Sam Pink - Witch Piss

We both agreed: it would be really nice.

I asked him how many points this mission would be worth, because sometimes he referenced things in terms of points, like a videogame.

“Dah, gotta be nuts. Fuckin, 50 thousand easy, du.”

Back at the vacant lot, Janet was playing a game on her cellphone, music on loud.

“Yay,” she said. “I, luh, luff camping, beb. Shit. Dayum. Heh.”

Spider-Man and I tried to set up the tent and we almost completed it but then the last piece was broken.

Defeat.

Felt like I could’ve made the tent work somehow if I had like an hour to search the lot and nearby alleys.

But no.

Spider-Man said fuck it, he just wanted the tarps, to wrap him and Janet up at night…“human taco style.”

He demonstrated with his hands, slapping them down over each other.

“Human taco,” I said.

Janet turned over a little with her bare ass hanging out of the sleeping bag. “I wanna be a, a taco, beb. Shit. Heh.”

Spider-Man had both palms up, slapping one down then the other on top.

“Shwoop shwoop,” he said, laughing. “Wrapped up like a motherfucker!”

I said, “Oh, I met Ms. Meow Meow and uh, Bluey.”

“Bloo-AY!” Spider-Man yelled. “Hayo yeah. Those her babies.”

Janet reminded him he’d promised to get her a real dog when they settled in Vegas.

“You said, beb,” she said.

Spider-Man nodded, looking at the ground.

“An a kitty,” she said.

“Shit, I ain buyin no farm!” Spider-Man said, looking up. “Fuckatta here! What?!” He shook his head. “That’s bananas.”

Janet was laughing. “An a — a ham-ther peez.”

Spider-Man made a face at me.

“A dog, a kitty, and a hamster,” I said.

Janet laughed.

Spider-Man told me about a hamster he bought his oldest daughter when she was very young (she was now my age).

“Mr. Wiggles,” Spider-Man said, smiling. He reached down and picked up a bottle cap. “Shit, he’s no bigger than this when we got him. What!? Are you high ?!”

I was smiling.

I already liked Mr. Wiggles.

Wanted to know everything about him: from basic history on through the entire lineage of his thoughts.

“Shit, I did everything for his happy lil ass,” Spider-Man said. “I built him a mansion, fuckin everything.” He described the layout of the hamster mansion. “That shit was like, this tall”—hand by his waist, “and this wide”—hands maybe three feet apart. “There were two places to eat, four places to sleep, shit, three bathrooms, motherfuckin tubes, slides, whistles, a hot tub an a motherfuckin tennis court. Wha’s really going on?”

I adjusted my ass on the rocks and glass, picked up a hooked piece of glass and threw it.

The sky was gray, air smelled like rain.

“Mr. Wiggles, man we loved that little guy,” Spider-Man said. “He was like a dog, bro. Shit, we’d put him out in his plastic ball and he’d follow my daughter around. He’d go by the door when she left for school and just stay by the door for a long time, bro. Fuckatta here. Shit, Mr. Wiggles lived that life, man. He lived seven years! Seven years!” He looked up and pointed at the sky. “We miss you, Wiggles!” Then he looked at me and slapped his thigh, mimed like he was holding a videogame controller. “I’d take him out of his ball and set him right here in my lap, play my videogames. He’d sit on my lap for hours. Man, he had it all. Best life a hamster could have. Fuckin bananas! But nah then my daughter, Josalie, she wake me up all cryin one day. I said, ‘Oh boy.’” He whistled a note. “Mr. Wiggles had passed. So I call up my friends and like, seven people or so came over. Everyone had on suits and everything, what?! We took turns in the backyard diggin with this little garden shovel, haha, then everyone threw some dirt on him. I said the sermon bro! I said, ‘Lord, we thank you for Mr. Wiggles and we know you’ll take care of him now.’ Maaaan, everybody was crying they eyes out. Nang! We put stones around his grave, everything. Everything for his happy lil ass. It was beautiful. Just beautiful, man. Shit man, he had everything. I even bought him a girlfriend.” He made double ok signs with his hands. “‘Mrs. Frederickson.’ My daughter named her. I’on’t know where she get these names from. But nah, her and Wiggles hated each other, du. She was cold, man! She was cold to Mr. Wiggles! She died after like, a year though, so whatever. And we ain do no big funeral for her I just put her in a cigar box, wrapped it in tape, and threw her ass in the garbage.”

I laughed, looking at the rocks and glass.

“She’a cold bitch, man,” he said again, opening his eyes wide and turning his head sideways a little. “I just tossed her.”

It was getting windy.

I felt a few raindrops.

Janet showed Spider-Man her score on the cellphone videogame.

It was her highest score yet.

I saw Spider-Man and Janet out front of the library this afternoon.

Spider-Man was wearing big pajama pants, a winter vest, and a large plush tophat with the Superman logo on it.

He yelled, “Well lookie lookie”—dancing over with his fist out.

I bumped my fist against his.

Janet called me over for a hug. “Wuh, whay’s my huggy? I, nuh, need my huggy!”

She was parked against the wall charging her wheelchair and playing blackjack on her phone.

She wore a giant knit winter hat that went over her eyes a little.

There were shit stains on the inner thigh area of her jeans and she smelled like s’mores.

I hugged her and stood next to her with my back against the wall.

Spider-Man was really drunk, walking around the front walkway.

He took out a small, thin-bladed knife and danced, tophat waving.

He came up to Janet and mimed cutting her legs off, humming to himself.

She laughed, saying, “Stop, stop”—trying to play her game.

“Why?” he said, making slicing motions just above her legs. “You don’t need em.”

He kept doing the slicing motion, humming to himself.

“They’re still hers,” I said.

Janet said, “Yeah, they still mine, beb.”

Spider-Man smiled, raising his eyebrows up and down as he made cutting motions around her legs.

He put the knife in his vest pocket and walked around the front walkway of the library.

He came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

He said, “All I’m sayin is, man, take a motherfucker, take away his weapons, his clothes, everything, and drop his ass off in the Amazon, see what happens. Go ahead. Stick him in there at the fuckin Nile. Dahhhh. That’s bananas. That’s nuts. Are you high !? Fuckin 25 foot crocodile eat that happy-ass in a heartbeat.” He snapped his mouth closed and went, “Hahnnnnnnnn.” He made a jaw motion with both his arms closing together. “25 feet bro! Come on! Are you high !?” He measured a 25 foot crocodile out on the sidewalk — using paces — then did the snapping motion with his arms. “Fuckin nuts, fucking bananas, woo.”

It was cold out but very sunny, and sometimes I could only see Spider-Man as a negative, dancing around in the brightness.

“An there’s a fuckin herd of em, bro!” he said. “A herd of fuckin giant-ass crocodiles layered underneath the water, just waitin man! You fuckin gotta be kiddin me!” He walked away a little bit and came back shaking his head, holding the brim of his tophat. “You ever see a motherfuckin wildebeest around them things? Shit. That shit’s fuckin bananas.”

He acted like a wildebeest.

He trotted up to an imaginary body of water and stopped, looking side to side and blinking his eyes a lot.