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2
A non-committal “Hhmmm...” was all the the stranger would offer, unbuttoning
his suit jacket. The man had a magnificent Nietzschean mustache which he wore heavily waxed in the dance hall
handlebar fashion. He had skin the sick yellow color of wet fingernails and he was carrying a hard cover book
which had no dust jacket. He sat the book down on top of the newly minted dent. Jerry squinted his good eye at
the spine and and did not like what he saw. “The History of Fisting” by Dr. Henry Tibeau. Finally the stranger
opened his mouth, speaking with a thick French accent.
“Bonjour gentlemen, I ah, apologize for intruding upon your uh, romantic dalliance,” he reached a hand out to help
the deputy up from Duke's lap. The blood immediately began flowing to his sleeping lower limbs which felt as if
they were being poked with a thousand tiny pins.
“Monsieur Jerry Duke, no?” He now reached a hand down to Duke who reluctantly offered his one free hand in return.
“My name is Henry Tibeau,” the gentleman smiled and proceeded to crush Duke's hand with a savage grip.
“Yes well,” Tibeau looked down at Jerry with obvious distaste. “Perhaps you are wondering why exactly we have
brought you here, eh Mnsr Duke?” Behind Tibeau, Deputy Ploggard made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, holding
his hand up for Jerry to see. Then he pointed his other index finger at Duke before using it to thrust in and
out of the hole he had made.
“Ahem,” Jerry cleared his throat and then paused a moment to gather his wits. He wanted to make certain his voice
remained calm, which was not an altogether easy task given the circumstances at hand. “Indeed, the thought had
crossed my mind.”
“Well Mnsr Dipshit,” Tibeau spoke while reaching for his inside jacket pocket. “Wonder no more!” He threw a wet
sock puppet onto the table which landed with a loud splat. “Perhaps you would like to explain this, huh?”
Jerry Duke stared at the sock puppet monkey laying there on the table. He appeared to me to be a man somewhat
confused. Then the overhead fluorescent light glinted off a greasy dollop of vaseline which was stuck to the monkey's
button eye. “Oh god,” Jerry muttered, struggling to his feet, “My great puppet theater protagonist, Yeknom Meloga,
star of the critically acclaimed, one-puppet show, Tob Shebe Goyim Harrog.”
“Now you will tell us precisely what is meant by all this, uh, how do you say...” Tibeau paused, searching for
the right words.
Jerry's calm facade broke. “What's the idea? I mean, Jesus Christ, where the hell did you get this?” Jerry reached
his right hand across the table, the little plastic chair dangling from the handcuff attached to his other wrist.
Ploggard approached Jerry smiling, an arc of ominous electricity dancing on the end the stun gun held out before
him. “Sitcher ass back down boy, a'fore you can't sit at all no more, you got me?”
“Yes Mnsr Duke, sit that big white ass of yours back down in the chair. There will plenty enough standing for
you later on, eh, you can believe me about that.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Jerry was still on his feet, nearly shouting now. “What the hell are you doing
to my star?”
“Take a good look, Mnsr Duke,” Dr. Tibeau picked up the wet sock puppet in a gloved hand. “Take a good close look
and consider very carefully what you have to say?” Tibeau swung the heavy wet sock and struck Duke across the
face. A spray of foul sock fluid and blood flew in an arc across the room. Tears blinded Jerry Duke's one good
eye.
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