This piece was written in the span of about 90 minutes or so, with just enough editing to make it readable, during a break in an all-night Dungeons and Dragons game in college. Kent and I were a bit loopy when we wrote this, so it may not make a whole lot of sense.
"Dern Darin Sunglasses" is a reference to a friend of mine in the California Conservation Corps. (WARNING! Evil website that does not want to let you leave!)
There I was, driving down the interstate, doin' about 85, when all sudden like I looked out my window and saw a three year-old dwarf ridin' on a Big Wheel, lights flashing and siren screamin'. He pulled up along side of my '56 Chevy pickup, and stared down at me with his mirrored hypnototic sunglasses.
"Pull it over, mac!" he bellowed, in a voice tiny for his big mouth.
I kinda squinted my eyes tight like, and shook my head, trying to clear out three six-packs of Millers and a bottle of 151. Then I kinda looked out my window, to make sure he wasn't just glare offen the back of a passin' armadiller. Well, I'll be dipped in shit if wasn't still riden' his Big Wheel right next to me.
"Did you hear me, boy!" he said, all loud like, the sun bouncing off the rusted barrel of his Smith and Wesson 50 magnum service revolver. "I said pull this rat heap over!"
I knew then that I was either drunk or crazy, either of which was pretty dern likely. I then decided that I mightas well pull my '56 Chevy pickup over to the shoulder, just to be safe like. So's, I pulled my truck over, all shaky like, permanently crippling several hundred horny toads, and settling on a dead armadiller carcass.
The kid stopped his Big Wheel next to my truck, puttin' down his kickstand with the heel of his spiked jackboots, and sauntered over to my truck, all police like, kicking several limping horny toads off the road with every step. He glared at me, all mean like, the trademark of his Dern Daren Hypnototic Mirrored Snattlerake Hunter brand sunglasses shining in the moonlight.
"Let me see some I.D., boy!" he said, sniffing at my hair.
All calm like, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Fumbling, all shaky like, I dropped my wallet out the window of my baby blue truck, and right into the bloodied mess that had once been a horny toad.
"Let me," said the kid, picking up my genuine Naga hide wallet, taking out all my crisp new $20 bills, and stuffing them into his back pocket. "Well, let's see here," he said, looking at my license.
I sat up straight like, trying to hide the fact that I was drunk and seeing three of everything 'scept him, of which I was seein' about six of.
All the sudden, he looked my straight in the eyes, his pupils fixed and dilated. "You been eating Red Hots?" he asked.
"Ah, yeh, I guess I have," I said, tryin' not to show too much fear, being all drunk like.
"Did you know that driving under the influence of Red Hots is a Juvenile Offence in this state, punishable by forced watching of seventy-five hours of old reruns of The Donna Reed Show."
"Uh, no sir, officer. I didn't know that," I said, thinking on how rough the law was around these here parts.
"Ignorance of the law don't count for shit!" he said in a fit of rage, unloading nine shots into my Winston whitewall snow tires, splattering vulcanized rubber all about the roadside, disturbing the bodies of recently dead horny toads.
"Don't do it again," he said getting back on his Big Wheel and riding east into the sunset.