Francou

It was not often that the old man Francou lost his glasses or walked out of the house. He puttered from the nap chair covered in cat scratch to the dull lime green kitchen only to walk to the sink, stare out the filthy window into the empty field that grew nothing but grey clouds. He’d fill the old kettle and watch it glow over the stove until it screamed like toucans in a rainforest. Into the mug the water would pour followed by a heaping, twinkling, scoop of cayenne pepper. The sound of metal spoon and ceramic mug swirled through the house.
He coughed.
Smacked his lips.
And drank the whole thing down.
“HaaaaaaaaaaaaRooooooooooooo” he bellowed then smiled. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes.
A “churcug” of an oil run beast grabbed his attention. From the screen door of his kitchen he saw the monster trudging through the field, ripping up grass, throwing mud flaps across the grey sky. He jumped up- but to fast. Hand to hip he scurried to the door, pausing a moment at the handle, just enough moment, that made you fully realize the monumentous momentum this particular moment held, and swung open the door.
Before him, like a family of pacaderms, four trucks drove by each with a different apparati: a digger, a dragger, a pusher, and a piper.
The old Francou performed his best impression of running towards the trucks.
He yelled to them, a garble against the clamber.
Men in trucks yelled back from the clamber.
A stare down between to ideas, and then a winner- the trucks began to do their due.
The pusher pushed the layer of grass off the earth and rolled to the side, grass the old man had watched grow for years.
A tree hogtied and drug across the land, a tree he watched raccoons and owls claw.
He got an idea, he stepped, and tricked, and sashayed his way behind a beast where a sign and handle held.
He went to his shirt pocket for his glasses, his head, his pants pockets.
Nothing.
He squinted at the sign.
Nothing.
Then. Against his leg, a purr from his fat grey cat. He looked down.
“Mer” the cat cooed with glasses in its mouth.
Francou grasped the glasses with a triumphant leap and put them on his face.
He read the sign, smiled, and pulled open the handle. Three giant buttons stood, he pushed the red button and turned to run.
In a matter shaking moments the monster shuddered off its doors, its metal sides, its arms and legs and generally died. The other trucks saw this and attempted to work faster. Francou snuck up on two more, leaving the drivers to run to the last remaining solid driving door. They jumped up, and through the din shook their fists and hollered.
The old man shook his fist right back and hollored.
They drove away with the old man knowing they’d be back one day. Yet he wasn’t worried. This wasn’t the first time, as he kicked a rusted old gear from last years monster.

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~ by ambur on August 13, 2010.

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