crazydasaint

My housemate owned, up until very recently, a nutcracker named Boris. Boris dressed in garish hussar clothing and stood, arms proudly akimbo, grinning and towering haughtily over the miniature kremlin-style buildings at his feet.

He was a gift from her stepmother. She's always disliked Boris, but no matter how she tried she could not bring herself to throw him out:

"I can't get rid of him. I have to do it in some spectacular way so I'll be sure he doesn't just reappear again."

Last night we had a going away party for one of said housemate's coworkers, during which we decided at last to set fire to Boris. Immediately. Wiser heads prevailed-- our apartment (with its tragically humorless neighbors) is not the right place to do such things.

But we knew the right place.

I have some friends in a punk house in MD who put on basement shows. There was one this afternoon. I went and, with my housemate's blessing, brought along Boris.

Arriving late, I was still the first non-band-member to show. The first band had spent their slot waiting for anyone ("nobody ever makes these afternoon gigs!") and was packing up when I arrived-- not a note played. To mollify their frustration, I offered them Boris as scapedoll...

There was only enough gasoline to wet his fuzzy hat, so at first he was merely a flamehead. Then somebody remembered the magic of aerosol propellants. Small fireballs soon engulfed his head. Next to burn was his nose, then his belt, then a more powerful spraycan was discovered and he was entirely engulfed in giant wasp-killer fueled fireballs.

The smoke from the sacrifice reached the noses of the punk rock gods, and the smell pleased them. As Boris blackened, first the remaining bands, then an audience trickled in.

Finally the flames took out his knees and Boris began to teeter forward and back. My friend hosed him down ("Look! Now he's Boris the Sprinkler!") and he smoldered while the remaining bands played for an appreciative audience.