Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 11: Male Bonding

Please enjoy the next post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.

Merry Christmas and happy reading.

It was clear that The Curmudgeon considered getting wet and scraped up to save the life of a college student and a demonstrably confused bird just barely a worthwhile exchange. It was also clear that he’d faired much better than Brett. He had a few cuts and scrapes but his thicker clothes, heavy boots, and work gloves had spared him the worst of it. Unlike Brett, he carried himself like a man who’d been attacked by wild animals before. He was darned near nonchalant about a cut on his brow that was bleeding all over. Brett, meanwhile was whimpering like a kicked dog.

“Uh… thanks.” Brett gasped.

Cindy turned off the camera and pivoted toward the Curmudgeon; who produced a sopping wet bag of M&Ms before she could find some way to blame him for Brett’s condition.

Cindy, gradually realizing that she was expected to care about her fellow man, helped Brett up and led him to her lawnchair. He slumped in it with the kind of exhaustion only a ride in the spin cycle can generate. She turned to the other chair and frowned to see The Curmudgeon already seated. She shrugged, it was his chair after all.

“Cindy, please go to my truck and grab a beer from the red cooler. One each for you and Brett here if you wish.” He glanced at Brett. “Also grab the first aid kid next to the passenger side door.”

She nodded and hustled off.

By the time she returned, Brett was looking better. Without asking, The Curmudgeon popped the top on two beers and handed one to Brett. “Any time you almost die but don’t… you’ve earned a beer.” He intoned sagely.

Brett nodded and clutched his beer. If every documentary filming session was like this, he would be dead within the month.

“Or a hell of a lot tougher.” The Curmudgeon grinned, as if he could read Brett’s thoughts. They clinked their bottles together and both men smiled. It was Brett’s first moment of shared male comradery after a good solid beating. He was exhausted, he’d nearly drowned, he was soaked to the bone, and he was bruised all over but he felt a strange new emotion too. He felt pride.

As for The Curmudgeon, various things had tried to kill him so often he hardly noticed. Slightly battered was more or less his normal state. Even so, he had an uncharacteristically charitable notion. Brett, in his opinion, was a gutless schoolboy and preening twit, yet he’d just gotten his ass handed him by nature. Each well deserved beating is an ideal opportunity for personal growth. Perhaps the lad wasn’t completely hopeless? Now was the perfect time for a mentor to give a positive nudge, maybe the boy could still become a man?

“You look like six miles of washboard on a flat tire. Clean your wounds.” He tossed the first aid kit to Brett.

This was The Curmudgeon’s idea of a positive nudge.

Brett had no idea how to administer first aid to anyone for any reason. He started pawing through the box. Being entrusted with his own welfare was another new sensation. It was actually quite pleasant. After a lifetime of being coddled, he savored the interesting experience of being in the presence of a man who considered Brett’s welfare to be entirely Brett’s problem.

Cindy wondered what the two men were thinking about. Of course, her feminine mind could not plumb the primal caveman depths of the bonding The Curmudgeon intended. She opened her mouth to speak but The Curmudgeon moved quickly to distract her with another bag of M&Ms.

Brett had found alcohol wipes. They were the least dangerous of the many things in The Curmudgeon’s first aid kit. The kit was ominously comprehensive and clearly well used. The Curmudgeon apparently had the knowledge to use, and for some reason the continuing need, to do a surprising amount of cutting, stitching, and other things best left to the medical profession. For example, The Curmudgeon not only had a scalpel but an impressive array of them! And there were other things too. Some of which were probably illegal without a medical license. Taken as a whole, they made the alcohol wipes seem tame and inviting.

Brett winced as he swiped across a slash where a trout, which barely have teeth, had indeed taken a bite.

“Nice cut!” The Curmudgeon enthused.

Brett grinned. All men need to hear their various injuries are laudable. Testosterone is the difference between an unpleasant minor cut and a coveted battle scar.

“I thought you were a goner. You must be a hell of a swimmer.” The Curmudgeon continued.

Brett, who really was a good swimmer, began to grin. “Yeah.” He dabbed an alcohol pad on another tiny trout bite. It stung… which was the closest thing to the rush of battle Brett had ever experienced. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Cindy, please bring Brett another beer, he’s going to need it.” The Curmudgeon had decided to hasten the process. First comes battle, then comes drinking. His eyes twinkled as Brett unconsciously chugged his half full beer to prepare for the incoming one.

Twenty minutes later, Brett was on his third beer and loudly relating his story to the two people who’d just watched it. The Curmudgeon beamed; from a boy to a man. Even stupid has a purpose.

After his third beer was done, The Curmudgeon loaned Brett dry clothes. Soon Brett was dressed in carefully laundered and bone dry clothes that were twice his age. The clothes had lived through far more adventures than Brett ever would. The shirt had been patched three times. Who patches a t-shirt? The jeans fit reasonably well, had even more patches, and were twice as thick as anything Brett had ever worn.

A man dressed like this might as well be wearing armor. Brett reflected on the fact that The Curmudgeon was relatively unscathed. Apparently dressing like a farmer had certain advantages. After all, Brett looked like he’d been attacked with a cheese grater while the The Curmudgeon looked the same as always.

The Curmudgeon’s truck apparently had an endless supply of clean dry clothes because the Curmudgeon changed into dry clothes too. During that process, Cindy had gotten a gander at the kind of hairy ass that makes theories about Sasquatch seem plausible. Then she nearly passed out when The Curmudgeon saw her peeking. Completely unperturbed, he blew a kiss her way and continued dressing. Gross! She shook the thought out of her head but was sure she’d have nightmares for a week.

Shortly thereafter, The Curmudgeon announced that it was only right and proper that men who’d been in battle should now eat steak. Fortunately for them, he was just the man to handle the situation. He began gathering wood for a fire.

Brett, who hadn’t gotten to eat the sandwich his mom made, didn’t complain.

Cindy disappeared into the van to exorcise the mental image of Sasquatch ass by doing crude first draft video editing. Whatever those two idiots were up to, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Cindy was a whiz and had a 40 minute rough cut of their first episode pieced together in no time. She hopped out of the van to find Brett wearing a faded shirt that said “Pobody’s Nerfect”, patched jeans, and decrepit Chuck Taylors. He was on his fifth beer and enjoying it as only a true lightweight could.

Before she could mock Brett’s ridiculous appearance, The Curmudgeon handed her a plate with freshly cooked steak. “Elk.” He explained. It smelled delicious.

They all shut up and ate. Cindy and Brett normally would have embarked on a discussion of the merits of hunting but it was just too damn tasty.

For desert, The Curmudgeon came up with a bag of homemade cookies, more chocolate, and another six pack. Wait! Was that another six pack? Cindy started counting empties and indeed it was. She lost the train of thought as The Curmudgeon laughed with Brett, who was telling a lame joke about a train and some dude on an old timey bicycle. “It’s not a bicycle, it’s a pennyfarthing!” The Curmudgeon roared, to Brett’s delight.