Sunday Story: Propound

Propound- to offer or set forth for consideration

Ex: They had arranged for their number one hostage negotiator to get in touch with the terrorists later that evening.

*The early 2000’s cord phone begins to ring in the terrorist hideout. One of the robe-wearing men appears spooked by the call. He throws his Wii nunchucks in the air and completely whiffs on his golf shot. Guttural clamoring can be heard in the background. He runs over to the phone and picks it up on the fourth ring, to not appear desperate. *

“Ello? This Gorbani. You have my KFC delivery?”

“What!? No, this is about the hostage situation! Did you just say KFC?”

“What? We not allowed to appreciate the general? Your fucking western capitalist pig ways disgust us, but by Allah if you don’t make the best fried chicken!”

“Alright man, fuck it, have the chicken! Now tell me what I have to do to get the hostage back!”

“Let me propound to you this, my friend. Let’s make a deal. You know Wii sports golf?”

“Yes…yes I do know Wii sports golf. As a matter of fact, some have referred to me as the Stewart Cink of Wii sports golf. I was never quite the best, but man was I close. But sir, what does any of that have to do with this situation?”

“Listen closely. This is the deal. I’m currently on the seventh hole. This is classic, classic map. Not wii sports resort, none of that homosexual shit, you understand? What I need from you is this. I want you to coach me through the hole. You know this one, right? The fairway on the left side, right side with the green obscured by trees. The only way to make birdie or hole in one is to go over the trees. So, I’ll make it simple. You tell me how many bars of power to swing with, and if we get a hole in one or a nice approach, I’ll give you back your shitty American hostage friend. If we hit trees and land out of bounds, I wrap this nunchuck cord around his neck until his head turns as blue as one of your shitty diarrhea-inducing blue ICEE beverages that you drink in your pussy bullshit “malls”. How does that sound, my friend?”

“Sounds like we have ourselves a deal.”

He puts the phone down and covers the mouthpiece. The advisors in the room express their concerns through frantic whispers.

“Are you absolutely sure?” “When was the last time you played Wii?” “What if he just kills him anyways?”

A muffled voice projects from the bottom of the phone. He puts the phone back up to his ear

“Gorbani? Hey, Gorbani. I’m ready. Let’s do this. How much wind do we have?”

“We’re looking at a 12 mile per hour southwesterly breeze. So, what should I do? No pressure big man.”

“Alright Gorbani. Turn two clicks to the right. Go for 2 and a half bars of power. Make sure you have a nice, controlled stroke. I don’t want you spazzing out during your backswing, alright?”

“Spazzing out? Who the fuck is “Spazzing out?” You’re talking to the smoothest swing in the fucking entire Arabic peninsula!”

“Alright Gorbani, I trust you. Go for it. Take the shot!”

*Gorbani sets himself in front of his dinosaur of a Toshiba TV. He takes a deep breath and begins to swing backwards with the Wiimote. Just then one of his terrorist minions darts in front of the TV and changes the channel.*

“What the FUCK Nahmir? I’m in the middle of a negotiation!”

*More panicked whispers break out from the American control room.

“What is happening?” “Did he take the shot?” *

“Boss, look at this shit I just discovered on TikTok! It’s a monkey, wearing a tiny tiny little fez, riding on top of a little warthog! AHAHAHAHA Look boss! Look at it! It doesn’t make sense but it’s just too funny! AHAHAHAAHAHA” *The minion doubles over in laughter* Gorbani rifles the Wiimote at his head*

“Nahmir! You just fucked up the whole negotiation! Get this shit off the TV! Change it back! TikTok is for pussy little western girls!”

*A chair falls over somewhere behind the TV. A man in an all-black getup with a bandana around his eyes makes a run for the stairs in the bunker.*

“NAHMIR! You took your eyes off of our hostage and now he is escaping! GO! RUN AFTER HIM! GET HIM! GET HIM!”

*The hostage has had too much of a headstart. He reaches the locked door at the top of the stairs and begins to pound on it with the side of his fist. Nahmir is seen at the bottom of the staircase. He begins to ascend the stairs. The hostage keeps pounding, keeps pounding and then WHOOSH the door swings open.

A nerdy, acne covered bespectacled young man in a red and white striped paper hat is standing there holding a 20-piece family bucket meal. “Here’s your fried chicken bucket meal, its finger licking goo…WAIT, STOP!” The hostage knocks the bucket from the delivery guy’s hands, sending chicken flying everywhere, and pushes past him to open up the driver side door of his car. The hostage gets in and slams the door shut behind him. Nahmir has now surfaced from the bunker, whose opening is just a bilco door in a desert of vast nothingness. As the suspiciously white Midwestern delivery guy struggles to collect the chicken out of the sand to put back into the bucket, Nahmir toe-punts a drumstick 20 yards, sending a blast of sand into the delivery guy’s face. “Ouch dude!” He screams.

Nahmir rushes over to the car and tries to yank open the door, but it is locked shut. The hostage flips off Nahmir and speeds away into the vast, never-ending sandscape, never to be seen again. Gorbani slowly trudges up the stairs and swings open the other bilco door. He leans over, picks up a drumstick, and brushes the sand off with the forearms of his robe. He takes a bite of the chicken as he watches the sand cloud spring up behind the car as it slips away towards the horizon.*