Harry Stole a Tomato
Mark Antony Rossi
Harry was an old spice wearing SOB who stole GD tomatoes thinking nobody noticed. We mocked this profane overweight bigot every time we walked past his home. Mostly we were curious to see if his ancient prostate would just fall to the ground.
One day after singing “Harry Stole a Tomato” 20 times outside his house he rushed out with a broom and started screaming obscenities requiring a frigging translator to understand and a calculator to count. Then he clutched his chest and plunged down the front porch. His cranky body hit every step until it settled to the bottom. And there a massive amount of multi-colored clothes straight from the Great Depression lay silent on the ground.
For the first time I felt like a jerk and regretted leaving this heartless heathen alone. Sure he was a pain-in-the-butt thief who couldn’t stop stealing produce if his eternal life depended on it. But who am I to push the geriatric bum to the brink? I’m not trying to kill a geezer. I simply wanna walk to the local pizzeria without having to laugh at losers.
I ran to render aide to him and save myself from Hell. Harry was so old he probably still owed Moses five shekels. He didn’t appear to be breathing and that nearly stopped me from exhaling. If nausea were an art form I would be the Van Gogh of vomit. I said to myself, “Please God don’t let this douche bag die.” I know it’s not poetry but it was from the heart--alright.
Suddenly, Harry jumped up to his feet and yelled “Got you, got you…you little prick.”
He started dancing the polka or something equally historically uninteresting. I practically passed out in relief. The Model T of tomato stealing was still kicking after all. Who had the energy to get angry? Who had the gall? He got me. He got me good that old fart!
Maybe tomorrow I will convince the guys to break into his home and take a power dump in his salt water fish tank. I can imagine the look on this face when he sees a couple of Lincoln Logs floating with his expensive tropical fish.
But until that revenge prank day Harry was okay in my book. Just don’t quote me. Because this shit never happened. And that bastard still smells like Ben-Gay.
About the author:
Mark Antony Rossi's poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction and photography have been published by The Antigonish Review, Black Heart Review, Deep South Journal, Ethical Spectacle, Flash Fiction, Japanophile, On The Rusk, and The Journal of Poetry Therapy. He currently writes a weekly science humor column Atom and Eve for the online publication Cherry Creek Review.