Heroes of The Whimpering Wood War
always were enormous.
Ever since the Tuesday baby Koos was found
screaming in a gutter, his cheeks dancing
in twitching naked spasms, committing child
abuse on his indented jaw; Koos had enormous
cheeks. Someone commented, on the day he was
found, that the reason why Koos screamed too
loud is that he couldn't hear his obnoxious
complaining over his enormous cheeks. Koos'
cheeks eclipsed his ears. Time slobbered on,
and Koos' cheeks became two buffalo, slapping
their butts together occasionally in unison as
they stampeded, smashing the prairie of his face.
Koos has a small head, but his cheeks are mammoth.
They ground the grasses into mulch throughout his
adolescence; leaving a pasty trail wherever they went
leading to the back of his head. Rare was the soul
who was misguided enough to follow Koos' trail. If
any should find its origin they would also find Koos
and his cheeks. Koos used to like to talk about the
weather. One would be entering a building that would
turn out to be an orphanage and find Koos, arms folded,
shoulders slumped, cheeks kicking up thick prairie water,
standing too close, just behind one's peripheral vision.
One would turn, on instinct and find Koos' cheeks waiting,
chaffing at the bit, and from somewhere behind those cheeks
a voice would drone, both proud and demanding, about weather
and what various people have said about it, ignoring the fact
that one was just outside. And then, Koos' cheeks would soften
and release as a gas, "Sometimes when I can't find any chocolate
I have just a little taste of peanut butter." And he'll pause,
waiting, with his cheeks hanging slack, and somehow slightly
more shallow, until one responds, somehow, anyhow. Today,
Koos has stopped waiting. He marks the streets with
mulch, pushing a wheelbarrow rusted between red, orange,
and pink calling, "Bring me your wood! Bring me
your wood!" And people come with garbage sacks
full of their unwanted puppets and tell
Koos too much about the weather.