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PART ONE
Ole Own Itties Off
1
Start off with the ole ultra-cinema cam on a
close-up of me face, brothers. Like Little Alex in the first scene of A Clockwork Orange. There sits me, ole
Own, putting him on a mean ole
sod-off litso-ditso for the camera.
Holding up the handgun in the air. The music in the soundtrack is dobby fine
ole Ray Charles, a-crooning out his
pnin-bang song called “Georgie.” Ah, listen to him a-swanging and dook-zvook grooving. Puts a tear in me eye, O my
brothers and sisters. Mighty smooth and mighty blinn-ding COOL, ole Ray.
YAAAAAS.
Let him go on a-sanging and grinning
big, playing the ole pianner and shaking his bod side to side, magnifi-likewike-cent Ray, while y’all
pulls back the camera, real slow like, medlenny-ho,
back, back, back, to show the sad and bloody
thang in the ole lunch room where sets the PERP—that is, ole Own. Pull it back
back back while the song sangs on. Show the dits-blitz carnage that’s scattered about the room. The dead bodies and all.
Who would have thought the lot of them to have had so much blood in them? Then,
as the camera goes on pulling back—out to where all the poeleasers and
gendarmes is a-crouched behind their poe-lease
cars—ole Ray’s song fades out and you hear that-there wah-plach whiny voice of the PERP. Here’s what he
says.
So what’s it gots to be about, O me brothers? First-off of all, gentle
reader and friend, let me introduce myself. I am Elkin Selph of Tocotano,
Georgia. My friends call me Own. I even call my ownself Own. I am fifteen, and
it’s not like-wike I don’t know what I’m doing. I know what I’m doing, or,
better to say, just have did-done. Killing/killed people. The question is,
blinn-ding, why? How come thou done
didst did it, Own? Just BECUZ. It’s sad, doe, you know? Right dobby good
dang-down sad. Enough to make a
growing malchichiwick sit down and cry. Wah-wah-wah, goes the weepy-wike
baby—oowhah, oowhah, oowhah.
So
tell us about it, Own, for we, O little brother, are eager and willing to hear
thy glooped-out soppy tale. Okay, since you is asting real nice-wise, I shalt
blinn enlighten thee and thine. Let’s
start off with the where and when. It’s Monday, October 27, 2014, and Own Selph
sets in the cafeteria building of Tocotano High School—surrounded by
what-oncet-was his best friends and
droogies. It’s dark in here, but they don’t mind, them friends-oncest-was,
for they, O my reader, are off in a new dimension—where
it’s all dark-like-wike SMEERT and dread, dread dead.
Take Hubert
Spurlin, ole Hubes, flat on his dingbat blinn back, with his red hair and gray
eyes, open as they be, them glazzies, and staring off into nothing. NADA. Or
take Winford (Butch) Moseley. My frenemy-enema, ole fatso Butch, he’s a-draped
over a table, and his big loud mouth is all raskritted wide wide open. But he ain’t saying, for a change, not Jack squat zilch. NEE-CHEE-GO. Or take sweet little
Idie, who in life loved, like-wike, best of all things that be, the songs of
ole Milky Chance. Him being, ole Milky, this-cheer crooner of the popsie-type music. OOo-wha, OOo-wha-wha.
No,
I can’t look at Idie, at whom I was like #P.Oed off at, but at whom I feel not
never no more not pee-oh-ed now. No. For sweet Idie is no more, and that, in my
cray-mad mind doth grieveth me O most mightily, brothers and friends. It’s
crying time. Wazzums, wazzums, dere dere dere, weepy weepy now, for I hast
supped full of horrors.
BAM BAM BAM BAM
BAM, still hear the bams in me ookas-ears as I sets here, friends, contemplating what hath I wrought. Need
bad to cheest the blood off me rookers. A sorry, sorry sight. And to put the
jive aside for one minoota and say it plain—what I done did earlier today was I
walked into this here school cafeteria with a .40 caliber Glock. Shot lots of
people. Haven’t done me a body count, but it’s about a dozen, maybe baker’s.
Some of them my sworn enemies, or, rather, my frenemies-enemas, and the others?
Well, the others, likey-wike, just got their teeny-bobber nod-soddy butts into
the wrong-as-they-say place at the wrong nee-too-da
time.
