Paenismus

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

Tiny Tim was dead. Thank God. I was sick of his “cripple little boy” schtick—limping around on his crutch like he owned the world, with dark rings under his eyes, and that stupid tweed cap he got at the Salvation Army Thrift Store when he was a kid. After Dickens gave him a starring role in A Christmas Carol you couldn’t shut him up with his incessant “God bless us one and all.” He had learned to twirl his crutch like a baton and he performed in front of the Stock Exchange, singing “Tomorrow” from the musical “Annie” and “Good Ship Lollipop,” one of Shirley Temple’s most popular songs.

He was 32 when somebody threw a hand grenade at him from a passing car. He died instantly.

There was rampant speculation concerning his death until the police determined it wasn’t an accident. A grenade fragment was found with fingerprints on it. They were run through the FBI and were traced to Rambo McStain, owner of “Switchblade City” where he sold spring assisted knives to handicapped people, seniors and others who just liked to see them flash open in a dimly lit alleyway, or darkened living room. He gave lessons on proper stabbing techniques. Clients would practice on dummies with the best stabbing spots marked out. Throat slitting practice was included free of charge!

Rambo was clearly bad and helped keep the homicide rate high in Hot Dog City (named for the Sweeney Hot Dog Factory that dominated the town’s economy and cultural interests), but, throw a hand grenade at Tiny Tim? So what if Rambo touched the hand grenade. Chief Mongahandell didn’t believe it was Rambo. Where was the motive?

“Why on earth would Rambo want to murder Tiny,” he asked Mayor Shimmy. The Mayor just smiled and nodded his head. It was 9:00 a.m. and he was drunk already, sitting behind his desk sipping gin through a red plastic straw. He was last stone-cold sober when his wife ran off with his accountant in 2020 on their 9th wedding anniversary. Now, he was drunk, depressed, and angry all the time.

The Mayor sat up straight. He said, “Arrest that goddamned accountant!” The Chief did what he was told and the goddamned accountant was found guilty as hell by a jury consisting of the Mayor’s closest friends and relatives. He was executed the next day and his dead body was placed on display in the “Destiny Mall” parking lot. The local Turkey Vultures caught scent of him and quickly devoured his remains. His picked bones were donated to Hot Dog High to be used in biology classes and ethics classes.

All was well now in Hot Dog City. But then, one day a hunchback named Quasi Dobrough showed up, walking the streets yelling “Sanctuary!” He wanted to make Hot Dog City into a sanctuary city, sheltering miscreants, like illegal aliens. He played the guitar and sang protest songs in front of the stock exchange, yelling “Sanctuary” between sets.

His days were numbered.