The Bizarro Starter Kit (blue) by Bizarro Books

Author:Bizarro Books
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-04-23T22:20:03+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN THE WAYOFTHE SHEPHERD

Shall not the way of the shepherd be but a tree in the ocean? A lone shepherd, flock before him, stands on a hillside and sees something interesting.

Who’s he going to tell? The sheep?

His dog?

Oh, I see—a well-placed rocket grenade and even his dog won’t be able to tell anyone anything.

Maybe he can be reasoned with. Unlikely, but I should never overlook that possibility.

They stopped at a diner for dinner.

Sam lifted his knife from his Salisbury steak and gestured with it. “The shepherd could be anywhere in a twenty-mile radius, I figure,” he said.

“Oh, spare me,” said Nin at the same instant that Sam’s grand gesture signifying a twenty-mile square led his hand into contact with Nan’s nose. The knife scratched Nan’s cheek.

“Ow!” said Nan. “I said, ‘spare me,’ not ‘spear me,’ you clod!”

“Well, at least you get my point,” said Sam.”

“Let me look at that,” said Nin, examining the cut. “Oh, that’s not even deep enough to rub salt into for a good fencing scar. Now, come one. Listen to Brother Sam.”

“Well, when I met him,” said Sam, “he said he’d just come from the eastern edge of his sheep’s run, where the large pond over by you is.”

“It’s a small lake,” said Nin, “and it only touches on the edge of our area.”

“Whatever. That’s where he saw you. And he’s old, so he’s not going to graze his sheep over an endless expanse.”

“Okay.”

“And everyone knows that shepherds graze the sheep between a water hole at one end and a salt lick at the other—”

“So all we have to do,” interrupted

Nin, “is find where the nearest salt lick is, and we can define the grazing grounds!”

“I think that’s how that works.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Nan.

“Oh, ye oflittle faith,” said Nin. “Trust me. We’ll find him.”

Nan looked out the window at the parking lot. A salmon Stingray was at one end and a white Pathfinder at the other. The street signs identified the restaurant as located on Morton Street between Pickles and Lam. A blue Barracuda was cruising the lot. Abruptly, the driver switched the Barracuda into reverse and backed into a stall without ever looking behind. Unfortunately a refried-bean-colored Pinto was already in that stall and exploded when the Barracuda slammed into its infamous and exposed rear-mounted gas tank. Refried- bean-colored crap blew all over the place. Someone with overalls and firefighter boots showed up with a shovel to clean up the mess.

“Nan!” Nan became conscious of the fact that Nin had been saying ‘Nan!’ for a few minutes. Seconds?

“What?” snapped Nan, not wanting to lose the reverie.

“Nothing. The waiter wants to know if you want another beer. Duh.”

Nan looked up. Sure enough the waiter was standing there expectantly.

“Bring me a Colt 45,” snarled Nan, remembering a movie title: They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? When the 24-ounce can arrived at the table, Nan asked to borrow the waiter’s pen.

Nan turned the beer upside down and slammed the pen tip through the bottom of the can, puncturing a neat round hole in it.

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