The following accounts are real and took place last July. Many people claim this story is purely fiction, but this is not the case. The events that unfolded before my eyes were indeed the most remarkable sight any eyes could behold. The outcome of the event changed my life. The event I speak of is the epic battle I witnessed between an Amish and a mime.
A quiet man sauntered down the street, whistling mutely to himself with his hands jammed in his pockets. His pale completion exaggerated by the pasty white makeup drabbed on his face. His lips were as black as a gorilla hide, and mind you, not a silverback. To accompany his gloomy lips dripped the dried black tear drops from below each eye. For a face whose features screamed of sadness, he still appeared to be whistling merrily. His wardrobe was equally as peculiar as his facial display, wearing a black beret atop his head, covering his greasy blond hair. Around his neck he sported a fine red silt bow tie, slightly disheveled. From the neck down was a plain white t-shirts, with evidence of sweat peering through in response to the blaring summer sun above. His pants were as simple as his shirt, an ordinary pair of black slacks. Fastened to his pants around the waist was a pair of black suspenders which clung to his boney shoulders. He looked scrawny on the outside, but something in his eyes suggested he was not a force to be reckoned with.
With each step the wandered took, dust kicked up beneath his feet on the dirt road he traveled. Gently swaying back and forth as he walked until he came to a dead stop. His head sprang up and his neck straightened, he was startled by something. In his alerted state he glanced all around, when he saw a figure approaching.
As the figure walked, it became apparent he was heading directly towards the unusual stranger. As the other drew closer his long flowing black beard danced in the wind. His face was shadowed by his large rimmed straw hat, while cooling it from the searing rays. His attire contrasted the cooling aspects of the hat in that he wore many layers of dark black material. He quickened his pace and when in earshot let out a warning.
“Get off my property mime, this is Amish country,” the Amish man yelled.
The mime acknowledged the caution with a nod, but said nothing, and held his position.
“Thou speak to me when I address you,” the Amish demanded. “You know the decree; your kinds are not suppose to intrude on our land. The good lord never intended the Amish and mimes to mix.”
The mime gave a blank stare to the Amish, followed by a smirk.
“Enough of this nonresistance,” the Amish screamed in a rage, “Mennonite Fist of Might.” The left hand of the Amish burst into a ball of flickering fire and he rushed the mime and struck him in the chest.
The mime flew backwards, shirt singed, and skin reddening. The mime picked himself up, dusted off his pants, placed his hands over his stomach and imitated a hearty laugh.
“You certainly are dumb,” the Amish scoffed and he readied himself for a follow up attack. “Repent for your sins,” he shouted as he swung his clenched fists wildly.
The mime, now anticipating the attack prepared a dodge and retaliation. He stepped aside from the fists and head butted the Amish. After the strike, the mime quickly jumped back and hopped around in celebration, arms pumping in the air.
“Now you have done it, I am going to make you not want to talk about this fight,” the Amish blurted out, “no ifs, ands, or buttons about it.” The Amish then faked an elbow attack to divert the mime’s attention to the knee aimed for his groin.
The mime clutched his crotch and expressed signs on pain in his face, but his expression soon returned to a smile. Pretending to wipe tears from his eyes with the backs of his wrists, the mime mocked the Amish once more. The mime then approached the Amish but was met with an invisible barrier. The mime placed his hands on the unseen wall and shrugged his shoulders.
“You play games whilst we engage,” the Amish shouted in frustration. “I will give you something to cry about. I will teach you Demut.” The Amish lunged at the mime but met the invisible wall instead. Crashing into the wall, sounds of shattering glass filled the air. The Amish fell to the ground, and groaned loudly as he picked bloodied pieces of glass from the beard that lined his chin.
The mime then unraveled an undetectable lasso from aside him. Slowly letting the lasso out, he then began to swing it slowly about his head, waiting for the Amish to regain back to his feet. Once the Amish was standing again, the mime unleashed the lasso.
Not seeing where the lasso was headed, the Amish was unable to parry the attack. The lasso landed over his head, and the mime immediately tightened, restricting the Amish airflow. The Amish clutched his neck, grasping for air.
“No wonder you were excommunicated,” the Amish wheezed as he removed the lasso from around his neck. “I appreciate your plainness, but you have too much Hochmut. Trespassing is trespassing, and mimes are descendants of the devil. Choke me all you can, and cut me all you want, I have already renounced my flesh and blood. Your attacks are useless against me.” The Amish the delivered a boot to the side of the mimes face, causing the silent intruder to collapse to the ground.
The mime mimicked a primal scream without muttering a sound and spun into the air. Forming a whirlwind around him, he landed atop the Amish with a fist to the spine. The Amish jutted forward and fell back to the ground, onto his face.
The Amish righted himself once again, this time laughing subtly, “I have had harder challenges on my Rumspringa. You are nothing.” The Amish then reached into his trousers and pulled out a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and winged it at the mime, while yelling, “face Prohibition Collision.”
The bottle struck the mime and exploded into a blinding flash. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air and once the mist cleared the mime stood, chest raising and contracting rapidly as he took his deep breaths. The mime pretended to grab a baton and marched in place waving the baton in sync.
“You do not take anything seriously,” the Amish reprimanded. “You know not of obedience and submission.” The Amish bend down and removed a dagger from his boot, when he noticed smaller rocks form the road vibrating. He then heard the loud thunderous crashes of drums, but saw nothing. His eyes went wide upon the realization of what attack the mime had summoned. “Not the Charade Parade,” the Amish yelled as he tucked up into a ball before the mime.
The rumbling was deafening as the Amish remained in his ball, almost cowering. When the procession audibly dissipated the Amish, surprised he was un-phased, raised his head to see what had happened. The Amish peered out from over his arm to the mime standing proud in front of him. With the stealth of a gazelle the mime reached his hand into the chest of the Amish and pulled out his still beating heart. The mime smiled, and then licked his lips to signify that the heart looked delicious.
The Amish keeled over and the mime dropped the heart. The mime returned to the road. He jammed his hands back into his pockets and teetered on his heels for a moment. The mime then took a slow step forward and continued his travels.
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