THE DAY THE DIARRHEA TWINS FOUND THE DEAD MULE
   -A MORALITY TALE

Spike was busy getting ready for his big date. His girlfriend was out of town for the weekend, and he had lined up a girl from a bio lab at school as a one night stand-in. "Love the one you’re with," he sang nasally and out of key as he made up his bed, fluffed the pillow, borrowed Flanagan’s Dan Fogelberg album, primped his flat top hair, splashed cologne in all the right places, hiked his shorts a notch tighter to girdle his burgeoning beer belly, and drove off in my car, a beautiful avocado colored Dodge Dart, to meet his destiny.

It was a typical Friday evening on Panama Avenue. A block over you could hear the guys gleefully hooting and hollering at the Packer Club, readying themselves for the lacy festivities of a spring wedding out front of this gay bar.

Across the street Toby and his beloved mustachioed wife, Big Bertha were beginning a row. Every now and then Toby’s voice would lower to a kind of growl, and he would exit the back door of the gray house. >From there, you could see him pass, still in his white painter’s outfit, and disappear into the back of the dark blue van where he slugged down a heavy four or five ounce dose of liquor. Then he would wobble back inside, ready to rule his castle with great consternation and exceptional wit.

Earlier the diarrhea twins had shown up for an afternoon smoke, babbling about some bigass dog or maybe horse they’d found out behind their daddy’s workshop. "Why the hell does that sorryass drunk need a workshop?" I vaguely remember asking them one time. "He c’llects inshorance for cuttin’ off fingers, man," number one answered. I could never tell the difference between these two curly-haired, pale skinny kids. One was named John and the other one Wayne. The easiest thing to do was call both of them John Wayne and maybe get a coherent rise out of one or the other.

Anyway the twins, now stoned from numerous lung-busting bong hits, led me south down Panama by all the 1930’s two-story rentals, left on Buck Street and behind their own ugly yellow two-story 1930’s rental. Their daddy’s workshop was an old garage that was tilted badly to the left, in fact, was about to topple off the cement block corners that had long ago been rigged to hold it above the river water that often flooded this low side of the street.

Behind the building, in a pathetic brown heap, we found a dead mule. "Where the hell did it come from?" I asked. "How the fuck should we know?" John and Wayne answered simultaneously. They had a freaky way of doing this–twin radar, we called it. "Maybe it’s something your daddy brought home for dinner," I teased. "Maybe it’s something your mother fucked to death," they replied. "You two idiots do know it’s a mule, don’t you," they lived in a thick cloud of ignorance that kept them out of range of insult. "I told you, you stupid fucker," said John or Wayne. "You said it was a fuckin’ horse," replied John or Wayne. "You said it was a fuckin’ Martian dog from hell," countered the other equally articulate one.

Spike didn’t like the twins. He said we should keep them out of our house, said they were a menace cloned from a missing children’s picture on a dirty squashed milk carton. I said they could maybe learn a little "from being exposed to three college students. " Spike paused, then replied, "not what they’ll need to know."

It was just after midnight when I heard the squeaky shocks on the Dart bottoming as Spike rounded the corner into Panama, squealing the tires. The car doors slammed out front and into the living room strolled a leggy blonde in skin tight black jeans and a white sequinned see-through blouse. Behind her, Spike danced through the door.

"What’s shakin’, blood?" he was junk-talkin’ drunk which was only slightly worse than his normal state of mind. He wore a white shiny shirt with blue flowers printed on it and white dungaree shorts. The effect was completed by a pair of white high top Converse sneakers and the several "gold" chains that draped his neck. "We been dancin’ the night away, man." and with this, Spike twirled on his heels, stumbling and falling across John and Wayne who slouched on the sofa. "What the hell are they doin’ here? I told you not to let this trash in here, and for God’s sake, man, isn’t it late for these little tykes?" "I’m fourteen and I’m a man," the twins responded in unison. "Well, I was going to introduce you to this fine lady and invite you for a smoke of some primo hashish, but I think we shall retire for some music and private entertainment." Then he looked at me and added, "Must I call the exterminator, or are they leaving?"

I just nodded, knowing that nothing I said could break through the fog of alcohol. Spike and the blonde took a left down the hallway and headed for his haven or hedonism. I heard the door shut behind them and then the Fogelberg music. The twins and I passed the bong around one more time just to reach that last inch of possible marijuana altitude. They both knew they were going to get their asses beaten when they got home, so any intoxication was in a way a kind of padding of the britches.

It was just about the time that John or Wayne finished his hit that a tremendous scream erupted from Spike’s bedroom. Then there were fast footsteps and the blonde clad only in panties and clutching her pants and blouse, "streaked" through the living room. Spike came running behind, carrying her shoes. His face was fire alarm red. "YOU FUCKERS ARE DEAD!" he screamed as he flew in his underwear toward my austere car.

As we dragged the beast back out of the house and onto the garage creeper, we all agreed that it had been worth the evening’s struggle. "Tomorrow," I added, "we will give this old boy a proper burial, one befitting such a fine specimen of his kind." As our humble procession proceeded down the darkened street, Toby hollered from his house, "Would you kids keep the noise down out there. Some of us poor bastards gotta work tomorrow." "You’re right, Toby," I hollered back, "and some of us always will."