The Dude's Big Big Vegetable

                     The Dude rode from his house to the farm market, on the crude, mud spattered Ironhead Sportster, with only a backpack with which to carry home his produce, and a big backpack it was, because he would buy enough for the week. The Dude, as usual, was doing his grocery shopping, mostly all at the farm market, except for the bread, and his bakery of choice happened to be in an old neighborhood noted for street gang hoodlums. The Dude, tall and lanky, was for the most part, a vegetarian.

   But now, I must step back, to the incident of last week. He’d parked on the street a few doors down from the bakery. When he came out with two still warm loaves, he saw some young street punks around his bike, and one of them was even sitting on it, posing, like he was riding. There were three of them, altogether, brazenly watching him as he approached. Two more stood in a nearby doorway, looking amused, and smoking from a small pipe. The Dude walked right up, stepped off the curb, and said, “Get the fuck off the bike.” In the pause, the stillness that followed, the young punk slowly swung himself off of the Sportster, eyes locked the whole time on The Dude, and said, “What you got in the backpack?” “Vegetables,” The Dude said. “Now get off the bike.” “This ain’t your neighborhood,” the kid said.  “Don’t be comin’ round here. Next time we’ll cap yo’ ass.” The kid lifted his shirt to show The Dude the butt of a small, toy-like  revolver, tucked in his pants. But they all stepped aside and gave him room, and watched in awe, as the straight piped Sportster roared, and rumbled out into the afternoon traffic.

     But that was last week, and The Dude had been working in his garage, on a little surprise of his own. He’d taken a hacksaw and file, to an old .22 rifle, and using simple hand tools, Bondo, and some bright yellow paint, he managed to fashion a single shot, hinged, break open weapon, that was the exact shape, size, and color, as a ripe banana. And now as he rode downtown, with his backpack full of vegetables, the loaded .22 banana was neatly tucked in the waistband of his Levis.

    They were nowhere around when he rode up, but by the time he walked out of the bakery, the small group had already assembled on the curb near his bike, and standing right in the front, was the punk who’d shown him the revolver. As he walked closer, they blocked his way to his bike, and the kid out in front gestured toward the nearby doorway and said, “Come over here Vegetableman, we want to talk to you.” The Dude reached into his waistband, and pulled out the single shot banana, and leveled it at the young punks face. “Step aside,” The Dude ordered. The whole group thought this was great fun. “Yeah! Vegetableman! Hahaha! Gonna shoot me wit’ the banana?” But The Dude did not waver and held steady, until the young punk reached for the handle of his own revolver, and started to pull it from its waistband hiding place. The Dude dropped to a crouch, assumed a good, two-hand position, and fired a single, .22 hollow point bullet into the young punk’s right thigh. The shot barked loud from the short barreled banana, and the kid screamed in disbelief. The startled group was aghast, but before they could react, The Dude reached over his shoulder, into his backpack, and pulled out a two foot long, dark green vegetable, and leveled it at the crowd. “OK, mutherfuckers,” he yelled, “anybody want some of this 12 gauge zucchini?” But by that time they were all bookin’, running down the block. “No, man, we don’t want no freakin’ zucchini.” And The Dude, the Vegetableman  mounted up the leaky Sportster and slowly rode away, thinking that it’d probably be a good idea to find a new bakery, or maybe start work on some bigger, more exotic vegetables.