The Great Al Fresco
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.
Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?
I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"
Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.
"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"10:30 in the morning," says the man.
"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"
"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."
I pause. "Really?"
"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"
"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."
"Of course sir," he says.
"How much do you charge?"
"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."
"Deal," I says.
"Can I start now?"
"Absolutely," I says.
This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.
***
Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.
Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.
"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."
Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.
His back arched up.
What the hell?
I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.
Al shovels another load of dirt.
Phil growls.
I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.
And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.
Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.
Cicadas.
--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.
Brood XIII.
Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.
Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Thousands.
Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.
Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.
I speed-dial number "1".
"Yes," says a voice.
"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"
[LOBO]
I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.
Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?
I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"
Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.
"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"10:30 in the morning," says the man.
"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"
"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."
I pause. "Really?"
"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"
"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."
"Of course sir," he says.
"How much do you charge?"
"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."
"Deal," I says.
"Can I start now?"
"Absolutely," I says.
This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.
***
Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.
Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.
"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."
Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.
His back arched up.
What the hell?
I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.
Al shovels another load of dirt.
Phil growls.
I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.
And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.
Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.
Cicadas.
--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.
Brood XIII.
Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.
Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Thousands.
Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.
Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.
I speed-dial number "1".
"Yes," says a voice.
"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"
Comments
An inspired post, man!
Resultingly, I am absolutely not going into my garden to pull those weeds...