The Incredible Baby Man Chapter 6

First comes 5, then comes...?

                                                 

     He sat alone in his underwear, surrounded by half empty malt liquor bottles, and with an unlit cigarette dangling from his scowling, unshaven face.  He was staring at the flickering T.V. screen, featuring a test pattern, and he hadn't even noticed that the "Fishing With Stars You Thought Were Dead' telecast that had come on after "The Bloody Guns of Horkman Pass' he'd been watching had long since ended and the station had gone off the air.  Truth was, he just didn't care. 

 

 

     He stood, rather unsteadily, scratched his nuts, and sighed a sigh of resignation.  Upon being fired, had vowed to make his old boss, Egbert Fricking Harbinger, eat his words like a cheap all-day sucker, but after calming down, realized that he was the only cheap all-day sucker.  He walked over to the full-length mirror along the wall on the far side of the living room, and saw two and a half feet of loser.  The damn hike across the living room seemed to have taken him three days, for f**k's sake! 

 

 

     He perused the help wanted section of the local paper and his depression only grew.  There was nothing, just like every day for the past two months.  He was qualified for exactly jack s**t!  No, to be qualified to run a jack s**t machine you had to be at least five feet tall.  He'd was starting to become desperate.  Maybe he'd break down and do the one thing he had vowed never to do; hit the Unemployment Office.

 

 

******

 

 

      Here he sat, in the last place he'd wanted to be.  He looked around and scowled; so many people, so few jobs.  He desperately longed for a cigarette but 'no smoking'!  As he sat there waiting to talk to someone, he grew more and more antsy.  Finally, a man with a bad comb over, and who was chewing a piece of gum like a rabbit attacks a carrot announced,

 

     "Number twenty seven please."

 

     It's about fricking time! he thought, and made his way to where Bad-Comb-Over Dude sat behind a desk that looked like it had seen better days, which might also describe the man himself. 

 

     "Hello, I need a job and I'm hoping you can help me," announced Shorty. 

 

     Bad-Comb-Over Dude shot a glance over Shorty's head, looking for a parent.  "Why don't we wait for Mommy or Daddy little fella?"

 

     Shorty felt the all-too-familiar black rage sweep over him, "Look, ferret-head, there's nobody else, just me; now, are you going to cut the condescending s**t and talk to me like an actual person, or force me to sweep everything off your desk and scream?"

 

     "Well, you'll have to excuse me, it's just that..."

 

     "What?  That I'm a sawed off little b*****d-baby?  Look, I have 'Sandoval Perpetual Shortosis, okay there chief?"

 

     Bad-Comb-Over Dude, whose name was really Clark DeMint according to the silver and gold nameplate on his desk, sputtered an apology, "Sure, sorry about that; you just caught me by surprise,"

 

    No shock there! thought Shorty.

 

     "I don't think I'm familiar with Sandoval Perpetual...ah,..."

 

     "Shortosis."

 

     "Oh, right, Shortosis, now, what sort of work are you looking for?"

 

    "Oh, I was hoping to get a job like The Abominable Snow Man on 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, putting the star on top of Christmas trees."

 

     DeMint failed to pick up on the obvious sarcasm, "Well, Mr. Sandoval, besides the fact that particular job doesn't exist, I think your lack of height would tend to rule that out, wouldn't you?"

 

     Black rage hit Shorty immediately and he almost blacked out because of it.  "Look f**k-stick, obviously I was kidding but I'm not kidding about this," and he jumped up on his chair and swept everything off DeMint's desk.  DeMint quickly stood up and rushed around the desk, approaching Shorty, and started to protest,

 

     "Securi...!"

 

     That's when Shorty teed off on his groin.  DeMint slowly folded up like yesterday's newspaper and crumpled to the floor, whimpering and holding himself.  Shorty turned to flee the office and felt his arms being pulled behind his back. 

 

     "Let me go!" he shouted, and struggled to free himself from the grip of a large man (of course, when you stand a little over 2 feet, everybody's large!) who was holding his arms.  The large man said,

 

     "Call the police Spike, I've got him," to another guard who'd come up to help. 

 

 

******

 

 

     And so Shorty found himself thrown into a holding cell at the city jail, which was currently occupied by a drunk guy who started laughing as soon as Shorty was locked in.

 

     Shorty was immediately incensed and walked over to where the man was standing against the wall.  "What's so funny, dude?"

 

     The guy had no idea the peril his groin was in, "Now I know I've had too much to drink, you look like a..."

 

     He never got to finish, as Shorty reared back his fist and threw an uppercut right to his man-business.  The guy bent at the waist, grabbing his screaming nuts, and before his pathetic wails of pain even sounded, Shorty then sent him into LaLaLand with a powerful right hook.

 

     He had called a lawyer, Dick Wiseman, who looked anything but to Shorty, and after the by-now expected incredulous laughter upon seeing his client, had arranged to get him out on bail.  Shorty's initial rage was put aside, as he figured Dick  was his ticket to freedom! 

 

        

 

     

     

 

     

Reviews

[Marie]

I think he need a few anger management classes. Or a lot of them.

Or a good spanking...

[Michael Stevens]

Yep, I think you're correct!