The Muppet murders, part 3.

Kyle has done a fine job of conveying our sleep-deprived Muppet madness, but it is now my turn to deliver the final tale.

Stepping into a dimly lit warehouse, Kyle and myself finds ourselves in a musty darkness. Dust has settled on the ridges of walls, metal walls that recall train cars painted vaudeville hues, moving circus animals choking on the smell of their manure across state lines and carnival drop-offs. Warm sawdust licks at our eyes as we inch towards the single source of light at the room's centre.



The glaring white of a small bulb presents the silhouette of a drum set, and the vague outlines of a drummer. A sudden drumroll and an inhuman mumble cause us to tense. Kyle draws his handgun and cocks it as I fumble towards my own. The drumroll continues, drawling like the growl of an animal. This thought sets in place as Kyle calls out in a hurried whisper. "Animal."

I turn to him, at last fitting my grasp around the ivory stock of the hand cannon I call Dr. Schuster. The good doctor slips from my belt with a pleasing sound and I secure his weight in my hands. "What are you talking about, man?" I make the mistake of turning to look as I speak.

"It's him," he says with a hardened face, edging towards the sound as I do, weapon at half-mast. "It's the Animal."

I've only enough time to blink and set my thumb on the safety before the crash and clang of drum sticks on dusty brass punches through the silence and out leaps the beast known only as the Animal, leaping through the darkness like some kind of midget wrestler, hollering and bellowing unintelligible curses from his furry, god forsaken maw.



In a flash, he's down. A chorus of fire. Muzzle flashes erupt from each of our pistols after we squeeze instinctively and only start aiming once we compute that this is the Animal, the Animal, and he must die. It doesn't take long. He's pulled like with strings towards his drum set -- doesn't even have time to scream or fuss that he got hit -- and flies into it like a sack of potatoes and the sound, the sound isn't music but it's music to our ears. It's music because he's down and that moment is done with. A clang and crash and he settles, twitching. The drum stick rolling towards us stops at my feet and it's done with.

Kyle looks at me, a real "Dogg, man, fuck" look, then turns to leave after giving his smoking pistol a shake like it's a match. I stare at the Animal, not thinking that I took his life and getting the moral compass out but preparing a sermon of sorts. I look back at the cannon in my fist. Dr. Schuster.

"The doctor is in"? Nah. "Take two of these and call me in the morning"? No. Can't. Only one diamond left in the clip. I wipe my brow before throwing away something about health insurance and extend my arm until I can look down the sights at the top of that motherfucker's melonhead.

One more kickback so I can give this one an exclamation point. I turn to join Kyle and he's just shaking his head.

"Dogg, that's why we can't take you anywhere."