Intervention

When all is said and done, I did the right thing. The right thing is the thing that I do, because I am right. See how that works?

Okay. I was walking by the taxidermy spot thinking to myself “How come it doesn’t stink over here?” Dead animals should stink. That’s just the way of nature, you got a problem, you take it up with mother earth. So I think, ok, maybe the stink is just contained in the store. So I go in the store.

The bell on the door goes jingle jangle like it’s Christmas, but it’s May and absolutely disgusting hot, which further piqued my curiosity vis a vis the smell. Heat equals bad smells. It’s, like, science. So I’m in the store taking a big whiff of air into the ol’ schnoz and still — nada. Fresh as a daisy in there. Ok, maybe not a daisy, but at worst like someone used to have a dog but it died a year ago and we’re just smelling the lingering dogness.

“Hello there,” says the shop owner. He’s a speccy guy, smooth on top and round around the middle. He’s my age, but I got a gym membership and a Turkey stamp in my passport, so I could be his son in the right lighting. 

“Hey, man, nice shop you got here.” This is when I actually take a look around and it’s like I’m in National Geographic or some shit. I was expecting a few scraggly squirrels and a rat terrier or two, but no. This guy’s got tigers, this guys got emus, this guy’s got a peacock in full regalia. And not only that, they each have their own little habitat. A toucan on a branch with jungle leaf. A fox in a meadow of wildflowers. This guy’s an artist. So I say, “Hey, man, you’re an artist.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” he says. 

“No, I mean it, I’m not blowing smoke. This is bonafide, grade a, picasso type shit.”

“Oh, dear, not Picasso with all his unsettling faces with the mouth over the nose and eyes looking both ways,” he says.

“Ok, then, DaVinci.”

“Now there’s an artist. You might appreciate this piece,” he says, guiding me to a corner of the shop. And he points to a raccoon doing the spread eagle in front of another one standing straight with its little furry arms outstretched.

“Wow,” is all I could say.

“The Vitruvian Racoon,” he said, laughing. “My brother-in-law bet me I couldn’t do it, but there’s nothing technically difficult about the poses, it’s all about the suspension.” I was nodding at him, trying to think of what to say, when the door bell rang again.

“Marty, it’s time to pay up now!” yelled this mean mug twirling a gun on his finger.

“Hey, now,” I said.

“Who’s this?” said the mug.

“He’s just a customer,” said Marty.

“Who’s this?” I said.

“The guy with the gun which means shut up. Now Marty, do you have my money or are you going to end up like one of your little creatures?”

I pulled a pack of smokes and lit one up.

“Oh, terribly sorry, but there’s no smoking, please,” said Marty.

“Shut up, open the register. If there’s enough I might let you live til Saturday.”

Then, I channeled the great Mr. Jackie Chan. I lit the entire pack behind my back and when it caught, I threw it at the mug’s face, grabbed Marty and bolted to the door. From the safety of the other side of the door that Marty smartly locked, we watched him back into the displays, brushing the ashes off his chest. Unfortunately, the embers tumbled into the fox display, and let me tell you, fake wildflowers catch fire like lightning. Well, all I can say is, that store smells like something now.