Fiction: Local Cultures

I am alone with my wife, Harumpafa, and we are engaged in a dinner production.  People will pour in, soon as Harumpafa whacks the  forty inch diameter gong  with her long stainless steel spatula.  Stews are stewing, organic spices slough off their unguents, persimmons are arranged in a row of bound hajibs, to prevent excessive rolling around.  We get nervous.  Angry neighbors hurl osage oranges through the kitchen window, hoping to land one in the stew and poison us.   "The unbound food item kills," my wife often reminds us all.  

'We all,' as Harumpafa refers to us, are some type of ethnic group, doesn't matter which. There is no immigration status in this occupied territory.  Only rancor among disparately configured folk.    I and mine are tall and willowy.  The wife and I wear the exact same size clothing, and it saves us a fortune in haute couture.  We are despised by short, squat built quazi-keffir types, and the taller obese Fellaheen all think bigger is better, hence my people regard them as pricks.  Both outsized rival factions resent us for being so motherfucking elegant.  We exude musky charm.  We are asked to pose for a spread in this year's athropolology text. Envy drives the lower classes to rioting, like always, when nothing more was done to them than passive excellence in the pesence of their active repugnance.  Persecution is not reserved for  only the poorest pieces of shit.

There.  Another osage orange, intriguing, crenelated, unappetizing and toxic,  trespassed  into our wholesome kitchen, in another attempt on our lives. Harumpafa grabs her street sweeper and fires round after round of bird shot, hoping to alter reality.  We hear the runts fleeing through our azalias.  I say to my wife, "I think this is where we strike the gong."  Our people were tired of lilting in the front yard.  They needed some eats.  

Our foods distinguish us from individuals who prepare and consume differing meat and eggs.  Attempts on our lives during meal times prove that world peace isn't too fucking anxious to come galavanting out of the walk-in closet.  This places our divine Cadillac in a flagging chicken run facing off with the profane souped-up pimp mobiles of the lower classes.  Each time Harumpafa feeds our encampment, she presses the  foot brake just a little bit.  The vehicles slow down for a few sane seconds, before remembering to hit the gas.  Some day the garish muscle cars will collide.  But for now, stewed persimmons, as only my wife can make.