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Mostly satirical short stories
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Hendrik the Temporally-challenged Hipster (2)

Posted 08-24-18 at 02:04 AM by Luthien
Updated 08-25-18 at 06:31 PM by Luthien

Then the doorbell rang: *Drrriiiinggggg!*

George, over in Funky Town, heard nothing: *Bkkekkkebkkewkka-koowkkakieck ka-bkkebkkebkkoOouwkke-ookoOWkkawkka* "Yihaa!!" *bkkkkkkkkkkkka-www* "Yeah!" *kwOkkawOkkaWOkka-tchakkabOOka-www* "Whoo-hoo!"

*Drrrraaainngggg....!* the doorbell insisted.

"Um. Hendrik?" George informed, waving his hand in a futile attempt to send a signal all the way to wahwah-land:

"Riiiight ON!!!" *Bokkokkokka-Bookookooka-Bkkkkkkkk wok-ah-wok-shtokkwwokke TCHKKADKKA ww!* "Yayayayayayy!!"

George sighed again, got up and opened the door.
There were three men there, somewhere in their twenties or thirties, dressed very carefully to give the impression that they couldn't possibly care less about their looks. They all wore sunglasses, red trucker caps and short beards. One took a sip from a can of beer.
For a split second, they looked a bit puzzled, but quickly recovered from that.

"Dude. Where's Hendrik", one said.

"Well, good afternoon gents", George said, who never saw a good reason to give up polite manners, "what can I do for you?"

The three looked as if he had proffered them a plate of chopped liver, their lips slightly curled in obvious disgust.

"We're here for Hendrik", one said.

Hendrik's ecstatic whooping was clearly audible.

"Oh, he's home", George said, "... but he's rather ... preoccupied at the moment, as you can hear for yourselves. I'll fetch him."

The three glanced at one another ever so slightly and rolled their eyes demonstratively. One pressed his sunglasses higher up his nose with his index finger, as George went inside. One took a sip from his beer.

Half a minute later the barrage of funkiness that emanated from the living-room was cut off and a still visibly excited Hendrik appeared, wiping his forehead.

"Whew! That was .... *pfew!* grooooovy, baby! Far out!"

He beamed at the three visitors: "Hey. Well bend my brow! It's the Screening Board of our beloved Hipster Society! Pray tell, what's the happy occasion?"
Hendrik spread out his arms in a theatrical welcome gesture.

The three now looked as if they'd been offered a big piece of rat tart, their lips curled outwards and sideways, their eyes opened wide behind their sunglasses.

"Dude. Can we come in for a sec", one said.

"Of course! Come in .... please, do come in. After you ..." Hendrik stepped aside as the hippish threesome sauntered through the door, leering at Hendrik's flamboyant Zoot suit and exchanging unintelligible hissing noises among one another.

They sat down on the Norman Rockwell sofa in carefully chosen nonchalant poses, displaying a crumpled, laid-back kind of ironic detachment.

"Ok!" Hendrik said, clapping his hands together, "Yo' gate, what's the word from the herd?"
"Or wait!" He slapped his forehead, "Never no crummy, chummy! Where's my manners ... as if I'm short of a deuce of blips! Let's first get a bit mellow before the jivin' starts, or whaddyasay, cats?"

He jumped up and landed in a kind of duck-walk pose with his thumbs stuck in his ears, waving his fingers around in a comical way.

"Never mind that", George said, who stood in the door-opening leading to the hallway, "He does that all the time ... it's basically his way of asking whether you'd like a drink."
He took another small sip from his blue nectar.

Again the three curled their lips in ironic disdain, an expression that George didn't understand and hence attributed to the three having some sort of neurological tic.

Hendrik neither seemed to get the message. He still wiggled his fingers in anticipation: "... well ...?" he asked.

All three men now held a similar can of beer in their hand, that they presumably had kept somewhere in their attire.

"We brought our own", one said, opening his can.

Hendrik swivelled around, rocking left and right on his legs like a swaggering 1970's glitter-rock guitarist: "Whatever you want, oh dude, oh dude. Shoot."

The middle hipster leaned back, legs akimbo, his arm draped over the sofa's back.

"Let's deal with it. You obviously want to hang out with us hipsters."

"That's one helluva sure thang, brotha", Hendrik said.

"Again that tic", George thought to himself as the three made no visible effort to hide their feelings of disgust at the display of such enormous uncool outdatedness.

"Dude." The middle hipster flashed a brief quasi-weary grin, as when explaining something screamingly obvious to a very obtuse person for the fifth time and gestured with his hand, fingers spread out, palm down: "There's some ... concerns."

"Ow? Concerning moi?", Hendrik pointed to himself with mock incredulity, "... you pops surely send me here ... c'mon, lay your racket 'cause this cat ain't latching on just yet!"

"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa", the hipster produced, holding out his hands in a calming gesture in order to buy some time in which to figure out what Hendrik meant.

"C'mon, what's your story? Ain't the joint a barrelhouse frolic pad? Look, when I collar me a cubby to get in there fruitin' around and I see you cats in there, friskin' your whiskers with some mighty fine dinners getting ready for some kopasetic gammin', I ain't gonna blow my top if it ain't a freeby 'cause I got my boots on as well, you dig? So what's the line on latchin' on the jitterbug?"

The three hadn't moved a muscle, feverishly trying and failing to decode Hendrik's hep-cat jive. The middle one, apparently the hippest hipster of the three, was the first to recover and tried to save the situation: "Whoa. Whoa. Whatevs. Chillit dude. Whoa."

He regained his arrogant posture and too a sip from his beer: "... thing is ... some think you're a fin poser with all that rekt talk."

"Rekt talk? C'mon there buddy ghee, you mean this yer cat's jive is capped?"

"Dude. You talk like your own grandfather", the middle hipster made a dismissive gesture while the other two flashed a superior ironic sneer. It did not, however, the devastating effect they had expected.
Instead, Hendrik took off his sunglasses, carefully put hem in a breast pocket and turned towards the beer-sipping hipster delegation on his couch.

(Continued in part 3)
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