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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1820197
by Andrew
Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Comedy · #1820197
A man is determined to tie himself to a telephone pole during a hurricane
Severe Wind Advisory

         “So I'm driving down the interstate out near Fort Lauderdale, and I hear on the radio that there's supposed to be some hurricane coming through—force three, they say,”
         “Damn it! Really? I was supposed to go to the beach tomorrow!”
         “Na, ja. Anyways, that got me thinking; I'll bet that this rock-hard body of mine could—“
         “You're body's not rock hard,”
         “You know what? First of all, my body was chiseled by the gods themselves, and second of all, I was thinking  that to prove my body is rock-hard, I would tie myself to a telephone pole during the hurricane!”
          “That just might be the stupidest, most narcissistic idea I've ever heard in my life, Dale”
         “Well, I thought it maybe had a few holes in it, but I doubt it's the stupidest thing you've ever heard,”
         “Yeah, well what happens when a mailbox ends up embedded in your chest cavity? What then, Dale?”
         “Well, that's not going to happen, because my body is obviously going to shrug off the blow like it were nothing!”
         “Let me get this straight then; you're going to tie yourself to a tree during a hurricane—a force three hurricane, mind you, and you expect to come out of it totally fine?”
         “Uhhh, yeah. That's pretty much verbatim what I just said. Good listening, Kyle,”
         “Dale, you're my friend, so I'm saying this as a friend: you are a gigantic idiot,”
         “Oh, I'm the idiot, huh—?”
         “Yes,”
         “Hey! We'll see who the idiot is when the hurricane is over, Kyle!”
         “Yeah, I'm sure we will. I'm sure we will,”
         “Hey don't go doing that repeating for emphasis thing. It makes you sound like a douchebag,”
         “Oh does it, Dale? Does it?”
         “You shut up,”
         “Go home, Dale,”
         “You know what? I'm gonna. But not because you told me to. Because I want to, you hear?”
         “Okay, Dale. Now get the hell out of my bar!”
         Dale exited the bar and began walking towards the beach on Atlantic boulevard. Already the wind was picking up, and an ominous barricade of thick, aqueous clouds loomed on the horizon. Inebriated as Dale was, he found himself to be astoundingly clear of thought. Everything in his life seemed so simple; his infirmity held him back his entire life, and tonight was the night he was going to change everything. By tying himself to a telephone pole on the beach, of course.
         As Dale stumbled closer and closer to his favorite beach by the Hilton hotel, he encountered a familiar face. “Is—is that you, Giles?”
         “Dale, is that you? Jesus, you look shitfaced!”
         “Yes it's me and hey I'm a social drinker, not that you'd know the difference,”
         “Just because you drink in public doesn't mean you're a social drinker, Dale. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's laws against that here,”
         “To hell with your damn laws! I'm going to the beach!”
         “Dale, there's a hurricane out there! Everyone's supposed to either hunker down or get out of the city! And you want to go to the beach?”
         “Hey you know what? I have a rock-hard body! I can do it!”
         “I'm not even going to ask what you're talking ab—“
         “Oh, so you don't think I can do it, either? I see how it is, Giles. You and your goat-beard,”
         “No, I don't think you can do it, whatever it is! You're drunk, Dale. Go home!”
         “I am not drunk, Giles! And for your information, I'm going to tie myself to a telephone pole on the beach for the hurricane,”
         “Dale, there's no—“
         “Shhhhhhh! You shut your mouth and let me finish! I'm going to tie myself to a telephone pole to show that bartender Kyle at the Elbo Room that I have a body chiseled by the gods themselves,”
         “You done?”
         “Oh, yeah. What was your thing?”
         “Dale, there's no telephone poles on the beach,”
         “Well then, I'm just going to have to steal one then, aren't I?”
         “Dale, go home, you're not thinking clearly. You're drunk,”
         “Pfffffft. My body might be drunk, but my mind is as clear as... as something not opaque!”
         “Whatever you say, Dale,” Dale then continued his walk down the beach, keeping a not-so-keen eye out for any telephone poles he might be able to use. As he walked past the Hilton, he got the luckiest break he'd ever received in his life. Standing erect just above the waterline was a tremendous pole, at least fifteen feet high. The wind was picking up, and Dale found it difficult to walk (or stumble, as it were) up to the pole.
         After tripping a few times and twisting his ankle, Dale finally made it to the pole, and fetched a nylon rope from his pocket. He found it also exceedingly difficult to tie himself onto the pole without additional people around to help him. It took about an hour of struggling, but Dale found himself a good four feet above the ground, tied immovably to a great wooden post. Dale closed his eyes, satisfied by his job well done. Then he opened them, because the whole world began to spin as he closed them.

         The next day, Giles walked into Elbo Room anxiously. “Hey, have you heard anything from Dale? He seemed pretty drunk last night,”
         “No, but here's the news; it'd be on the news if something happened,” Karl turned up the volume on the television. A well-mustached man beamed at them from the set.
         “And in other news, a local man by the name of Dale Dobeck was found outside the Hilton hotel today, apparently crushed to death by a large piece of driftwood,” Kyle turned the T.V. off at those words.
         “What a colossal fucking idiot,”

Word Count: 1000

         
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1820197