Well, I ain’t no chopper, baby.
Didn’t come to mist your crops.
I just got the drop on this lamb.
Gonna drop ‘im on those rocks.
Yeah, I’m gonna drop in for dinner,
get right at his innards. Gonna daub
my masticating mouth bits with his
Soft little fleece suit. Little fleece suit.
Got here through a wormhole, babe.
Ain’t May 2004 where I’m from, hon!
Sorry to cause so much trouble.
Sorry to bust your time/space bubble.
I’m just an eight-foot dragonfly.
Relax. Yer too skinny to scarf.
Don’t do cotton burritos in bikinis,
even itsy bitsy teeny weeny polka-dotted ones.
Fifties caught up with you, babe.
Cold war fantasies of giant radioactive
ants had you freaked. I just decided
to visit, spin a few platters from the past..
Cop some fast food, cruise the valley
with my top down, so to speak.
Grab a sheep. Go on the lam
before heading back to my Cretaceous crib.
G-g-g giant d-d-dragonfly!
Don’t go flub flub flub
When I’m in flyin’mode. Just hover, hon.
Suck back a few sanguine shakes.
Meganuera monyi, Cretacious cutie.
Gonna sock it to you, babe,
in psychedelic moire colours,
all four wings ablaze!
Leda only had a Don Juan
gone-by-dawn swan, sweetheart –
a smooth talker, great lover maybe –
but he knocked you up, didn’t he?
I may be more mechanical,
But I can dance on a dime,
hover, feint left or right
better than your best boxer.
Hey! I’ve got compound eyes.
I see you comin’ and goin’.
Know all three of my right feet
from my left. Am totally tubular!
Fast shuffle, fox tot, waltz –
I got ‘em covered. Flap flap.
Don’t need a gat, pork pie,
Zoot suit, or any flim flam scam.
Zzz Zzzz Zzz. C’mon, honey,
Shake your money maker!
I’m the dude who can take you
to another era. Fly with me!
Richard Stevenson recently retired from a thirty-year teaching gig at Lethbridge College . His most recent books are Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders, a long poem sequence (Dreaming Big Publications, USA, 2017), and A Gaggle of Geese, haikai poems and sequences, ( Alba Publications, UK,2017 )
This story first appeared in Infernal Ink.
“I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t be in my office, I have a 10:30 appointment.”
“Not with Harald Bremer you don’t. I canceled and rescheduled him. It’s okay, anxiety about his domineering mother isn’t life threatening.”
The man in the client’s chair was a stranger, obese and balding. George was sure he’d never seen him before. “How did you get in here? How could you know about Harald? I’m calling security.”
“Don’t get your panties puckered. George. You called me in.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Oh yes you did, lover boy. Whining to yourself about Adele. Did you know she’s still occasionally mercy humping her ex-boyfriend? You keep inwardly begging for help to get her back. Okay, I’m a problem solver, here I am.”
“Here you are what? Who are you to try and meddle in my personal affairs?
“Not who, what. I’m your good fairy, and better than you deserve. Call me Josea.”
“You’re crazy. If fairies existed they’d be cute little elfin women.”
Josea sighed. George noticed sweat rings under Josea’s arms and a goaty odor crept across the desk.
“I’m a guy fairy, George. I help lost hunters, wounded warriors, bowlers looking for a 300 game, that kind of stuff. ”
Josea might turn violent and George knew to humor him until help showed up. “So what are you doing here, I’m none of those things.”
“No, for sure you’re not. What I do is nothing like the glutinous pap you offer up to clients. Maybe too different. But I’m here because I was rated as excessively macho and ordered into sensitivity training. You’re my first test case, and you’ll be getting a phone call after we’re done and asked to grade my performance.
“So let’s get to it. This Adele broad dumped you. I’ve got a solution…”
“Adele and I had communication issues that are none of your business!” George shifted into his most caring voice. “You clearly have issues, Josea, I’ll just make a phone call and arrange for you to get help…”
“You half-melted marshmallow. Communication issues my ass. Okay, you don’t believe me. Here’s a couple signs and wonders. Hold out your hand, palm up.”
“Just do it.”
George held out his hand, empty palm up and a gold coin appeared in it.
“It’s a twenty dollar gold piece, worth about three grand to a collector. Stick it in your pocket. Okay, encore. Your performance issues with Adele. You will now become tumescent, and this tumescence will be maintained until I leave. You can recover this firmness any time by just saying my name, and lose it by saying yours. If you get Adele to jump back into bed with you, most of your problem will be solved.”
George felt a trouser tightening. “What? How? I’m an atheist, I don’t believe in God.”
“You’re confused. I’m no guardian angel, I don’t do spiritual. I’m a fairy, I handle earthly desires and fears.”
George’s shoulders slumped. “She said she never wants to see me again, that we were incompatible…”
“Duh. Don’t over analyze. Get the basics right and you can fake the rest, you’re trained for it. You know when she works out. Go to the health club at the same time and wear a nice tight pair of spandex shorts. When she sees the proof of your affection, I’m pretty sure she’ll go out for a drink with you.”
“I’m not going to make an obscene spectacle of myself in public.”
“Just face her and not the rest of the gym. She liked you before despite your obvious deficiencies, think how she’ll feel about you if she’s content. Okay, think that handles your problem. Now about mine. You’re a counselor, you can appreciate the trauma I’d undergo if I get canned from my good fairy gig. Mano a mano, when they call you need to tell them how sensitively I handled your sex problem.
Resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. Original wife, but after forty five years we are both out of warranty. Have had forty seven stories published so far, most also reprinted. Web site: swampgasworks.com