Page 5
Miles Sphinctersnap
and the Applesauce Fart
By: G Wayne
Copyright © 9/7/11
A spotlight flicked on, plastering Banker's silhouette on the wall behind him. It lit up his face like he was someone special and he raised his arms like he airing out his pits or somethin'. He stood between two pictures of himself in the same pose. A snap of his fingers turned on a projector that lit a disco ball that started spinning. It reflected a broken image of Baker that slid along the walls and sparkled across Baker's pearly whites. He had a blank stare an a liver-lip smile on his face like he was gettin' a message from way out there. He looked like a man with a paper-asshole.

"Do you invest in real-estate? Do you invest in the lord? I am Yahweh Banker and I can show you the way . . . the Yahweh!" He snapped his fingers again and a puff of smoke burst to his side. When the smoke cleared, a young girl wearing the same tunic as me appeared. She had on white sandals with sparkling straps and her tunic was covered with lights, it also looked clean and not like it was last used to scrub a horse's ass. She hopped like a pubescent pixy while handing an envelope to Banker. All the lights flicked off and when they came back on, she was gone. There was a recorded drumroll and Banker held the envelope to his head and announced, "Holy land!" He then ripped off the end, and blew the envelope open. "What do you get when you dig lots of . . . "

"Hey, Banker, you're laying an egg," I sez in a loud voice, deciding to stop the routine. He shot me a wicked look and I stuck my tongue between my lips and blew him a raspberry fanfare.

"You dare insult the word of God . . . that I am saying?" Bankers thundered. He snapped his fingers again and I remember thinking that he must really piss off waiters.

The room filled with people dressed in more of the same tunics, the stained smelly kind like they gave me, except their tunics came with machineguns and they had um pointed at Goldie and yours truly.

"Tell your stooges to put down their gats," I said as if I were Bogart, or some other make-believe tough guy. Before anyone could react, there was a knock at the door. Everyone froze except Goldie.

"Is anyone going to answer the door?" she said. Nobody moved including Banker. Goldie ignored the guns pointed at her and walked over to the door.

"Who's there?" she barked. There was no answer, so she yelled, "Who the hell is beating on the door?"

"Um, it's me."

"State your name!"

"It's Sequet," came a voice from the other side of the door."

"Not this again," she said, shaking her head.

She opened the door to a volley of safeties being clicked off, "Come in, Harvey."

Harvey walked in and quickly made an about-face to exit when Yahweh commanded, "Stop!"

Harvey did as he was told.

Yahweh Banker held out his hands, "Stop in the name of love, son. You can save my heart from breaking by being saved." Banker looked around, "Do not worry about men with guns. You will be protected by grace and love, brother.
"Ya, well you're not getting my land," said Harvey.

"Whatever do you mean? I have no desire for your property."

"Then what about this?" said Harvey, then he thrust out a hand with a jar in it and held it in Banker's face. The label read, "Yahweh's Tart Applesauce." The two t's in tart were images of the crucifixion, and written across the bottom in smaller letters was, "Not made from forbidden fruit." Harvey held out his other hand for all to see. It was cupped around a heaping scoop of excrement that dribbled juice from between his fingers.

"What do you get when you mix the two of these, Mr. Holy Ripoff?"

"How dare you compare our divine applesauce with common B.M.? You, sir, are not a man of clean spirit."

Goldie yelled, "Drop the shit!" and Harvey threw the contents of his hand to the ground. He then opened the jar a sauce and dumped it on top. I thought his noggin took a powder when he started to squish it around with the toe of his shoe, but sometin' changed. It wasn't much at first, but then it got stronger than the collective smell of all those disgusting, unwashed people in the room.

Me and Goldie tryed to breath as little as possible and only through our mouths. We watched as everyone started choking an droppin' like flies. Banker stood there smiling and waving, not being able to leave the limelight even though his eyes darted in search of an exit. He was stuck, pickled in his own pride. He tried to start a sing-along, but it just didn't work.

"Come on now, 'This land is my land, this land is your land' everybody, let your souls take over and rejoice!"

