Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment: Part 23: Pedantics

UPDATE: There was a period of squirrelus interruptus as I worked through writer’s block, real life, and a few bottles of whiskey. During that time I decided to go back and re-arrange a few already live Squirrel posts. I’m reclassifying them with the tag “Lesbian Squirrels – Redacted” so that they don’t clutter up the story as I meant to tell it. This update was written and posted on December 28th, 2019.

Twitch tried to pull himself together; which for Twitch was a common desire but a rare accomplishment. He counted to ten, he felt the dent on his forehead where the magazine had bounced off it, he watched the fallen soldier taking deep measured breaths after Bart’s weight was finally removed. He focused on what was important. He was alive.  He reached deep into his psyche and gathered every bit of rationality to…

I GOT A WEDGIE FROM A BEAR AND WAS ATTACKED BY RUSSIANS!

Nope! That wouldn’t do. He forced himself to bury all that fear and horror deep down into a locked box where he could unpack it at a more opportune time. Knowing Twitch, that would probably mean a public meltdown accompanied by screaming. He was, after all, a professional comic colorist.

So, what was important? There was the fact that his underwear had been pulled halfway to his sternum. Was that important? Nah. As a full-fledged nerd he was no stranger to wedgies. Perhaps he would someday look back on this moment in pride? Hadn’t the recipient of history’s first interspecies turbo wedgie earned a genuine nerd war story?

If that wasn’t important, what about the neon green goo that had exploded from the Slurpee machine. It was everywhere. Icy bits of sugar water invaded his nose, his ears, his ass. It was between his toes and his left nostril was frozen shut. Yeah. That was it. The important thing was to climb out of this pile of goo and get warm. In fact, it seemed like a good idea to get in his vehicle and drive to another time zone. Yes! Run! That was the really important thing!

He stood a bit too fast, slipped in the ice, barrel rolled through a bloody pile of crushed Dorito bags, and wound up face down in a pile of three dead soldiers. It was at that precise moment that Twitch’s mind finally managed to register that he was in the middle of a murder scene. He screamed like a little girl. Who can blame him? The last few minutes had racked up a body count well beyond the shootout at the OK Corral and it had happened, above, behind, around, over, and through him. He shrieked louder at the thought of Billy’s confident stride as the man left the building with his little group of mayhem peddlers. A K-cup enthusiast with an attack bear was at large. He was bigger and badder than Darth Friggin’ Vader!

“Hey!” It was the sole remaining Extreme Greeter; Mike. It was a shallow, breathy voice. As if a hefty strong man was speaking after a terrible experience. A racist bear had licked his faced and groped him in ways that would embarrass the TSA. Twitch wasn’t the only one who’d been through the wringer.

“Yeah?” Twitch chirped.

“Let’s just forget this whole thing eh?” The Extreme Greeter was slowly gathering his strength and positioning himself to stand. “I mean, that bear… what the hell smells like that? Do all bears smell like a dumpster that’s been stored in a jock strap? I just don’t have it in me to kill you.”

“Wah?” Twitch was standing unsteadily. The last sentence seemed rather important.

“Look man, too much death here. And bears.” The greeter stood, tall and proud and beginning to regain his bearing. He nodded. “Definitely too much bear for one day.” He surveyed the wreckage. He was the sole survivor. Unbidden, his mind dredged up a long-forgotten song from 19XX. He started humming. He was at peace. There had been enough killing. He was going to retire. Perhaps it was time to become a gardener? He wasn’t sure where that idea came from. He imagined the wizened elders of all those cool kung fu movies. Yes. It was time to do that thing. Plant a koi pond or eat some tea or write a haiku. There once was a man from….

“OK.” Twitch agreed. He was on board with the whole not killing anyone else plan. Also, the soldier had that look that was sometimes referred to as a thousand-yard stare. It was creepy.

“Yeah.” The Greeter smiled, basking in his revere. He was going to turn over a new leaf. Become a peaceful man. Possibly he’d take up some deep and meaningful but ultimately baffling hobby; like raking gravel into patterns or folding paper. He was still humming his new theme song. He was going to gather his shit, walk out of this mess, catch a ride on the helo, and submit his resignation. He pictured explaining it to the Smoking Man. “I quit, effective the minute a bear licked his face.”

“Just hand me that thing…” He waved at the magazine at Twitch’s feet. It wouldn’t do to ride home empty. There’s no shame in a bear attack but dumping a full mag and leaving it behind would count for twenty bucks off his last paycheck. And it was lame.

“This?” Twitch picked it up. He held it gingerly, with the odd hoplophobic thumb and one finger motions common to people who know only that guns are dangerous but nothing more about them.

The Greeter grinned at him. It made him smile to watch fools handle a mag like it was a venomous snake. As if it wasn’t inert. Like it might explode. Twitch gingerly handed it over.

The greeter grabbed it with a meaty hand and in a smooth practiced motion shoved it in his rifle. He racked the bolt as delicately as a man hammering a tent stake with a rock. The rifle chambered perfectly, despite the coating of green icy goo. He smiled. Yeah. It was time to be peaceful.

“It’s a new day.” Grinned the greeter. Smiling benevolently.

“Your revolver isn’t damaged then?” Twitch’s voice switched to that snooty graduate student whine common to most Baristas west of Seattle.

The Greeter winced but let it go. “My rifle is fine. The magazine seated just as it should.” Water off a duck’s back. A leaf on the breeze.

“You’re mistaken. That’s not a magazine. It’s a clip.” Twitch insisted.

The Greeter’s eyes went wide. Ducks and leaves? Koi and rakes? Forget it! This nitwit had to die. He drew his K-Bar and lurched forward.

Twitch was no stranger to people wanting to kill him and moved quickly. He cleared the doorframe a half inch before the Greeter would’ve been on him. The greeter was momentarily stunned to come face to face with the Ghostbuster’s car. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

It was just enough hesitation for Twitch to leap in, slam the idling car’s old transmission into reverse, and stomp with both feet on the gas. Tires squealed and he was gone.

The Greeter didn’t make chase. He calmed and sheathed the knife. Leaf, wind, koi, peace… he walked back into the wreckage. Maybe it was time for a snack. By the time Twitch had brought the ponderous car on the highway and more or less pointed somewhere safe, the Greeter was tearing into a Slim Jim and slurping a Yohoo. Everything was going to be ok.