SUPER WEATHER WE'RE HAVING, HUH?!

Blah. Fucking blah. Blah-fucking. Blah. Motherfucking shitting blah. To where did my Muse go? Oh. Wait. I have an idea. One look out the window reveals to me the quandary: The fucking Muse froze to death. She's huddled, dead as a doorknob, in a nook of an old oak tree, her feathery wings folded about her and a somewhat peaceful countenance to her blue-cast face.

Sorry, Miss Muse. I have been neglecting you and so you felt the need to test the waters elsewhere. I should have warned you that it's April 7th, yet it is 30 FUCKING DEGREES!

I am really not one to bitch and moan about the weather--albeit this is the second post that I have written on Michigan's insane weather machinations--but, come on! This is shit.

Highs in the 30s? Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

The crap-ass weather is curdling my creativity. Right now, in my somewhat-warped brain, I can see the Shadowy Gas Man, sidling out of the bar, and I can see Porky Pig, with a maniacal gleam in his eyes, as he does the Charleston down Sundown Street. What the fuck?

The gas man turns to Porky and says, "Where'd you get those tap shoes?"

Porky pauses in mid-prance. (Oddly enough, he has misplaced his stutter.) "They're not tap shoes. Their my hooves, you crazy man, you." He sets his hoof down, squares himself to the gas man.

The gas man puffs out his chest. "Who you callin' crazy, you fat piece of porcine shit?"

Roger Rabbit slides in as moderator and does his best tennis fan head-weave.

"'Porcine shit?!' I tell ya, buddy, these fists are deadly weapons. You might want to rethink your strategy, here."

"Who's gonna make me? You and what fucking army, Pig-Boy?"

Roger Rabbit melts and reappears over Porky's fat right shoulder. "Tell 'im his mother wears Army boots. Yeah! Tell 'im that!"

Porky advances on the gas man, his shiny black hooves somehow curled into fists. "Your mama wears Army boots!"

Roger Rabbit puddles up to the gas man's left ear. "The Porkster's talkin' some shit, ain't he? You gonna take that?"

The gas man sucks in his gut and balls his fists.

Roger Rabbit pulls a referee's chair from a manhole and slaps some sunglasses onto his face and settles back to enjoy the action.

Face-to-face, Porky and the gas man stand, noses nearly touching. To an outside observer, the scene brings remembrances of Seuss's stroy in which the two creatures walk in each other's paths and neither moves as citiescapes and highways bloom around them.

"Take it back," says the gas man. His breath--beer and egg salad sandwiches--is rotten as it blows into Porky's upturned nostrils.

"Hey, I'm not taking shi-shi-shi--anything--back, you flabby excuse for a utility wor-wor-wor-wor--employee." Porky pauses, horrified, as he realizes that his stutter is reasserting itself. He backs off a pace and the gas man follows.

"Scared?" he asks, cracking his knuckles.

"N-N-N-N--uh-uh," says Porky, his black eyes belying the obvious.

From the high chair, Roger Rabbit observes the confrontation, his eyes wide with a voyeuristic avidity. His breath has quickened and spittle hangs, unnoticed, from his lower whiskers. "Hit 'im, gas man! Hit 'im! P-p-p-p-pluuuuu-leeeeeeezzzzee!"

The gas man feints with his left and swings from the heels with his right fist. Porky is wholly unprepared. The gas man's huge right fist slams into Porky's snout, mashing pink skin 'gainst yellowed incisors...the outcome is instantaneous. Porky falls to the cotton candy roadside. Bright red blood oozes from his nostrils and right velvet ear. It pools next to his fat pink cheek. His eyes are open, unseeing.

"Is he? Is he?--" The instigatory rabbit cannot finish his sentence. His previous excitement is gone, replaced with a sorrowful wavering voice.

"Dead?" asks the gas man, rubbing his right fist. "Well, he sure ain't breathing, so I guess that means something, eh?" He casts wary glances down the candied boulevard, jams his hands in his pockets. "I, uh, I gotta be going. Take care." He hawks up a loogey and spits it into the dark blood near the dead pig's head; it rests atop the mess, green offset by red--almost Christmas-y, in a way.

"You're leaving?!" asks Roger Rabbit. "But what about the evidence?"

The gas man shrugs. "Hey, you were all for it, a minute ago. Happy Easter, Bouncy Boy." The gas man sets off in the direction of the setting sun and, within minutes, is gone, over the horizon.

Roger sits in the chair, his eyes growing more furtive by the second, and he considers his options. "What do I do? Sure, the pig was a pretty good guy and, sure, I kinda started it, but what do I do? If I go to the police, my goose is cooked--" He pulls a cooked goose from his satchel, eyes it. "--but if I just leave the pig, as is, will I be able to live with my conscience?"

He sits silently for a moment.

His eyes narrow, become slits. Looks east. Looks west. Looks up. Looks down. Nods. He tosses the cooked goose at the dead cartoon pig, looks around and he makes a show of "washing his hands" of the matter. Little yellow birds flutter from his white-gloved hands.

He leaps from the high chair and lands, with a splat, on the taffy streets. Whim-bam-boom: The chair is folded and put in his pocket. "Rest in peace, El Porko. O! That I knew you better!"

With a flash, he is gone, through the facade of an Old-West general store, his silhouette a glaring reminder of his actions/inactions.

The sun sets on the movie set, but this pig ain't acting. This pig is dead. Stone. Cold. Dead. From the purpling sky, the vultures swoop. They land, fluff their feathers and eye the dead cartoon pig.

"So...whaddya wanna do?" asks one.

"I don't know," answers another, with a shrug. "Whaddyou wanna do?"

"Let's eat."

They fall to the carrion.