Banana Hammock (19 page)

The Lion, The Witch, And The Whoremonger

Where the Wild Things Hump

Horton Has a Colostomy!

Lemony Snicket and a Series of Unfortunate Open Sores

Charlie and the Chocolate Highway

Diary of a Wimpy Kid — I’ll Get a Gun and Show Them All

How the Grinch Stole My Virginity

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Anne Frank

The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of the Bad Touch

One Fish, Two Fish, Two Girls, One Cup

Harry Potter and the Nocturnal Emission

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I raised my fist, ready to go all Guantánamo on this God-fearing pacifist. But before I could throw the punch, Amos had karate-kicked me right in the chest.

I staggered backwards, rubbing my ribs.

“Hey!” I said. “You’re supposed to be non-violent!”

“I know who put you up to this,” Amos said, sneering. “It was my wife, Lulu. Lulu! Get out here!”

The bedroom door opened. Lulu stepped out, her head hanging low. She wore only a g-string and pasties. But, befitting her religion, both items were very plain.

“Yes, Husband?” she meekly asked. “How may I serve you?”

Amos rushed over to Lulu, taking her roughly by the upper arm. “I wondered where the horse and buggy went. You took them to the big city to hire some jackass!”

“You also hired someone else?” I said.

Lulu looked terrified. “I swear, Amos. I didn’t do anything.”

“The bible says to honor your husband, woman,” Amos declared. “Haven’t I given you everything? A plain house to live in. A stripper pole in our bedroom. All those piercings. Everything a good Amish woman needs.”

Lulu pulled away, her face becoming venomous. “You treat me like I’m your property, Amos Coleslaw!”

“Technically, you are. I traded a horse and two mules for you.”

“You beat me!”

“That’s a lie!”

She turned around, showing us her damn-near perfect ass.

“What about this?” she said, pointing to a tiny red mark on her left cheek.

“That’s a birthmark!” Amos said.

“Is not!”

“Is so!”

I whipped out the magnifying class I keep in my pocket for opportunities like this, and knelt next to Lulu.

“This appears to be a nevus flammeus, also known as a port-wine stain. Port-wine stains are present at birth and range from a pale pink in color, to a deep wine-red. They’re caused by a deficiency or absence in the nerve supply to blood vessels. This forces the blood vessels to dilate, and blood to collect in the affected area. Over time, port-wine stains may become thick or develop small ridges or bumps, and do not fade with age.”

I switched off Wikipedia and put away my iPhone.

“Well, maybe it is a birthmark,” Lulu said, “But you’re still cheating on me!”

Amos patted his own chest. “I’m too much Amish for just one woman. The Mormons get a lot of cootchie. Why should I have to suffer just because I was born into the wrong, backasswards, repressive, fundamentalist religion?”

He had a point.

“Kick his Amish ass, Harry,” Lulu said. “And stomp on his balls until they swell up to the size of Kirstie Alley.”

I raised my fists, and one of my feet. Amos tore off his plain shirt, revealing a six pack. While he drank one, I couldn’t help but notice he was also heavily muscled.

“They have a gym in Plaintown?” I asked.

“It opened up last year, next to the Blockbuster Video.”

“Yeah? Well, I prefer Netflix.”

I actually didn’t prefer Netflix. Two years ago, I rented
Showgirls
and misplaced the DVD. So far it has cost me three hundred and eighty seven dollars.

“I must warn you,” Amos said. “I’m a master at karate, tae kwon do, jujitsu, judo, capoeira, muy thai boxing, monkey style Shaolin kung fu, Australian dick wrestling, charades, bowling,
Sorry
by Parker Brothers,
Hungry Hungry Hippos
by Galoob, and Pokemon.”

I was out the door right after he said
karate
. But as I ran into the Amish village, screaming for help at the top of my lungs, no mob of torch-wielding, angry villagers came to my aid. I tried yelling, “Frankenstein! We must destroy the monster!” but got similar, unimpressive results. Apparently, real life wasn’t like a Universal horror movie from the 1930s. I wish someone had warned me.

Shaolin Amos was right on my heels, jogging methodically after me. Finally, after twenty yards of frenzied sprinting, I was too tired to go on. I had no choice but to face him.

I turned around, gasping in air, and realized I had two options. I could draw my gun and shoot him, or fight him man-to-man with my bare hands and hope that one yoga class I took in high school was enough martial arts training to help me win.

But which should I choose? If only there were some magical, all-knowing force to guide my direction and make that decision for me…

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“You can beat me all you want to, Brother,” said Amos. “But look at all the clues. Amish women don’t wear make-up, or perfume, or have fake nails. When you went into the costume shop, Clandestine Westin called Lulu by a different name and said she’d rented a costume there. And Amish women don’t have cell phones.”

He was right. I
could
beat him all I wanted to. So even though you, the reader, wanted me to try common sense, I vetoed that lame decision and punched this gentle, tolerant man right in the jaw.

“Confess!” I ordered, kicking him in the procreation stick. “Are you cheating on your wife? Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? What role did you play in 9/11? How long have you practiced witchcraft, and danced naked in satanic orgies while eating newborn babies? What is the average annual rainfall in the Amazon basin? Answer me!”

He answered all of them, except the rainfall one. Which was okay, because I didn’t know the answer either. And though he didn’t actually cheat on his wife, or have anything to do with the destruction of the World Trade Center, he did admit to eating a newborn child.

“Only its leg,” he said. “And it was too chewy and salty, so when the other Satanists weren’t looking, I spit it out.”

