Pointless

I have slain a chicken sandwich to my wounding. 

Have pity on me; I wasn't in my right mind at the time.

Don't let them take me away to the bunny place, where they give you construction paper and make you tie strings into saggy shapes! I beg of you, my two goldfish, tell no one of my crime. I'm trusting you with my life . . . 

I blame that winter night long years ago, when the mashed potatoes howled around the cabin door and Angus, my partner, grimly fried chicken patties until they were black as sin. When he placed those carbonized abominations in front of me, my gorge rose -- so I attacked him with the vinegar cruet and beat him senseless, leaving him for dead. Then out into the howling storm I went. Buffeted by tater tots, I made my way to the General Store to mail a letter to the Art Linkletter Fan Club and turn myself in to the Sheriff. They locked me up and threw away the pet flea that I kept on my flannel shirt.

 Thirty miserable years I spent in that Canadian lockup. It reeked of poutine and Windex. They gave me chicken bones to crochet into socks and scarves for the raw winters, and during the brief summer respite I was forced to tend dandelion beds for the Warden's daughter. When she flirted with me I called her a Pope's nose and threw compost on her frilly dress. For that, they locked me away in The Hole for six months. When I got out my skin had turned to wax paper and my eyes were practically simonized for life. 

But they couldn't break me. I kept trying to escape. Once, I made it as far as the Lesser Antilles. I grew a beard and dyed my ear lobes. I passed among the unsuspecting Antillites for two years, posing as a local wheel horse and zither tuner. But as cursed luck would have it my old partner Angus, now head of a troop of mountain bandits, came into town looking for a mountain to steal and recognized me. He had me chained up in locks before you could say Bob's yer uncle, and I was back in that Canadian pig sty by the time the maple syrup had hardened into whiplash. 

I was finally released on a technicality. The jail didn't recycle dental floss and so had to shut down. All the inmates were given a new suit of clothes, fifty dollars, and a bus ticket to Moose Jaw. 

And that's where I found you two, in the pet store, and brought you home to my shabby apartment. We've had some good times, eh? Remember that earwig that fell into your bowl? 

But now they're after me again. Again and again, it's fried chicken that wells up and ruins my life. And now there's a bag laid out flat and smashed in the parking lot, and I'm the one who done it. Cuz why? Cuz they put mayonnaise on my chicken sandwich which I don't like. And then they cut in line. And they knew what that would do to me. They knew it all along. They were laying for me, waiting for me to make a mistake so they could take me back.

But I'm not going back. Not ever! You two are the only ones who know my secret. And you know what they say about keeping secrets -- less is more. So here, my little friends, have some Paris green fish flakes . . . 

(Based on an article in the Washington Post by Dana Hedgpeth.  @postmetrogirl  )