Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 13: Daisy Dukes And Anacondas

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.

Happy New Year.

As the sun set and The Curmudgeon tossed more wood on the fire, Brett slumped forward in his seat and started snoring. In any binge of drinking there comes a time when one can’t make it home. Cindy acknowledged that moment. She also recognized that the moment had passed, unnoticed, several beers ago.

She glanced at the red cooler, now empty and turned on its side near the News Van. There was a half full blue cooler, still upright, not far from The Curmudgeon’s reach. How much beer had he supplied? Did he simply drive around with several cases at all times? Who carries enough booze to start a party at will? What else was packed in his truck? The important thing was nobody could drive anywhere.

“Not driving home.” Cindy mumbled.

“Same here.” The Curmudgeon agreed. His eyes looked as sharp as ever but he was carefully using her welded tripod to support himself while he tended the fire.

“Stuck in the woods.” Cindy worried.

“Stuck? Hogwash! One is never stuck in the woods. They are at home in the woods… or should be.” The Curmudgeon beamed. “Also,” he patted Brett’s sleeping form fondly, “the lad here needed to celebrate victory.”

“To victory!” Cindy toasted them both.

Striking a pose (while desperately clutching the tripod lest he fall over) The Curmudgeon stood tall and shouted at the nearby stream. “We have met murdertrout! We have defeated them in battle! We have saved the trans-species raptor! We are big damn heroes!”

Cindy had a laughing fit so loud it woke up Brett.

The Curmudgeon had wandered off to his truck again. He returned with three thick blankets and distributed them. To Brett he handed a canteen of water. “Drink this stud! You’re gonna’ need it.”

Brett had never been called a stud by anyone, in jest or not. He slurped greedily.

The Curmudgeon figured he’d done pretty well for Brett. He’d turned stupidfish into murdertrout, gotten the lad blinding drunk, and was hydrating him in advance of the Old Testament hangover the lightweight was sure to experience tomorrow. After the drinking… the suffering.

Given the limp soyboy he’d been presented with, the drunk, battered, murdertrout wrestling creature he’d formed out of such raw material wasn’t half bad. He had one more trick up his sleeve; the thinking of thoughts.

The Curmudgeon hunkered by the fire. Abandoning the lawnchair to which he’d formerly seemed welded. He pushed aside some burning branches to make a bed of coals and whipped out a strange tinfoil disk. “Jiffy Pop,” he explained, “we will have popcorn and talk of deep things.”

The two students joined him, hunkering in blankets near the fire… watching as the magic of Jiffy Pop popcorn bloomed before them. There could have been no better magic spell and no more appropriate shaman for this place or this time.

When Cindy reached for the first bite, The Curmudgeon held the popcorn back. “There is a fee!” He chuckled. “Tell us who inspired you. What do you want to be?”

“I should graduate in a year…” She began, but The Curmudgeon waved her off.

“That’s not inspiration! Who did you want to be? What’s your big damn hero?”

She winced, a lifetime in education had taught her never to reveal her true feelings; ideally never to have any. The Curmudgeon waved the popcorn enticingly. Finally she decided to let it out.

“Daisy Duke.” She admitted, glancing around lest someone hear.

The Curmudgeon graciously presented the popcorn. Having said such a thing aloud, the rest of the words fell out. “She had this bitchin’ jeep and was super cool. She saved her meathead brothers all the time. She drove just as fast and…” Her face turned red.

“And?” The Curmudgeon prompted.

“And she was hot.” Cindy admitted.

The Curmudgeon opened his mouth to speak but once uncorked, Cindy’s story demanded to be heard. She simply couldn’t stop. “After that I liked Mr. T. From the A-Team. Dude was built like a brick shithouse. What girl can turn that down? And he had a van. Sure, they were a team but the van was his. Talk about confidence! They drove around doing good deeds and blowing shit up…”

She tapered off. The Curmudgeon opened his mouth again but Cindy wasn’t done. “I wanna’ drive too fast, and have a van, and do good deeds, and blow shit up. I know…” Cindy announced with finality. “…it’s stupid.”