After giving him a stern lecture about joining cults without fully committing to their insane practices, I left his home and found my way back to my car. This case was like an onion—an herbaceous perennial monocot from the order asparagales. The only choice I had left was to quit and not refund Lulu’s money.

So common sense won out after all.

The end.

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I put up my fists, hoping this ebook was almost over. Then Lulu threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Don’t hurt him, Amos!” she cried. “I love him!”

“Do you love her?” Amos asked me.

I shrugged. “Sure. At this point, why the hell not?”

“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Lulu snuggled against my cheek. “I love you, Harry McGlade. This was all an elaborate ruse to get us together. Amos isn’t really my husband. He’s a minister.”

“Excuse me?”

“And this isn’t really an Amish settlement. This is the back lot at Warner Brothers Studios. Everyone you’ve seen is actually an actor.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re married now, Harry! Kiss me!”

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Tired of playing around, I took out my .44 Magnum and aimed it at Amos’s bearded face.

“I’m tired of playing around. So I’m sticking my .44 Magnum in your bearded face, Amos.”

“I know. I can read.”

“Are you going to tell me the truth about your affair? Or do I have to kill you, and then you’ll tell me the truth?”

Amos held up his palms. “How about instead of killing me, we have some ice cream?”

“No way. You think you can bribe me with ice cream? What flavor?”

“Times New Roman.”

“That’s not a flavor. That’s a font.”

“So you’re saying you don’t like that type?”

I cocked my gun. “Just let me know what flavor ice cream you’ve got.”

“I’ve got many flavors, Brother. How about chocolate?”

“Never heard of it. Try something familiar.”

“How about Booger?”

“Booger ice cream? Who came up with that?”

“I picked it myself.”

I winced.

“How about jumbo jet?” he asked.

“Jumbo jet ice cream?”

He shrugged. “We Amish are a plane folk.”

I shot him in the face.

I went to prison for life. But I still felt justified.

The end.

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Harry’s List of Amputee Jokes

What do you call a person with no arms and no legs…

…in a cooking pot?

Stu.

…in a fireplace?

Bernie.

…in a hole?

Phil.

…in a pile of leaves?

Russel.

…on a BBQ grill?

Frank. Or Chuck. Or Patty.

…in a spice rack?

Herb. Or Basil.

…in a mailbox?

Bill.

…on your wall?

Art.

…in a bag?

Carry.

…in a lingerie drawer?

Teddy.

…in a vase?

Rose. Or Lily.

…covered in sauerkraut?

Reuben.

…is offended by these jokes and wants to hire a lawyer to file a class-action suit against Konrath?

Sue.

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Rusty Nail
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“How you doing, Harry?” Phin asks me.

How was I doing? I was tied to a chair with wire, and some psycho just cut off all my fingers and used a blowtorch to stop the bleeding.

What the hell was wrong with that Konrath guy? Where did he come up with this stuff? His book covers are so bright and cheerful, and he’s always talking about how funny they are. Nowhere on the book jacket does it talk about psychos cutting off fingers.

“Got any aspirin?” I asked Phin. He was also tied up, but he still had all of his fingers. Lucky bastard.

“Other pair of pants,” he said.

“Nuts.”

“How’s the hand, Harry?”

“Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”

“Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”

“I’ll try. Sorry about that.”

I frowned, wondering how I was going to ever be able to count to ten again.

“So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?” Phin asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your parents named you Harry Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”

“This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”

I took a deep breath, let it out slow, and tried to focus on the positive. Though my hand was horribly mangled, and both Phin and I were going to be killed, I was happy I no longer had to go to the bathroom. It’s the little triumphs that help you get by.

“At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” I said. “When my thumb was cut off, I wet my pants.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”

“All you dry pants guys say that.”

A minute passed.

“I can see my fingers,” I said.

“How’s that?”

“They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”

“Sure.”

“Assuming we get out of here.”

“I’m working on it.”

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Using your psychic powers to call the other members of the Justice League?”

“I’m going to break this wire.”

“It’s too strong. You’ll cut your hands off first.”

“Either way I’ll be free.”

“Good plan. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a plan too.”

“What’s your plan?” Phin asked.

“When the psycho comes back, I’m going to swallow my own tongue and choke to death.”

“Good plan.”

“Yeah. That’ll show ’em.”

I stared at my fingers again, which looked so strange now that they were no longer attached to me. Then something happened that made me kind of freak out.

“GODDAMIT! GET AWAY FROM THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“Harry? You okay?”

“YOU BASTARD! I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND ROAST YOU!”

“Harry, what’s up? Who are you screaming at?”

“Goddamn rat. Ran off with one of my fingers.”

Damn rat bastard.

“It was my middle finger, I think.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“That was my favorite finger.”

It was, too. I used it all the time, to communicate my displeasure with society.

“Maybe we can get it back,” Phin says.

“Ah shit. I can see it, in the corner, holding it up.”

Phin began to laugh. “The rat is giving you the finger?”

“Kiss my ass, Phin. It’s not funny.”

“What’s it doing now, Harry? Using your finger to pick its nose?”

“It’s eating it. Corn on the cob style.”

If I hadn’t been a fictitious character in a novel, I would have been pissed.

“Could be worse,” Phin said. “Did you read that bear trap scene in
Afraid
by Jack Kilborn?”

“I did read it, and it scared me shitless.”

“That one gave me nightmares. Or the gridiron in
Trapped
. That was even more disturbing.”

“I haven’t gotten to that one yet,” I said.

“You should. Scary stuff.”

“After we break out of here and save the day, I’ll buy it for my new Nook.”