Gimp Launch He slumped down in his lazy boy chair, and opened a book about birds. His retarded looking eyes flickered through the pictures. The birds seemed to fly off the page at him, as he sucked on a Popsicle, dripping sticky melted juices on the pages. Flapping his arms in the air, like a flying eagle, he stood up, galloped around his chair, dropping the book on the floor. His obese like flabby gut pouncing up and down, round and round.
"I can fly Grandma, look at me, I can fly!"
"Sit down Marty, before you make Grandma upset."
"Alright," he said, collapsing his fat on the floor, sucking on his thumb, throwing his Popsicle stick on the carpet.
"You gonna see Grandma, one day I'll fly."
"Yes, yes, sure you will young lad."
"Time for your nap Marty."
"But Grandma, I not sleepy yet, me want to go stare at da birds outside, with my binoculars."
"Ok then, but only for about 15 minutes,"
"Goody!" Marty squealed, running his flubber outside, crunching leaves with his massive feet, drool drip and all.
Marty climbed up in his tree fort which was filled with dead grasshoppers. He had a thing about grasshoppers. He had to kill them all and put their crunchy carcasses in his tree fort.
"Just around da corner in da willow trees, gonna stare at da birdies, flying in da breeze. Just around da corner in da willow trees, gonna stare at da birdies, flying in da breeze." He sang his song, staring out his tree fort window.
Binoculars glued to his sweaty skin, he spotted a cardinal perched on a bird feeder down near the creek. His blood began to flow like a warm wave of jubilation.
"Ohh, shhhhh, shhh," he said to himself, eyes obsessed with the bird.
"Time for your nap Marty!" his scabby Grandma yelled, peeking her head out the back door.
"Ess not time yet!" he screamed back.
"Get in here now boy!"
He jumped down from his tree fort, twisting his ankle. He began screaming like a little girl, as he limped back in side.
His Grandma gave him a hug and rubbed his sore ankle as she tucked his 35-year-old obese body in to bed. Marty had another dream that he was an eagle, flying through snow filled grand mountains.
It was lunchtime when he woke up. His Grandma had cooked his favorite: liver with guacamole, and a side of black beans. They sat at the kitchen table, Marty with bib, slopping down massive gobbles, feeding the fat. His Grandma nibbled on some dried peaches, and drank a Bloody Mary, using a pickle to swirl the mixture up.
"You're a good boy Marty, but you need to eat slower, I've told you so many times. If you lost a little weight maybe Jenny Berlap would go on a date with you."
Marty looked up from his plate with hatred in his eyes.
"I dun told you the birds are my girl date."
"Marty, birds are fine and all but a man of your age needs a women."
"I wish you'd shut up Grandma."
"What have I told you about that mouth? What boy?" his Grandma yelled, throwing her Bloody Mary in his face, pickle bouncing off his nose.
"Auuuuhhhhhggggg, noooooo!" Marty bellowed.
"Come here you little ungrateful shit, were going to wash that rude mouth out with soap again," his Grandma said, grabbing him by the arm and leading him to the bathroom.
"Now you stand here for half an hour and stare in the mirror so you know what a rude boy looks like." she said, sticking a bar of soap in his mouth.
Marty stood in front of the mirror staring at himself, sobbing sniffles. His Grandma went in the living room, put an old bluegrass album on the record player and danced around with another Bloody Mary in hand.
Marty took the soap out of his mouth after about five minutes and managed to sneak by his dancing Grandma, to his room. He grabbed his binoculars, all the money from his piggy bank, a favorite book of birds and scribbled a note to his Grandma in crayon. "Stupeed Bitche!" the note read.
He hobbled out the front door quietly heading for the bus stop. His saliva tasted like salty liver and soap. He had taken the bus many times with Grandma to market but never by himself. He paid his fair and sat staring out the bus window with his binoculars. He decided to get off the bus after about an hour. He got off in a high crime poverty-ridden area.
"Bye, Bye," Marty said to the bus driver.
The bus driver just nodded his head with squinty red eyes and drove away from the curb, leaving Marty standing on Fifth street. Marty marched like a gimpy soldier down the street staring at the massive brick rotted buildings. A car with thumping bass music drove by and a passenger threw a milk shake at Marty's face. He wiped off the strawberry goo with his shirtsleeve and ran after the car huffing and puffing. The car disappeared in to the distance with a middle finger sticking out of its window.
Scabby Granny had the cops at her house now, weeping to them about finding her precious Marty.
"He's not right in the head," she told them as the cops scribbled down notes, reassuring her they would find him. The cops got back in their car.
"What a joke, we got better things to do then hunt down a grown man." one of the cops said to his partner."
"Ya, no kidding. lets go get some doughnuts and coffee." the other one said, crumpling up the police report, tossing it in the backseat.
