The day that put the fountain in the Community Gardens became the day that the old ones up and skinned themselves out of life.
It had been dirt. Just dirt. A few weeds in the Spring, but not many. Just a pile of dirt that the old ones claimed was reserved for the final duel between a horny, old goat-devil with big yellow eyes peeking behind a sword made of scabs and the disembodied left arm of some preacher with golden teeth. No one even knew their names anymore. The old ones, it was decided by the rest of the community, didn’t know shit anymore.
They hired a stoner to stone into being a fountain that would become a tourist attraction so that snow cone money would flow like tears from the old ones as their precious dirt was dug up and discarded to make room for pipes and concrete. They never thought to ask what the statue would depict. They simply told the stoner to make it noteworthy. Something people would come from all around to see.
So now we sit, wrapped in the skins of our elders, contemplating the sculpted battle before us, depicted in cold rock, and wonder what that preacher’s arm is doing so far up that goat-devil’s asshole and how many pumps it takes to spray the blood thereof so far into the sky.