Scratch From the Past

La Historia de Los Gatos de Wacky, Wacky*

Many nighttimes ago, in a field far, far away, shrouded by the evening redness of glory past, there tilled a humble farmer by the name of Hector Horatio Banano, or, as legend remembers, "El Padrino de Gatos." A more humble, more pious man the world has never known, and humbly he stood that particular night, overlooking rows of beans like lines in the face of God, stretching plainly and clearly across the horizon into soiled oblivion, each pebble his child, each sapling a drop of his blood laid bare to the face of the sky. He removed his hat and chewed at a dirty fingernail as night painted across the firmament like a silent abyss come to deliver his reckoning, when from the distance shot a bolt of godliness so shattering, so staggering, that it threatened to knock him into the dirt and burn through his eyeballs into the ashey core of his brain. He covered his face with the brim of his hat and spat unto the ground. "Dios mio, chingala," he whispered.

The blinding light subsided into the void and Hector Horatio Banano peered into the stillness of the black air, unbelieving, frightfully kneeling as he made out the lines of a great shadow in the distance. He called out into the dark -
"Con permiso? Esta mi tierra."
But there was no answer.

He inched towards the shadow, holding his breath with each step and praying that the face of evil not yet reveal itself unto his mortality, clenching his hoe sturdily, whispering, "Revelo, puta, revelo ahora," and looking into the night with eyes that might have well been painted onto his face for all the good they achieved, one step, two steps closer, Hector readied himself for murder. Like some sullen volcano without a cap the shadow pshhhhhed air obliviously into the night, and Hector approached soundlessly. When he stood no more than seven paces away, the shadow jumped into form faster than the light itself could cast and stood high on the paws of two hind legs taller than a man, and Hector knew immediately what reflected in the horror of his eyes -
"Gato," he gasped.

Frozen to his stance, Hector watched agape as the shadowed beast lunged forward some inches away from his face, leaning in with a head the size of a boar and fangs longer than snowshoes. The great beast looked into Hector's eyes with the depth of a prayer. Burning exhalations left its nose and fell upon Hector's chest, heaving, the heart about to burst in frantic layers about the plants at his feet. Then from the bowels of the great cavity of the beast came some holy emanation of harmony and peace and absurdity wrapped up into a million vibrating tonges.. PURRRRRRRRR it said, and it filled from edge to edge of the heavens and the beast laid down as it was done and rubbed its shoulder against the feeble man, knocking Hector from his feet, face down into the loam beneath.

"Loco!" Hector said as he picked himself up, greeted again by another vast expanse of shoulder, majesty unlike anything he had ever seen, "Gato Gigante..." And for what seemed to last quite a long time the great beast PURRRRRD and rubbed against Hector and brazenly demonstrated the strength of fifty men, lifting the farmer up onto his shoulders and stretching about the field like the rays of the morning sun, limitlessly.

Hector could feel indentations along either side of the beast, great gaping brandings still smoldering, and he felt along their ridges but could not discern their markings. The beast lied down with astonishing gentility, outstretching fifteen or more rows of the bean field without effort, and Hector jumped down to feel the soil again beneath his feet. He leaned into the beast with his hands and traced into his imagination the branded forms burnt into the immeasurable amounts of fur, letters he could not understand, words he would never know, passions he would never commiserate, not as he swaddled and trained the beast, not as he bred through generations a cat so powerful it could crush nations, not as his tribe multiplied with insurmountable feet and endless glory, no, he would never know the words of his gods and he would never dare ask... Hector Horatio Banano would forever find himself beholden to the words of unspoken divinity, the words...

"WACKY WACKY"

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* This is not an actual history. The name "Wacky Wacky De Los Gatos Locos" was taken from this Onion article mocking an average TV schedule. We took this as a team name in Kickball because we are stupid funny, and because it's a glorious name.

posted by ZHorton at 1:18 PM