Panachio pt. II

Where in the hell was I anyway. Oh, right. So the point is that the sonuva bitch is going to pull an all-nighter that'd make…damn, now I forgot his name…that faggot from Titanic played him in a movie…and, speaking of which, you'd better not go and turn gay on me or I'll blow my fuckin' brains out just so I can haunt you for the rest of your turdburgling life. Crime against nature, two men rollin' around like that, and so, you know, I'd better not catch you eyeballing any juic- Wha? Ah, right…but I mean that shit, don’t you even think about it. Fine, and so our buddy Guido's pulling an all-nighter, double-fisting red bulls and vile, cheap, caffeine-infused vodka he grabbed at the store for a coupl’a dago dollars, and he's really juicin' to get the job done so he can cash in on this welfare thing, and of course the added bonus of getting to dip his greasy meatballs right in Uncle Benito's morning espresso by cheating those government fat-cats out of some of those dirty colored-monopoly-bills those people call money. No, not literally in the coffee, jeez, it's a damn figure of speech. You really take after your dumb broad of a Mother sometimes, you know that? Now settle it down before I whack you upside the head again.

Come morning, then, Guido’s big block of bargain-bin pine’s shaping up to be pretty close to actually looking like a kid, a Christmas fuckin’ miracle in itself, considering his blood alcohol level, and how his hands are just about shaking like your mother’s little battery-operated friends from all the caffeine he’s been chugging…No, never mind, it’s nothing a kid your age needs to know about – for the last friggin’ time, enough with the goddamn questions! I shouldn’t have said anything anyway, court warnings and whatnot…just forget about it, he’s just jittery, which, if you don’t turn out queer and God save you if you do, you’ll realize one day what a bitch it is to operate power tools when you’ve got hangover shakes. Point is, Guido’s somehow got a pretty convincing wooden boy sitting on his workbench, so his all-nighter’s paid off, and after throwing some oily, puke-stained rags on it and tacking ‘em on with safety pins to cover its sexless wooden shame, he’s good and ready to guzzle his daily tubful of homebrew and pass the fuck out.

As he slumps over, just before he really hits the blackout zone, he looks one last time over at his creation, and even though to him there are like three or four wooden kids staring back at this point, he can see how well the little bastard turned out, with his working joints, realistically fuckin’ huge Dago nose, and eyes he even went through the trouble of scribbling blue with the only working ballpoint pen in the place. Guido stares at it, all cockeyed, maybe even more cockeyed than usual, and says – and this is in his own filthy pig-dog language, obviously, but translated, what he says is something like ‘Ain’t yous jus’ a hanssssome lil fucker…like your ol’ man, aren’tcha? You got…whazza word…panc…panache, kiddo. ‘Niiight….Panachio!’ What? Who gives a shit if ‘panache’ is a real Italian word? Suspend your goddamn disbelief, you nitpicky wuss, it’s all made up anyway. Christ…so the dumb wood doll gets his name, and Guido, fucked as a firefly in a hurricane, keels over and stays down for the rest of the day – and all night, too, the lazy shit – with plans of haulin’ ass to the nearest welfare office right away once he’s just sober enough to remember how to turn his friggin’ doorknob.

Guido should be just about in the clear now, since as it turns out, Panachio’s lookin’ good enough to fool whatever twats’d probably be running the welfare place, doling out the checks and stamps for free pasta and that crappy pizza with tomato slices on it instead of sauce. What he didn’t count on before, though, was the little whore of a fairy who’s evidently been watching him the whole time, carving away at those little wooden fingers and toes and pecks and all that, and actually she’s probably been watching for a helluva lot longer than that…Christ, I dunno where from! She’s invisible when she wants, maybe, or maybe she’s in bed with Jesus or something, how the fuck should I know! If you think it’s alright for me to finish my goddamn sentence, I was gonna say she must’ve been nosing in for a good while, ‘cause she knows just what a sack of triple-distilled crap Guido is, exactly what he’s after with making Panachio in the first place, and especially how much he fuckin’ hates kids – can’t say I blame him all that much, sometimes, when I remember what annoying little naggy interrupters they can be.

So Guido would be good to go when he regained consciousness, if only tiny Miss Tinker-bitch wasn’t gonna throw him a nice face-smashing monkey wrench to make him pay for what she sees as his wrongs, since she’s apparently on a giant fuckin’ moralistic high-horse, like your—whatever. And since she’s also all about ‘just desserts’ – and before you ask what that means you’d just fuckin’ better not – she figures the best way to punish him is to exploit his total hatred for children – and their selfish, snotty faces, and the kicking and screaming and smartass mouths and goddamn interrupting – by sprinkling some of her pixie dust and glitter or whatever on Panachio while Guido’s still out, transforming him magically into a real, flesh-and-blood, wise-talking brat of a kid, and one fuck of an unpleasant surprise for Guido come morning.