No Shit!
by Bill Tope
Neil Young and Crazyhorse
were softly singing "Down by the River"
on the stereo when Shaheer thoughtfully drew on
the reefer and the end burned scarlet for a
moment, then faded to gray again.
Shaheer was an Indian ex-pat, on the run from his
uncle, the notorious Ishtiag, who ran a global
terrorist organization out of American University--Cairo,
and had been after Shaheer, for recruiting
purposes, for nineteen years.
Next Janis Joplin began
lamenting her languished relationship with Bobby
McGee and Shaheer extinguished the joint and
poured himself a drink. Decanting two
ounces of Drambuie into the shot glass, he drew
the glass to his lips and sipped. Thinking better
of it, he upended the vessel and drank it in a
single gulp.
Ishtiag, Shaheer knew, had
a nominal position at AU-Cairo, in the History
Department, where he served as a professor
involved in the study of loos, outhouses and
other water closets. Needless to say, he
was a disgrace to Shaheer's entire family.
He was, thought Shaheer soberly, a scatological
mess.
What's Ishtiag up to now?
wondered Shaheer. Over the fence he'd heard
that his uncle had joined forces with another
notorius figure from Shaheer's past, Beth, the
acknowledged queen of numerology. Every day
her blog received tens of thousands of hits from
discommoded number freaks, each of which
contributed ten dollars for the benighted
privilege of stepping into Beth's nether world.
He shook his head.
Shaheer thought of Beth.
Back in the day, the two had been an item, he
reflected, but the last time he'd seen her,
perhaps two years ago, she had gained two hundred
pounds; her sexy blond locks had been cut into a
bob; and she had had a species transplant and was
now, medically and legally, an orangutan.
He blew out a breath, remembering. So what kind
of shit were ishtiag and Beth up to now? he
wondered bleakly. Suddenly the doorbell rang, to
the tune of "Highway 61 Revisited."
Shaheer stepped to the door, swept it open.
Standing on his doorstep,
the UPS man smiled, passed over a small, shoebox
sized package, wrapped in plain brown paper.
Shaheer took the box, reenterd his home. Curious,
he tore through the wrapping paper and found a
smaller box, wrapped in plastic. Digging through
the plastic, Shaheer crinkled his nose, struck by
the odor. Lifting the top flap of the box. he
found pretty much what he expected: it was, in
fact, shit--dog, probably--and there was a note
appended. Taking it in hand, he read:
"Shaheer: this is but a token of my esteem
and my interest in drawing you back into my orbit.
You can't stay away forever, Shaheer--no shit."
The note, he discovered, has been inscribed on
toilet paper, and was signed, Ishtiag.
|
