My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

When I turned 11 my uncle handed me the drenching gun, like a gas pump with a gun handle and a foot-long mosquito-thin nozzle.  The buck sheep stood there ignoring us.  He knew he’d been summoned for something, but refused to acknowledge the reason or that he had anything to do with it.  Plus we’d brought food, so he stood there eating it, chewing as if to say, “I really could give a shit.”

My uncle said, “I can’t seem to teach people nothin, so I’m just gonna read you the directions.”  He pulled a pocket lineup card from the back of his pants.  As he read he held up a finger for each step, “1. Shake container vigorously before using.  Shake the gun.  Vigorous enough.  What are you doing, stop.  2. Use automatic or single-dose drenching equipment.  That’s a single-dose you got, so when you get the hose in there, keep it in there till the whole load’s out.  Got it?  Fucking look at me.  This is serious.  Whole load.  Remember that.  3. Insert nozzle into the corner of the mouth.  Don’t do that yet.  Wait until I read the next one.  I’ll tell you when to put it in there, but when I do, put it in the corner.  Understand?  Don’t just nod your head.  Do you UNDERSTAND?  Good.  4. Deposit the suspension over the back of the tongue.  All that means is really shove that fucker in there, towards the back, THEN spray.  Just stab it in there, one stroke.  You’re a bullfighter, you can do this.  Then spray the shit out of it.  You ready?”

I said yes.

I tried to stab that fucker in there, but I caught the roof of the sheep’s mouth and the drench sprayed sideways, soaking me and my uncle.

Wet and surprisingly calm, my uncle explained that the sheep had parasites.  They all had parasites.  Every single one of them.  The gun was the medicine.  “And how many sheep do think we keep here?” he said, loading another container into the gun.

“50?” I shrugged.

“342.”

And every single one of them was getting drenched today, he said, lest the parasites return from exposure.  Then he handed me the drenching gun, wrestled the buck back in position, pulled its skull open at the mouth and said, “Do it again.”