Panachio:

The Beloved Children's Story About a Wise-Cracking Asshole Guido Puppet Thing That Turned Into a Real Little Son of a Bitch Boy That I Hucked Stolichnaya Bottles At From the Den

-Part I-

Something like awhile ago or so, in a town called F-, guess the name got smudged a bit here, must have been that fucking bridge mix your mother always has to buy, F-, Fl-, F-L-, I? Looks like F-L-I-, c maybe, Flic-something, starts with Fli anyway, doesn't matter, it's not importa-- for Christ's sake it just doesn't, now do you want me to read it or not? OK fine, good. So anyway, in THAT town, there was a little boy called Panachio, and let me tell you, he was a real fucking piece of work. And I mean literally, because he was still just a big friggin' stupid block of wood at this point. His old man was one of those whittler carpentry type guys, see, but he was a real drunky, I mean a real wino lowlife jobless no-nuts sack of sunkissed hobo-shit, but boy could the guy ever drink. Every kind of townsfolkperson – big and small, fat and thin, old and young, married and divorced but living-it-up-no-strings-attached-the-real-man's-way-wihout-having-to-take-any-of-that-bitch's-naggy-bullshit – would travel in from all over the land, and carpool there with coworkers if some numbnuts rookie cop they're gonna call the lawyer on TV next week about suing for every clean shaven, spit shined faggoty blue dime had shredded up their license for no good fucking reason that time he just had three sips of wine at dinner with his friends. Anyway, point is this guy could drink, and that's no BS. I mean this guy could build you a table with one hand right there while he was using the other one to drink your sorry ass straight under it. If there were an Olympics for drinking nobody else would even bother showing up. His idea of a cocktail was grappa mixed with everclear, and his idea of a chaser depended on how many filterless Marbos left in the pack would fit in his mouth all at once. He was completely bald from head to toe, smooth and bare like belt-sanded glass from all the times he'd got himself caught major-league on fire nodding off with lit ones in his teeth, or squatting too close to the fireplace with his 150 proof breath.

Anyway, this guy, this shiny, drink-withered nut-face of a wop, Gill—, Gui-e—, Gu—, neh, we’ll just call him Guido – Guido Rossi – he gets sick of the scrambled porno on his no-premium-channels relic of a TV, and even sicker of buying his morning fuckin’ Mad Dogs with heaps of loose change or trying to slip plastic handles of whatever down his pant-legs [and the grenadine he sweetens up his rocket fuel with in the morning when his taste buds are still – Jesus F. Christ, kid, the shit Mommy puts in those faggy little Shirley Temples you like so much, now QUIT IT before I get fed up and slam this shit closed so fast you get windburn, serious?]. What I was getting to was – right, and our old boy gets to scheming on how he can supplement his crappy carpenter’s income. Ain’t no one coming into his whittlin’-shack and demanding mahogany four-posters and armoires or whatever like they used to have in Fli – shit, let’s just call the town Flitville already, for convenience’s sake – not in this economy, that’s for goddamn sure. So with no wife to milk for bread from her cute joke of a kindergarten teaching job, and no other skills anybody’d pay shit for, ole’ Guido’s stuck up Jim Beam’s ass without a tumbler, so to speak. But like a squirrel shitting golden eggs, like in the most totally unexpected moment, he gets an idea when he catches this episode of Law and Order (or one of those other ‘hot fuzz’ kind of shows about some broad bleeding the state dry by bitching and moaning non-stop – heh, do I know all about that shit or what, huh kiddo?) – about how she can’t support her boy on the singles she gets shoved under her knockers at her Legitimate Dancing Job, and she starts getting checks every damn month – taxpayers’ dollars, though what would you know about paying for jack, right?

So she’s fat and happy and dropping much bigger digits on see-through platform heels than in the days before God’s golden shower caught her in its charitable thunderstorm – until those smarmy detective-types figure out the kid she’s been bitching about not being able to afford’s been dead since like a week after it popped outta her meal ticket…if you get me. Yeah, the kid who’s supposed to be like five at the time she’s whoring it up with the government! Well, no shit, Guido thinks to himself, and the liquor-rusted piece of shit wheels in his head get to turning a bit, and before you know it we finally get to the Panachio part of the story, ‘cause Guido figures, shit, if it took these TV ace-detectives that long to crack the scam, see that the kid they were bleedin’ out for was fuckin’ dead, how long’d it take Flitville’s finest to realize, if he whittled himself a pretty lifelike-looking kid and tried out a similar arrangement, that they were getting conned by a guy and his fucking leftover firewood? Long enough to score him a cupboard full up with Jack, a couple handles of Stoli for special occasions, and enough instant mashed potatoes to last the rest of his life, he figures, and right then hauls his decrepit ass out to get some pine and the right color varnish to match his sickly, dried-out, yellowish foreigner-type skin – y’know, like father like son and all that crap, so as to sufficiently fuck over anyone trying to check out his case.

So after 5 hours or so dicking around at the market – why so long? Because he was being a real stubborn hardon pain in the ass, just like you, now shut up – so he finally gets the shit he needs, and stumbles back to his dingy-ass workshop. He sets it all on his worktable, pretty fucking pleased with himself for coming up aces on his latest plan to dick with the King of Italy, or whatever cute little Chef Boyardee titles they've got over in that third-world urinal of a country, and gets his whittling knife and sandpaper or whatever the hell it is carpenters use, I don't know – I just told you I don't friggin' know, ask me another dumb question and I'm gonna smack you in the mouth with all my rings on – No you can't have another Hostess, I told you 2 was it, you'll get doughy frosting tits and fudge your pewee football stats – well I don't care what "Mum" says – "Mum?" is she still feeding you that Canuckian wannabe British fairy trash? – when it's Mom's weekend you can suck down gallons of moose & maple syrup ice cream in your PJ's and cry about your wingless pads and braid each other's hair in hot pink sleeping bags, for all I friggin’ care. Now you said you wanted to hear the story, so clamp your wussy little play-doh jaw shut or I'll get you drafted into the Marine Corps – Of course I can, Uncle Joe says he'll have you in Jalalabad inside a week, I just say the word, so just keep testing me, bud, you can go learn some manners digging through the sand for cluster mines with your bare little sausage hands. You sure? Well OK then.