So
what’s it gots to be about, friends and neighbors? Frash my Facebook
page—you’ll find it all there. The clues as to the done went going tweet berserk of poor ole Own. As for right
this present now, I don’t have time to think about the whys and wherefores of
the blinn-ding past. For I have me
dobby fine future to worry about. My going forward. And that future is such
as to measure, dear brothers and sisters, as some piddling blinn matter of hours. After that cometh still more
BAM-BAMS.
Out
there in the dark, in the light of the ole Luna, there beest scads of moodges
bearing, like-wike, a-salt rifles. I
can see them fookwah folks in me mind’s glazzies: fat big old poeleasers, newking out sweat-stench
from their unwashed bods and oversized backsides. Wearing belts a-hung with
sticks and tear gassers and taze-guns. All looking for a chance at gassing or
tazing or bam-bamming the PERP. Who is your humble teller of this tale,
brothers. That is, domeless wonderboy Own Selph, who, as his momma used to say,
was always a good little boy. Still is. Me, I ain’t no gangsta, nor even a
wannabe gansta (a wangsta-dangsta). I just ain’t. For, as thee and thine may
not twig on—but as Elkie now knoweth, O yea, verily—becoming a murderer doth
not change your basic own self. Kk?
You’re still you.
And beezoomnee as this may sound,
you’re still like-blinn full of the milk of human
kindness. And then again, you may, gentle reader, be a-denking that you
could never do what ole Elkin Selph
just done diddy-did done. You’re wrong. You could. Anybody could. It all
depends on the like-wike circumstances.
And that’s why I herewith sitteth and speweth out unto thee and thine the whole
sad tale. Are you listening, lewdies? About how it all cameth about. On a fine
fall day in the lovely mountains of North Georgie.
Denk about it.
When this October 27, 2014 rolled over into being, I had little notion that
today would be #THEday. The day of the AWESOMITY. Thang is, I gots to tell this
bidness out fast, to y’all and yallses, reader, as I sets here on me lonesome,
all left on me ownsome. What I’d really like to do, frankly, is just bawl out
me kishkas and guttiwuts. Lay down and whimper out a big healthy BOO-HOO-HOO,
but I don’t gots the time. Kk? Don’t know when they’ll be coming for the PERP.
Soon, though/doe. I figure first of all them poeleasers out there in the dark,
they’ll send in here a little robot. Like teetoncey R2-D2 in the old Star Wars.
Robo-guy will come a-bleeping and goolieing in the door, GLEEK, GLOOK, GLEEK,
take a right turn in the hallway, and make for ole Own—blithering out all the
while his message: “I-am-your-friend.” Then, after he’s goolied his way right
up upon unsuspecting PERP, he’ll smile him a big ear-to-ear gloopy blinn grin and pull out a tear-gas grenade and
pop ole Own upside the bashka: ZAP.
Then what?
Not to get none
too #philo-shitebird-sophical on you, reader, but folkies and lewdies has been
asting that question since the beginnings
of time. Quid nunc? Then what? And not nobody nowhere hast ever come up
with a blinn of a blinn answer.
Another question like-wike that one is, How come? Don’t nobody nowhere know,
bleeb, how come—for what, after all, is out there in life that makes any
diddley dobby good sense, amigos?
Nada, nada, and (all together now, one more time)—NADA. Take this: ole Own in
the seventh grade was elected King of the Junior Prom. Amazing. Elkin (Own)
Selph. A king. Let you in on a malenky wittle secret, lewdies: never since the
beginning of me born days has old Elkie ever-never felt like a king. Never.
What
happens to your Facebook page and all your Instagrams when you zdoak? Do they
take it offline the next day? Erase all the blather you done-diddley posted,
and retweet all your tweets off onto some place near Mars? Do they put up a
necro page: “The former inhabitant of this, likey-wike, page is not never no
more, that is, now DECEASED, and any further deermo-crap “Likes” of his
#defunct-like person should be herethwith and from now on addressed to
SOMEWHERE IN CYBERSPACE.”
Take that little
blonde kissochka over there resting comfortably on the floor—gunshot wound to
the head. Don’t know her name, don’t know like-wike jack squat zilch about that unfortunate missy.
