Swamp People

”It’s better to wake up than fall back asleep in a town with no dreams.”

– Dennis E. Staples

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Everyone knows by now that I was born in a small town in Florida. When I was a child, back in the 90s, or 80s, or something, Miami was very different from the Miami you may know today. It was a harsh land, and the people had to be hearty and courageous to withstand the cruel Winters and terrible hurricanes that ravaged the sandy coastlines.

I am being told that the Winters are not actually that bad, but I’m leaving that in because I like the way it sounds.

I lived on a cul de sac in East Broward County, but even though Broward rhymes with coward, do not call me that or I will punch you.

Nevertheless, there was a time when the thought of my hometown caused me much trepidation. From time to time, I would get wistful, which is a word I looked up, and I would think about the times I had, the friends, the fun trips to the local mall, the vacations to Key West, the annual visit to the Florida Strip Mall Festival, which is still a good time if you are ever in town, and I would say, I need to go back someday.

There are so many unanswered questions about who I really am. You see, I found out only recently that I was adopted. I was visited by an old voodoo woman who told me that I had been found on a porch wrapped in swaddling clothes. It was a nativity-like scene. There were animals around me, and I can still feel the cold concrete on my back as I lay there, a lone shaft of light illuminating me and covering me with a warm glow. It was in that state that the people I would learn to call ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ would find me and take me in to raise me as one of their own.

So, having this new information in hand, I resolved to get on a plane and fly back home, and finally confront my adopted parents about my past, about who I really am, and once again say hello to my old pal Reggie, my pet alligator. He has shiny weird teeth like Arthur Pleasant, but he has less blotchy skin.

Now, I didn’t really know how to book a flight on a plane, and the lady at Enterprise seemed confused when I asked her, so I visited a travel agent. It is my understanding that they are able to find reasonably priced um… prices… on things like airplane rides and hotels, and that I should go and visit one. So I DID.

Now, you may be thinking, Scott, how could you go through life entirely without knowing how to travel on an airplane? Well, I’m glad you asked. My family was poor, you insensitive prick. We didn’t have enough money to fly on airplanes. If we wanted to visit somewhere we had to do it the old fashioned way: by tying a polka-dotted bag filled with our possessions onto the end of a stick and then hopping the first train car that was going in the same direction that we were going, like normal people.

Or by car.

But I preferred the trains because I have an affinity for hobo culture. Why, I can play the heck out of a harmonica if you get me in the right mood. I’ve been working on ‘Shake it Off’ by Taylor Swift, but I haven’t gotten it perfected just yet. Do you like Taylor Swift? I caught her Eras tour and I have to say, as the kids say, it was lit. I was also lit, but that’s because there were so many people around me smoking those marijuana cigarettes.

I got sidetracked there.

I said ‘sidetracked’ because it sounds like I’m still talking about trains.

I love trains.

I forgot what I was saying.

OH RIGHT.

I flew back to Miami, the old village I once called home, and I visited my parents. I also videotaped the entire thing because I wanted to document the experience and also because this is a litigious society and you never know.

I would like to play that video for you now.

In the meantime I will take a short bathroom break.

Enjoy.

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”I didn’t mean to come here, and I didn’t mean to stay, it’s just where the sea wind blew me, one accidental day.”

– Cressida Cowell

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The scene opens on a small wooden shack in the Florida swamps. Cicadas are chirping up in the trees, and soft, gentle swamp music is playing. Also everything is in black and white.

The shack is a humble dwelling, jagged wood beams placed together in rows like a puzzle, all of it looking like it had endured decades of rot and weather. A rocking chair is on the porch to one side of the door, rocking back and forth in the wind, or maybe because there is a ghost in it. I will leave that up to your imagination.

Scott Hunter walks up and onto the porch. He is dressed in his ring gear – blue and yellow trunks, blue and yellow arm pads with blue and yellow tassels on each one. And boots. Blue and yellow boots.

As he reaches the door, he raises his hand, pauses introspectively, then knocks on the door three times.

There is no answer, so he knocks again.

The door finally opens, and standing there is his adopted mother, Eugenia. She is a very handsome woman, and by handsome I mean she looks like Burl Ives, only with a thicker beard.

Scott hugs his mother, and a single tear falls from his left eye down his cheek. He wipes it away, making sure to keep any moisture from his mother’s facial hair, then gives her another hug. She gets mad, says, “you already did that, get off of me”, and invites him inside.

