The Gypsy's Address
“Two for the show!” Strange replied alike.
“Three to get ready!” revving his engine just right.
“Now go, cats, go!” as each raced through the gears down the ramp to the tune of Smokey Robinson’s Get Ready. Just like every time, Penny beat Strange to the big road. And just like every time, Strange waved with a smile as she passed him at ninety miles an hour.
“Well, I’ll be the little engine that could,” said Penny to himself, “’til I try to beat a gypsy that good.”
As we soar in the sky half a mile high, then a mile, watching Penny’s Pete tailing Something’s Ken, I’ll cease my decongesting, though one thing’s left to suggesting: it looks like Old Penny made it home, a big one, no doubt, with stars both in his head and out.
“Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Get ready! Get ready!
“Get Ready! ‘Cause here I come!”
“If your tongue owned greater prudence I’d not be forced to put you to concludence!” shouted Hatfield as he tamped the barrel of his old cannon with a pole.
“You too much tinker, Hatfield, with no thinker! I’m gonna use your throat this ball to sink her!” McCoy answered forty feet away, ready to strike a kitchen match to light the wick to his own vintage cannon. Which both presently did. Then waited for the wicks to sizzle down to the powder.
“If all you wagged, McCoy, weren’t such a bore, I’d not think killing you such a menial chore!”
“Go ahead, bonehead! Shudder and stutter! You know those words you sputter are the last you’ll ever utter!”
Of a sudden, BOOM! BOOM! Kerplunk! Kerplunk! Which was the tidy exchange of each cannonball flying down the barrel of the other it was aimed at. Hatfield looked at his cannon to his right. McCoy looked at his cannon to his left. Neither cannon did a thing. . . For three seconds. . . until each began to shake. Hatfield dove for the earth, McCoy the same, as both ancient pieces of artillery exploded. After the smoke cleared Hatfield saw the front end of his cannon’s barrel resting on the ground. McCoy’s cannon sat lopsided on a broken wheel.
Hatfield stood, walked up to his newly-acquired and much beloved cannon to measure the damage with raised hands: “Aaah!” turning to McCoy: “If you knew how to aim I’d not have to repair it! You better move off my mountain, or when I fix this thang you’ll wear it!”
“If your junk weren’t in my way I’d not have to break it! Once I fix mine you better hope my next blast I don’t fake it!”
At which time the credits rolled to Baby Blue Eyes by the Stray Cats, the copyright disappearing to Elvis on Velvet.
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