Target - Overseer Threnody

From: (Lou Duchez, Pope of Berea)

Without hesitation, Hitler's noisy ankles clattered through the
general store in search of breakfast cereal mascots to torture and
slay. They found Quisp too genetically inferior and three kinds of
riboflavin sauce weathering against the cliffside. So they
resigned themselves to the autumn chill of the golem oscillator
parked outside on a crate of Malt-o-Meal discounted Puffy-O's.

Who dares disturb my slumber? bellowed Fievel (for that was his
name). We merely wish to ask a boon of you, replied the ankles. We
want to equip a Nash Rambler with a giant flyswatter and hunt for
executive catering vehicles. So Fievel clapped his hands, rubbed
peanut butter on his crotch, and supplied the ankles with the
roadster of their dreams.

For weeks they traveled the backroads of our great nation,
getting involved in the lives of people wherever they went. In a
small Georgia town they helped a small girl dispose of a corpse
she kept stuffed in her backpack. In Tennessee they turned an
old moonshiner in for leaving a trail of teeth wherever he went.
And in Muncie they learned how to drive the big rigs. But they
were unable to find the prey of their choosing so they decided to
set their sights on another goal.

That new goal was black and white film. The ankles took to
knocking over concenience stores, leaving all the color film, and
everything else in the store except for the black and white film,
there. The cops were baffled. Police sketch artists routinely
mistook the criminal linkages for parts of the duodenum and so
cattle mutilators were routinely hauled in and massacred for no
good reason. Even Dick Van Dyke started flying a rocket around
his head for protection. But there was nothing the police could
do, not with two Nazi Foot Connection Body Parts out for mayhem
and general hoardery.

At last, Beauford Pusser was called in to bring the ankles to
justice. He set up a decoy Fotomat booth in a local Stuckey's
and built a delicate contraption to harness the power of
aromatherapy. Then he waited. And late one night, the ankles,
dressed like pimps, swaggered into the lot and began rocking the
booth back and forth. This triggered an ear-piercing alarm which
woke the dog which pulled the string which released the lid on a
vat of potpourri. The ankles, though sexually aroused by the
floral fragrance, nonetheless sensed a trap and made off like
there was no tomorrow. Through the winding backroads they
rocketed, with Beauford Pusser (now in his Jet-Powered Cyborg
Armor) in hot pursuit.

The ankles tried to ditch Pusser in a strip joint but he was not
to be distracted. The ankles got jobs as itinerant farm laborers
but Pusser was not to be deceived. No matter which way they
turned, Pusser was on their tails like a dingleberry with fetal
alcohol syndrome, and it was all they could do to stay one step
ahead of him ... until one fateful evening on a rain-slicked
road, when they rounded a corner at breakneck speed and slammed
into a stalled van.

Beauford tried to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was
too late. The ankles died as they lived: for the moment, and
without regrets. But as for the Waltham's Catering Service van,
well, it was a total loss and insurance didn't cover the wreck.
What a pisser.

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