Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.
I was going berserk, a flower pot on my head, singing Devo’s “Whip It.” 27 years old, I was the birthday boy.
All my friends were there: Bongy Wingo my stalwart ice fishing friend, Marbella Bella who loved me, Gamble Marlow my financial adviser, Wheels Driver my Uber man, Doughball Jackson the fat guy who makes me feel good about my own obesity, Scrub Clipsy my manicurist, Nuts Muffler my mechanic, and Snowbank Miller, my snowplow man. There were five or ten more friends there, but enough is enough.
All my friends have nicknames—some pretty weird. We are all members of a cultural group that goes by nicknames who emigrated to the US in the 19th century. They used nicknames so nobody knew their real names. That would keep them out of trouble—no body could squeal on them. One of my favorite nicknames is Scarface. It projects the aura of a battle-hard bruiser ready for action. The world needs more people like that, instead of the whimpering cowards we’re surrounded by everywhere we look.
My nickname is Bloody John Bandwit. I used to be a hitman, but I wasn’t trusted, so, after a couple tries, I got permanently reassigned. I had family rights to the job, so, even though I had the nerves of a rabbit I got the job. My dad is Talons Bandwit and he was so proud when I was initiated. I had beaten a mouse to death with a hammer, so he thought I was ready for the job. I wasn’t.
My first assignment was to hit a Christmas bell-ringer—one of those annoying Salvation Army Santas. This guy was using his money kettle to launder money he had stolen from a West Coast operation run by a Quaker splinter sect specializing in the “Big Thee Thou” a very lucrative phone scam. The bell-ringer’s name was Job. I couldn’t kill him. To deter what he was doing, I was supposed to shoot him with buckshot, stab him and leave the knife in his chest, and smash his head with a big rock, and then take pictures to be circulated among the members of the Quaker splinter sect to scare the shit out of them. I refused.
Luckily, my father kept me from getting hit! I was reassigned to smother an old lady in her bed with a pillow. I took the job. I got to the house and crept silently up to the bedroom wearing a balaclava. When I opened the door, her husband was sitting in the bed smoking a cigarette, waiting for me to kill his wife who was sound asleep next to him. He handed me his pillow and motioned me to hurry up. I pressed it on her face and she started squirming around. Then, she died. Her husband thanked me for freeing him from a life of hell. I felt good, but I found out later that I screwed up when I talked to the victim’s husband—he could recognize my voice.
I was reassigned. Now, I sell stolen cars. It would take ten pages to explain how I get away with it. My car lot is called “Millennial Motors” and I cater to dishonest sleaze-balls who want a good deal.
Anyway, happy birthday to me. Thank God I have my father to cover my ass.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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