The mayor of Chim-Chimney, Dr. Esquire, L.L.C., had recently banned penis-fighting, due to the recent egg famine taking place. “We duly need our protein, our cholesterol--please be assured that I will not let this town go down without a fight, without our blood pressure,” Dr. Esquire, L.L.C, the mayor of Chim-Chinmey, addressed last Thursday, during the town meeting held at the neighboring town, which has no name, but a better town square; we don’t exactly have a town square, but more of a town oblong, and this had caused great problems when the community met to discuss matters of Chim-Chimney because they don’t know where to stand in such a shape: “We want a square,” they would complain.
“Thus, hereby, I have banned all chicken squabbling until we more eggs, but let it be known and understood--I want you all to comprehend that we can replace the penii, that’s plural for cocks, with squirrels.” I tell my friend, Pazlo-lo to hold my money. “Going to talk to the man torn in half,” I say. “Get me a chicken sandwich when you come back,” Paz says. The unstitched man didn’t notice me walking toward him. “You’re torn in half,” I say.
“Hurts?” He doesn’t nod. “Go see a doctor and get that fixed.” He leans against the tiny oak try and stretches his arms--I think his shoulder is about to fall off. “What happened?” He speaks: “Electricity. I was in the swimming pool at the lake. A lady threw a radio, a toaster, and a TV into the pool.”
“And that’s what tore you in half?” “Nopes. The lady did. She was electric. Electrifying. I don’t think she even threw anything into the pool. It was just her dipping her pretty painted toes into the pool at the lake. Full of sparks and wires. And then when she jumped into the pool, I was torn right down through the heart. You should have seen her eyebrows.” “You drunk or skunked or something?” “In love.” “Dummy.” I walk away, back to the squirrel fight, stopping on my way to buy a chicken sandwich for Paz. While waiting in line at the stall, I turn around and look at the man. He isn't there anymore, but I see a lady sitting underneath a sycamore tree. She's wearing a white dress. Her hair is long and black. She's not wearing shoes. "Hold my spot," I tell Paz. He's standing ahead of me in the line buying a chicken sandwich.
"I'm going to talk to the lady with no shoes." "You don't have to get me a sandwich anymore," Paz says. "Your loss," I say. Under the sycamore tree, I talk to this lady. Her eyebrows are thin, arching like rainbows over her eyes. "Did you tear a man in half?" I ask. She takes a puff of her cigarette. I couldn't stop looking at her pink painted toenails. "It's happened before," she says. "Not my fault though--I just go about my business."
"If you think so." She stands up and kisses me on the cheek and walks away. With the sunlight, I can kind of see through her dress--like some x-ray thing. I try not to look, but I watch her as she disappears. There's shouting in the background--I guess a squirrel has won, and the other squirrel has lost its tail. I go back to the crowd, where Pazlo-lo is standing with a chicken sandwich. "What happened to you?" he asks. I look down and see that my knees are wobbling--like they're loosening up, and the ligaments and tendons are weakening. I fall over, face first, into the dirt. "You should have seen her dress," I say. Bio: Shome Dasgupta's writing has appeared in Mud Luscious, Sein Und Werden, Lit Chaos, Cafe Irreal, Frame Lines Magazine, and elsewhere. He received an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University-Los Angeles and lives in Lafayette, LA.
So we’re at the squirrel fight. Everyone with their pennies and nickels in their hands, shouting, rooting for their squirrel of choice. I see a man standing 10 feet behind everyone, underneath a tiny oak tree. The man is torn in half. Well, not so much in half, like not straight down the middle, through his head, dividing the body into equal parts, but more like, torn down through the shoulder to his feet. I can see his clavicle bone--yellow and stained, just like my own teeth, and the red, tenuous muscle covered in stale leaves, and even through that, the highways and interstates of veins and arteries, with blood crawling to and fro, like tired ants. A bit of his heart was exposed too, barely bumping, more like falling asleep.
He nods.
"Where you going?" Paz asks.
"You're pretty, right?" I ask.