BY TRAVIS FLESHOOD
And so it was, that Phranklin Phinster did take his neon pink skateboard; and with it, mercilessly thrash his Aunt Sam’s begonias, for they had offended him. After which, he meandered down the pock-marked avenue that was his sanctuary, from the rutabega-festooned two-story bungalow that was his home. It was, that as he meandered, he accused random mammals of incestuous cribbage games and believed several automobiles to be singing “O, Danny Boy”. His steps became more ungainly, his stride more stilted, and his hair more aflame as he continued his aimless trodging. His eyes glazed over and several witnesses accounted to seeing him start doing the Hustle sporadically over the course of seven minutes. He then came to a sudden stop that was so sudden, all the loose change and lengths of wire and rope kept in his pockets, socks, and codpiece were expelled from therein, with such velocity that there were nineteen instances of penetration in the stucco and brick walls of the houses and shacks lining the avenue; and one case of penetration of Mrs. Stuck-in-the-Mud, from whom was later removed $2.83 Latvian, and a string of tea bags.
After stopping with such great force, Phranklin craned his head back so as to observe the sky, on that day a lovely shade of bright purple. He craned his neck to the point where his adam’s apple was perpendicular to the uneven asphault, and further still until he was looking directly behind him, taking in the collateral affect of his erstwhile stroll.
Upon seeing what lay behind him, coupled with the effect of viewing it upside-down, it is said that his eyes began to fill with tears of milk and honey. His heart welled up with sorrow, his stomach with bile, and his bladder with urine.
He felt he could not bear to view the aftermath any further, and so he began to tilt his head back even further, pressing it into the bumblebee pattern on the back of his shirt, until a tear formed at the front of his neck. Further he stretched, until he had ripped his own head off from his own neck on his own shoulders, and had taken note of the hole in the back of his shorts’ leg as the level of his eye fell. His body, however, much like that of a chicken, was not yet consigned to death; and proceeded to drop the skateboard, mount it, and ride it down the avenue. Without the benefit of a head, though, the body jumped the curb and slammed into a spreading chestnut tree. And so it was, that Phranklin Phinster was dead.