All anybody seemed to want to do is crawl toward the door. It took Banker a while to realize that he was the only one singing and his face turned big-time sour, like a big fucking baby. He pulled two golden automatics from white-satin holsters under his coat and shot the sign of the cross into the wall.

"In the name of the Father," Blam, "and the Son," Blam, Blam, "and the spirit," Blam, Blam, Blam.

I pussyfooted it behind Banker and jumped on his back. He tried to spin around and knock me off, but his sequins connected to my tunic like that Velcro stuff.

It was like bein' in the rodeo and it looked like I was ridin' the clown. I tried to grab the guns, causin' Banker to shoot a lama that wandered in to check out the commotion.

Banker ran to the lama and threw the guns on the floor with me still stuck to his back. He cradled the dying thing's head in his arms and it lived long enough for one more spit. I could tell what was coming by the stink-eye it was giving us and ducked. It opened its mouth and grunted out a blob of mucus and chunks of nastiness that left an even coat on Banker's face, HOCH-TOOEY. Blinded by the spew in his eyes, Banker felt around the floor for his guns. I tried to stop him, but he was wrestling a walrus.

Anyway, I ripped myself from his back, but the flimsy tunic stayed attached. There I was, engaged in mortal combat and all I had on was feed sack underwear. If I stood up, I was good, but any other position revealed the true me; and when you're built like I am, modesty is your best friend. The cult members gathered outside with their faces pushed against the windows. They giggled at me and crossed themselves; some seemed to be having sex with sheep. Banker's hand fumbled over one of the guns and he pointed it as he squinted at Goldie. I tried to jerk the big lug's arm back and he shot the disco ball that dropped on my head. When I came to, things was fuzzy and my head hurt real bad. I reached up and felt warm sap runnin' out of my melon, and there was like a bowl on my head. Further perusal turned up that the thing on my head was a chunk a the disco ball and it was makin' me look like a pervert from outer space. There I was, wearin' a feed sack that barely covered my junk with a hat that shot out rays a light.

Banker started to applaud. Goldie shouted, "Sphinctersnap, I can see your nuts."

"I forgot to take my medication," I said in defense.

"It looks like you took pee pee deflators." Goldie observed.

I tugged at the hem to cover the goods when a bolt of lightning came down from the ceiling and hit me. I found out later it was just Sequet tryin' to bring me down with a collection plate. It was lucky for me that Goldie was able to brain him with a brass votive candle. It broke his nose and he crumpled to the floor in a heap. In all the hubbub, Banker snuck off to a buffet table set up in the corner and made himself a sandwich. I kept a close watch on him while Goldie handcuffed Sequet. I knew that evil look in Goldie's eyes as she sat on his head and questioned him.

"Goldie, he can't breathe!" I said when I heard a wet, ripping sound.

Sequent's eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned, "Lord, have mercy."

Banker kept chomping on his sandwich. "So, you finally caught the bad guy," he said in between bites.

"You're not getting away with nothin' Banker," I shouted.

Goldie pulled her 38 and trained it on Banker while I pushed a ficus in front of me. Her eyes never left Banker-except to snicker at my bony knees-while she ripped a blanket from the dead lama and tossed it to me. As the fleas leaped from the blanket, making a beeline to my grill, Banker informed me that my clothes were probably dry.

"Don't pretend to do nothin' nice for me, Banker. You're the guy that tried to kill everyone and shot up the place. And what about all your gun-totin' lackeys, huh?"

"Well, I did shoot the place up, but it was only for effect," he said, lowering his eyes. "I do it all the time. Ask anyone."

People started to nod their heads and mumble, "Yes, that's true," and "I guess so."

"And for what it's worth," he went on, "the guns my kind followers were carrying were all empty."

"Oh Yeah, and why would all them guns be empty?" I asked.

"Well, Applesauce sales is way down and after I bought all those guns; I had no money for bullets. We were doing so well until someone slipped excrement into our canning machine."

Goldie glanced at me and I could tell we was thinkin' the same thing, applesauce farts. What else could it be, applesauce laced with the brown stuff. And who would do such a thing?