Dance, Monkey, Dance!


So I was just driving down the road minding my own business when I heard a loud thump on the side of my truck. "What the hell??" I said out loud to myself.

Thinking somebody's kid was trying to make a break for it across the street at the last second and had run head first into my truck (which is not unusual for the region I've had the unfortunate experience of living in for far too long and being surrounded by an overabundance of asshat locals), I immediately hit the brakes and hop out to inspect the damage.

But there was only a few kids standing around at the nearby street corner waiting for their school bus to pick them up. The little ones appeared to be aged 8 to 12 and gazed at the tallest one in their group, and there he was, the skinny 6'5" adolescent who looked guilty and was obviously their leader.

"Did you just hit my truck with something?" I asked him.

"Yeah." He steps up to the curb reluctantly, but trying to appear as if he thinks he's a bad ass with no fear. Granted for a 15-16 year old kid he was pretty big. He was a good 5 inches taller, 30-40 pounds heavier, and long monkey-like arm reach in comparison to mine.

"What did you hit my truck with?" I asked.

"A snowball," he says casually from underneath his filthy white hoodie.

Looking around I didn't see much snow as what little of it has fallen this year had melted away. He was undeniably trying to get a rise out of me.

I turned back to him and coldly asked, "And why did you do that?"

He gives me a blank stare. He didn't expect me to say that. I'm clearly not intimidated by him so he doesn't know what to make of me yet. I was a little curious what he had to say about his actions, and I knew full well what his intentions were. But he was going to play this game by my rules.

"Did you think it was..funny?"

"Yeeeeeaaah...I tot it was funny. Huh huh dahr," he says in typical Northeastern dunce speak.

"Well it's not. Don't do it again or I'll rip your testicles off and feed them to you for breakfast. It ought to be a pleasant change of pace from the usual sewage you've been eating since you couldn't pass the 4th grade and flunked the NBA test, so now your mom has to support you by giving $5 handjobs at the community center, chicken legs."

The typical reactionary response was a bunch of "f@x# you"s and "suck my dx%*, man," and God knows what else this poster boy for fetal alcohol syndrome somehow managed to think of in between his stuttering and spitting all over himself as I tuned him out.

"Oh, I see you've learned most of your vocabulary from your 8 year-old peers you've been hanging out with at the school bus stop this morning," I retort. "I'm sure your whore of a mother is proud."

A vein visibly popped out on his forehead and he yelled, "Man, I'mma fire up your truck every time you drive down this street, muthaf@#%&*!"

What transpired at this point was so unfathomably awesome you'll wish you were me.

"What's that you say, you sack of bumbling lummox?" I said.

I removed a nickel plated semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol with custom pearl grips from under my coat and proceeded to shoot up the sidewalk around his feet six ways to Sunday, as I shouted at the top of my lungs, "Dance, monkey, dance!"

the big bad gat
Just like the one that was carried and fired
by John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, baby.

And boy did that monkey dance.

He did the Humpty Hump, he did the funky chicken, he did a tango, I made his ass do the moonwalk, and I'll be damned if he didn't do the Hammer Time. I helped him invent new ones while he was at it. This street thug changed his tune alright.

Sparking concrete and ricocheting bullets aside, by the time I emptied all 15 rounds of my clip into the pavement he had mastered every dance step known to mankind -- never to be duplicated again. Not even on Dancing With The Stars.

I was just getting ready to reload when the chump pumped his feet lickety split and did 0-60 in a New York minute and he disappeared from sight leaving a trail of tears, sweat and urine.

And dammit, if the measly 15 rounds a .45 clip can hold is nothing but a tease to someone who's just getting warmed up and really into it, then I think I'll have to buy a bigger gun for next time.

As far as his encore is concerned: any requests? Oh, yeah. I do requests now.


Mark said...

You whip out your weapon causing a child to dance in fear. Very admirable.

Static said...

@ Mark: Thank you. I like to shove old ladies in their wheelchairs down stairwells for fun. I like to watch them bounce, bobble, scream, and crash for teh lulz.

Sean Connery said...

What's the difference between that chump and a mallard with a cold? One's a sick duck and I can't remember how it ends, but his mother's a whore. She really is.

Kelly said...

I thought it was very admirable and generous of you to take your time to teach the youth how to dance. Perhaps he knew a few moves, previously before meeting you, but now... the adolescent is ready to potentially begin a career in professional dancing. May he'll mention you were his inspiration on national TV or in a Broadway musical one day. One can only hope. What an inspiring story, full of hope and valuable lessons for all.

Static said...

@ Kelly: Why thanks. But although his moves were good he'll never duplicate them again as I stated. And frankly, I deserve all credit even if he could. I believe the lesson here was "don't fuck with my shit or I'll make yo ass dance, bitch."

Love and hugs,

Charles Bronson

LilPixi said...


I held it together till the wheelchair & Charles Bronson comments. These are the reasons I let you through my back door, even though you think it's because of your giant, sexy, electrocuted afro.

LilPixi said...

Or did I just have a moment like the one in Christmas Vacation where cousin Eddie asks Clark if Santa was really flying by the house?

Static said...

I can't believe you held it together that long, LilPixi. And you can't tell me my electrified coif didn't get my foot in the door. It works every time. If Randy Quaid is anything like Cousin Eddie, he thinks there's a conspiracy that Santa Claus was hired by the Jewish mafia in Hollywood to kill him. No wonder he's paranoid and asked Clark if Santa just flew by.

THE SNEE said...

As make my jaw drop.

Static said...

I can make panties drop just as fast with my nickel-plated .45, SNEE. :D

J. Bear Savo said...

You need one of these...

Static said...

Spasiba, comrade! Does the AA-12 come in hot pink? I would like to insert the nozzle up Justin Bieber's rodent hole, hold down the trigger, then reload. Dasvidaniya!

Julio said...

Was this child black by any chance? If so, I think his instinctual ability to dance may be more responsible for his accuracy than your pistol. The gun was merely motivation, while the dancing was his innate ability to "jive" and "holla at-chya."

Julio said...

Also...I'd totally tap dat lil pixie. Hey sweetie, you want some candy? I've got that "rock candy" you've been hearing about! Just put some in a can of coke and you'll get a taste of the original recipe!

Static said...

His race or cultural heritage was not the issue, Julio. His acting like a fool was however. I corrected the behavior in a way that only people who act like that can understand. Since it's clear that evolution has skipped them, they're beyond reasoning and logic and so they require being burned twice to learn the lesson that getting too close to fire is bad. Speaking of which, you leave LilPixi alone, or I'll blow your nuts off with a sawed-off 12-gauge and you'll be creating your own enthralling dance moves.

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