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Enema

Uncle A kept his sample case in his lap, the leather as scuffed as his century-old shoes. He placed the action figures one by one on the boardroom table.

"Eagle Strike," he said, his high voice gravelly with excitement, "who uses his jet wings to swoop down on crime from above. Nighty Knight, mysterious champion of the shadows. Elephant Lass, a powerful giant girl, flattening villainy in a stampede of righteousness. Mister Malleable, who changes his shape to fight evil, no matter what form it takes. And last but not least, Android Brother. He's Black, he's angry, he's a machine."

There was no reaction from the suits around the table. The executives of East Coast Consolidated Toys were not impressed. But Uncle A's eyes still twinkled. With arthritic hands somehow given a new lease on life, he started pulling arms and legs from his action figure prototypes, revealing special joints and sockets. Within seconds, he'd reconfigured them to form one elaborate thingamabob. It didn't look like a toy. It looked more like a big syringe. A big, plastic, ass-cleaning syringe.

Now, the suits woke up. Looks of recognition. Maybe of disbelief. Possibly alarm.

Uncle A waved his age-spotted hand over the table with a flourish. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ENEMA."

Handshakes occurred. Papers were signed. And afterwards, when we emerged on the street, Uncle A could not stop chortling. He was a little richer. The world was a little stranger. And mischief had been achieved. Despite myself, I found his mirth infectious.

Uncle A was an old-fashioned ice-cube-to-Eskimos salesman. He could have gotten Newcastle to dump their coals in the Atlantic, only to buy a million bags of charcoal briquettes. But he preferred smaller deals.

If you ever hear a knock on your door and peer out to see an old man in a pork-pie hat and a green tweed jacket and eyes that fell from the black night sky and landed on the streets of Brooklyn, my advice is keep the door closed. Trickster gods with sample cases belong out on the porch.