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The Brown Bandits

Putano Chulupe squinted his eyes and heaved.  His gut muscles strained and quivered as beads of fat sweat slid down his face.  He closed his eyelids as the wet salt burned into them.  And soon, the flashes of white light began.
     “Mama…  Mama Rosita!” he groaned in a Mexican accent.
     He remembered Mama Rosita kneading pale brown stretchy dough on the old wood cutting board in the kitchen.  The way she smiled as she pulled it and pounded it with her fists, dashing sprinkles of white flour all over it.
     The warm smell of it filled his nostrils and caressed the dark black hairs in those glorious nasal cavities of his.  He loved the tickling sensation of it.
     The way Mama Rosita would strain as she bent over to open the oven doors and smile with pride as she gazed at the rising brown loafs of heavy bread.  The way she used her oven mittens with tender care as she delicately but firmly pulled out the bread, turned the pan over and shook it over the cutting board so the warm brown loafs of bread would fall out.
     Putano thought of those childhood memories fondly as he squatted in the wilderness of California, and dropped his own warm brown loafs, and smiled as he saw the steam of them rise up around his face.
     He heard the rustling of a nearby bush and pulled up his pants in a sudden rage. He stomped around to the other side of the bush and saw a deer eating some blue flowers.  The deer looked up at him and blinked.
     “How fucking dare you interrupt me in my…” he cracked his neck.  “Sanctuary!”
     The deer bolted through the forest.  He charged after it.  He soon lost it and stopped running to catch his breath.
     Gasping for air he screamed: “If I ever see your ugly horse’s ass again I’ll take a fucking dildo to it!”
     Putano’s son, Obanion Gremler, honked the horn in the station wagon twice and waited for his father’s return.  A few seconds later Putano stumbled out of the forest sweating.  He walked over to the station wagon and got in.
     “God I love shitting in the wild…  You know, Pedro, if you kids don’t take care of the world better there won’t be any good forests to shit in anymore,” Putano said.
     “Who the fuck is Pedro?” his son asked.
     Putano started the motor up and pulled away from the side of the road and back onto the freeway.
     “I know you’re only twelve, Pedro…” Putano put his right hand on his son’s shoulder.  “But your bowels already show signs of promise.”
     “My name is Obanion,” Obanion said.
     “Your bowels have made me proud.”
     “It’s Obanion.  We are Irish, remember?”
     “I wish your mother could’ve seen your bowels.  She would’ve been so happy.”
     Obanion took out a vial of medication and began to open it.
     “No!” Putano screamed.  “No more fucking Candy!  I will not poison my body or soul with it.”
     Putano pulled the station wagon over at a rest stop and drove up to the doors of the rest rooms.  He turned to Obanion.
     “Keep the engine hot…  I smell truckers in there and when I come out there’s a good chance they are gonna be after me.  So get ready to drive.”
     “Dad, I don’t think we should do this.  This is the sixth time today.  It’s just pushing our luck.”
     “Boy, we’re on a mission from the Board of Health.  We can’t fail them.  If we do, it’ll be total anarchy.”
     Putano got out of the station wagon.  He went to the back seat, grabbed a black medical bag, and walked into the restroom.
     Three truckers were in the three available stalls, and one of them was at a urinal pissing and whistling at the same time.  The truckers in the stalls were having a game at who could make the most noise.
     Putano sniffed the air and smiled.  The fruit was ripe for the picking, he thought.
     “Ahem…” he said.
     The truckers grew quiet, in a manner of speaking, and the trucker pissing looked over at him.  Putano had a strange look about him.  He looked like an English professor in a tweed coat, red bow tie and black rimmed glasses.
     “Excuse me…  If you gentlemen would be nice enough not to flush your toilets when you’re done expelling your self, I would be very happy.  In fact I would be willing to compensate you with a dollar each,” Putano said.
     The truckers were silent for a second and then they all burst out laughing.  Putano just sighed and waited for them to quiet down.
     One of them said over the laughing.  “Don’t flush boys, I think he wants to eat it,” they all laughed some more.
     The truckers came out of the bathroom stalls and zipped up.  They wore red and blue flannel shirts.  They smiled at each other and shook their heads when they saw him standing there.
     “What kind of a fucking queer are you?” one of them asked.
