man finds limit

Ignoring the broken drywall, the incinerated shrubbery, the stolen cars, and a gaggle of underage girls babbling incoherently in an upstairs guest room, thirty-something local party king Willem Quincy Landstrider lost his cool when he almost sat directly on a small mound of toenail clippings. “Well that just takes it,” he said while using piece of a broken deck chair to scrape the loose nails into a nearby flower bed whose blossoms had been torn out and thrown into the neighbor's pool. “Of all the lowly, fucked-up, inconsiderate things to do, some asshole just had to clip his toenails and leave them on this ledge. Does anyone know who did this?” Willem yelled to no one in particular, walking from one heap of alcohol-poisoned teenagers to the next, toeing half-dead prom queens and knee-hugging key team captains alike but getting no response.

“I am going to make who did this clean it up,” the host said as he was striding toward his late parents' palatial country home, weaving between punji stick traps crudely camouflaged with criss-crossed golf clubs and wet newspaper and kicking in the splintered remnants of his home's back door. Muttering things such as, “Motherfucker gonna pay,” and “Bitch ain't safe nowhere,” Willem demanded an explanation from every person he came across: he accosted a group of men circle-jerking in a linen closet; he stopped a man from raping a prized sheep dog in order to check the condition of the zoophile's toenails; and he interrupted a ritualistic self-castration just long enough to interrogate all persons present.

Ending his search without having found anyone whose nails appeared to have been recently cut, Mr. Landstrider contemplated his next move while fishing a floater out of the fish-pond. “Do you think it would be too much to brought the cops in to help me find the toe-cutter?” he asked a toothless elderly woman whose shirt was stained with vomit. She stopped flinging spent rifle cartridges into the water, looked up, stared for a moment at the hirsute men assembling a meth-amphetamine lab next to the garden shed, poked the bloated corpse with a broken barbecue skewer, and nodded. “Yeah, you're probably right,” Willem said, dragging away the dead body and laying it on a large pile of smoldering leaves. “They'd probably just ask to see everyone's toes, which I've done already. Although… hey, granny, would you take off your slippers for a moment?” Her crime exposed, the septuagenarian fled into a nearby copse of trees and vanished into the shadows.

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