It Ain’t Sheep

© 2019 by Walter Reimer



My phone rings, and it’s my friend Harvey. Like me, he’s a rabbit, and he sets up really great parties. “Hey, Harvey,” I say, “what’s going on?”

“’Sup, dude,” says Harvey. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m heading out to pick up Donna, and we’re going out to eat.” I don’t tell him that me and the doe have a few plans after dinner, none of which include Harvey. “You still seeing Lupita?”

“Naw, man, we broke up. But I’m seeing this new girl, Katie. She works at the jail.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope, no kidding. She’s hot. Met her at the gym.”

“Okay. You up for a double?”

“Sure, dude.”

So I get cleaned up and pick up Donna at her place about six. She’s nice and has curves in all the exact right places. We kiss and cuddle for a little while before we have to head downtown and hook up with Harvey and Katie at The Happy Terrorist.

Yeah, okay, it’s a theme restaurant, but the food’s good and the place has sort of an edgy feel to it. The sign’s got a goat with a big cheesy grin holding a bomb, and the slogan’s Declare Jihad on Your Hunger! The city were a bunch of idiots about letting the owner open the place, and even after a year he still gets death threats and protestors. They’re not cool, but he is, and he doesn’t mind ‘em. Offers them drinks and food at a discount.

“Good publicity,” he said it was.

We get greeted at the door by a doe. The deer kind, not a rabbit. She’s wearing what looks like military clothes with a beret, a fake gun at her hip and a name tag that reads Call Me Tanya. All the femmes are dressed like her, and the guys all wear berets and fake beards, and their name tags read “Che.” There’s a trick to it; their actual names are on another name tag on the opposite side of their shirts. “Welcome to The Happy Terrorist,” she says. “Table for four?”

“Yeah,” Donna says, so Tanya gathers up some menufestos and leads us over to a table. She waits until we’re all sitting down and says, “Our specials tonight are the Zapatista salsa verde with tortilla chips for appetizer, the entrée special’s Conejo al Qaida. You server’s Tanya, but her real name’s Heather, and she’ll be by to get your drinks.” She turns and walks off.

Nice flag on her.

Harvey gives me a look. “No tequila and absinthe, dude.”

“No way,” I say, “that crap’ll kill you.” I go back to looking at the menufesto. Prices are high, but it all looks good.

We all decide on beer for drinks. Harvey and Katie are ordering the FLQ poutine, so we ask for four plates. Good stuff, I like how the cheese goes with the gravy, and the mug of Maple Leaf I have tastes good. We’re almost done by the time Heather comes around to collect the empty plates and get the orders for our main courses.

Me and Donna split an order of Fatwa Fajitas, while Katie orders a Unaburger on a toasted Talibun. With extra bacon and pickles. Harvey decides on the special, and we all stare at him.

“What?” he says.

Katie says, “Conejo’s Spanish for rabbit, fool.”

Harvey gets this look like he just dropped his pants in church, and changes his order to Red Brigade Lasagna. He still looks all embarrassed as the server goes to put our orders in.

I sit back and start to take a drink of my beer.

“There any absinthe in that? That crap’s effed up.”

Yeah, absinthe’s effed up. “Yeah, that crap’s effed up,” I say. “Hey there, little woolly dude.”

Yep, there was that sheep, standing there wearing some kind of uniform, a fake beard and a vape stuck in one corner of his mouth. It wasn’t running, ‘cause there’s no smoking in this place.

On his belt he had . . .

“Dude, what are those?” I asked.

Donna cranes her neck and takes a look. “Looks like lettuce.”

“No, they’re not,” the sheep says. “They’re bombs. I’m a happy terrorist.”

Harvey looks. “Naw, man, that’s lettuce. Webb’s Wonders,” and he should know, since his dad owns a produce market.

“Je suis revolutionaire. Watch,” says the sheep, and he pulls one lettuce off his belt and tosses it at the bar. It goes behind the bar and there’s a sudden sound. The furs sitting around the bar start laughing and cheering, and a few call for more drinks.

“See?” says the sheep.

“You’re not smoking herb, are you dude?” I ask.

“Nope,” the sheep says. “No smoking, dude.” He steps away as the server brings our entrees and we start eating. I look up from making up a fajita and see the sheep lob another lettuce into a far corner of the place. A bunch of people start singing, and there’s an otteress dancing on one table.

I look at the sheep, and he winks at me.

“Dude,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“The herb’s in the lettuce, right?”

That danged woolly guy winks at me and says, “The revolutionary swims in the people as the fish swims in the sea,” and he started breast-stroking towards the bar.

We were watching him when our server, Heather, swam up to us. Nice back stroke. “How’s your dinner?” she asked.

“Really good,” Katie said.

“Jayid jiddan,” Donna said. I didn’t know she spoke Arabic.

Harvey smiles up at Heather. “Questa è una deliziosa lasagna.”

She looks at me and I say, “'Iinah ladhidh hqana , shkrana lika.”

“Cool,” Heather says. “Let me know when you’re ready for dessert, okay?” We nod, and she swims away.

The real happy furs at the bar and at the far end of the place are chanting in Greek and Irish, but no one sounds angry or anything.

Dinner was great, and none of us were much interested in dessert. We settled the bills and left.

As we left The Happy Terrorist, I looked back and saw the sheep do a really good high dive into the bar. People were cheering.

What did me and Donna do after we got home? That’s none of your business, dude.

It was a good dinner.

Not sheep, though.



End.