Category Archives: perclusio

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

I couldn’t help myself. I had a rare psychological disorder. I had been in therapy for three years and still couldn’t kick it. Therapy was costing me thousands of dollars. I didn’t know what to do.

I had “Wrestler’s Disease.” I made threats like professional wrestlers make at each other before they get into the ring to wrestle each other. The first known manifestations of the disease took place in the 1950s among the professional wrestlers, Fancy Mooh Mooh, Boboo Bulgaria, Garnish George, and Killer Chester Locks. Before these four wrestling stars, “the threat” was non-existent. Wrestlers just got in the ring and wrestled—may the best man or woman win.

Then, on January 12, 1953 before he entered the ring Boboo Bulgaria yelled at Killer Chester Locks: “You’re a dead man. You’re weak. You’re doomed.” Killer had to respond: “Ok Boboo—you’re toast. Get ready to bleed. Get ready to die.” The crowd went wild and chanted “Weak, doomed, die!” It was amazing. Fancy Mooh Mooh and Garnish George were on the slate and were next up. They decided to hurl insults at each other like Boboo and Killer had done, hoping to please the crowd too. Fancy Mooh Mooh yelled at George: “You look like a blond middle-aged hooker: flabulous. I’m going to demolish your fat old butt.” George was infuriated. Mooh Mooh’s threat cut deep. He was thinking about strangling her in the ring. He cupped his hands and yelled: “Get ready to be a one-armed Mooh Mooh. Shortly, I will tear you apart like a piece of typewriter paper.” The crowd went berserk yelling “flabulous, flabulous,” and “tear the paper, tear the paper, tear the paper.” Audience members tore their shirts and blouses like paper, made eating motions with phantom forks, and blew up their cheeks like they were fat.

Of the four, only Boboo caught Wrestler’s Disease, also known formally as “Threatalossia.” Boboo couldn’t stop threatening people—from his wife to his church’s priest who he threatened to make drink the holy water at the church’s entrance. Father Peter Paul Mary Ringo John reported Boboo to the Archbishop and Boboo was excommunicated, breaking his heart. There was no way back into the church, given the gravity of what he’d done. But, his wife came to his aid. “Lay one finger on me and I’ll blow your brains out you old hag,” Boboo said to her as she approached him with open arms. She had learned that his threats were empty: they would never be acted on. She put her arms around Boboo and kissed him on the ear. They got into a waiting Uber and went home. When Boboo learned his threats were empty, he was cured. They began packing together for a vacation trip to Bulgaria where Boboo was a national hero.

That’s what I needed: somebody to call out my threats as empty. But, I owned a handgun, a stiletto, a plastic bag, and a chainsaw. These were implements of murder. They made my continuing threats to kill my dentist quite possible, not empty. So, I got rid of my killing tools, making my threats to kill my dentist empty. At my next appointment I told him I was going to kill him if he caused me any pain. He laughed and held up hid drill and told me I was the third person that day to make that threat: “It goes with the turf,” he said waving his drill around: “Empty threats.”

Just then a big man holding a handgun came through the door. He yelled “You fu*ker! I told you I would!” and emptied his handgun into Dr. Hurty’s head. This scared “the threat” out of me. But, it was only temporary. Two days later, I threatened to push a man off his bar stool if he didn’t stop eating the peanuts in a bowl on the bar. I had no real reason for threatening him, just the “threatalossia” I suffered from.

Things have improved a little. I’ve gotten a job as a debt collector for “Gotcha!” a national debt collection agency. I make threats all day long on a commission. I scare the hell out of delinquent payees. Some beg. Some cry. Some offer themselves or their spouses. When they do that, I press them even harder and tell them our truck is on the way to repossess their washing machine, or couch, or hot tub, etc. Or, a realtor is on the way to put a for sale sign on their front lawn.

Although things have improved substantially since I got the debt collector’s job, I err from time to time. Yesterday, I threatened to saw off my wife’s feet if she didn’t get better at dancing. She knew it was an empty threat, but she started taking dance lessons anyway. She loves me.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

This story is purely fictional. The citation of professional wrestlers by name is not intended as fact.

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

“Cut across my lawn again and I’ll incinerate you with my laser ray gun. All that will be left of you is your belt buckle, unless it’s made of brass. Otherwise, you’ll be a pile of smoking ash.” I was yelling at my neighbor’s teenage son who led a gang called the “Whacko Bananas.” There were five of them and they terrorized the neighborhood. For example, recently they had started spitting their chewed bubblegum on my sidewalk. It would stick to the soles of peoples’ shoes as they walked by. They would become enraged, yelling at me and even throwing things at me when I was mowing my lawn.

I had purchased my laser ray gun on the dark web. It had supposedly been retrieved from an alien spacecraft that had crash-landed in Battle Mountain, New Mexico. It was made of what looked like space-crafted cardboard with a long extension chord hanging out the back and what looked like a light bulb mounted in the front. It had a light switch mounted on the bottom. The instructions were not complicated: plug in, aim, switch on, incinerate. One of the instructions really stood out: Use only for killing people within five feet. Any other use will result in the death and dismemberment of the laser ray gun’s operator.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to kill my neighbor’s kid for cutting across my lawn. But, I could threaten him with the laser ray gun. It was a formidable prop, better even than waving my shotgun, which had failed numerous times. Finally, after threatening the little bastard 50 times, I decided to incinerate him. There would be no corpse. I would rake the ashes around in my yard and retrieve his belt buckle if there was one.

