when the bullroarer steps from the rushes, he’s wearing some kind of mink or maybe the severed head of a boa constrictor. he’s not the kind of fellow you’d invite over for tea, that one.
there’s something slimy about the bullroarer. maybe it’s the way he drolls, occasionally, out of the left side of his mouth, casually catching escaped saliva with a battered tin cup he keeps for just that purpose. once full, he dips the gathered expectorant into a wheezy machine strapped to his back. when asked about it, he only smiles wetly and rubs his nose with one finger. the machine–more like a large bladder with straps–has a large red button, beneath which is written in scattered yellow script: “DONOTEVERPUSHTHIS BUTTON”. it hasn’t been pushed yet, but that may have more to do with the skink set above it in a sling. the skink, he’s bob.
when he’s sleepy, the bullroarer sighs, chews some food and just goes to sleep. he sleeps standing up, like a horse, the better to get a running start upon waking, or so he says. his frayed sandals give strong testimony to this statement.
not a one to mess with, our bullroarer eats live barracudas for breakfast, with his bare hands he pulls them out of the tankful that he wheels along behind. he says they’re quite tasty with a bit of salt and just a drop of lemon. failing an actual lemon, a lemondrop candy will do. no one knows anything at all about his origins, however, he just showed up one day on our front stoop, selling girl scout cookies. the uniform didn’t fit right, but the cookies sure were good. especially those samoas. mmmm.
we’re not sure what prompted his eventual meltdown. it happened one morning when we were scraping our burnt toast into the rubbish bin. of a sudden, he stood up, shrieked and dashed himself to pieces against the cuisinart.
funny old man.