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Cantor Fitzgerald stopped sharp, turned on a dime and climbed the stairs two fold, like a Hutu rushing to the kill. He’d been double-crossed before. He’d been double-crossed a lot - there was the rickshaw boy in Sri Lanka and the one eyed black shirt in Verona to name the worst - but never by a four-year-old. At the top of the landing he took a few seconds to compose himself and then strode into the room doing his best impression of a weary schoolmaster. The composure, the donnish manner, both fell away immediately.
"Snow, you little prick! What parta 'no feces on self or walls' do you not understand??"
The smell reminded him of the trenches at Verdun and he held his hand over his nose and mouth and winced. Babysitting sure was a beat gig. Young Snow, however, was entirely impassive. He did not look up or turn his head to acknowledge his elder's presence. He simply continued the very important task of covering a large portion of one wall in his own feces. Nude from head to toe, he had also indulged in some body art.
"You better clean up all this mess before your parents get home, coz i sure ain't doing it!" Did you hear me, you little bastard?
Young Snow let out a small sigh. He turned to face Cantor and while locking eyes with him, extended his small, brown middle finger. A stream began to run down his left leg, thicker than a bayou swamp and blacker than mammy's molasses. Cantor shook his head in disgust. This was going to cost extra.
"Go-ahead kid", he muttered in defeat, "shit yourself silly."
Date Written: March 09, 2003
Author: Dylan Danko
Average Vote: 3.5