Kantian Skree (A Fuck Cancer Post-script)

—Post 🦖Script—

Tubular paper struck its mark repeatedly and with force.

“WHY.” WHAP

“THA FUCK.” WHAP

“DIDN’T.” WHAP

“YA.” WHAP WHAP

“TELL,” WHAP, “ME,” WHAP “HE,” WHAP “WASN’T,” WHAP, “DYIN’?” 

WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP.

“Ms. Walker, PLEASE!” Stu attempted to duck the implement of Cindy’s fury.  “I tried to tell you, but you would not hear the truth.  Eventually it seemed strategically sound to let you believe it.  At least, Mr. Walker clearly indicated he thought so.”  Stu raised his arms for further defense in his cowardice.

A voice mumbled from behind the classifieds section, “Damnit, turn coat.”

“DADDY!?  How COULD you?!”  A hint of red aura appeared behind the irises of the Gym’s heir apparent; a billow of air of unknown origin began to ruffle her skirt and swirl around the room, and the lights appeared to dim as her hair began to glow.

A hand turned the Classifieds from page 3 to 5, “Because I’m yer Daddy, and it was fuckin’ funny as hell.  S’kind of Daddying one-oh-one.  Was a… moral important, um, imperius, er… Stu, help me out here.”

“Imperative.”

“Yeah, tha’s it.  Moral imperative.  Had to be done.”

Air speeds registered back between 0 and 2 mph depending on your distance from a vent, LEDs returned to their typical luminosity, and Cindy’s skirt de-ruffled as she huffed out of the office.  

The FDP tousled his hair with a white cloth as he exited the locker room, his head still wet from a post-workout shower.  His lips parted, teeth gleaming in anticipation of Cindy’s approach.

“Hi, Cind-OOF.”  

A double palm strike the envy of tai chi masters met an unexpecting chiseled chest. Having tripped over his own gym bag, the Master of Moonsaults turned ass over teakettle to find himself head first in the trash can that collected used rags and towels by the locker room door.  His legs continued to flail as the door to the gym slammed behind Cynthia Lousie Walker.

Eyes and gray hair peered over the crisp and newly opened Sports section.  “…solid hit.”

“Yes, sir.”  Stu watched Rocky struggle as Pablo attempted to help him out of the can to no avail.

“Go help ‘em.”

“Yes, sir.”  Weiler ran to the aid of his charge.

The Sports section returned to its typical height. A hand reached around it to grab a mug which had a picture of a three year old girl with blonde hair and a huge smile next to the words I LOVE MY DADDY.  Slurping ensued.  The mug returned.

“Heh.  Moral imperative.”