Brett looked like he was going to say something. Odds are it was going to be unwise so The Curmudgeon talked over him. “That’s an excellent dream Cindy!” He smiled magnanimously. “It’s a dream you can attain but one not too dull. You already drive like Daisy Duke. I saw you come into the parking area like your van was on fire. Heck, you’ve got a van too. All that’s left is a good deed and a couple explosions. Maybe drive it to a place that’s had a disaster and… I dunno, give out water bottles or some shit? There’s nothing stupid about it at all. You’ve got a great dream!”

Cindy had never considered a dream to be something one attained. Dreams were an idea discarded in adulthood.

“Being adult doesn’t mean being bland.” The Curmudgeon continued, speaking as if he heard her inner thoughts. “Get in your van, buy some water bottles…” He was on a roll now, sounding like a preacher at a sermon. “Get a pair of cutoffs and go comfort some redneck after his trailer got hit by a tornado.”

She’d never ever thought such things before, yet there it was. Her idea wasn’t unattainable and it wasn’t stupid.

“What about explosions?” Brett asked around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Haw haw haw…” The Curmudgeon laughed. “Mr. T was a maniac but Daisy was a redneck. Every redneck knows how to blow shit up. Do some good deeds first…” He waved his finger. “… but then buy some Tannerite and have at it. Good harmless fun. A wonderful goal and you’re halfway there. Go get it.”

Cindy beamed. Her entire lifetime of getting hazed and hassled in the education system evaporated. Her goal wasn’t dumb, it was a thing to do. How simple he made it seem.

“And you?” The Curmudgeon waved his pan of popcorn at Brett.

“Jim, from Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.” He admitted sheepishly.

“Who?” Cindy asked, causing both men to groan.

“So that’s where all this came from?” The Curmudgeon scratched his chin. “Riparian ecologist, documentary…”

Brett shrunk, like Cindy he’d been trained to avoid having exceptional ideas.

“Who’s Jim?” Cindy interrupted.

“Remember the anaconda?” The Curmudgeon enthused. “That was amazing!”

“What’s Mutual Of Omaha?” Cindy demanded.

“You know about the anaconda?!?” Brett was excited; he’d been explaining pennyfarthings so long he assumed he had nothing in common with anyone.

“Today’s a special day for you my friend.” The Curmudgeon reached out and started shaking Brett’s still sore arm. “You had an awesome life goal and today you attained it. Congratulations!”

Cindy was typing into her phone. “Wait a minute! I thought this whole thing was my idea!”

“The van was your idea.” Brett countered.

Cindy had been sure she’d been the driving force all along. Brett had been a pawn in her plans! Insurance and wild animals? That was a thing!?! She was about to get righteously pissed. Before her fuse could be lit, The Curmudgeon grabbed the phone from her hands, fiddled about, and handed it back to her.

“The anaconda?” Brett asked.

“Oh yeah!” The Curmudgeon grinned.

“Holy shit!” Cindy jumped from her chair. The video was too exciting and she couldn’t stand still. “Lasso an anaconda from a horse? What a boss!”

“Brett just did it.” The Curmudgeon prompted.

Cindy’s eyes lit up. “He’s right! Murdertrout is the same thing. You’re a legend!” She gave Brett a huge tipsy hug. “You stud!”

Brett, who hadn’t been thinking of the obvious parallels, blinked like a deer in headlights. He’d just been called a stud twice in an hour, once by an actual living human girl. Non-ironically! An actual living human girl who might be interested in looking hot and could pull it off was non-ironically calling him a stud! This was the top of the mountain. He was at the peak of life!

He’d largely forgotten about Jim years ago… yet it was absolutely true. He’d done it! He’d been dragged underwater while filming a wildlife documentary. The experience was a lot less heroic in real life than on the screen… it smelled worse and involved a fair amount of pain. Yet he’d done it! Almost entirely by accident, he’d done it!

The Curmudgeon settled back in his seat. Mission accomplished. Two souls plucked from the safe, pointless, bureaucratic playpen of a University and dropped in the superior world of actual life. Silently, he welcomed two new members to his dwindling tribe of real people.