The Silverfish truck rounded the corner at breakneck speed, the driver’s assistant hanging off the door hinge, arms flailing out the passenger side window. Rounding the corner, the engine screaming, the Mercury Fish truck careened into oncoming traffic, the skinner leaping out of the way a second time, the truck keeling like a rudderless ship. Lela skipped across the pavement like a one-legged ragdoll, the Silverfish truck leaving a spoil of fish oil and exhaust in its wake. ‘…Thuringii…!’ hollered the eldest Arbëreshë brother, his face reddening. ‘…Marcomanni…!’ yipped the youngest brother, ‘…come…!’ The littlest dogman shimmied down the fichus tree and stood beneath the Seder’s awning. ‘…Maringgii…’ he bellowed, ‘…sit…’.
They gathered in front of the Waymart to celebrate Día de los Muertos, the man in the hat standing furthest from the front, Dejesus standing next to the Witness, both men standing beside the legless man who, seated on his pushcart, flailed his hands in the air signaling for everyone to quiet down. ‘…where’s the damn dog…?’ yelled a man at the back of the gathering. ‘…yes, the infernal damn dog…?’ yelled another man hidden behind a man carrying a twisted umbrella. ‘…you must all quiet down…’ yelled the legless man, ‘…today is not the day to be bickering about lost dogs…’. A man with a bearish face yelled ‘…and when is that day…?. ‘…yes, when…? bawled a woman in Kurdish sunbonnet, her misfit child wailing beside her. Dejesus spoke up, the Witness casting a desecrated gaze on the gathering, and said ‘…enough of your squabbling, we have more important things to do...’. From the back of the gathering, his favorite Día de los Muertos hat on his head, the man in the hat whispered ‘…he was good, skillet fried with pearl onions and sweet briar…’.
A vicar from Saint Bonior de Bournemouth gave a eulogy for all those souls lost to purgatory and the depths of hell, stopping briefly to swat a fly that had alit on the bulb of his nose. ‘…blessed are the dead, for they shall disinherit the dirt…’ said the vicar, the gathering pushing closer. ‘…the sky is falling…’ screeched a woman, her lips trembling. ‘…falling faster than a fast…’ screamed a second woman, her eyes red with fear. ‘…the dog…’ said the eldest Arbëreshë brother, ‘…we must find the infernal dog…’. ‘…fuck the damn dog…!’ yelled Dejesus, the Witness fiddling with the button on his shirt pocket. ‘…Día de Los Muertos…’ bawled the legless man, ‘…Muertos de la Vega...’. Dejesus listened to the vicar deliver his sermon, the Witness mumbling ‘…la puerta es cerrada, la puerta es cerrada…’. ‘…de deur is gesloten…’ whispered the man in the hat, ‘…open de deur, tevreden…’. ‘…dove è il cane…’ yelled the youngest Arbëreshë brother, the eldest brother throwing stones at the vicar, the sky over the Waymart clock black as tarpaper.
They gathered in front of the Waymart to celebrate Día de los Muertos, the man in the hat standing furthest from the front, Dejesus standing next to the Witness, both men standing beside the legless man who, seated on his pushcart, flailed his hands in the air signaling for everyone to quiet down. ‘…where’s the damn dog…?’ yelled a man at the back of the gathering. ‘…yes, the infernal damn dog…?’ yelled another man hidden behind a man carrying a twisted umbrella. ‘…you must all quiet down…’ yelled the legless man, ‘…today is not the day to be bickering about lost dogs…’. A man with a bearish face yelled ‘…and when is that day…?. ‘…yes, when…? bawled a woman in Kurdish sunbonnet, her misfit child wailing beside her. Dejesus spoke up, the Witness casting a desecrated gaze on the gathering, and said ‘…enough of your squabbling, we have more important things to do...’. From the back of the gathering, his favorite Día de los Muertos hat on his head, the man in the hat whispered ‘…he was good, skillet fried with pearl onions and sweet briar…’.
A vicar from Saint Bonior de Bournemouth gave a eulogy for all those souls lost to purgatory and the depths of hell, stopping briefly to swat a fly that had alit on the bulb of his nose. ‘…blessed are the dead, for they shall disinherit the dirt…’ said the vicar, the gathering pushing closer. ‘…the sky is falling…’ screeched a woman, her lips trembling. ‘…falling faster than a fast…’ screamed a second woman, her eyes red with fear. ‘…the dog…’ said the eldest Arbëreshë brother, ‘…we must find the infernal dog…’. ‘…fuck the damn dog…!’ yelled Dejesus, the Witness fiddling with the button on his shirt pocket. ‘…Día de Los Muertos…’ bawled the legless man, ‘…Muertos de la Vega...’. Dejesus listened to the vicar deliver his sermon, the Witness mumbling ‘…la puerta es cerrada, la puerta es cerrada…’. ‘…de deur is gesloten…’ whispered the man in the hat, ‘…open de deur, tevreden…’. ‘…dove è il cane…’ yelled the youngest Arbëreshë brother, the eldest brother throwing stones at the vicar, the sky over the Waymart clock black as tarpaper.
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