Adaptive Curmudgeon

[I’m having a heck of a time getting posts out this week. Someone ordered up another winter storm and I’m working my butt off just keeping the pipes thawed. Also, I’ve gotten some donations and I very much appreciate them! If you tossed a copper in my hat and haven’t yet received a thank you note please forgive me. The delay is because I’ve been distracted by manhandling a snow shovel.]

Billy’s plan was equal parts divine and evil. Billy called it “carrot initiative and stick contingency”. Doogie thought it more “Gandalf the White and Stalin”. Regardless…

Many miles away Edna’s eyes narrowed. Gertrude recognized the look and backed off. She’d been merrily trash talking her friend’s efforts at competitive knitting (having beaten Edna in three out of the last five rounds). When Edna had “the look” it was best to tread gingerly.

“Something wrong?” Gertrude prodded.

“Yes, the universe is written by a hack!” Edna exclaimed.

“Could you be more specific?” Gertrude was well aware that Edna had some sort of ill defined yet undeniable connection to the state of… well… everything. That’s how an elementary school teacher could walk into a completely sterilized crime scene and immediately point out the tiniest bit of evidence. Thus had been born The Inspector. Anyone who can walk into the shell of a burned building and pick out the imperceptible glint of a shell casing in the ash behind a refrigerator was nearly supernatural in their observations; a clear boon to The Cleaner.

Edna arched her eyebrow, glaring at the air above her seat. “Exposition? I take offense at such sloppy handiwork.”

The universe paused, hands poised above a metaphysical keyboard; uncertain about how to proceed. Edna hissed menacingly. At her feet her vicious and malevolent Scotty dog picked up the mood and began to growl.

The universe paused.

“Show! Don’t tell.” Edna announced to the Universe.

Gertrude waited for Edna’s next pronouncement. She didn’t have to wait long. With surprising dexterity, Edna jumped up from her seat (both Gertrude and Edna had been ensconced in Edna’s matching and gloriously overstuffed chairs). She marched to her laptop, opened it, and initiated a chat with one of her favorite on-line contacts and budding fan; Captain Pedantic.

“Greetings to the Grammarian!” Captain Pedantic responded almost immediately to her electronic ping.

Wordlessly, Edna clicked the audio chat feature. Gertrude, through a professional criminal’s long practice of distrusting everything electronic, recoiled as the speaker and microphone lit up.

“Did you make the reservations?” Edna queried, sounding less like a friendly connection and more like a commanding general.

“Absolutely, Ma’am.” Captain Pedantic enthused. “You have prime real estate right near the entrance.” An electronic brochure popped up on Edna’s screen. Gertrude inched closer to look. The Scotty kept growling.

It included a map; the booth rentals for the ‘West Coast Comic Con – Where Robots and Dragons Meet’.

Gertrude and Edna sighed at the theme. The problem with nerds was that they were nerds and the nerd origination of nerd thoughts could never quite overcome the totality of nerd.

Booth 6A, their booth, was labeled “The Grammarian.” Edna clicked the link and read a blurb she herself had written.

“Can society be saved from Barbaric morons? Proper English productions presents ‘The Grammarian: Episode 1, Battle of the Oxford Comma’. This 96 page, full color, deluxe edition will be offered at a discount for the first 300 customers. Everyone who purchases Episode 1 will get a coupon for $5 off the eagerly anticipated ‘Episode 2, Scourge of the Misused Possessive’. Author Edna Kampsett and Illustrator Gertrude Smith will be on hand to sign your purchase. Colorist Twitch MacGuffin may also be present with his customized vehicle ECTO1.”

Gertrude nodded. They’d been planning this retirement gig for some time. It was good to know it was coming to fruition. Edna beamed. Who wouldn’t want to be a genuine comic book superhero?

“See what I mean?” Edna explained to the universe.

“I didn’t get that?” Captain Pedantic was confused.

“You’ll get used to it dear.” Gertrude assured him.

“Oh wow! You’re there too! It’s an honor ma’am.”

“Not only that, but I’m bringing you a knitted cap.” Gertrude had decided Edna was no longer in a universe crushing mood and could be needled mildly about her losing time in their informal competitive knitting bouts.

“So I’ll see you this weekend?” Captain Pedantic had fronted several hundred on the booth rental. He might be starstruck but he’d also invested heavily in their endeavor and had reason to be concerned.

“Don’t worry,” Edna soothed, “we’ll be there.” To calm the kid’s nerves she added more. “Gertrude and I have a tendency to succeed. Your return on investment should be more than sufficient.”

“That’s a relief”, Captain Pedantic sighed. “What about that moron Twitch? His work is great but…” He paused.

