[If you’re new to this story please visit Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels for the whole shebang. A quick update of the characters in this installment: Fred the hard working heroic cosplay whore was introduced last week, Boo a wicked smart Labrador Retriever was introduced in chapter 3, and Paul Krugman was awarded the 2008 Nobel Prize for his success in the competitive field of telling politicians it’s a good idea to spend all the money. Happy reading.]
Fred sighed as they rolled out. Sometimes it’s fun to be a whore. Sometimes it’s not. He could use a shower, or two, or three. Boo, sitting in the passenger seat and enjoying the ride immensely, grinned a huge doggie smile that was contagious. Soon Fred smiled too. He’d done it for a good cause. If there’s one thing all men agree on, it’s that balls should remain where they grew.
Boo panted happily and gazed at his new owner with complete devotion. Fred had done the right thing.
Staying off the highway to spare the decrepit machine’s engine, they took side streets from the college student ghetto (where Kandi lived) through and past the wrong side of the tracks. From there they plunged into the neighborhood where you keep your door locked and parked smack dab in the center of Sketchyville.
“You’d better stay here.” Fred explained, wondering if the dog understood.
“Yeahyeahyeahyeah.” Boo agreed.
Fred left Boo locked in the van with the windows partially rolled down to ventilate some air. Then he confidently walked into the “New Beginnings Methadone Clinic”.
The people running the place recognized him and gave a hearty greeting. They knew why he was there and were glad to have the opportunity. Within five minutes they’d lined up an array of suitable candidates. They arranged them standing (or propped up) in a line. Fred paced back and forth examining the situation.
“You!” He pointed at the first, “what day is it?”
“BELAAAREHASDSAD!”
“OK, he’s out.” Fred decided and the orderlies dragged #1 away.
“Anyone else completely insane?” Fred asked.
“I don’t do butt stuff.” Number #8 explained.
“Fine, I can live with that.” Fred agreed.
“Paul Krugman has some salient points.” Number #6 mumbled.
“You’re too dumb.” Fred declared, and Number #6 was instantly removed from the lineup.
The rest all looked fine to Fred. He decided to hurry it up before his van got tagged by a “street artist”.
“OK, I’m going to point at each of you and I’d like you to repeat after me. Can you do it?”
There was a general nodding and agreement. Off in the distance the Paul Krugman fan was shouting something about modern monetary theory. Nobody paid attention because modern monetary theory is exactly the sort of raving incoherency you’d expect to hear at a methadone clinic.
“Repeat after me, ‘zoinks’!”
“Zerks?” #2 tried.
“Nope. Zoinks!” Fred was moving down the line.
“Zits!”
“Nope. Zoinks!”
“Zorks?”
This went on a bit until the magic happened.
“Repeat after me. Zoinks!”
“Zoinks?”
Fred felt the pre-programmed bullshit flow through the universe. Orwell was right, control the language and you control the world. “Perfect! You’re hired!”
“I don’t do butt stuff.”
“Shut up and get in the van.”
“Last time I was in a van things got weird.”
“Here’s $200.” Fred stuffed a stack of crisp $20 bills in his hand, everyone in the room leaned closer to see.
“I promised I’d never do that again.”
“GET IN THE VAN!”
“Uh… OK.” He dutifully followed Fred who was already striding away.
Back at the van, Fred found a man flopping around on the pavement near his van. Half his shirt was torn off and he was locked in a struggle with Boo. Boo, meanwhile, had pulled the man’s backpack half over his head more or less immobilizing him. The man was getting dragged around in circles as Boo tried mightily to wrench the backpack away and the backpack pinned the man’s arms.
“Boo!” Fred shouted “what are you doing?”
Boo was momentarily distracted and let go of the backpack. The man got up and started running. Fred was genetically related to Velma and therefore ten times more dangerous than anyone in the vicinity. He expertly tripped the man and sent him sprawling. The backpack spilled its contents of spray paint cans all over the pavement. Boo circled in front and growled viciously. The man, who was still splayed out on the pavement, stopped trying to get up.
Fred rushed to inspect his van. If that jerk so much as scratched the paint he was going to…
But the van was untouched. The arm of a shirt, torn off and laying on the ground, showed Boo had played a role in this. How had the dog opened the door?
“Good job Boo!” Fred announced as he opened the door. Boo abandoned his post by the cringing tagger and bounded into the van.
Fred motioned to his newly hired Shaggy; who was clutching his $200 and staring warily at the tagger on the pavement.
“I don’t like getting in vans…” he began.
Boo wasn’t having it! He let out a bark that sounded like he would gladly depopulate the entire city block. Involuntarily, the man jumped in. Fred slammed the door shut and hustled around to the driver’s seat.
