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Around The Madness

Two blackbirds were slowly, lazily chirping away their time on the huge sycamore tree outside the big red house as if the world was their new 2 bedroom apartment when in fact they would be dead in another twenty days when they would be shot down by a despicable human being named Jackson milont. He, apart from having areally weird surname, was a policeman by profession and a hunterby habit. He liked hunting anything that moved. Maybe he was born that way. Maybe he wasn’t. Probably theonly reason he joined the police force in this small town was that it provided him with a legal platform to hunt, albeit a different sort of hunt where he couldn’t shoot people, although he had done that too over the course of his ass-fuck useless 20 year career as a lawman.
On that particular day just as he stepped out of a really really cold shower, which, incidentally he had every day without fail, he got a phone call. The person on the other endof the call was frantically shouting something which was increasingly becoming unclear what. With a towel wrapped around his body he stood holding the phone to hisear. He yawned. He disconnected the call. He walked towards thedrawer on the right sideof his bed, yanked out asmall personal revolver and shot down the telephone. He removed his cellular phone from the drawer on the left side of his bed and immediately called the telephone company for a replacement, citing noreason in particular. He quickly got dressed and walked out of his house. Of course it wasred in color. Tastelessly red in color, so red that you tend to forget the color red as you gaze atit. It stood out very conspicuously in the street which it was a part of. This town had only 3 streets, one center for all the malls, shopping centers, utilitystores and whatever essential needs a small town is required to have. Jackson’s delectably eye-piercing-in-all-its-red-in glory house was on the third street which was unsurprisingly as well as quite mind-bogglinglynamed as, well, “the third street”.
He gazed at the two blackbirds sitting on thetree and smirked to himself. His neighbor was out mowing his lawn. A sharp bald delightful chunk of a man who never failed to try hopelessly hard to satisfy each and every human being he ever encountered in his boring life, waved at Jackson. “How are you, Mr. Wayne?” asked Jackson who was really, trust me, really not interested in his neighbor’s well-being. Mr. Timothy Wayne couldn’t hear Jackson over the sound of the lawn-mower so he made a gesture which got this point across to Jackson. “Very well, why don’t you shove that mower up your ass and mow that while I go have a chat with your ugly wife?” shouted Jackson with athin smile breaking across his dead-eyed pale face. His friendly neighbor just smiled with some sort of a profound understanding.
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