Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain Apocalypse (Slight Return)
Wednesday I went to work and work was work. Jeff was calling the shots on the cook’s line and he was all business. He didn’t acknowledge me. I saw Ricky behind the line, too…half his face was black and purple---Bob was right; I did a real job on him. The silent treatment was a drag, but if it was the price I had to pay to shut that dickhead up and get him off my back, well, the price was small.
Candi was working behind the salad bar. She, like the other two, refused to look up. That was fine---I didn’t want to deal with her either.
I heard the familiar “BEEAAAAAAAAAOOOWWWRRRGHHHHP!” Out by the Banquet area, followed by Fat Brad’s whiney, nasal rebuke. Uncle Drew, the founder of my feast was on the case. I came around the corner and sidled up to him. Drew was dealing with two kettles full of soup stock.
“The Reverend Uncle Drew,” I hailed him, “the one living Cat Master!”
“Dude, lay off on that shit for now, okay?”
“Can’t help it, man, I seen the light. My soul was saved by the Flying Cats!”
“My ass could get skinned alive by the flying cats,” he said. “Ixnay on the atscay.”
C.F. Roberts is a writer, visual artist, videographer and antimusician living in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, writer Heather Drain and a small menagerie of animals. He published and edited SHOCKBOX: The Literary/Art Magazine with Teeth from 1991 to 1996. He sings lead for the rock band, the S.E. Apocalypse Krew while also commandeering his own industrial project, 90 Lb. Tumor. He most recent publication credits are in Fearless, Paraphilia, Pressure Press Presents, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Blue Collar Review, Corvus Review, Antique Children, and Guerilla Genesis Press. His book, The Meat Factory and Other Stories, is available from Alien Buddha Press.
