Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.
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Eugene had survived the first hour of Velma’s training. It had been the hardest hour of his life. He’d learned so much!
He was also shaky, exhausted, and dizzy. He’d managed a Sanskrit translation of the Constitution of the United States just in time. Velma had reluctantly cased her terrifying nailgun but the respite was short. She’d immediately demanded he rewrite the Turboencabulator bit from an old Johnny Carson routine into iambic pentameter; as if Shakespeare and Johnny Carson belonged in the same sentence. This deadline had involved a grenade with a pulled pin.
Any sane person would be bluffing with the grenade. Velma, he was sure, was not. She was a specialized trainer but also completely batshit insane. She had already explained her methods. They were simple. It was his fault that he’d voluntarily contacted her and now she had a deep abiding duty to teaching the living shit out of him. If he lived through the night, he’d have vastly increased his mental ability. If he didn’t she assured him that it was because he was unwilling or unable to unlock his full potential. She’d feel really sad about it as she disposed of the body.
“You have done well in the linguistics portion of my curriculum.” She was pacing back and forth in front of him like a general marshaling her troops. “And I think you need some protein before the next topic.” She tossed him an opened can of sardines. He caught it and gratefully began devouring the oily treat.
“Your next topic is acrobatics and martial arts. This is my trained weasel. He likes sardines and will attack anything that smells like them.”
With that she dumped a furry whirlwind on Eugene who was still chained to the bed and covered with oil. His eye’s dilated and there came a knock at the door. Condition yellow.
Velma smiled. “I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” And she strode out the door.
