"Looney Balhooney," said the shoemaker, largely stunned by Brad and Boppy's charming duet. "You made a monster out of that tune, brace yourselves!" He was threatening them pure and simple, but they liked it. If the shoemaker did not give them a threat, it would cast a bad omen on the shape of footwear to come.
"I'm stunned," Boppy plopped to the shoemaker's sloppy mop (it speaks!). "Refer me." Looney Balhooney was made of metal. He was tinkering with a bunch of weird little bottles, strutting through his past like a child medallion. The mistakes he made in the past were, for the first time ever, up for debate. It was clearly very odd for the shoemaker to make such a fly by night reference to the two teenage starlets. They had just flown in from Cleveland, after all. It is unwise and altogether un-shoemakerly to bark at them for their studio recordings, rough as they may be.
Due to recent legislation, it was considered uncouth and altogether disrespectful to insult musicians. Hell, it was borderline illegal in Missouri, where they were. Naturally, the shoemaker saw his error almost immediately and started backpedaling like a fucking reverse cyclist.
"Not that there's anything wrong with Looney Balhooney," he shrieked. Although, even just in his intonation one could make out a mere teaspoon of disdain.
"Nevertheless, old shoemaker," Brad began, "these are our master recordings, our studio tapes. To insult them as nonchalantly as you just did hurts us and makes us uncomfortable. We have to spit."
The spitting contest was set for 9:00 PM, colloquially referred to as "Spittin' Time" on any natural Thursday the 18th. This was a Thursday the 18th, so it just happened to perfectly land on Spittin' Time. The shoemaker was at a considerable advantage considering, considerately, that he was but one man. Brad and Boppy made two, he was outmatched. Their distances combined would put him to shame. And as it seemed.
Brad spit so quickly it nearly caught on fire, it was like a gunshot firing all the way around the world, but landing not too far away from where he began. Shit, Brad thought, that didn't go that far. It was now up to Boppy, a natural born spitter, the spitting image of his spithing hound of a father, Foster Williams. The spit formed in his balls, rushed up through his body, collected altogether in his mouth and throat, and was seized out of himself like a disease, it shot nearly a quarter mile down the street.
They're good, the shoemaker thought, but I'm better. "Let's blow," he said, etching his watery face. He jumped up and down, preparing himself for the spit. It came from his toes, gained loose chunky fat from his ankles, and then flowed through his body, yellowing along the way. By the time it reached his mouth it was the most vile mouthful of human spit imaginable. He yucked it out of his mouth like a piece of brain, it flew outwards and landed on a house two towns over.
The game was settled, art lost again.
credits
released August 28, 2021
Written and performed by Soundass.
Mixed by Soundass Josh, one of the many Soundass Night School graduates. He could be you. You could be Josh. You have to be Josh.
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