Snake and Freaky John strike yet again…

“You know, we never had no nuclear weapons before women got the vote,” Snake declared.

“Post hoc, ergo propter hoc,” Freaky John mumbled into his beer can.”

“Exactly.  We never had no helicopters before they got the vote, either.”

“I said, ‘post hoc, ergo propter hoc,’” clarified Freakster.  “Fuckin’ Latin.  ‘It happened after, so it was caused by.’  I heard it in law school.”

“What the fuck!  Now you’re some kind of Latin scholar, too?”  Snake tossed his hair back and frowned majestically down his nose at Freak.  “Need I remind you that I spent eight fucking years in Catholic school?  I know Latin, and I never heard this ergopocter shit.”

“It’s like a reasoning phrase, is all,” Freakster said reassuringly.  “They were talking about specious arguments and shit today.  Forget about it.”

“Well what the hell does it mean?”

“It means the one ain’t got fuck to do with the other.”

“Oh.  Really.”  Snake scratched his nose and punched the wall.  “Well, pax vo-fucking-biscum, is all I got to say to you.”

Being Methodostic, Freak had no idea what Snake had just said.  Then again, he often didn’t, so he grinned.  “Yeah, man.  Oh, yeah.  Fucking unbelievable.”

“You wanna hear some real Latin?  Listen to this, dickhead: Domine deus in excelsis rex celestis deus pater omnipotent!  Hodie, salvator apparuit!  Jesu dulcis memoria, dans vera cordi fucking gaudia!”

Freaky John nodded.  “Oh, yeah, you’re awesome.  Un-fucking-believable.”

“Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi!” Snake was really getting into it, rolling his R’s and everything.  “Miserere nobis!”

“Habeas corpus,” Freaky John replied.

Snake cocked an eyebrow.  “Oh, yeah? In terra canunt angeli!”

Freak lit up the joint, promptly dropping it into the sofa cushions. “Pro forma,” he concurred, reaching into the sofa cushions and burnin himself as he retrieved the wayward weed.

“Gimme that.”  Snake took a deep hit and passed it back to Freaky John, coughing, “Gloria in excelsis deo.”

“Quid pro quo,” Freakster nodded sagely.

“Et in terra, pax hominibus!”

“Right!”

Snake nodded.  “So.  We’re in agreement, then.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, dude.”

Snake shook Freaky John’s hand.  “All right, man.  It’s not everybody that works out their differences in Latin.  Maybe that law school’s good for you, after all.”

Freakster took a nice long drag and let out a couple of smoke rings.  “And maybe Catholic school was good for you, man.”

“Oh, yeah,” Snake nodded.  “Some of those nuns were fucking hot.”

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Snake and Freaky John strike again….

“I ran into Sheila today,” Snake declared.

“Who?” Freaky John inquired.

“Sheila.  You remember.  From the park.”

“Oh.  Shei-la,” Freak clarified.  “With the toe rings.  Unbelievable.  Where’d you see her?”

Snake stroked his goatee.  “Wasn’t easy, dude.  She’s a hippie, into health and shit, so what I did was, I went to the health food store by the park, right?”

“What health food store?”

“The store with the big sign that says ‘Natural Foods’ on it, dickhead.”

Freakster nodded.  “By the south entrance, right?”

“Sure, whatever.  So I go in, okay?”

“No fuckin’ way.  South entrance, that’s by the music store.  Music store’s got the Chinese by one side and that sewing place on the other.”

Snake swatted the air in front of him.  “I don’t know fuck about north or south, man.  Point is, I was in the store.”  He leaned forward and did another line.

“Unbelievable,” Freaky John mumbled.

Snake wiped his nose and continued.  “Sheila wasn’t there, but I notice they got this rack of magazines, so I go over there and read, you know, waiting to see if she comes in.”

Freaky John shook his head.  “You don’t know north or south.  Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“Shut up!  So after a while, Sheila walks in.  Now, I already got a basket and put some cans into it, look like I’m shopping, right?

“You know which way the sun sets?”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ beat the shit out of you if you don’t shut up.  So I come up next to her and reach for the same thing that she’s reaching for.”  Snake smiled.  “And she sees me.  So she says this – she says, ‘hi.’  And I’m like, ‘Oh, you come here, too?’”

Freak did a line and came up grinning.  “So, you fuck her?”

Snake rolled his eyes majestically.  “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Clearing his throat, Snake continued, “Well, we start chatting, and she says something about being ‘tuned in to her femininity.’  So I explain that I have a gift and I am tuned in to femininity, too.”

Freakster sat up.  “What the fuck?”

“Well, as I explained to Miss Sheila, I can smell when a lady is on the rag.”

“You put your nose between her legs and sniff?  That’s fucking disgusting, man.”

“No, it’s a gift.  I just have to be near her, and I can smell it.”

“Snake, how the fuck do you know?  You sniff and ask if you’re right?”

“I told you, shut up.  Anyway, she was in a hurry so she had to leave.”

“Maybe Sheila was on the rag and got scared you’d sniff her out!”  Freaky John erupted into a giggle fit.

Snake ignored this remark.  “I’ll see her again soon.  She teaches yoga,” he sighed dreamily.

“She probably knows the difference between left and right, too!”

“Shut the fuck up, man.  Shut the fuck up.  You got any beer?”

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Due to an influx of requests, Snake and Freaky John have made a return. – Amy

“Hey, Freak, I won’t be hanging with you tomorrow night,” Snake declared.

“Oh, you got a life now?  Fuckin’ unbelievable,” Freaky John noted.

“No, my sister got me a job at that gallery where she works.  They got some famous painting coming there, so they want some extra security.  You got any more shit there, man?”

The Freakster passed the baggie over.  “What’s the painting, dude?  Does it got any naked chicks in it?”

“I think it’s the Mona Lisa.  Some famous chick, anyway.”

Freaky John scrunched his brows, trying to remember what the Mona Lisa looked like.  He didn’t know fuck about art.  His mind settled vaguely on a picture of clocks dripping off a tree branch.  “Oh, yeah.  I know that one.”

Snake finished rolling the bud and took a deep hit.  Coughing, he explained, “You know, the guy who painted that cut off his ear.”

“Un-fucking-believable.  How do you know all this shit, man?”

Snake looked offended.  “You saying I’m stupid?”

“No,” Freaky John protested, “I’m just…”

Indignant, Snake looked down his nose at the Freakster.  “You changed since you started law school.”

“No, man!  I don’t even understand what the fuck they’re talking about in there.  I’m just saying I’m…”  He smacked himself in the forehead, jarring the right word into his brain.  “Impressed.”

Snake tossed his hair back.  “Well, thank you.  As it happens, I know a lot about art.”

“Word.”  Freaky John grabbed the joint and took a couple much-needed puffs.

“For instance.  The artist who painted this painting that I’m being trusted to guard tomorrow night is sick.”

“With what?”

Snake cocked an eyebrow.  “The evidence isn’t clear, but… I think he has tuberculosis.”

“Really?  Fuck.  How do you know that?”

Snake nodded.  “Because my sister told me that the artist is Flemish.”

“Get.  The fuck.  Out of here.  That is fuckin’ unbelievable, man.”

“God’s honest truth.”

“He’s gonna die or something!”

“Well, you know, he’s famous.  The doctors are probably doing all they can.”

Freaky John patted Snake’s shoulder.  “You tell him from me that I hope he gets better soon.”

“Done.”  Snake looked at the empty baggie.  “Are you hungry?”

Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.