Gather 'round, kiddies, and let me tell you a horrifying tale. This little ditty ain't no sham - it tells the truth (upon my honor) about the mad-dog menace of the stick they called . . .
Now, as things started out, he was just a tree mindin' his own business down south of the country. But then one day, the choppers came, and saw no finer wood for profit than Tetebaluchi himself. He protested, oh yes with all his tree-given gifts, but the axes were sharp, the men's arms strong as an ox during the matin' season.
Tetebaluchi fell, amidst a furuious cascade of profanities that would make your sailor brother's mother's uncle pink with embarrassment. Oh yes, boys and girls, Tetebaluchi fell, and he shattered the earth beneath him with a thunderous CRACK!
Now, the thing about them trees is that you can cut them down, but you can't ever kill them, no sir. When you cut them down, you hurt them and take away a little bit more of their life, but wood only die when they're willin, and you can bet your last two centavos Tetebaluchi wasn't going down without a fight! The entire time he was in the millin' camp, being chiseled down to a mere stump of his former glory, throughout the nerve-wracking sanding and mind-boggling shaping, he hardened his resolve and swore to get back at man for all his suffering.
Years passed, and Tetebaluchi changed hands faster than a whore who needed abortion money. He was no more than a stick now, but a proud stick he was, strong and resilient in his forced turgidity. His owners varnished and polished him right daily, transforming him into a beautiful little weapon of mass destruction. And he bade his time well, that Tetebaluchi. He made sure that his vengeance would be swift, unexpected, and decisive.
But his time in the city made him soft. No matter how strong his resolve, Tetebaluchi postponed and postponed and postponed his avenging strike. The oils used to wax him were relaxing, and repeated coats of varnish as his older coat flaked off or grew old was like getting a facelift for goddamn free. This was the life of a stick, he reasoned, and it couldn't get any better. Vengeance can wait.
Until one day, when his present owner brought him to a bar gig somewhere in the metro. The obscenely loud noise from the guitars, the clashing and crashing of de-tuned cymbals and the agonizing, stifling smell of tobacco smoke in the stale air of the bar woke the fury burning in his heart of hearts. He remembered his life as a tree, and he remembered his downfall. His shame.
His revenge, thought Tetebaluchi, was at hand.
He sat down, patiently, looking for the perfect target. Beer bottles were emptied, ashtrays were filled with stale cigarette ends, and yet he lay there, observing. Feeling through the intensity in the air for the perfect victim. And after several hours, Tetebaluchi, that darn cuntfucker of a stick, found his target.
Photo courtesy of Mahal Adams