Inside the shack finally, Scott’s memories come flooding back. He thinks of the many holidays spent here, the Christmases, the Thanksgivings, the Fourth of Julys, the Labor Days, the Groundhog Days, National Sour Grapes Days, World Oyster Days, and full moons, which are technically not holidays but were always fun.

‘Mom’ gestures for him to sit, so he does. She sits as well, reaches over and turns off the television. They sit in silence for just a bit until Scott finally speaks up.

“Mom, where did I come from?”

She gazes at him lovingly, and she remembers the many quality moments they had spent together, and then with tears in her eyes, lovingly replies…

“The porch.”

Scott nods, pauses, then slaps both hands on his knees and stands up.

“Ok, thanks!”

His mom waves her hands. “No problem!”

And Scott leaves.

Once outside again, he stops and marvels at his surroundings. He looks out on the vast swampy lands of his people, and he thinks about what his ancestors must have done to settle these wild lands. They probably had to learn how to fight off ferocious beasts, how to turn the wilderness into usable farmland and maybe something weird, like wearing shoes. Yes, this was home alright, but no matter what any anonymous voodoo woman says, or anything else, like rumors, hearsay, or clear irrefutable DNA proof, he would always feel connected to this land.

And like his forefathers did, he would step forth into a brave new land, a brave BLUE land. He would go to PRIME, and excel.

As he stands there, he hears the ringtone on his phone and pulls it from his pocket.

What he hears is shocking.

It turns out that his ‘mother’ kept something else from him. And now, he must go on a quest to discover the truth behind another great mystery from his past.

I will stop there, because that is how ‘telling your story’ works, which I have heard is important. And I was also told that you should always leave people wanting more. Therefore, I have shown myself being contemplative, which is a four syllable word, and I have demonstrated that there are interesting things happening in my life.

And now, to put the cherry on top of this delicious fudge sundae, I will leave you with a shocking CLIFFHANGER!!

Ok here goes.

You’re never gonna believe this, I just found out that my mother is actually my – – –

Tune in next time for the exciting next chapter in my story.

But now, I must talk about breaking Arthur Pleasant’s face.

So long.

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”Sometimes the universe uses a nasty person to pull you out of your comfort zone and throw you into an opportunity.”

– Shunya

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Well I have to say, I am a simple boy, a small town high school hero for sure, and a local celebrity probably, and the holder of four records at the putt-putt course by my house, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings.

Arthur Pleasant, today you have hurt those feelings. You hurt those feelings and good.

In the words of a very famous and influential philosopher known only as ‘Donkey’, you cut me deep, Arthur. You cut me real deep just now.

I don’t know why you are so angry. Maybe it’s because you look like you have roadkill on your head, or maybe it’s because it looks like you have two rows of silver chiclets in your mouth, and maybe it looks like your greatest hope in life is to become professional wrestling’s most famous and successful meth addict, I don’t know.

But I do know some things, more than you apparently think I know.

You look at me and you think I’m just here to crack jokes, to amuse people, to be a dancing clown with bubbles blowing out of my hiney. But I have news for you, I don’t dance, and that bubble thing was a one time thing so don’t get your hopes up.

I have listened to some of your suggestions because apparently you think you have a real handle on the sorts of things which you think I am all about, but I have to say, your ideas are absolutely terrible.

First of all, I need you to loosen up a little bit, grandma. You’re wound tighter than the girdle on a Baptist minister’s wife at an all you can eat pancake breakfast. Those are more wise words from another famous philosopher named Blanche Devereaux. I don’t even think you are a real person, because if a real person were anything like you they would, one, be in jail, two, be ravaged by STDs, and three, be fired from his job immediately. Obviously these are just jokes. I am after all a funny man, but I don’t actually believe you would be in jail or be fired from your job. I’m pretty sure the STD thing is legitimate though. But for a guy named Art Pleasant, you are certainly not pleasant, and judging by that kindergarten scribble on your left titty muscle, you are no artist either.

* – Please keep in mind that I do not like to use potty language, but I could not think of a more impactful word than ‘titty’, which you just made me say again! Ignore that!

