Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 211

higgers; thinking it some sort of virtue, all evidence to the contrary.

It all started on a rainy Saturday afternoon in Robert’s cluttered garage. They were bored and outnumbered, thirteen year old eighth graders, and boredom meant trouble while outnumbered dictated self-protection through well honed, yet instinctive violence. Geoffrey, the unofficial leader of their small band of mischief makers, had found an old keyboard in his attic and now wielded a plunger, claiming it was his microphone. Lucas, the group's self-proclaimed comedian, mumbled something ostensibly about flushing out ni-hi-hi-hi-higgers. Roger, the quiet but brilliant one, had a knack for messing with sound effects on his laptop. And Robert, who could barely keep a beat to a retro disco redundant impertinence, had somehow become their drummer; mostly because his dad’s tool bench had just the right number of pots and pans to clank together.

“It’s a joke band! Rock is dead and rap was a stillbirth or late term abortion,” Lucas had declared. “We’ll be called The Bean Cheese Zombie Avalanche.”

“No, The Snorting Taco Wetbacks,” Roger countered.

“We need something ridiculous but relevant,” Robert mused. “How about The Big Booga Nose Flunky Politicos?”