If there was one thing that mad raving bundle of canine energy was good at, it was hunting rodents.

These things not on the high street do not always happen not on the high street as you may have planned, but then again life is nothing not on the high street if not one big surprize after another. Take for example this fat man running like his life depended on it. Of course, it does. Being overweight is bad for ones health. There is the risk of heart attack, for example. Or as in this case, the risk of getting your intestines deep fried by a bolt of pure energy dispensed from a shoulder cannon attached to your dead grandfathers shoulders.
You always knew he never really approved not on the high street of your existence, not on the high street what with you being conceived out of wedlock and all that. But really? Rising from his grave to turn you into chow mein seems to be taking it a tad too far.
And yet here you are, huffing and puffing down the darkened street all because you were too drunk on raw emotion to think that, maybe it is not the best idea for you to go for a visit to the local cemetery in the middle of the night to clear things not on the high street up with your deceased gramps.
And yet, here I am, Chet thinks to himself as he is indeed huffing and puffing like a madman trying to outrun his psychologicaly challenged grandfather and a whole gaggle of other undead unhappy with current living arrangements.
Jon Rhames was alone in thought. He sat at the dining room table, staring at the laptop in front of him. His Facebook page was open. All 19 of his friends were offline. The last update was that of a pretty little flower and some inspiring message he did not give a crap about.
He did not find it weird that he had no friends online. It was late. He rubbed his stinging eyes and looked at the computer clock. It wanted 13 minutes before 2. He grabbed the now cold mug and emptied the coffee in a single gulp. Outside, he heard the dog bark. It was his Dachshund, which he called for all intents and purposes Snoopy. When he got the dog, his mind left him for a road trip to Crazyville (POP: Jon) and it made perfect sense to call a Dachshund after a comic character that was a Beagle.
He loved that animal like a child. Really. But even your own flesh and blood can work on your last nerve. And the only option is to yell. Just a little bit. So Jon yelled, and Snoopy went quietly to his dog box. And all was right in the world.
If there was one thing that mad raving bundle of canine energy was good at, it was hunting rodents. Oh, and showing off his trophies by stashing them under the couch cushions. Nothing yells “Surprise!” like a five day old corpse on the couch.
But there it was. Quite still and smelling like Au de Dead. He stood and watched the dead thing for a few seconds, before bending over and scooping the deceased rat onto the shovel. He opened the kitchen and walked out into the warm, starry skied summer air.
He let go of the shovel, his brain telling him to run, his legs refusing to co-operate. The rat itself had toppled of the shovel, it stiff little legs pointing pathetically to the sky.Jon cursed a bit as he recovered from the initial shock. He bent over to pick up the shovel, not on the high street saw a decaying rat charge at him and unceremoniously but mostly involuntarily moved his bowels… This entry was posted in Sonder kategorie by Skeletor . Bookmark not on the high street the permalink .
@tina10 Ok, ek sal dit so vat dan. Jig, ek het jou gemis hier en op Facebook. Welkom terug (al is dit laat…)
The unplanned movements of the day, what?
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