The Para-Idiotic Table
By Ralph Puglisi
Hologram tattoos don’t come around these here parts too often. Like or not, bitter and sweet, tit-for-tat, butter for fat, I had to git mine back. YessireeBob, ‘ol Beezle-Bub up yonder in a roadhouse had mine hostage…Well, my soul wuz actually in dat there tattoo, as such, and so forth, and what not.
My Mammy always told me to never look directly into the sun when I was a youngin’, and never sell your soul to the Devil. Well, thunderin’ tarnation, I always thought it was a little funny-like, that the selling of a soul could only come down to a sig-nee-ture and a piece of measly ‘ol paper. Surely, the Elemental Father in Heaven yonder upwards had a higher ree-gard for his ultimate creation and everything like dat dere, to let ‘ol Lu-cee-fur get a hold of a soul so easily.
“In a pig’s eye!” I told my Mammy. “Selling a soul to the Devil, sounds about as useless as someone trying to swallow themselves up whole, like a cannibal vacuum cleaner and such…Naw, Naw; I aim to try just dat dere—uh-selling and uh-dealing.”
And that’s what I just did.
I found that Hell-fire sonofagun late one night and told him, “Lookie here, old goat-face-has-been; gimme some paper ter sign and you can have my eternal soul right-quick.”
Sweet moe-lasses, he obliged.
After words, that crazy galoot done soaked up the ink with his hairy tail and swatted it on his arm like a brisk bolt of lightnin’!
That, right thar, was thee very first holographic tattoo I had ever seent. Wouldn’t you know it, it formed the shape of a heart with ‘DAD’ written in it, and an arrow shot through the middle.
Ta be honest wich‘ya, I felt mighty cold right quick—like an iceberg done lost its way in the middle of an arctic snowstorm. Right then and there I knew I had ter git my soul back, toot sweet.
After such, I had a quick spell with the local reverend, Father Frankie, and we got ta chawin’ and jawin’ and chewing the ‘mental cud’, and I told him about what had just happened…Laaand sakes alive; did he tear inta me somethin’ fierce! “Dontyaknow, boy, that the soul is a real and powerful thing?” Right quick then, he showed me a chart of the periodic table, and slammed each and every dee-stinguished square with a ruler uh-screaming, “Each and every one of these here elements, togethuh, emphatically and empirically proves that the soul is a real and tangible thing! You bettuh git yo soul back, boy, before our goodLordinHeaven forgits about yoo.”
Dat’ll do it!
As I tore off down the path and back up yonder to the sleazy roadhouse, I could still hear Father Frank uh-yelling behind me, “To Hell and back with ‘idle hands’…It’s ‘idle minds’, young man, ‘idle minds’…”
When I reached the hellish throne at the back of the palace-roadhouse, I had a few sheepish words for the Infernal occupant. I engaged my southern charm, full steam ahead, and my tongue blistered out, “Your Evil-ship-ness, may I pleaze have my soul back? Uh-pretty pleaze?
Thunderin’ tarnation did he ever ex-plode with laughter. He rattled his face into mine and bellowed, “Only if you can rescue the ink from my Tat, can you retract and gain your soul back!”
“I caint,” I says, “I simply just caint!”
“I’ll tell you wuzzup,” the Devil fired back at me, “If you can think of a task, that I can’t perform, then I’ll set you free.”
Sweet maple syrup! As soon as he said that, I uh-said back wit a mighty fine whoop, “PAINT MY FART PINK!”
…And the Devil himself fell over laughing, and uh-sufficatin’, and past out right there in front of me. Honest to goot-nest!
I seized my chance and tore into his sulfur-laced arms like a jackrabbit on steer-roids, sucking out every last there drop of borrowed ink, and then swallowing faster than a cannibal vacuum cleaner could gorge in on itself.
Yee-haw, I finally had my soul back—dangtootin’dangright!
But just like that, bitter to sweet, tit-for-tat, butter-for-fat, I up and died from ink poisonin’…Dang it all!
…And here I sit, at the kiddy-table, in the back corner of Heaven with a Dunce Cap on uh-top of my head.
To be honest wich‘ya, I thought I might have gotten a ree-ward or somethin’ for uh-gettin’ my soul back and all…
But…I uh-reckon…At least I’m in uh-Heaven…
- - -
Ralph Puglisi is an amateur writer just recently sticking his big toes in the literary waters of the publishing world. He is currently attending school to obtain a degree in English. Puglisi has been published in 'Verbicide Magazine.'
