Thursday, July 21, 2011

Meet Clint

"The only difference between
a cult and religion
is the amount of real estate they own"
~Frank Zappa~



Meet Clint, your friendly neighbourhood devout Christian, marijuana addicted, real estate agent....



The house was tidy.  Thank goodness. Some home owners didn't take enough care preparing their homes for sale, which made his job much more difficult. Clint looked at his watch impulsively as he rushed to open the patio doors, reaching into his left pocket for his lighter.  From his right pocket he drew a very small joint, almost finished, but enough to get him through this showing.

In the three o'clock shadow of the October sun, he lit his smoke and inhaled deeply, checking hurriedly over his shoulder.  Yes, the fence was high enough, surely any nosey neighbours  in this little bedroom town would think he was just smoking a a cigarette.

It had been over two weeks since he closed a sale.  He needed this .  The church was expecting his annual donation for their Thanksgiving food drive.  How could he, as one of the elders, let the congregation down?

Checking his watch again, Clint took a long, last drag of his cigarette, madly waving the smoke away from his head as if swatting at flies.

His addiction sated for the moment, Clint relaxed into his new state of mind. "Gosh those chrysanthemums are wild colours," he thought to himself, "God is good man. God is good."

Satisfied that the breeze had made it's baptismal offering by blowing away the smell of his inhaled afternoon delight, Clint sauntered back into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared blankly at the contents.  The fridge stared back.

"Ah, thank-you Jesus - they have cake," Clint thought as he reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out, what was a  a less than a fresh dessert leftover.  He peeled back the plastic wrap which clung to a top layer of the cake, picked up the entire piece, and shoved it into his mouth all at once, "Mmm...." He crumpled up the plastic wrap and pressed it down on the empty plate, shoving it all back behind bottles of who knows what.  Clint hung onto the door and continued to stare into the refrigerator.

Basking in the richness of the cake, Clint was alarmed by a sudden loud knock at the door, followed a few seconds later by another.

His watch said 3:45pm. "Cheese and Rice!", he was running late.  They were supposed to be here half an hour ago, they being one Livinia Stone and her daughter Bridgette, prospective buyers.  Clint scrambled to collect himself, checked his lapels for any lingering aroma and flung the front door open with a wide grin on his face.

"Mrs. Stone? " he asked.

"Ms.", Livinia replied as she stopped into the foyer, "This is my daughter Bridgette," she purred as she smiled up into Clint's cloudy eyes.

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