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The Tragic Death of Mr. Pickles. (standard:humor, 1512 words)
Author: Jack HenryAdded: Sep 23 2002Views/Reads: 2547/1391Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After reading this story, you may think twice about ordering a couple extra pickles on your double hamburger w/cheese or associate with anyone with a "pickel eating disorder" for that matter. . .hope you enjoy.

The Tragic Death of Mr. Pickles. 

Dandruff and pizza crumbs flew at us from Mr. Pickles' shaky head as he
spoke to nobody in his high pitched squeal of a voice.  The beast had 
been fuming over the situation in the lunch line earlier that hour and 
how it wouldn't stand in his mind.  He claimed that he was going to do 
something about it.  To prove his point, he waved his finger around in 
the air angrily and made a disgusting face, a face in which was 
supposed to be his enraged look.  And he went on yelling at us about 

“I tell ya, this oppression has got ta end right now!” he said, now
reaching down and around to scratch his behind which, unbeknownst to 
him,  hung out of his pants.  This upset one of the girls behind him, 
the one who had been flirting with me for the past half hour. 

“Holy Christ!” she shrieked, immediately losing interest in me.  She
then motioned to her girlfriends and they vanished. 

I closed my eyes, counted to three, and then looked back up to find Mr.
Pickles still sitting in front of me.  I was hoping that he was a bad 
dream.  His flabby lips flapped and flapped as his entire body 
ballooned and deflated with each breath he took.  I lost my appetite 
immediately.  Jim and Bob, who were beside me on each side, did the 

I looked to Jim and Bob, who were doing the same thing as me: ignoring
him.  Mr. Pickles stared at the ceiling as he ranted, so I motioned to 
my good frineds into a close huddle and quietly asked: “Jeeesus Christ! 
Where'd you find this guy?” 

Jim looked down, ashamed of himself for bringing Mr. Pickles to our
table out of pity.  “I don't know man!  I just felt sorry for the guy, 
you know?  I mean he was sitting all the way in the corner, all alone, 
and people were throwing food at him. . .like he was an animal or 

I pointed to Mr. Pickles.  “He is an animal dammit!” 

“I know that, but. . .but. . .” 

Bob interrupted.  “Hey, you know I tried to stop him?  But no, he had to
be a goddamned humanitarian.” 

“Fine, fine. . .just get rid of him or something.  He's ruining me, look
at this slob!” 

On his plate were three slices of pizza and two scoops of mashed
potatoes with gravy on each.  He had two bottles of Pepsi in front of 
him as well as two chocolate milk cartons.  His bespectacled face was 
dotted with pimples and his long greasy hair hung down in clumps that 
reached the tip of his bulbous nose.  His glasses were missing one lens 
and the other lens was misty from the massive heat his body generated.  
The bench he sat on was weighed down by all two hundred and fifty 
pounds of him and the area around was void of people; the girls that 
left earlier were the last to escape the putrid smell that hovered over 
a five foot radius.  In short, he was revolting. 

“Okay, okay,” Jim said as he looked to Mr. Pickles, who was still going
on and on.  “I'll get rid of him.” 

“Are you guys listening ta me?” Mr. Pickles said as he wiped one spongy
mass of hair from his forehead, throwing gallons of sweat behind him.  
“I mean, c'mon. . .this is for real!” 

“Do something!” I hissed at Jim.  Jim then straightened up and removed
himself from the table.  He then walked around and over to Mr. Pickles, 
who seemed to be on the verge of a heart attack. 

“Uh, dude?” he asked, kind of nervously.  “Want some pickles?” 

“Oh joy!” Mr. Pickles said, getting up himself.  The table moved an inch
as he wrestled his enormous stomach from underneath the table.  He then 
waddled after Jim as he hastily sped off. 

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