“We have motivated him.” Gertrude smiled evilly; had Captain Pedantic been able to see her through the laptop’s camera, he might have reconsidered involving himself in the ladies’ activities.

After a few more pleasantries Captain Pedantic signed off, leaving the two women to peruse the electronic brochure.

They did indeed have prime real estate at the event. They would adjacent to three crowd favorites; a children’s comic called “Massive Planetary Bloodbath”, Scooby Doo cosplayers, and an up and coming documentarian who would be showing “Murdertrout: The Truth Will Surprise You”.

Edna wrinkled her nose as she zoomed out on the map. Across the street from the civilized, air conditioned, indoor comic book convention there would a smelly dirty outdoor hippie fair. “The People’s Fair – A Celebration of Economic Joy Brought About by Socialism.”

She clicked a link to see the schedule. It included a full slate of protests. They seemed to be in opposition to almost everything. There were protests against war, cheese, internal combustion engines, cultural appropriation, plastics, math, meat, electricity, pipelines, plastic bags, history, satellites, and especially against men. The anti-male protests were so numerous they’d been allotted an entire day; officially designated as the “Men Suck Day”. This included specific protests against straight white men, straight non-white men, gay white men, gay non-white men, successful men, failed men, athletic men, weak men, tall men, short men, men who pee sitting down, red haired dwarf men, and especially men who have jobs.

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[It’s -21 as I prepare this post. Stay warm y’all!]

In the hours following their epic and manly departure from Billy’s Church of Awesome (and scene of battle!) Billy grew into the role he’d been born to play. The world was out to get him and Billy was going to kick the entire world’s ass!

It was only Doogie’s insistent reminder that they were “on the lam” and could ill afford the entanglements of a speeding ticket that kept Billy from melting his car’s engine in a joyous desire to escape the Earth’s orbit.

The squirrels, meanwhile, were absolutely terrified. Woodland creatures are tough. They face death by predator and circumstance with a casual indifference that would shock most humans. But they’d never pondered the unleashed, out of scale, larger than life, madness and glory that could be extracted from the soul of a man.

Doogie had warned them. They hadn’t understood. Billy as a male human was a thing to be subjugated; managed if necessary, avoided if it couldn’t be managed. Billy as a man had swaggered out of a burning half collapsed arena of war. This was an entirely different thing. He’d stepped over defeated Ghostbusters and slain Extreme Greeters like a conquering hero. He had a holstered pistol, a reeking pet bear, and confidence beyond measure. His whole attitude had undergone metamorphosis. They began to comprehend what Doogie had been trying to explain with metaphors about Valhalla, Genghis Kahn, and John Wayne.

The squirrels, with their mind control and devious nature had wanted to bully the world but they had no idea the difference between manipulating weaklings and facing absolute masculinity. Billy had been attacked, he had defeated everything that opposed him, and that had been the coolest thing he’d done in his life. Now he was of a mind to plant a flag somewhere and begin ruling. The gynocentric new world order had just encountered it’s first testosterone soaked man. Shit was getting real!

Bert, for his part, cared nothing about what anyone in the car was thinking. He was chewing on a Slim Jim and resting comfortably in the back seat. Neither oppressed nor oppressor, Bert was the closest thing to a peaceful being in that car. Between Billy’s ego, Doogie’s brilliance, and the squirrel’s duplicity, a world of hurt was en route to Portland.

After a few hours Billy felt the adrenaline ebbing and started to plot his next move. It would be his move, for he was in charge. That much was clear.

Despite an ego that had gone almost nuclear, he still valued the assistance of this second in command. He was a little bit crazed, but not stupid enough to overextend the situation. He decided to use a skill he’d been dying to employ for decades. Holding his hand out of the squirrel’s view he made a fluttering of strange motions.

[ARE YOU LOYAL TO HOUSE ATREIDES? SHALL I KILL THE TRAITORS?]

Doogie gasped with pure delight. Not just hand signals but Atreides battle language!

It should be noted that Billy and Doogie were both young men and wickedly smart. Therefore, they were both nerds. Both of them, as required of all abnormally intelligent young men, had read the complete Dune series.

[I HAVE NOT YET SECURED HARKONNEN JEWELS] Doogie replied, fluttering his hands. Then, in a bit of nerd oneupmanship, he began to talk aloud in English, while surreptitiously communicating in a made-up science fiction sign language. “Did you see the Slushy machine explode? That was epic!” [FORGIVE TACTICAL FAILURE PREVIOUS. OBJECTIVE REMAINS ENEMY ASSETS.]

