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The Scourge of the Skeeterman

 

 

Peters fixed the foil over his window on a cold fall night,

Plopped on his old plaid couch prepared for perverse delight.

A storm was brewing, and just then, he took out a videotape

Titled Sorority Cumguzzlers 3 and took off his cape.

 

There he sat nude, a jar of Vaseline at his side,

And pushed the video inside with a degenerate slide.

Busy at work he couldn't hear the lightning above,

Or the housefly buzzing over his balls in glove.

 

At the moment of climax lightning hit.

The current struck the fly as it bit

Peters swollen balls and created a reaction

That changed his libido and killed his erection.

 

The housefly's passion had entered his swollen nuts,

And a longing for houses made him forget porn sluts.

From that day forward Peters took on an alter ego,

From a mild mannered shut in who never left his abode,

 

To a freak who, by day, taught poor children to read English

And on Sundays robbed Church pantries of cream filled Danish,

At night stalked suburbs shrouded in his cape and hood

Cursed, like a fly, to sexually assault each abode.

 

Reports filled the news about a strange man who stalked

The suburbs at night and left a mark: dried splooge, chalked.

A task force was set up to end this nightly scourge,

Headed by Detective Wigfury and his partner Tackurge.

 

Wigfury made a special televised statement to the people,

That attempted to bring solace to all, like a church steeple:

"Thish fweak will no wonger unshettle the pubwic peashe.

My partner Tackurge and I will shee that he'll peahweashe!"

 

The people were pacified and knew Wigfury would succeed.

They were tired of the nightly assaults and chalky white seed

That marred their houses because of that caped freak.

Within days Wigfury and Tackurge ended the streak.

 

Two A.M. on a moonless night, children skipped rope on the street,

As Skeeterman crept past in his dark cloak poised to skeet.

After each emission he'd scream up to the sky "Skeet Skeet!"

And the children playing jacks and skipping rope would freak.

 

On one fateful night, in Wigfury's posh Lexus, RHCP was blasting.

Tackurge was singing "Dani California" 'til another noise casting

Made him turn it down: they both knew Skeeterman was near.

Wigfury told "Tack", in a hush, the noise was "Vewy cwose to wight here."

 

Across the street they saw a gaunt figure in a cloak

Kneeled over and, at a furious pace, he stroked.

Tackurge jumped out and shouted, "Stahp! You freak Skeeters!"

He didn't hear, possessed, not the mild mannered Peters.

 

Wigfury too lept out and shouted, "Sheashe you poivoit!"

But Peters had to Skeet and he was very adroit.

They were close and aimed their pieces,

Skeeterman turned around and aimed his penis.

 

As shots from their pistols entered his frail prow,

His last load, in ropes of skeet, hit their enraged brows.

Skeeterman died. From his ashes rose a cloud of flies

That ate the skeet from Tack and Wigfury's eyes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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In the green shirt, with my Dad and older brother, Tim.

Ron was the first person who spoke to me as another person, an equal, in my childhood. I will never forget our talks and his tender intelligence. He passed but will never go. His voice, the faint trace of cigarette odor in his room, and most of all his laughter is indelibly with me. Ron was more than my Uncle, he was one of my best friends in childhood.

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