In Cold Blood

I was in my basement bachelor pad perfecting my dog-bowl-and-heat-gun coffee roasting technique when wee Ikey burst in.

“Master Rocky!” he squeaked excitedly. “Look what I bought — a leash for Vesuvius the Pimple!”

I examined the leash — a sixteenth of an inch in length, with the name Vesuvius nanoprinted on it.

“Young fellow, let us go upstairs and visit Vesuvius!” I cried.

We encountered J. in his bedroom, salivating over a showercam Web site.

“Ahem, pervert,” I said, “we are here to visit Vesuvius.”

“Vesuvius? Vesuvius is gone. He busted.” J. replied in his usual unenergetic manner.

Ikey jumped up on J.’s computer desk. “Busted? Busted? You mean you squeezed him to death, right? You squeezed him to death in cold blood! MURDERER! MURDERER!” Ikey screeched.

“Well, whatever,” J. mumbled. “You know, whatever. Anyway.”

“How can you sleep at night?” I asked. “What did poor Vesuvius ever do to you? He was living a normal life, approaching his end to be sure, but he was comfortable. What is your problem? Are you some sort of anti-pimpleist?”

“Whatever,” J. said.

“Ah, the conscience of a murderer,” I said. “They say that every man is a murderer in his own way — and now I guess we know your way!”

“That’s right!” screeched wee Ikey. “You’re a jive-ass pimple-murderin’ &!@^#&@&!” * “Let’s go, Ikey,” I said.

“Let’s go to the back yard and have a memorial service for Vesuvius. We’ll dig a hole and bury his leash in it.”

I walked over to J. and poked him in the chest. “And you, murderer, are not invited!” *We are saddened by the return of little Ikey’s cussing disorder. —the eds.