And considering that you have clearly demonstrated that you are an absolute moron with rocks for brains and tiny little marbles for testicles, why in the world would I care about anything you have to say about me? You say I’m dumb. Maybe I am. Does that mean I can’t make you submit? Is that what it means? You don’t like my figure four leg lock? Well I don’t like body odor and butt cheese, and I don’t have to curse every five seconds to get a point across. But I’m the dumb one, right? You’re like a five year old who just learned a dirty word so you beat it into the ground until it no longer has any impact or meaning. Too much of anything gets annoying after a while, you know, like cake, or sitcoms, or you.

See, I may seem simple to you, and it may be all fun and games with me sometimes, but I’m an elite athlete, and you aren’t just a garbage wrestler. You’re a garbage human being. Nobody cares about that oh so introspective look into your past as a walking car wreck. That’s the real reason why you came back to the states, because no one cared about you. No one cared. No one watched, and no one cared. I did a survey where I asked six billion people who live on planet Earth if they cared about you and the results predictably showed that absolutely not a single person we asked cared about you in any way shape or form, and over eighty percent of those same people thought you were also dumb. So who’s dumb now???

SURVEY SAYS!!

YOU ARE!!

So you show up here in the States, and now to quote another not so famous philosopher, Arthur Pleasant…

Then, you started losing.

And losing.

And losing.

And losing.

And now, the poor baby says his pee pee hurts and he’s big big mad. Does garbage baby need his binky? Does garbage baby need diapey changed? Does garbage baby ever shut up?

See I may not be a man of big words, and I may not be able to solve complex math problems, or clever riddles, or most crossword puzzles, but I am an elite athlete, which is something you absolutely are not. You are actually nothing. You’re less than nothing. You can’t even compete here. People still don’t care about you, so why not just leave the States again? I promise you, the overwhelming sound of nobody giving a crap will echo in your misshapen ears while you backstroke back to whatever the heck backwater crap hole you came from, presumably a juvenile delinquent center where the English language is turned into enough four letter words to make a stevedore blush, and apparently, baths are optional.

The only time you have a chance of actually winning a wrestling match is if they roll out dead bodies for you to cover and then pee on, which I know is a hobby for you, but is in fact frowned on in respectable companies. I don’t care about your dumb arsenal or your timing or your defensive maneuvers. You can’t out wrestle me, and that’s a fact. Maybe you don’t understand right now, but you’re gonna learn.

Save me, please from having to watch your little PowerPoint presentation on why you are such an incredible failure mid-match-promotion and just get on with your points when you speak. Again, no one cares. Find something else to talk about, stupid. Stop talking about John Sektor. Who even is that?? And believe me, you can rock back and forth like Rain Man and tell us how ‘done, ****ing done, ***ING DONE” with losing you are, but that’s not how it works. You don’t just come onto television looking like a pile of cookie dough that a blind chef took a meat tenderizer to, say you’re done losing and poof, you stop losing.

And furthermore, you are the last person on Earth who should ever be giving anybody lessons on being funny, Mr. Pleasant. All of your ideas are absolutely terrible. Who wears three-piece suits made out of white tiger kittens?? Everybody knows that yellow tigers make the best suits, you weirdo. And why would you want to take a tour through a veal factory?? Is ‘veal’ even a real word? Are you a real word? Is your mom?

That’s a solid burn right there.

You’re not a killer, Art. Not a single person around here that has crossed your path is dead. The only thing you’ve ever killed is the string of poor dogs you lock up in cages, then leave to starve for three months, which, by the way, is something you’ve talked about so much, you’re so proud of it, and you think it makes you seem demented and dangerous and crazy, but it just makes you seem desperate for attention and acknowledgment. The only thing about you that makes you seem crazy is the fact that you think anyone takes you at all seriously, which they don’t.

YOU ARE TWO AND FOUR, ARTHUR.

You are in no position to talk down to anyone. I’ve got news for you, PAL. I’m gonna run circles around you, and then I’m gonna slap on my not so subtle sarcastic figure four until you scream like a dying water buffalo. You hear me?? A WATER BUFFALO! Now you know I am serious.

You can write me off as a comedian if you want, but you just made the biggest mistake of your life, Arthur, and I’m gonna make you pay for it. And when it’s all said and done, I look forward to the next match you have, where you complain and moan about losing to me, the comedian you treated like a joke, and I’ll be there saying…

What can I say, PRIME?

I told you Arthur Pleasant, the man, wasn’t winning.