All I could smell was smoke, burned rubber, flaming oil.
He stumbled out of the wreckage. One of his arms was on the grass in the middle of the field.
There wasn't any pain in his eyes and hardly any blood.
Before he fell he said, "Call for help, I'm Lid Emba."
"Motherfucker, a drum machine never got no pussy!"
That's the story, the oft quoted line. Apocryphal?
Uncertain, though He certainly had the potential to say it.
The quip traveled mouth to mouth for years, made the rounds from studio to studio.
Life's too short, however, to consider truth as the only measurement for comic validity.
If it's not fact, it should be.
The Rat Catcher was on a roll. Smiling. Fangs.
"We had a guy for awhile that built his own little gas chamber.
If he caught anything alive, he'd take it home and gas it."
He panned 360, conspiratorial, as if there might be PETA narcs in the trees.
"I snagged me a lid emba once," he whispered.
"It was an ornery fucker.
Took it home and fed it to my snakes. They were sick for three weeks."
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