Marty limped by a liquor store on Third Street, oblivious to the shoot-out going on between cops and two masked gunmen in the liquor store.
"Birds, birds, birds" Marty mumbled to himself, staring up at the sky with his binoculars. A young kid peddled by on a bike, almost plowing into Marty.
"Watch it chump," the kid said, spitting at him.
Marty limped on, dragging his sore ankle, looking out for birds. A greasy looking man with a hooded sweatshirt was leaning against a run down apartment building, smoking a cigarette.
"Hey, hey, come ere for a sec fella," the man said, in a raspy voice.
Marty walked up to him getting real close to his face.
"What?"
"You wanna buy some rock? Good shit man, only the best for you,"
"I don't like rocks. I like birds. but sometimes I skip rocks in the creek."
"You got any money? I'm telling ya, this shit will make you fly."
"I got money. I always told Grandma I would fly some day."
"You all fucked up, ain't ya fella? You one of the biggest mo fuckers I ever laid eyes on. Come on, follow me, we gonna go fly."
"Ok." Marty said following the man into the apartment complex.
They walked up to the fourth floor and the man gave two quick knocks, then three fast ones, on a door.
"Who the fuck is it?" a voice asked.
"It's me bitch, open up!"
A skinny man with huge pupils and a gun in hand unlocked the door.
"Who da hell is he?" the man questioned.
"Chill out. He's cool, he wants to fly."
"Get yo stupid ass in here." the man said, locking the door after them.
"Sit yo fat ass down. You make me nervous." the skinny man said.
Marty sat down on a chair. The chair collapsed and Marty fell to the floor, as a cockroach ran by.
The two men started laughing at him. "Goofy looking fucker, ain't he?" the man with the hooded sweatshirt said.
"Got dat right. shit." the other man said, still cackling.
Marty got up and sat on a moldy smelling couch.
"How much this punk ass want?"
"You still wana fly? Hey fella?"
"Yes sir!" Marty said.
"Gimee some money then fat boy."
Marty pulled out four crumpled up five-dollar bills from his overalls and handed it to the man in the hooded sweatshirt. The two men disappeared into the kitchen as Marty stared at a stained wall with holes in it. The two men came back out of the kitchen, both blowing smoke out of their chapped lips. They handed the crack pipe to Marty telling him to suck on it as the emaciated man lit it for Marty.
Marty got a lung-full of baking soda sweet aroma perfume tasting smoke, coughing it out after a second or two. The two men hit the pipe again; giving Marty more hits as well. Marty smiled and began babbling a mile a minute about birds and Grandma. The two men laughed at him putting some rap music in the stereo. "Shame on a nigga, who tried to run game on a nigga…" the lyrics went with a funky drumbeat, and turntables scratching.
Marty felt good as the music played and the cocaine did loops around his brain. The two men asked Marty for more money. Marty pulled out the last of his money, a ten-dollar bill, some nickel's and pennies. The men grabbed his money and disappeared in to the kitchen again.
Marty started dancing his fat around, swinging his arms in the air to the music. The two men came out of the kitchen again; both laughing their ass's off, watching Marty attempting to dance to the Rap music.
Marty stopped dancing.
"You said I was gonna fly! Now make me fly, or give money back!"
"Here, take another hit off this pipe and you should be flying." the slender man coughed.
Marty Knocked the pipe out of the mans hand with a demented look in his green eyes.
"You give money back, Marty wanted to fly." Marty said, grabbing the hooded man by the neck, picking him up off the ground with one hand. The slender man grabbed his gun off a table, pointing it at Marty's face.
"You wanna play games fucker? I'll blow your brains out!"
Marty tossed the hooded man into a wall, knocking him out. The mans head made a loud cracking noise.
"Guns bad, bad guns." Marty mumbled, walking towards the gun holding crack head.
The man fired off a round into Marty's belly. Marty looked down at the blood oozing out of his gut and became more enraged. He grabbed the mans wrist and turned it, snapping it like a twig. He punched the man in the face, knocking him out, grabbing the gun. He began beating the mans face in with the gun till it looked like a squashed tomato.
Marty clutched his bleeding tummy, stumbled to the door and headed up the stairs to the top floor. He found a door that led to the roof and kicked it in; chain and lock ripping off it. He dragged himself along the hot black roof til he was at the edge of the eight-story building. He took all his clothes off, throwing them down to the ground. A crowd of people from the ground gathered, pointing up at him, in amazement.
"Just around da corner in da willow trees, gonna be a birdie, flying in da breeze..." he sang, over and over. He stuck his arms out; looking like he was on an invisible cross, crucified. He winged his arms to the sky, sun glistening down, he launched his overblown body into flight.
By Nicholas Morgan
Copyright 1999
