Man Do I

It’s a hot day. I’m sitting on my leather sofa in a wife-beater and some Umbro soccer shorts. Sweat drips deep into every crevice of my body. It’s irritating. I pick up a nice, cool Pepsi-cola and take a drink. The flavoured water tantalizes my taste buds and tickles my esophagus before it splashes and intermingles with my stomach acids.

Ahhhhhhhhh. I release a sigh of delight. My body temperature decreases to a tolerable level.

Man do I love Pepsi-Cola.

My eyes focus on the television set in front of me. It’s a 36-inch Sony. I won it at a cock fight in dark recesses of the old Mountainview Hotel.

Charlie, a scrawny year-old pecker, was pitted against Samson, who was undefeated in 22 matches. The odds were 50-1, and I didn’t believe Charlie even had that good of a chance.

But, what the hell? I gave a loonie to the crazy, Mexican, one-thumbed bookie. Mike was his name. I wasn’t totally convinced he was Mexican. He could have been Spanish, or even some messed-up hybrid.

Anyway, I went over to Charlie. I gave him a quick stroke on the back and the fucker took a chunk out of my hand. Blood spew all over my lucky plaid shirt. I almost stomped on the bird’s head, but didn’t. I realized the chicken-legged rooster had heart and therefore a chance. I placed nine more dollars on the small feathered animal. I felt lucky.

The bell rang and Rigo, Charlie’s owner, dropped his competitor in the pit. Samson charged Charlie, but the underdog jived to the right. He quickly pounced on the behemoth’s back and ripped at his jugular. Blood sprayed straight up into the air. Two bystanders were drenched in red. Samson didn’t last 20 seconds in his 23rd fight and first defeat.

It took two trainers to pull the psycho chicken off the lifeless mass. I swear I saw Charlie spit on the carcass as he left the ring. I won $500, but instead of cash I took the Sony. I wanted to watch some Blue Jays baseball that weekend and the 13-inch set just wouldn’t do.
Man do I love Sony television sets.

A chime sounds. I look over from my spot on the leather sofa. It’s the cat clock. The tail swings every second and the clock face is where its body should be. I remember when I first hung that clock on my wall.

It was a dark night, and I was loitering outside the bingo hall. Some old people came out, one had an oxygen bottle. They started taunting me and my gang, the stick breakers. My gang got the name because we’d break really thick sticks to intimidate our enemies. We challenged the seniors to some fist-a-cuffs in the alley. They obliged.

I took out my stick. SNAP! Their old eyes bugged out. I could read the fear on their faces. My posse backed me up. We charged. Punches were thrown and received. Blood splattered, and dentures flew.

Then the lights went out. I guess my crew took off when their leader went uncoscious.
I awoke in a pile of trash. My head throbbed and I had a small mountain on the back of my head. I had no doubt it was a cheap shot from an oxygen battle. I stood up, dusted myself off and started walking home. But before I left, I picked up a cat clock that just happened to be in the same trash pile I was in. And some people don’t believe in fate. I nailed the clock to the wall the instant I got home.

I wanted to get revenge on those old people and restore my honour, but they all died before I could. I had the sweet satisfaction knowing two suffered slow painful cancerous deaths.

Man do I love cat clocks.

With a can of Pepsi-cola by my side, the sound of the Jays game on my Sony and the ticking of the tail on my cat clock, I take an afternoon nap.

Man do I love afternoon naps.