The Ballad of Brucie B.
Chapter 4
As Brucie left Oldeedlo’s house, he overheard the old Ato chanting. “Duhhh duh duh duh duhhh… duh duh duh duhhh…” Brucie had heard it before, but when he asked Oldeedlo about it, his response was “It is terrible. Simply awful. Something better has to come after it, if only marginally.” Brucie didn’t understand. He guessed maybe it was a meditation. Or maybe it was a prayer. Or maybe it was a travel blessing for his quest heading west at the behest of the messed-up, stressed-up nest-headed dude demanding dollas for his daughter’s duncely disaster. Or maybe it wasn’t worth guessing over, so he moved on with his life. Who was he to be questioning the wisdom of the Ato?
Brucie walked back through Market Square on his way out of town. If the town gate wasn’t just south of the square, he would have avoided it entirely. Thankfully, his dadly debtor was nowhere to be seen. Brucie himself was certainly seen, however. Eyes from around the square watched him as he passed. After all, Brucie was the excitement of the day—just the kind of juicy gossip they loved in a small town next to a big butt. He heard a few SMACKs as people got Spanktobered. Brucie was uneasy. It wasn’t easy to squeeze his beezy body through busied bodies in the market, especially for fear of feeling five flying fingers flat against his beebum again. Nevertheless, he reached the town gate without accruing any more debt or reddened cheeks. He let out a sigh of relief as he departed his hometown.
Brucie hadn’t been outside of Spank Hill since he was a baby. His mother Lou Gumble left the rough-and-tumble Bumbler Kingdom with her bundled baby Brucie and smuggled him to Buggletropolis where her brother Yomar lived. Lou wanted a life where she could relax, let her guard down a little, and not worry about her neighbors stealing and selling her couch for a can of porkin beans. Once was bad enough, but you know what they say—third time’s the stab-your-neighbor-and-leave time. Or charm? Whichever.
Yomar told Lou about this “cute little town” at the (rear) end of his business route, one where you could “watch the sun set between some nice, big booty cheeks.” She was sold at cute little town and ignored the other weird part of his description. The next morning, Lou and Brucie hopped into Yomar’s traveling spaghetti wagon and took off down Der Oolden Deht Road toward their new home.
Brucie didn’t remember much about that time since he was practically still a larva. But he sure did larv-a plate of Uncle Yomar’s famous spaghetti. Mama Lou always got them the family discount, which wasn’t a thing until Yomar got fed up with her saying “that’s a pricey meatball!” every time she ordered. Brucie was still a child when Yomar was turned to stone, but he truly did miss his uncle—perhaps as much as one might miss a lawn ornament that was once a loved one who made really good spaghetti. But now Brucie was grown and spa-getting-rhetti to leave home for the first time.
It was a new day for Brucie B. and he felt like a brand new bumbler. He patted his snazzy new wallet pocket, looked up at the sun, and smiled. He couldn’t tell if the sun smiled back because his eyes shut in rebellion, refusing to be cooked. So he began whistling a song—at least until his strained sputtering reminded him that he couldn’t actually whistle. So he began singing instead. But he forgot the words and began humming the rest. He made eye contact with a passing trader who asked with genuine concern if Brucie was dying. Music never was his strong suit, but it was brave of him to try anyway.
For once in a long while, Brucie actually felt brave. He was brave enough to walk through Market Square again. He obviously felt brave enough to go through a hike in the scariest sounding woods he had ever heard of. He was probably even brave enough to take on highway robbers with nothing but his bare hands and a fart. He was practically swelling with bravery. Or maybe it was mostly farts.
Another caravan drove by, pulled by a pully pillbug. The driver readied a whip. SNAP! Brucie jumped at the sound, feeling his beehind start to quiver at the thought of getting hamsmackled again. SNAP! SNAP! The bravery drained out of Brucie faster than air escaping from a red balloon. Or farts escaping a red balloon. The next caravan to pass by got a mouthful of Brucie’s bravery and nearly drove into a ditch.
No bravery. No farts. Just bare hands. Brucie looked around in a panic. He couldn’t possibly expect to go on an adventure unarmed, right? He needed a weapon and FAST! But what? And then it hit him. In the head. A branch from a whacktree gave him a right good bonking as it jumped to the ground, only to land on a cowardly Bumbleoid first. Brucie held his head and winced in pain, but at least he knew now that a stick could really do some damage. He picked up the branch, swung it around a few times, and felt a little bit braver.