Zero Tolerance (311 hits)
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Submitted by AJ <uberaj.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-07-26 02:44:47 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
4:30 AM
A peaceful night sky still hangs over the rural farmlands of Wilson, Wisconsin. Quiet. Serene. Tranquil. A lone farmhouse nestled in the back roads sat almost lonely on a hillside. The silence was broken by the piercing sound of Ted Narske.
"GOD DAMNIT BOY GET YER ASS OUT OF BED! IT'S TIME FOR CHORES!" He yelled as he stood in the doorway of his youngest son Tim's bedroom.
"But Daddy, I'm sick!" the boy, no more than eight cried.
"Sick? What in the hell are you cryin' about this time, boy?"
"I got the chickenpox! Mama says I'm not supposed to do any chores!"
"Chickenpox? Shit, you had those yesterday. I swear boy, you can milk anything so long as it ain't a dairy cow. Now get your butt dressed and get out to the shed. Tom's already out there doin' his chores, and if I have to tell you again it'll be with the business end of the switch, now GIT!"
Ted Narske was a hard-working man. He worked hard, he worked his boys hard. They weren't ever going to amount to anything if he didn't push them to. Especially Timothy. That boy was soft. Too much of his mother in him. Tim was going to make some woman a very happy husband someday. He wasn't cut out to be a dairy farmer, but damned if Ted wasn't going to try to make him one.
7:00 AM
Breakfast time at the Narske table.
"How'd the milking go, boys?" Linda asked.
"It went great, mom. Except Tim couldn't even finish two!" Tom smirked.
"Shutup, Tom!"
"Tim you don't talk to your brother that way," Linda scolded.
"Yeah, boy. You wouldn't have nothin' to be upset about if you didn't have such a dead-fish grip. Now drink your milk."
Tim sat in silence, glaring at his pancakes and sulking.
"Drink your milk, boy."
"I don't want it."
A hush fell over the room as Ted slammed his hand down.
"Tim!" Linda exclaimed.
"Now you listen here," Ted growled, "I work too damn hard to provide food for this family to have you treat me that way. You drink your milk."
"No. It makes me queasy. I don't like it..."
***
As the tears dried on Tim's face, he wiped the milk from his mouth with one hand and with the other massaged his swollen buttocks. Suddenly he felt a familiar rumbling. He ran as fast as he could to the bathroom and thrust his pants down, squatting onto the toilet. The reverberations of his diarrhea echoing from the toilet were heard throughout the house. He heard a high-pitched cackle as Tom yelled out, "STAAAAAMPEEEEEDE! HAHAHAHA."
Ted clambered down the stairs and knocked on the door. "You okay in there, boy? That's what good dairy milk'll do for ya. We'll cure you of that weak stomach yet."
***
Tim came back from the doctor with Linda. The familiar sight of his drying tears was seen by his father.
"Oh Jesus, Linda... what's he cryin' about now?"
Linda gave a half-admonishing, half-angry look to Ted and shooed Tim along to go up to his bedroom and read.
"Well, what is it?"
"He's lactose intolerant, Ted."
The realization would've hit Mr. Narske much harder had he known what either lactose or intolerant meant, so instead of instant horror and dismay washing over his face as one might expect, he sort of chuckled and scratched at the back of his head. "Yeah, them crazy Lactosians. Nixon should've invaded that place. But I didn't raise our boy to be no racist."
***
Tim's adolescent years in the Narske household were no better. He was clumsy, socially inept, shy, and a bit of a bookworm. Instead of football games and bonfires, Tim spent his time more productively. He sought out as much knowledge as he could, hoping to find a way to escape the Narske farm and those fucking cows.
***
Twelve years later, Tim opened up an envelope, addressed from home. It was a letter from Linda, begging him to come home for a visit. He'd received dozens of these letters since his brother's funeral. Tom Narske was one of Sheboygan County's best rodeo clowns, but even he was no match for the baddest bull on the west side of 43. When you tangoed with Ace of Pace, you were in a world of hurt. Tom Narske found that out the hard way, as the half-ton beast crushed his cervical vertebrae under its hooves. As they lowered the barrel-shaped coffin into Tom's grave, Tim watched from a distance, ready to make his quick exit. He was no good at these sorts of things, and he wouldn't be much use in consoling his father. Tom was the favorite, and Tim didn't want to remind him of that.
But this letter was different. His mother seemed almost desperate for him to come home. He tossed it in the pile with the others and forgot about it as usual. Sent her a letter telling her she was in his thoughts and he wished them both the best but he was far too busy with his new job as an actuary to come home at the moment.
Then one day Tim got a call. Something was wrong. This time Linda was not asking Tim to come home, she was demanding it. Linda said in the letter that Ted wasn't going to make it through another summer on the farm.
Tim hopped in his car and drove the three hours back home as fast as he could, which was, incidentally three hours. As an actuary, Tim knew that his potential for getting into accident increased tenfold for every ten miles per hour he sped. When he got there, he rushed to the door, only to see the old bastard as healthy and vibrant as ever.
His mother waved him over.
"Mom, what the hell?!"
"Welcome home, Tim. You're just in time to help your father milk the cattle."
"I thought you said Dad wasn't going to make it through the summer?"
"Oh, did I? What I meant to say was that he wasn't going to make it through the summer without your help. We've got a new batch of calves, and your father needs help weaning them off the mothers."
"That's seriously fucked, Mom."
"Watch your language, Tim. Go put on some of your brother's clothes and help your father separate them."
***
Tim emerged from the house as he fastened the overalls and cinched them tighter. Tom was always bigger than he was. Ted waved at him and called out.
"Help me get this big mama out of the pen, Tim!" He said as he coaxed a calf away from its mother. GET ON OUTTA HERE, YA BITCH!"
Tim smiled. Nice to see that some things never changed. He started to trot out toward the pen when he saw something go wrong. Ted had turned his back to the mother and left the gate unlocked. The cow charged Ted and knocked him to the ground. Tim knew that he couldn't stop a full-sized cow from its goal without help, so he ran to the shed. When he emerged, he saw his father lying motionless on the ground, the cow snorting and sniffing at the back of his head. With a roar and a yell Tim ran into the pen.
As the chainsaw sliced through the rough cow flesh, Tim felt a gratifying sense of satisfaction. This wasn't just for his father. This was for him. This was for his brother. This was for every time he had to tend to these bovine fucks and trudge through snow and shit and cold just so that he could use them for something he would never derive satisfaction from. This was the day Tim got his revenge.
Ted woke with a start and struggled to focus his eyes as he shook off the cobwebs.
"Jesus, Tim... What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked.
Tim casually wiped an amputated utter from his shoulder and smiled. "I'm lactose intolerant."
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Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-03-08 09:42:40 EST (#)
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Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2005-10-30 05:27:41 EST (#)
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