“Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear-”(And this is the point where half the people say Prancer, and the other half say Damon) “Happy birthday to you.” (And this is the point where Uncle Rip shouts from the back: “Whatever your name is.”) And after that everybody laughed. Of course (being now “officially” five) Prancer didn’t understand any of this. There was only one thing that his brain was saying to him: PRESENTS!!!!
He blew out his candles, and reached into his cake (momentarily forgetting the presents), pulled out big piece, and went to town.
“Prancer! How-many-times-have-I-told-you-bout-eating-with-your-hands? Huh, now we’ll get you a piece if you a piece if you just hang on!” This was his mother: A nice, but strict woman with a temper. And sometimes that could be a deadly mix.
He crammed the rest in his mouth and got down from the table. With an icing mustache, he went inside the house to cool off from the killer heat. With no other kids around except for his cousin who only spoke Chinese (no one knew how) and his neighbor who wiped his boogers on everybody, he went inside. He found his father on the couch with his best friend (besides him and his mother), Budweiser in a can, watching Jerry Springier. Not that his father was a drunk, no if you think that you got it all wrong. See, his father was what you call “a conventional” drinker. He came home had his 4 to 6 pack of beer, and he was fine. Not drunk. Well, sometimes, when he had a bad day at work, he would drink. . .maybe a little bit more (about 7 or 8) and get sorta drunk. But not - all out, jumping off the roof drunk, no. He would just laugh a lot more and make really sarcastic remarks. But he never beat him or his mother, so they didn’t really have a problem with it. In fact Prancer liked him when he was like this.
His father saw him, put down his beer on a holster, and stood up.
“Here’s the birthday boy!” And he picked Prancer up and swung him about. When he put him down again, Prancer said, “Daaadd. Go talk to mom.”
“Bout what?”
“Tell her I’m ready to open my presents!”
“Why can’t you tell her?”
“Ohh, believe me I tried. But she’s talking to that fat lady from Church, and she won’t listen to me!”
He squatted down to Prancer’s level.
“I’m sure your mother is trying to get away from that lady as hard as she can, okay?”
“Will you try to talk to her anyway?”
“Alright I’ll try.”
About an hour later: “Prancer, it’s time to open your presents.” He broke from the bathroom so fast, he had forgot to button his pants. So they went to the ground, causing him to trip and fall on the ground, but he sprang right back up like it didn’t even happen.
FINALLY!!!!! After waiting for everybody to talk about EVERYTHING that ever happened in their life, for what seemed like hours, it was finally time to see what was inside the colorful boxes.
This is the part of the party where Prancer displays the reason he is not called by his real name (Damon C. Watson), by, well. . .hoping around like a fish on dry land. And these were jumps caused by joy, not by a Cat, whose bite caused an infection that spread to the brain, causing him to have no control over his limbs. Jumps of joy because it was time to open presents.
After he was finished hopping he stood in front of his mom and dad, wide-eyed and anxious.
“Okay, Prancer this first one’s from Uncle Rip. . “ He snatched it from her quickly. “..Now I don’t what this. It felt pretty light.” She gave Uncle Rip and angry look, which he returned with a toothy grin.
5 seconds had gone by, and the paper and half the box were ripped apart. He dug deep into the box and brought out a pornographic magazine.
“What’s this mom?” And he held up the cover, which was filled with a half naked woman. There were gasps and eye coverings, before Uncle Rip took the magazine from his hand.
“Just playing there little Buddy, you ain’t quite old enough for this yet.” The momentary disappointment was abandoned as that same hand that held the magazine was now filled with cash.
“Thanks Rip!”
His mother’s scowl worsened, but his dad didn’t know whether to laugh or be mad. He managed a straight face, which was good enough for his mother.
Soon enough (too soon for Prancer) he had money, 2 movies, clothes, a TV, and a new watch. It seemed as if the fun had lasted only 5 minutes. But, at least there was one present left. It was a medium sized box, which he had open in no time. He reached into the styraphone chips, and brought out two guns in a plastic wrapper.
“Cap guns.” His father said it with fake enthusiasm, but he took the guns out of the plastic wrappers. It seemed the guns came with a holder and a belt, which he strapped on and stuck the guns in. This was his favorite present of all.
“Go ahead, Cowboy. Hey how about we play the Cowboy game? Huh, don’t that sound like fun?”
“WOW! A real Cowboy game, do you think I’m good enough?”
“Oh definitely, now hand me one of the guns.”
Prancer handed him a gun.
“Now, what you do, is get somebody to count to three, and who ever pulls their gun and shoots faster, wins.”
Prancer’s face lit up.
“Cool! Mom, count to three for us. Dad, since you don’t have a holder, just use your pocket. I’m ready when you are.”
His mother cleared her throat.
“Okay, one. . .two. . .threee. . .”
Of course, since it was Prancer’s first time, he let him draw first. But when his son pulled the trigger, he didn’t hear caps. He heard a bullet. Three.
And before, he could react there was blood all on his midsection. He fell to the floor and looked at his son, who was staring at him, thinking it was part of the game. This was a capp gun, so how did bullets come out?
He died wondering that very thought.
The capp gun was passed to many people after the investigation. Luckily it never spit out bullets again.
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