Up for Grabs

The next shotgun blast went off right next to me. I ducked, trying to make sense of the scene, with the swerving pickup trucks, fleeing people, sirens, and pandemonium. It was like civilization and culture were up for grabs. Whoever had the biggest gun could appropriate style, trends, mores and even shift entire paradigms with one pull of the trigger. This didn’t bother me personally, but it was danged inconvenient when all you wanted to do was paint your house.

I swung my paint gun around, hoping to spot the shooter. I’d covered three sides of the house with that gun; a little splotchy, sure, but no one cared about that sort of nicety any more. I tried to call “safe” and explain the nature of my weapon. In answer, a tree branch exploded from a gun blast next to me. So I turned the spray up high and covered any and all hiding places I could see.

Of course, the problem with hiding places is, some of them you can’t see. So when I turned off the paint gun someone shot the ladder out from under me and I crashed into the side of my house still drying and fell onto my lawn a half painted man. An unpainted woman arose from out of the grass and looked down at me, frowning.

“Painting, house painting, face painting and paint ball games are under my purvue [sic],” she claimed with the might of a sawed off double barrel toe jam gun.

“I just told you, I’m the one in charge of all things paint-related.”

“Says who?”

“Says Clyde here.” She stepped forward and pointed the gun at my face.

“Haven’t you heard? Civilization and culture are up for grabs. Why do you care?”

“I run a paint shop, and this is me grabbing.”

Finally, something that made sense. I invited her in for tea.