The day came. I plugged in the laser ray gun and sat on my front porch. There he was! He was cutting across my lawn for the hundredth time. I jumped down off the porch and yelled at him: “Come here you little prick.” I needed to get him within five feet. He lunged at me and grabbed the laser ray gun. He looked at it and found the off/on switch, flipped it on, and aimed it in the air. He was instantly dismembered and died screaming on my lawn. His legs had landed in the street. His arms were on my front sidewalk. His head had landed in the gutter. His trunk hadn’t gone anywhere—it just lay there oozing blood. I was sick to my stomach, but was relieved that the little pest was gone. Now, I could live in peace, except for the police interrogations. I told them I was mystified as to how this could happen in my front yard. The laser ray gun had conveniently disintegrated. Without it, nobody had a clue to what had happened. Anyway, I was innocent of murder. The boy’s death was self-inflicted. He failed to follow the instructions.

Now the “Whacko Bananas” stay away from my yard. There is a rumor that I dismembered the boy with my bare hands.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

“Can’t you read? The sign in front of to my house says ‘No Parking,’ not ‘Free Parkihg.’ It was put up by the city.” Actually, that wasn’t true. My son had made the sign in art class, as the final piece for his art project “Who says we’re free?” The other signs in the project were “Use Crosswalks,” and “Press Button to Cross.”

My son’s no parking sign was a masterpiece. It looked lke the real deal. So, I mounted it on a 4×4, dug a hole with my post hole digger, and put it up in font my my house. So, you might ask: Why did yo go to so much trouble? Well, I’ll tell you, and it isn’t pretty. It’s the marauding gangs of dog-eating Venezuelan refugees. I’ve never seen any, and nobody else has either, but, if we can’t believe presidential candidates, who can believe? What this enables is a clear line of fire that is not blocked by somebody’s parked car. I am serving my community and the United States of America—the good old red, white, and blue. So, the guy moved his car.

He heard bugles and drums. they got closer and closer. He ran side, loaded his assault weapon, and grabbed his binoculars. He crept up the street, and reconnoitered the marching group. It was a group of elderly women, some with walkers and canes, but almost all of them had small dogs under their arms. They were flaunting their intention to eat the dogs. They had a big banner that said “Seniors Love Their Little Dogs.” Their banner was a ruse—it says “Loves their little dogs—YES, LOVE TO EAT. They will be picnicking on those little dogs in the park at the end of my street.

Some of the marchers would raise their canes in a threatening manner. My hands were shaking as I set my AR-15 on a sandbag. I was risking a lot, so I called 911, gave a phony name and told them I was ready to kill some dog-eating Venezuelans, rampaging down my street. The police officer gasped. I ran outside to my no parking sign and pulled it up and hid it in my garage

The police arrived in minutes. They confiscated my weapon and arrested me. I’m awaiting trial for installing a fake road sign, and menacing.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

“If you don’t start being my friend, I am going to beat the crap out of you.” This was Bascom Rogers at his best. For him “friend” was just a noise he made at people before he started swinging. God forbid, he wanted to be your friend. Everybody ran away when he started the “start being my friend” bit. It was rumored that due to his leg braces from having had polio, Bill Vegas was caught by Bascom and severely beaten with one of his own braces. Now that they were “friends” Bascom would push Bill down and ask “How’s it going pal?” and laugh like a cartoon vampire. Bill would lay there until Bascom left, and somebody would help him up. The “somebody” was often me. It was bad enough that Bill came close to dying from polio, but to be mercilessly bullied was nearly as bad.

I knew what I had to do. My Dad was a lab technician at “Experimental Labs.” They were funded by the government and made a lot of money and had developed vaccines for “orphan” viruses. Their vaccine for Korean Flu had saved the US Army during the Korean War. They produced a vaccine for rope burn that had saved countless high school students in gym classes across North America. They had developed a vaccine for “Milkaphobia” and virtually wiped out rickets in North America. Vitamin D deficiency in children became a thing of the past.

Now, in collaboration with Dr. Jonas Salt, they were working on a vaccine against polio. My plan was to steal some polio virus and administer it to Bascom. I knew, it was horrible, and illegal, but my moral compass pointed to doing it. I went to my father’s office. There was a gallon jug on his desk that said “polio.” He said he’d be right back, and left the office. I had a jelly jar that I had rinsed out. I put on the rubber gloves lying on the desk and poured a few drops of “polio” into my jelly jar. Now, I waited for my opportunity to administer it to Bascom.

Bascom and I were in an isolated corner of the school playground. I held out my jar and said, “Here Bascom, drink this. It will make you high.” He grabbed it out of my hand and drank it. As I was running away I heard him yell, “It better get me high or I’ll kick your fu*kin’ ass!”

The next thing I knew, Bascom was in the hospital. He had had a spiritual awakening and was going to India when he got out of the hospital. He would find a guru and learn how to spread love, peace and happiness wherever he went. He had taken out an ad in the local paper begging Bill Vegas to forgive him.

This was crazy! I asked my dad if he was still working on a polio vaccine. He said, “In fact, the other day when you were at my office, I stepped out to make a new label for the polio jug, but you left before I got back. We are working on a drug now, expanding our offerings. We are working with Doctor Timothy Larry on a new drug called LSD. That’s what was in the polio jug.

In the coming years it would be called “Acid,” it would help end the Vietnam War and gave many young people a deep appreciation for the mutability of the “taken for granted” backdrop of everyday life. Guru Bascom started a commune in central New York and teaches his followers to “love one another right now.” Bill Vegas found his way to Bascom’s commune, forgave him, and joined.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.