Koala Noir
by Tom Patton
The day was
gray like the fur of a Northern Queensland Koala.
It had been raining all evening, which in no way
would harm a Koala due to the layer of raincoat-like
oil their fur enjoys.
I was in my
office, but I wasn't alone; a magnum of Bourbon
was keeping me company. I drank about as much of
the stuff a day as a Koala eats Eucalyptus.
Suddenly,
there was a knock at the door the shook me from
my Koala-like reverie.
Her body was
lush, and curvaceous, like a sleeping tree-marsupial's
rump, and her eyes were large and dark and
luminous, like a Koala's.
“Are you
Mr. Mike Sickle?” she asked, cocking
her head in exactly the way that a Koala does
whenever its interest is piqued in something.
“That's
me, babe,” I growled the bourbon-laden
gurgle not unlike the mating call of a Koala.
“I have a
problem,” she said, “one that's as
big as the threat posed to the Urban Koala due to
the destruction of gum tree-habitats.”
“That is
a big problem,” I said. “Tell
me more. I'm all fuzzy ears.”
“ I think
my husband might be cheating on me; he's wandered
away from me in exactly the way a male Koala
moves on after mating.”
“The
bastard. You want pictures for the divorce?”
I fanned out a spread of photos I'd taken of
various sleeping Koalas in their native
environment.
“No. I
want revenge.” She paused curiously.
“You know, I can't think of any way to
relate that sentence to anything about Koalas at
all.”
“That's
unfortunate,” I said, “Like when a
Koala falls out of the tree.”
“Do you
wanna just go to the zoo instead?” she
asked.
“Hell yes.”
We left,
clinging, arm-in-arm.
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