This story comes from a blog post I wrote ten years ago over at my old blog. I was browsing old blog-entries a while ago and came upon it. It still amuses me, so I thought I'd repost it over here.

Alan Jackson was watching the sailboat move slowly across the water on his own private section branch of the Michinoga River in Tennesee. He had bought this small river off branch nearly five years ago, after the hit of his coutry and western single "Chattahoochee".

And now, these young kids, real alternative, rock and roll types by the look of them, were sailing in his waters.

Alan bristled his mustache and squinted into the distance. Yep...the signs were still up...the ones that said this was private property. That this beach, this water, and that yonder island were completely off limits. Not much else a man can do to keep people out of his water....can't exactly build a dam without pissing off the greenopinkos.

The aging country and western singer rose from his lawn chair, which he paid $800 for, mostly because he could afford to spend $800 on a lawn chair, and he could point dinner guests over at his lawn chair and say, "That chair there costs me 800 bucks...that's 800 smackers for my ass, not yours."

He began to move towards the water, a slow meander at first, growing to a determined walk, and into a mechanical jog. His eyes stayed focused on the kids in the sail boat. As he began to jog, his cowboy hat fell off, and if anyone was bothering to watch him very closely, which they weren't, he would notice that Alan Jackson didn't have ears anymore, just something like looked like a fleshy drum where his ears should be.

Alan Jackson lept into the water, his clothes still on, but almost immediately after hitting the water, they came off. At first he swam, less and less so as his body changed into something far more streamlined and the flailing arms turned to fins and his legs, which were now starting to look more like a tail fin than the two lower appengages of the greatest ape, began to drive him forward in the water at greater and greater speeds.

All this time, Alan Jacksons eyes, now jet black and soulless, stayed focus on the sailboat just a few hundred yards out from shore. As his dorsal fin, a metallica grey verticle blade, cut through the surface of the water.

Alan Jackson hummed (in as much as he could hum in this body) the eerie and repetive theme from the Jaws series, as he prepared to teach a group of disrespectful young city boys a lesson in property rights...

"Yeah, way down yonder on the Chattahoochee
it gets hotter than a hoochie coochie.
We layed rubber on the georgia asphalt,
we got a litte crazy,
but we never got caught!"

Except these kids did get caught.

blog comments powered by Disqus