Home > 2012-13 Season, Musings of a Decorative Ham Man > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 12, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Chris Vitiello
File photo

The driveway had been cleared and repaved and I instructed the driver to proceed to the top.  He seemed tentative and for a moment there was no movement.  “What is the problem, Throats?” I asked.  Throats fingered the steering wheel.  “I got a feeling, boss.  It came over me suddenly like the odor of freshly-spun cotton candy at a small backyard event overlooking a cracked alley.  This place is damned.”

“You are not the first to offer this mongoloid explanation, Mr. Throats.”  I urged him on.  I was suddenly quite hungry.

At the top, some workmen were listlessly pushing long steel rods beneath rocks or buffing the smooth edges of the quonset huts. I located the foreman, a grim little man with a pinched face and abbreviated womanish feet.  He was running a moistened towel over his forehead and neck and staring down at the earth.  He did not look up at my approach.

I wound the whip around my shoulder.  It was gold-braided and appeared striking against my shapeless purple chemise.

“What is the trouble here?”  I was suddenly hit with a stream of bad air.

“No trouble,” the foreman said, continuing to stare at the dirt.  “We are all hexed, we are all without hope but the quonset huts are excellent.  Better than I expected.  Remarkable staying power, these quonset huts.”

A fiery balloon suddenly crashed into a cliff across the valley.  Screams could be heard in the distance.  Still, the foreman did not look up.  And it was then that I noticed the horrible transmogrification.

It became deathly still.  Throats, who stood beside me in his decorative ham driving uniform, suddenly expired.  The foreman turned his head slightly to stare at the fallen.  He grinned and it was then that I could see that his teeth had dramatically sharpened and that his eyes had turned an ungodly pale shade of green.  I spun and saw that the workers had all gathered together and that they too were changing.  An interminable period of tension ensued.  And then I began running off into the woods.

A path led away from the former seminary and deep into the forest.  Dilapidated religious statuary could be seen every fifty feet and, in several places, small temples, covered in graffiti.   There is no type of person that deserves to be whipped more than the so-called graffiti artist I thought to myself.  But now was no time for such profundity.  The transmogrified were right behind me.

To be continued.

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