Posted on: February 19th, 2012 Ice Cream in Amerikkkka

by Douglas Hackle


“What can I get you?” the pimply-faced teenaged boy working the Yummy Freeze service window said in a weary monotone.

“I’ll have a scoop of birdless in a regular cone,” the father said.

His son, a bright lad of seven, said, “I’ll take a double scoop of chair in a chocolate wafer cone.”

“We’re out of birdless and chair.” The attendant jabbed an index finger up at the dry-erase board on the wall. “We’re getting restocked tomorrow. Whatever’s left is written up on the board.”

The boy angled his head up at the list, began reading the flavors aloud: “Bird, elephant, elephantless, apotheosis, passive-aggressive, inasmuch, middle manager, incest taboo, cutesy, interpolation, platypus cunt, long drawn-out divorce, pluralism, fetal pony, bric-à-brac, gainsay, Manifest Destiny, dental insurance, self-abnegation, countermeasure, Socratic irony, brain cancer, heresy, en passant, Sting, self-immolation, ad majorem Dei gloriam, polar bear loverod, my son, my dad, and chocolate.”

“Ratdamnit,” the father cursed. “I wanted birdless. Guess I’ll try a scoop of my son. In a regular cone, please.”

“You?” the attendant asked the boy.

“I’ll take a double scoop of my dad in a chocolate wafer cone.”

“That’ll be five bucks even,” the attendant said. The father handed him the money.

“Oh,” the attendant added, “Since each of you is the key flavor ingredient in the other’s ice cream cone, I’ll need the two of you to come inside so I can make ice cream out of you. If you don’t mind.”

“We don’t,” the father said.


Inside the little ice cream shop, the attendant led father and son to a machine that resembled some sort of oversized HVAC unit with two large hoppers on the top. The attendant instructed the two to ascend a ladder attached to the side of the machine. He told the father to lower himself into the hopper on the left, the son to climb into the hopper on the right. Once both were unsafely inside the hoppers, the attendant slapped a big red “ON” button on the side of the contraption.

“Be brave, son. I love you,” the father called out just before the floor of spiked metal rollers beneath his feet whirled to life, jerking him down into the crushing, cutting, rending bowels of the ice cream machine in an explosive splatcrunch of blood, tissue, and bone.

“I will be brave, Pappy. I love—” Splatcrunch!

The machine clanked, clenked, clinked, clonked, and clunked for over an hour, pulverizing father and son into grainy, pink pastes. The fatherpaste and the sonpaste oozed down into separate compartments located at the base of the machine, where they were slowly cooled and mixed with measured quantities of cream, milk, and sugar. When the hardened, pink ice cream was finally ready, the attendant pried a scoop of my son into a regular cone and a double scoop of my dad into a chocolate wafer cone.

The attendant slogged back to the front of the shop, stuck the two cones out the service window and let them go. Since father and son were not present to take their ice creams, the cones simply fell to the cement.

The attendant slid the window shut, flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

Just then, two homeless passersby noticed the upturned ice cream cones on the grimy sidewalk. One of these vagrants was “Stiles” (Michael J. Fox’s enterprising, party-animal, sunglasses-wearing buddy in 1985′s Teen Wolf). The other was that chain-smoking Indonesian toddler of more recent youtube fame.

The bums knelt on the sidewalk and hurriedly scraped up the upturned ice cream cones. Stiles gathered up the my dad cone. The smoking toddler grabbed the my son cone.

“What flavor you got?” Stiles asked his chubby-cheeked companion, who took a lick of ice cream after expelling a long dragonplume of white Marlboro smoke.

“Probably fetal pony, Stiles, but I never can tell.”

“I know whatcha mean. All ice cream sorta tastes like fetal pony.”

“All ice cream except for fetal pony-flavored ice cream—m—mparghhhg!” the smoking youngling corrected him, coughing up a few bloody chunks of youngling lung.

“Yeah, I nearly forgot. Fetal pony ice cream doesn’t taste like fetal ponies at all. Fetal pony ice cream tastes exactly like . . .”

“Manifest Destiny!” the two old friends said in unison and burst into pants-shitting laughter.

Just then the fucking earth finally and mercifully fucking exploded.


Filed under: bad-ass, stories

6 Responses to “Ice Cream in Amerikkkka”

  1. Tom Says:
    February 19th, 2012 at 6:29 am

    Nice one. The list of flavors sounds like a list of bands too. I hope to hear Polar Bear Loverod at SXSW this year.

  2. Douglas Says:
    February 20th, 2012 at 9:38 am

    I thought PBL’s first couple albums were okay, then I sort of fell out.

    Tongue twister: try saying “youngling lung” rapidly and repeatedly. Damn, that’s harder than “she sells seashells…”

  3. Free SF/F/H Fiction for 2/22/2012 - SF Signal – A Speculative Fiction Blog Says:
    February 22nd, 2012 at 9:30 am

    [...] Harvest: “Ice Cream in Amerikkkka” by Douglas [...]

  4. kmedium Says:
    February 26th, 2012 at 11:00 pm

    I wonder if they would make me a cone of “Toilet Splatter Sarsaparilla”……Oh wait, the world is gone forever…..I think they cones on other planets though?

  5. Wayne Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 12:42 am

    Good one

  6. James Bambury (@JamesBambury) Says:
    March 4th, 2012 at 6:10 pm

    Since it had to happen, this was a pretty good story for Brain Harvest to go out on.