     “Sir…  I need your feces,” Putano said with a straight face.
     “My what?” the trucker asked.
     “Your feces.”
     The truckers looked at each other confused.  The leader spoke up.
     “I don’t know what that means…  But I’m gonna kill you anyway.  It just sounds wrong.”
     The three truckers started to walk towards Putano.  Putano just sighed and then pulled a .357 Magnum out of the medical bag and pointed it at them.  He clicked the hammer back and they flinched.  The trucker that was pissing began to piss on his shoe.
     “You!” Putano yelled at the pissing trucker.
     “Yes,” he said.
     “What’s your name?”
     “Bob.”
     “Bob…  What is that?  Canadian?” Putano asked.
     “I’m not really sure.”
     “Fucking Canadians…  Get out of here.  I don’t need samples from a Canadian.  And put your dingus away.  You’re making a mess.”
     “Okay.”
     Bob shook off, zipped up and walked out of the bathroom as fast as he could.
     “Samples?  What the hell do you want from us?” the leader asked.
     “I want your feces,” Putano said.
     He threw the medical bag on the ground in front of them.  “You’ll find the specimen cups in there,” he said to them.
     About three minutes later Putano ran out of the bathroom with the bag in one hand and the gun in the other.  His son leaned over from the driver’s side and opened the passenger side door.  Putano jumped in
     “Go!  Go!  Go!”  Putano screamed and his son peeled off.  Putano reached around under the seats and grabbed an 8 track tape and slapped it in.  It began to play The Lone Ranger music.
     The truckers ran out of the bathroom red in the face and screamed curses at him.  They went over to their trucks, but before they could get them started a sheriff from a nearby town pulled up with his lights flashing.  He jumped out of his car and ran up to the telephone booth where Bob had called the police from.
     “What happened?” the sheriff asked Bob.
     Bob pointed to the other truckers and they got out of their rigs and came over to the Sheriff.
     “What’s this about a man with a gun?” the sheriff asked them.
     None of them answered.
     “Well come on?  What happened?  Where is he?”
     “He took off,” the leader said.
     “Well what did he do?”
     “He stole our thesis.”
     “You what?”
     “Our thesis…  I can’t believe you called the cops,” he snarled at Bob.  Bob just shrugged his shoulders.
     “What was your thesis about?” the sheriff asked.
     “Well it was brown… What the fuck else do you think it was about?”
     “I don’t understand,” the sheriff said.
     “He stole our thesis.  Our shit.  Our droppings.  Our crap.”
     “Your feces…  Are you fucking putting me on?”
     “No…”
     “Why would he want to steal your shit?  Did you boys swallow diamonds or something?”
     “No, how the fuck should I know why he stole it?”
     “Well, if I catch him do you want to fill out a form to get your…  property back?” the sheriff asked while laughing at them.
     “Well, he actually didn’t steal it…  He gave us a dollar each,” the other trucker said.
     The sheriff just held his belly and laughed.  In the distance, the station wagon disappeared behind a cloud of brown dust.
     Obanion looked over at his father.  He was coughing and sweating.
     “Dad?” Obanion asked.
     Putano coughed some more.  A stream of blood began pouring out of his right nostril and Obanion pulled off the road and stopped the car.  His father started coughing blood.
     “Dad?  Dad!  Did they shoot you?  Are you hit?” he began to looking for wounds on his father.
     “I’m okay…” his father said.
     Obanion started the car.  His father reached over and took the keys out of the ignition.
     “No,” Putano said.
     “But we got to go to a hospital.”
     “No.  I’m not going back…”
     “But you’re gonna die.”
     His father smiled.  “Yea…” he said.  “So pay attention to what I have to say.”
     Obanion was silent.
     “Someday…  This sickness will come for you.  Until then, enjoy your life and remember this simple philosophy.”
     Putano reached over with his left hand and took a hold of Obanion’s.  He looked at his son’s little fingers.
     “Man only needs three things to survive.  Water, food…”
     Putano stopped as if he heard something.  Slowly he turned his head to the left and looked up.  He stared at some point in space for roughly three seconds.  His cheek twitched and then he looked back at Obanion.
     “And thirty seven pounds of fluid resistant pornography.”
     Obanion blinked.
     “Everything else… is just semantics.”
     Putano leaned his head back and went to sleep.

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