearby basket and spit it onto her feet. Then I tell the bitch I will eat her child if she doesn’t start being nice. I regret this right away. She shrieks and runs away so I back up, squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten again.

When I open my eyes people are staring at me so I know I better get out quickly before somebody calls the cops. There’s nobody at the counter so I ask Avery for 2 pounds of pink jumbo shrimp and he snatches a handful and dumps them on the scale which shows 2.7 pounds. He asks if that’s ok even though he knows it ain’t ok and I tell him I will gut him like a fish unless he puts 0.7 pounds of shrimp back. I say sorry and he nods his head like a robot. I ask for a pound of the olive tapenade and when he’s done he puts the spoon back into the herbed walnut potato salad even though three millions Americans got nut allergies. I say “listen brother, three million Americans got nut allergies and you’re gonna give some motherfucker a big swollen face like I did to motherfuckers in the 90s.” He says sorry and I say it’s ok and that he should be more careful.

Then I bend my bad cart towards the meat area and ask for a pound of the sticky honey-glazed ham that is sparkling under the bright lights. That’s when I see a new meat between the chicken and turkey, like a little brown chicken but with longer legs all tied up. The label says “pigeon.”

My mouth drops open and my hands turn into fists. I glare at that dirty motherfucker Avery and beads of sweat appear on his forehead. I tell him those pigeons ain’t done nothing to nobody and he says he loves pigeons and it wasn’t up to him to sell them at the deli. I close my eyes and count to ten and can feel my fists uncurling. Avery seems like a good kid so I tell him about Cus, Kevin, and Frank — my three favourite pigeons at home. They’re the best pigeons in the neighbourhood and he says he’d love to meet them. I say that’s ok but I’m still disgusted about the pigeons for sale and wanna talk to his manager next week, and if I ever find a Walmart pigeon-catcher near my property I will put that motherfucker in a body bag.

I tell him to come by my place tomorrow to see my pigeons and smoke some weed if that’s his thing. I grow the best weed in America. He grins and tells me he will see me tomorrow. I bump the kid’s fist and say sorry for my temper again and he says it’s ok because it must be hard being Mike Tyson. He’s a smart kid and I tell him it’s real hard being Mike Tyson but I try my best. I grab my honey-glazed ham and bump fists with the kid again. I can’t wait to show him my pigeons tomorrow.

I Am The Cloud That Will Ruin Your Day

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I am the cloud that will ruin your day. I’m not one of those fluffy little bitches that some of you like to point and coo at, or the wispy high-flying blankets nobody gives a shit about. You know what I look like — an ugly wall of slate that flashes and rumbles and likes nothing more than dumping 50mm onto your pretty face.

I’ve spoiled more occasions than I can remember, and I’ve relished every one of them. Weddings are my favourite of course. Mushy lovers swanking up a perfectly good lawn with vows and floral arches? I darken my undercarriage immediately. My only regret is not being able to see the tears streaming down the brides’ faces. I can just hear the rationalisations now: “it was still a lovely day…” but was it? Was it lovely saying your vows while being turned into the human equivalent of a watermelon? Was it lovely when the wind caught your sopping tie and whipped it into your eyeball? Was it lovely when the celebrant slipped on the floor and did a ghastly rendition of Stayin’ Alive?

Picnics are fun too until I come along. I watch people gorge themselves on brie and chips and tomato salsa dip, laughing and prattling until the loathsome happiness catches in my throat like a pubic hair, and the only way for me to hock it up is by utterly drenching them in my sweet nectar. No more joy. No more pubic hair. I am satisfied. Try eating your flan after I’ve paid a visit. You’ll need a ladle to consume that shit. And that birthday cake looked delicious before I unleashed my watery consignment onto its impeccable frosting. Now it’s a depressed sand castle.

Don’t even talk to me about sports events. What nonsense! A bunch of screaming zealots aligning themselves with teams that launch leathery eggs or scarlett orbs or fling themselves to the ground like crummy stage actors. Screw you guys. Feel my ample moisture. I even call in some favours from my windy associates to hit the covered seats. Let’s see your loyalty when your hair mashes to your head and your ears flap about like fleshy wet flags. Sing a song now you soggy dimwits.

I wasn’t always like this. As a cloud I don’t have to rain. I used to turn myself into angelic pearly-white bulks of gorgeousness that people would gawp at and say “fuck yeah, look at that sick cloud.” I’d even leave little gaps for shimmering rays to blaze through, like god himself was emerging from within my heavenly bulk. Or I’d make animal shapes for the kids, like dinosaurs and shit. But then I realised that you humans have never given me the respect that I deserve. Look at what I do for you! I water your crops, I fill your rivers and lakes, I wash away the filth. I literally keep you alive. And how do you repay me? By poisoning me with carbon dioxide! It’s like I’m breathing vinegar up here!

So screw you guys. I am the cloud that will ruin your day. I’ll soak you on your commute. I’ll wreck your fishing trips. I’ll make your funerals that little bit worse. If I can’t catch a breath, why should you? I’ll bathe your hen’s party. I’ll immerse your cute little beach setup. Don’t bother planning anything nice because you know what will happen if I’m in the neighbourhood. When you’re having a lovely time and see a dark shape in the sky, it could be me: the vengeful cataclysm surfing the gusts towards your delightful little event. My colossal cargo of aqua has your name on it, and delivery is overdue.

Thanks for your business. Love and best wishes.

The cloud that will ruin your day.