Flash Fiction 02: Hang 'Em High Hal


Hal was a bully, a cowhick, and his farts stunk so bad you'd smell 'em even in a hot, fly-blown outhouse. In high school, students would be herded into the auditorium if they arrived early. And you'd choke on his morning fumes no matter how many rows away you sat. He could kick-start a vomit at a hundred paces. On top of that, he'd proudly stand up and take a bow—all the while wearing a shit-eating grin. Heh, heh. I must admit, it was pretty funny. People yelling and carrying on—protesting the gasses ejaculated past his intestinal cilia. At least he didn't try to blame me for the noxious poots, like so many other bullies did with their ass vapor.

Like I said, Hal was a bully. He'd just start beating your face randomly. No threats, no words at all—he'd just start punching your face—no matter who you were. As an adult, he even did it to cops! They Rodney King'd his ass, of course. But that didn't stop Hal, 'cause he regularly got arrested for thumping people in and outside the town's two bars. The last time I saw Hal, he was taking a piss atop a grade school teeter-totter—in broad fucking daylight. Luckily, the tots were on summer break.

Hal ended up a boozer and a loser, of course. Never heard a peep about him for decades, until it was reported that he'd hung himself. An acquaintance of mine, who was a friend with a member of Hal's family, said he still had his hunting cap and horn-rim glasses on, whilst he swung to and fro. Head all purple, eyes wide open, and dungarees saturated in his final whiz. 

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