we should make our privates kiss

Some long-ago street gangs wore satin jackets a means of quick, easy identification. Others wore berets. The Super Elves, after a dispute with the only embroiderer in town left them with no way of stitching their clan’s name across their uniforms, opted for the bold sartorial choice of tucking their shirts in without wearing a belt. The unconventional move had the desired effect, as their growing reputation as the toughest band of miscreants in town led the local high school to swiftly alter its belt-optional dress code to ease parental concerns about gang recruitment. For fun, the Super Elves enjoyed the same activities as the other hooligans around town: slicking their hair back, singing doo-wop music, and cutting motherfuckers UP with their switchblades.
A few prominent members of the Super Elves were standing on the corner sneaking drags from a cigarette one afternoon, jeering the square kids as they trudged home from school with knapsacks full of homework, when they all stopped suddenly. A chick they had never seen before marched right in front of them. She must have been new in town. Her fuzzy pink sweater, stretched taut in places their girlfriends’ weren’t, announced to them that this wasn’t a girl; this was a woman. Alvin, the most audacious of the group, had been considered something of a leader, so he stepped forward. Before their eyes he turned into a cartoon hillbilly wolf, scarcely able to keep his straw hat on and his overalls fastened as his tongue unfurled and he let out a lusty whistle. This got her attention, and she turned around. “Name’s Nanette. Sorry boys, but I don’t go steady,” she said, then uncorked a right hook that sent Alvin reeling. She didn’t stop there either. It got ugly. Talking about some real Three Stooges type of stuff. By the time she was through with him, his teeth looked like piano keys and his eyes read “No Sale.” The Super Elves had themselves a new top dog.
Though the Super Elves had plenty of moxie, they were terribly disorganized, and Nanette set about rectifying this in short order. She had them up every morning before dawn to practice their dice-shooting technique. Instead of sneaking sips from their old man’s liquor cabinet, members were “strongly encouraged” to take advantage of the health benefits provided by a daily egg cream soda so they could beef up. Their turf expanded considerably once Nanette taught them sophisticated new fighting methods. This guy Jerry from the Westside Wendigos was getting the better of Pee Wee Kesketonovich until she shouted at Pee Wee to pick up his heavy, ethnic-sounding surname and use it to clobber his rival. Nanette was tough but fair, and while the fellas might have bristled at times under her charge, they certainly couldn’t argue with her results. She waited until they displayed the toughness of badgers, the savvy of serpents, and the discipline of monks before she revealed to them her master plan, calling them together for a meeting in an abandoned warehouse. “Ten hot records for one cool penny,” she purred, their eyes transfixed on her as she gave them their orders. “But boss, how will we turn a profit?” Willie Bagdeserian piped up from the back. “We’re practically giving them away!” She responded by sliding some shitty Christmas album that a subscriber had definitely not ordered into an envelope, reveling in her own wickedness as she sealed it with her tongue. “This one’s sixteen bucks.” They all stifled a gasp and wordlessly obeyed her, afraid of appearing chicken in the eyes of their idol.


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November 2012
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