Except this. She’s prolly got fifteen hundred friends on her page, and scads of silly like-wike selfies, with followers, all of them kissochkas in the pictures a-goofing about
and pulling gloopy-dumb faces. And in her dead head right this minoota there’s
still a doofus pop song a-running, ding, dang di-di-di-di-diddley. Most likely
it’s old sappy Sam Smith, crooning out “Stay With Me,” or “In the Lonely Hour.”
But then again,
she’s got a fam out there in the dark somewhere: a sissie and a bro and a moom
and a poop. I can imagine them IMAGINE, IMAGINE, IMAGINE right this very
seecoondochka. They are gathered together along with all the fams of the
missing, on the bleachers of the ole school gym. Waiting and waiting, a-waiting
out the poeleaser-gendarme assault on
the likey-wike PERP—and hoping against any sort of miserable dingblatt hope
that their Sally is still drawing
breath when the poeleasers get there. Except that she, by the looks of her
shot-up pumpkin from where sets the PERP in this-cheer cafeteria—she ain’t
never not ever to draw another like-wike breath going forward. You feel me? Kk.
I
hate that blinn shitebird “going forward.” You know? How come it beeth that
every lewdie and his like-wike nuncle has to say that all the time? Going forward this, and going forward that, and kiss my
double-breasted going-forward backside.
“Oh, I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor.” You remember that wikey-like poem,
gentle reader? Ole Shel Silverstein. Me moom used to read it to me when I was a
mere bootoozchik of a babe. “I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor, and I don’t
like it—ONE BIT. Oh gee, he’s up to my knee. Oh my (quavering voice) he’s up to
my THIGH.” Idie and I used to recite that-there poesy and diddle-biddle tickle each other and laugh like bejesus out loud: YO-HO-HO. Dead Idie.
The former Idell Owen, human being. But I make no appy polly loggies for that
to thee and thine, O me last and lovely friends. For the blame is not Own’s,
but is of circumstances. Or, as they
say in the song, “Blame it on the night, don’t blame it on me.”
I
am, though-doe, worried about me moom and me poop as here I squats in the
darkie-like gloom, awaiting the
coming of the friendly robot. Still wearing me dobby good ole Georgie Tech
black-and-gold capochka. Or the FBI guys. Or the SWAT team fellers. For what
did the m and the p ever do to deserve such as this in their lives? Sad, sad,
sad, sad, sad. Get a grip, Own, for thou hast work to do and no time for them
blinn-ding regrets. As thou croucheth
in the dark and being sore athirst. Need me a drink of water. But never mind
that, hie thee back to the flapping of the ole yahzick in the mouth and the
talkie-talk telling of this-cheer tale—for likey-wike posterity.
And what about me
little sis, dear Sadie, being she of tenderest years age eight, what about dear
NO NO NO NO NO. Must not let me mind go ittying off there, for that-there is a
place that ole Own, while he still lives zheeznee and has like-wike breath MUST NOT GO. Being as he is
prone, all too prone, to the boo, and
the hoo, and the still more BOO-HOO-HOO.
We
are now a-wrenching Own’s thoughts back away from that Sadie spot: wrinch,
wrinch, wrinch. Ole Elkie Own hast been here in the like-wike limbo for hours now. Right-cheer in the
ole cafeteria, in dear ole Toco Town High. Ever since he done did-diddy done
IT. Two wittle clockoes and me Ides, in one fell swoop. Ole Own Selph can well
imagine the scene outside, doe. Right after the EVENT, say. Fat poeleasers
swarming, swarming, all toting big long pooshka-guns, talking Georgie poe-lease talk on twoway radios (“Over,
over, that’s a big ole roger, a
ten-four to that, droogies, over, over and out”), and the dear schoolniks of ole Toco Town High—swarms
of them-there too—running full-tilt-wilt, hands held high over their gullivers,
streaming out onto the green green grass of HOME—beneath the golds and reds and
orangey leaves of the lovely
wang-blang trees of October, in Tocotano,
Georgie. Gem of the Georgie mountains. The All-American City. Can the PERP get
a big OMG (on my grave) AMEN to that, lewdies?
I caint hear you, lewdies…
Still caint hear you…
Still…
AMEN.
Kk.
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