By Ralph Puglisi
Hologram tattoos don’t come around these here parts too often. Like or not, bitter and sweet, tit-for-tat, butter for fat, I had to git mine back. YessireeBob, ‘ol Beezle-Bub up yonder in a roadhouse had mine hostage…Well, my soul wuz actually in dat there tattoo, as such, and so forth, and what not.
My Mammy always told me to never look directly into the sun when I was a youngin’, and never sell your soul to the Devil. Well, thunderin’ tarnation, I always thought it was a little funny-like, that the selling of a soul could only come down to a sig-nee-ture and a piece of measly ‘ol paper. Surely, the Elemental Father in Heaven yonder upwards had a higher ree-gard for his ultimate creation and everything like dat dere, to let ‘ol Lu-cee-fur get a hold of a soul so easily.
“In a pig’s eye!” I told my Mammy. “Selling a soul to the Devil, sounds about as useless as someone trying to swallow themselves up whole, like a cannibal vacuum cleaner and such…Naw, Naw; I aim to try just dat dere—uh-selling and uh-dealing.”
And that’s what I just did.
I found that Hell-fire sonofagun late one night and told him, “Lookie here, old goat-face-has-been; gimme some paper ter sign and you can have my eternal soul right-quick.”
Sweet moe-lasses, he obliged.
After words, that crazy galoot done soaked up the ink with his hairy tail and swatted it on his arm like a brisk bolt of lightnin’!
That, right thar, was thee very first holographic tattoo I had ever seent. Wouldn’t you know it, it formed the shape of a heart with ‘DAD’ written in it, and an arrow shot through the middle.
Ta be honest wich‘ya, I felt mighty cold right quick—like an iceberg done lost its way in the middle of an arctic snowstorm. Right then and there I knew I had ter git my soul back, toot sweet.
After such, I had a quick spell with the local reverend, Father Frankie, and we got ta chawin’ and jawin’ and chewing the ‘mental cud’, and I told him about what had just happened…Laaand sakes alive; did he tear inta me somethin’ fierce! “Dontyaknow, boy, that the soul is a real and powerful thing?” Right quick then, he showed me a chart of the periodic table, and slammed each and every dee-stinguished square with a ruler uh-screaming, “Each and every one of these here elements, togethuh, emphatically and empirically proves that the soul is a real and tangible thing! You bettuh git yo soul back, boy, before our goodLordinHeaven forgits about yoo.”
Dat’ll do it!
As I tore off down the path and back up yonder to the sleazy roadhouse, I could still hear Father Frank uh-yelling behind me, “To Hell and back with ‘idle hands’…It’s ‘idle minds’, young man, ‘idle minds’…”
When I reached the hellish throne at the back of the palace-roadhouse, I had a few sheepish words for the Infernal occupant. I engaged my southern charm, full steam ahead, and my tongue blistered out, “Your Evil-ship-ness, may I pleaze have my soul back? Uh-pretty pleaze?
Thunderin’ tarnation did he ever ex-plode with laughter. He rattled his face into mine and bellowed, “Only if you can rescue the ink from my Tat, can you retract and gain your soul back!”
“I caint,” I says, “I simply just caint!”
“I’ll tell you wuzzup,” the Devil fired back at me, “If you can think of a task, that I can’t perform, then I’ll set you free.”
Sweet maple syrup! As soon as he said that, I uh-said back wit a mighty fine whoop, “PAINT MY FART PINK!”
…And the Devil himself fell over laughing, and uh-sufficatin’, and past out right there in front of me. Honest to goot-nest!
I seized my chance and tore into his sulfur-laced arms like a jackrabbit on steer-roids, sucking out every last there drop of borrowed ink, and then swallowing faster than a cannibal vacuum cleaner could gorge in on itself.
Yee-haw, I finally had my soul back—dangtootin’dangright!
But just like that, bitter to sweet, tit-for-tat, butter-for-fat, I up and died from ink poisonin’…Dang it all!
…And here I sit, at the kiddy-table, in the back corner of Heaven with a Dunce Cap on uh-top of my head.
To be honest wich‘ya, I thought I might have gotten a ree-ward or somethin’ for uh-gettin’ my soul back and all…
But…I uh-reckon…At least I’m in uh-Heaven…
- - -
Ralph Puglisi is an amateur writer just recently sticking his big toes in the literary waters of the publishing world. He is currently attending school to obtain a degree in English. Puglisi has been published in 'Verbicide Magazine.'
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Great story!!! Liked your experimental play with diction.
Great Story!!! I really liked your experimental play with diction.