In the van the man looked around with wide eyes. “TV isn’t real.” He said.
“Rello Raggy!” Boo greeted.
The man began to cry.
Forty miles away Fred swung by the Flying J truck stop. As at the methadone clinic, he was met with open arms. As soon as he stopped at the truck wash, word went out that a “special customer” had arrived.
A hefty formidable woman appeared and leaned into the van’s open window. “The usual honey?”
“Of course, lube, oil, and filter!” Fred grinned and handed over a few bills. They both glanced at Shaggy, who was staring at them with wild eyes. “Throw in a haircut.” Fred added, as he handed over a set of clothes, green shirt, brown rumpled pants, and gray shoes.
Before Shaggy knew what was going on, the van door opened from the outside. “Hi, I’m Large Marge and we’re going to clean you up!” She announced. Then she grabbed him and hauled him out of the van as if he were a sack potatoes.
Fred was already in gear and rolling as Marge dragged Shaggy toward the trucker’s showers. Boo could hear the man whining as they roared away. “No butt stuff!”
An hour later the Mystery Machine looked completely out of place as it rolled through the nicest, richest, most exclusive neighborhood in Portland. From there it entered “The People’s Pleasant Community” a gated subdivision which claimed to be Socialist while surrounding itself with tall fences to keep out the poor people.
There was a gated community within the gated community. This was “The Harmonious Society Of Anti-Capitalism”. Fred pulled up to the gate, which looked very nice but disguised an impressive urban defense perimeter. Fred noted equipment that would make a foreign embassy in hostile territory proud. A man leaned out of the entry gate. “We have no visitors.” He growled.
“You’ll own nothing and be happy.” Fred greeted him warmly.
Boo noticed the man was cradling an Uzi.
“I’m here to take my sister Daphne for a weekend vacation.” Fred smiled.
“Anyone is free to leave at any time.” The man growled, clearly indicating the exact opposite.
“Should I have sent my other sister Velma instead?” Fred asked.
“Velma?” The man with the Uzi suddenly looked nervous. He shuffled papers and looked at a clipboard that was stocked with nothing but blank paper.
“Ring up the boss…” Fred began.
“We are all equal here!” The man interrupted.
“Ring up your equal then.” Fred beamed. “Tell them I’m here to take my sister Daphne for a fun family weekend. But if she chooses to stay on your” he waved at the gate “delightful campus, my sister Velma and I will be joining y’all for dinner. Won’t that be fun?”
The man was actively shaking now. Either Velma’s reputation had been seeded in the gate staff or he’d personally experienced the woman’s wrath. He grabbed a phone and started jabbering. Fred could hear only half of the conversation.
“I don’t know. A guy in a van. Wants to see someone named Daphne?”
There was a pause.
“Don’t tell me that ‘chooses to not leave shit’!” The man was hissing into the phone. “He says something about Velma?”
There was an outburst from the other end of the line.
“Then you tell him!” The man countered.
Another pause.
“Yes, like Scooby Doo.”
More indecipherable words on the other end of the line.
“Bullshit! I’ve heard about this. You bring her to the gate or I quit. I don’t get paid enough for dealing with…” He paused, realizing Fred was listening intently.
Fred, still beaming and sitting placidly in the van, held up a cell phone. It was the special phone. It had only one button.
“Jesus, he’s got the phone! You get that bitch here now or we’re all going to die!” The man was simultaneously shouting and pleading.
Five minutes later a golf cart pulled up with a tall redhead in a purple miniskirt in the passenger seat. It was driven by a terrified looking gentleman who nudged her out of the cart and immediately drove off.
“You’ll own nothing…” Fred greeted her.
“…and be happy.” Daphne responded.
She walked toward the security guard. He was still clutching his Uzi but looked less like a dangerous soldier and more like an overwhelmed mall cop who was about to pass out. “Anyone is free to leave at any time.” She said and gave the man a peck on the cheek.
When she opened the van’s passenger door, Boo hopped down and got out of the way. “Oh, Hi Scooby!” She laughed. She waved at the guard who was leaning awkwardly against the wall and looking pale. “I’ll be back Monday, be a dear and have my rug shampooed while I’m gone. Thanks!”
With that, Fred backed away from the gate and headed in the direction from which they’d come. “The service at this spa has been excellent since Velma straightened out the billing issues.” Daphne smiled. “And you’ve got a handsome Scooby too.”
Fred was pleased, they’d swing by Flying J to pick up a freshly scrubbed Shaggy within the hour. Everything was set for a great weekend!
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