A Street Scene

Hector, Ikey and I were walking downtown, enjoying the unseasonably warm and sunny weather.

“Ah, it’s great to be back in Naptown!” I exclaimed. “There were so many things I missed while I was gone.”

“Like that?” Ikey asked, pointing ahead with his paw.

I looked ahead and saw Theodore, the fascist bartender from Picasso’s: An Urban Bistro, hurriedly approaching us.

“Uggo,” I sighed.

“So, what are you three up to? ‘Going to Brokeback Mountain,’ as they say?” he sneered.

Ikey grabbed his crotch and screeched, “I’ve got your mountain right here, you triflin’-ass motherfucker!”*

“Was it a surprise for the three of you leftist radicals to learn that the NSA has been spying on you? Our powerful government knows everything!” Theodore laughed.

“My man,” I said, “it is not a surprise but rather a validation of what I have suspected all along.”

Hector adjusted his pince-nez, cleared his throat and added, “Indeed, what radical worth his or her salt would care that he was being spied on by this claptrap assortment of hillbillies you call a government, young man? Would Eugene Debs? Rosa Luxembourg? Victor Serge? Doubtful.”

Ikey took a step forward, pointed a claw at Theodore and screeched, “That’s right, punk!”

“I bet you three will be singing a different tune once our fascist revolution is complete and you’re in the gulag,” Theodore smirked.

“My man,” I said, “I would not be so arrogant if I were you; after all, revolutions inevitably devour their own!” *The editors are saddened by the reappearance of wee Ikey’s vile cussing-disorder.