-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
“And that’s why," I complain, “I absolutely
hate the name Hansel.”
“So,” replies Gretel, cutting back a thicket with her machete. Despite the disproportionate size of the knife in her small hands she was really becoming quite adept; within moments they were now moving through the forest at a respectable pace. “You’re saying that you can't join the Ultimate Fighting Championship is because our parents named you
Hansel?"
“It might as well have been
Petunia," I says. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I wince into my fingers. “When the ring announcer says ‘In this corner,
Brock Lesnar!’ you immediately think of some huge hulking guy that eats battleship hulls and craps cannonballs. But when he says ‘In this corner
Hansel,” you think of somebody prancin‘ around barefoot on flower petals.”
"So what
are we supposed to call you then?" asks Gretel, slightly ahead.
"I don't know," I says. "How about 'The Hulking Super Iron Man Wolverine?'"
"Seems kinda long," says Gretel. "And how 'hulking' are you really? I'm four foot six and I'm taller than you."
"Nuh-
uh!"
"And
then you fight Brock Lesnar?"
"Brock Lesnar cannot be defeated," I explain. "That's why he will be my tag-team partner."
Suddenly Gretel motions for Hansel to stop. Crawling forward on her belly, she spies something of interest in the distance.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Shh!” she whispers sharply.
"You ain't the boss of me."
“There’s a weird looking house up here," says Gretel. "And I thought I heard something. Something like
chewing.”
“Oh that’s just me,” I says. “I got hungry, so’s I’ve been nibbling on this here sack of croutons you gave me.”
“You
idiot,” snaps Gretel, knocking them from his hand. “You were supposed to be dropping them behind us so we could find our way back to the campsite!”
“Well remember that chick in the red dress skipping with the basket?”
“Yes,” says Gretel distractedly, looking through her binoculars. “You said you wanted to ‘open her basket and check out her goodies.’”
“-And the bitch slapped me! I thought she might have bacon bits or ranch or cheddar or
something. I've already eaten the croutons. If I don't find my way up to a full-on salad I'm going to feel like a total fatass."
Gretel sighs.
“She said you don’t want to leave croutons," I continue. "The damn animals will eat ‘em. You want to carry a GPS, or at the very least a map and a compass. And that we probably wouldn't want to go back there anyways because of all the recent wolf attacks,” I explain. "Three little pigs and a jackhammer are reported missing."
"Hansel, our
parents are back there!"
Yes, I'm thinking.
'Hansel' eh?
"It's the Circle of Life," I shrug. "What're they, like,
fifty or something? They had a good run."
“Well if you're hungry, you may be in luck,” says Gretel zooming in with the binoculars. “It's some kind of restaurant."
“Cool,” I says.
"Weird. Why would somebody build a restaurant way out here?" Gretel scans the surrounding area. "Huh. I don't see a payphone, but there’s a sign that says '
FREE PORKCHOPS' ... and there's some kid running up to the place. He almost looks ....like ...
!!!
"Hansel, you get back here!" she screamed.
***
I’ll bet I was only six or seven pork chops in when ol’ spoilsport Gretel showed up in an obviously too-large waitress outfit.
“Psst,” she says, looking in another direction.
“You ain’t foolin
anybody Gretel,” I says, dipping my chicken wing in the chocolate ice cream. "And can you please move? I can't see the Laker‘s game with you standing there."
“Don’t you
understand?” growls Gretel. “She’s trying to fatten you up so she can
eat you! If we don't find a telephone-!”
"That sweet old woman wouldn't hurt a
fly," I scoff. "Besides she's blind as a bat. And have you even
tried these pork chops?”
“Those might not even be pork.”
“Well that would explain why I keep finding these Matchbox cars in them,” I figure. "I thought they were prizes."
“Has she been checking how much you weigh?”
“Well she keeps asking me to stick out a digit so she can feel it,” I offer. “And then she complains how scrawny I am.”
"I think she meant a finger."
"Well let just say I won't be pressing any charges either," I reply. "Now come on. I know you're hungry too. You've gotta try these potato skins. She put whipped cream on them!"
Gretel slides into the booth. “You really think this is just a kindly old woman?”
“I've never been so certain of anything in my life," I says confidently. Pulling up a particularly plump and juicy tender chop with my fork for her viewing I add, "Come
on. If you don't learn to lighten up, you're going to end up with an eating disorder or something."
"Ooh," says Gretel, licking her lips while eyeing the menu. "That sun-dried basil bruschetta looks
deliiiicious!"
"Meh," I grunt. "It's all veggies and crap. Ask her to put some M&Ms and butter in it or something."
Well, sixty days in and we finally got a place: Terri and I exchange what little cash we have left with our new landlord tomorrow morning. And maybe -as the place isn‘t occupied- he‘ll [*hope-hope*] let us move in early.
“But we would be great Crips," I insist.
