A Mister Softee truck was following me Tuesday evening. Tinpanny terse repeating frozen treat anthem was echoing off my apartment building when I was roused from a disco nap. Faint and haunting. Da bink a bink a dinkly boo. Unable to determine the directional origin. Twisted apocalyptic carnival ride of torture theme music filtering in from everywhere.

Flashback. Ground floor apartment near the Gowanus in Brooklyn. Cranking the metallic discordant bull horn of frosty treat alarm call din straight into my bedroom window. Parkin your white boxy truck littered with Good Humor stickers for hours at a time, criminally too early on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Yea, though years have passed, I never forgot the contract signed in blood that I would vilify vehicular chilly sweets vendors whenever possible. I'm sure you never forgot the stream of vulgarity and venom that launched from my vocal chords, scaring your gradeschool customers away. Or the instance when armed with a shovel I stumbled out of my apartment, wild eyed, in my tidy whities and a pair of beat up Pumas, threatening to smash the P.A. system on top of your truck to bits. Enemies etched in stone for life.

They have re-established their reconnoitering of my activities. I will re-initiate my efforts to obliterate them from the planet.

The tune faded away as I got ready to go out. Fuckin thing banging around my head. Splashed water on my face to flush it out of my pores. Brief fantasy of chasing one down with a double barrel shotgun.

Gathering the essentials, heard what I thought was a drive-by. Doppler effect of the repeating noise pollution driving through my block. Could have been a paranoiac suggested imagination.

Approaching the corner just west of my apartment building, a Mister Softee truck peddles perpendicular to my walking path. They are circling in on me. Walking on the balls of my feet, alert to any chance to spring into action and assail any attempts to wranlge in ice cream zombies all sick Pied Piper style. Let customers know that most serial killers bait and capture their victims from ice cream trucks. Convince children that the horrific song is a warning that they are all out of chipwiches, popsicles in the shape of Pikachu, soft serv, orange pushups, snoballs, double dip and sprinkles. The music only means cabbage juice slushies.

Take a zig zaggy route towards my homie's apartment. Occasional blurbs through the traffic jumble of what possibly might be a Mister Softee assault. Convince myself that I am wily enough to evade their pursuit. I make to his crib, eyes over shoulder, no enemies in sight.

Bong hits. Maintaining my self imposed booze abstainance, refused a beer. Still, August 10th, 2002, vodka and I will be reunited in the most vile of manners.

Chillin on their deck that overlooks the main NYC traffic artery of Houston and Allen St., one story up, a fucking Mister Softee truck rounds the corner and parks dead center in my view. Surprising to all fellow chillers, I erupt from my seat, throw a plastic cup full of water at the truck, and roar "get the fuck out here you bastard!". The driver pretends to be surprised and offended. I begin to crawl off the building to start smashing things. He peels out.

They know that I know that they know whats the dilly yo. Town ain't big enough for the two of us. Their saccharine agency shall crumble under my fist of vengence. The CEO will be sporting a P.A. funnel speaker out his ass. Fuck off Mister Softee.