A few friends have some lighthearted fun at the expense of another.
No one would have guessed that such a beautiful day would abruptly turn so foul. By sunset, dark storm clouds blackened the painted sky with ominous gloom. Then, most predictably, lightning struck with unbridled ferocity, illuminating the heavens with its declaration of power. The quake and subsequent rumble from cracking thunder added an eerie percussion of such quality, the deaf maestro, Beethoven, would surely have envied its reverberant timbre. Lightning and thunder were quickly joined by wind and sheets of rain. Only those shy of interest for their wellbeing would dare traipse about in such inclemency.
For six friends, shelter from the storm came by way of a clapboard framed bungalow. Its owner, a middle-aged man named, Allan Figueroa, whom everyone called Figs, had incurred an injury earlier in day. Figs held back from showing his injury to anyone, but did mention it had something to do with a turtle and his private parts. Figs’ injury was reason enough for everyone to have some lighthearted fun.
“What the hell were you doin’ that tempted a turtle to snap your pud off?” wheezed Fat Tony, laughing so hard he was in serious danger of peeing his pants.
“Knock it off, Fat-Man.” chided Bert. “It ain’t like Figs just lost a finger or a toe. The poor bastard lost his boomerang to a wild sea creature.”
The room began to roll from the laughter because Figs had not lost that which was the subject of his friend's banter. However, to Figs’ detriment, a serious pinch nonetheless was sustained, leaving the head of his johnson black and blue.
In the midst of the jocular foray, Figs’ latest squeeze, Chevy Lollar, presented him with a box of caramels and a large tube of Biofreeze. Meeting her lover’s lips, Chevy softly whispered, “Here’s something sweet and something for your meat.”
The endearing sentiment could not be ignored. Everyone burst into tears of laughter.
Figs, holding the tube of medication in his right hand, motioned towards his friend, Ralph Gilmore. “Hey, Ralphie, you want to rub some of this stuff on my owie?”
The laughter grew to a low roar as insults in the form of harmless repartee were dealt between the friends.
It was The Kid, a baby faced man of forty-two named, Mel Helmick, who quieted the room. “You know, Figs, I’ve heard what happened to your springboard from everyone but you; tell me, what happened, anyway?”
Figs eased to a more sit-up position in his recliner, “Get me a fresh one, Kid, and I’ll fill ya in.”
Within seconds, Figs had the cap off a Corona. "The story is short and simple.” Figs began his tale with a grimace as he thought about how it was a very important part of his anatomy was so sore. “As you remember, far be it from the crapped-out weather we’re all now stuck with, it was a blue-sky-and-green-light morning. I took the day off and went fishing out on Robbin’s Pond. I snapped on a wobbler and dropped my line. The midmorning sun was hot, so I stripped-down to catch some rays. Within five minutes I felt a tug on the line and I began to reel it in. What I caught was a turtle. He had his beak clamped down on the jig. When I tried to pry his mouth open, he slipped down between my legs. I guess he saw lil’ billy dangling there and decided it looked more appetizing than the wobbler, so he latched on.”
With the vision in their minds of a turtle hanging from the end of their friend’s willie, the groans of empathy and uncontrollable laughter began. Figs, now laughing too, finished his sorrowfully funny tale.
“I tried to pull him off, but that hurt worse than if I just let him be. I managed to get to the cooler where I had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I offered him some peanut butter and he switched bait.”
Everyone was laughing: Fat Tony, Chevy, Bert, Ralphie, and Figs, but The Kid was not. Straight-faced, the baby-faced friend looked at Figs and deadpanned, “Was the peanut butter smooth or crunchy?” Laughter re-ignited.
It took a week for the bruised head of Figs’s johnson to heal; most importantly, and to Chevy’s delight, physical impairment was never an issue.
As the years passed, the tale of Allan Figueroa’s black and blue johnson spread far and wide. There is, however, a depressing epilogue to this tale. Alas, little thought has been directed toward the turtle. To this day, the little guy wanders about Robbin's Pond, seeking but never finding that which would satisfy his insatiable craving for peanut butter.