Don't Get 'Pooned

“Ok. Give me all your money or I’ll shoot you with a harpoon gun.” Said Steve McGrady.
“What harpoon gun?” asked his terrified victim.
“Well, I don’t have it with me, but next time I see you I just might put a ‘poon right through your head.” Steve’s eyes darted about in his head and the paper bag concealing his face crinkled with his movements.
“I don’t think I want to give you my money,” replied his fearful victim before wandering away.

The criminal removed his disguise and cruised on down to the fishing shop where he attempted to convince the man behind the counter to sell him a weapon.
“Give me a harpoon gun,” Steve demanded of the shopkeeper, Harold.
Surprised, Harold chuckled and said, “Whoa, there pardner. What are ya huntin’ there? Shark? Whale?”
“I’m gonna go find that guy who wouldn’t give me his money and threaten to ‘poon him in the head.” Harold’s mouth was slightly ajar as he stared at Steve. “And I don’t want to pay for it.”
“I see,” said Harold, “Yep, no I can’t give you a harpoon gun.” Steve’s eyes widened. He began to sweat and look all around the room. Harold interlocked his fingers and began to sweat himself. Each observed the man opposite him intently.
“Well, if you don’t give me a harpoon gun, I’ll blow up your house with a bazooka.”
“What bazooka?”
“Well, I don’t have it with me, but next time I pass your house I just might bazook it right in the head.” He pulled the crinkled brown paper bag over his head again and fled the building. He jumped into his rusted out old beater and cruised on down to the army surplus store.

Steve strode up to the counter and said, “I’ll take one bazooka, please.”
The man behind the counter, Sergeant Slaughter, erupted into a hearty laugh and said, “Whoa, now. You got a Communist problem? We just sprayed for Commies last week.” The longer the sergeant looked at Steve, the weaker his smile became. “Are you serious?”
Exasperated, Steve exclaimed, “YES! I need the bazooka so when I find this one guy’s house I can bazook it down if he won’t give me a harpoon gun, and I need the harpoon gun so when I track down this other guy I can ‘poon him right in the face if he doesn’t give me his money.”
Sergeant Slaughter told him, “OK, I’m gonna have a look in the back.” He disappeared behind a long black curtain behind the desk. A security camera in the top right corner of the room clicked on and swiveled to point at Steve. Steve let his wide eyes wander around the room. He saw army sleeping bags and army rations and army knives. Steve thought, “I bet the government shops here.” He also saw a flak jacket that stopped shrapnel from hitting you in the chest and stomach. After about fifteen minutes of waiting for the sergeant, Steve was lying on the counter. Finally, he sat up and yelled, “If you won’t give me a bazooka, I’ll level your store with grenades!”
From the back room, Steve heard, “What grenades?”
Steve asked, “Do you have any here?”
“They don’t work anymore.”
“Then I don’t have them with me, but next time I come here, I just might ‘nade the living crap out of the store.”

Steve sat in his piece of s**t car and sat in the driver’s seat reading the classified ads. There was an ad that said a rich man was selling his collections of live grenades and rare episodes of 1980’s cartoons. As he drove toward the stately residence, he said to himself, “Flak jackets are cool!”

When Steve arrived, he entered the mansion and saw an entire showcase of weaponry and an entire showcase of old cartoons on videotape. But what really caught his eye was far above his head on a high shelf. There sat the shiniest most polished harpoon gun Steve had ever seen. The master of the house soon came to speak to him. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Francis Poopington the Fourteenth.” He glanced up to see what Steve was drooling over. “Ah. You’ve seen my favorite piece in the collection. There are so many memories attached to that deadly weapon. I used to demand that people give me their money or else I would ‘poon them.”
Steve stared at the Poopington. “Are you serious?”
“Of course,” Francis laughed, “How else do you think I got so fabulously wealthy?”
Francis and Steve shared stories and talked about dangerous weaponry and the animated television shows of the 1980’s. Steve left the mansion with a smile and a rare 1987 episode of “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles”. They both were happy because Steve knew he now had a rich friend he could mooch from and Francis knew he had a poor friend who would come over and buy his old crap.

THE END