Not for the first time Billie had trouble keeping up. Who can drive, talk in one language, and sign in another at the same time? He managed to communicate another sentence. [SAFE WORD IS ‘SPICE’. SPEAK IT AND ALL THAT OPPOSE US DIE.]

Doogie beamed and switched to another language, this one audio but entirely beyond the squirrel’s ken.

[FOR THE HONOR OF THE EMPIRE! ONE LANGUAGE IS NEVER ENOUGH.] The language he spoke sounded like a Frenchman getting beaten with a set of bagpipes.

Billy squinted. Of course he spoke Klingon. It wouldn’t do to forgo the one language based on alien warriors and more guttural than swallowing a frog! ‘For the honor of the empire’ was clearly an agreement. The two were on the same side (all hail deprogramming by hot coffee to the face!) but his Klingon skills were too rusty to translate the rest.

He reached over to Doogie’s head and started poking him, not entirely gently, with his trigger finger.

-.- .-.. .. -. –. — -. .. … ..-. .-.. — … . .-. …

Doogie translated, rubbing what felt like a dented forehead. ‘Klingon is for losers’.

And with that, Billy cranked heavy metal as loud as his car’s speakers would go. He started head-banging to Metallica’s “Enter the Sandman” with a herky jerky motion oddly out of time with the music. Doogie observed for a few minutes before he realized what was happening. Billy was thrashing to and fro beneath the furious guitar riffs… in Morse code! Doogie followed suit and they began to scheme. Right under the squirrel’s gaze a new plan was formulated, discussed, refined, and agreed upon.

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[If you’re new to this story please visit Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels for the whole saga. As a quick update: The Smoking Man is major player in the cabal that spies on everyone and controls everything. He is well aware of the power of bullshit and his organization uses it for its own purposes. They’ve been seeding your mind with stupid ideas since the day you were born. If you have a deeply held idea that’s completely illogical (and you do), it was planted there for future use by the Smoking Man or others of his ilk.

The Analyst, his loyal employee (minion?), specializes in sifting through mountains of data to find points of interest for the Smoking Man. He’s been trying to track the squirrels since he detected they were capable of deploying Swedish Disco as a mind control agent.

The Smoking Man and The Analyst have a small army of Extreme Greeters. At their direction, The Greeters rappel out of black helicopters to greet the living hell out of “terrorists”. Through Doogie’s careful actions, the squirrels have far eluded detection, though it was a close call in Chapter Five: Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment]

The Analyst had to admit, it was a fine memorial. The paint was barely dry but he already liked it. The new memorial to the fallen heroes of the “battle of REDACTED” was a six foot mural. It had eagles, amber waves of grain, flags, and many visuals of guns. All of this was carefully non-specific. If you didn’t know the context you’d be forgiven for thinking a platoon of Marines had fallen while trying to liberate orphans from North Korea. Of course, the real battlefield, a convenience store in flyover country, was classified; as were the participant’s various injuries. Even so, word got around as these things do. They now had a pilot who answered to “One Ball”. Everyone also agreed that Mike’s abrupt departure after getting mauled by a bear was completely legit. Rumor had it he was now hitchhiking across Montana. Understandably given his description of the bear’s stench, he’d developed an unhealthy obsession with scented candles. Their staff shrink had warned everyone that should anyone fart in his vicinity, Mike would surely kill them. Everyone was relieved when Mike’s disability paperwork had been processed and he’d disappeared before Taco Tuesday’s refried beans came into play.

“You wanted to talk?” It was the Smoking Man.

The Analyst sighed, he’d actually seen the man coming! He worried that his boss, formerly a fearsome avatar of evil, was losing his edge. That was the topic he intended to breach.

“Yeah boss, “ The Analyst began. “Let’s get some coffee and talk somewhere private.” He led them to the break room where a veritable mountain of K-cups were stacked near an industrial coffee maker. Reaching into the pile he grabbed two cups at random and slapped them into the machine.

They waited in silence the brief interval while the dispenser filled their disposable cups. Good old fashioned Styrofoam cups! There were advantages to being evil and one of the best was drinking from sturdy thermally effective cups while the populace made do with flimsy paper.

He handed one to The Smoking Man and took a sip from his own. The Smoking Man didn’t hesitate. He took a big swig as if he weren’t even remotely paranoid. This was serious!

“What if that had polonium?” The Analysis asked, quite concerned.

“Nobody has poisoned me so far.” The Smoking Man replied, utterly unconcerned that almost anyone who knew he existed was either plotting to kill him or fleeing from his wrath.

The walked past the new mural, barely glancing at the second newest mural (a suitably redacted monument to Rodney “Wet Pant” Slovosfeld), and slipped into a side room.

“Something is wrong.” The Analyst began.

“What’s wrong? Did you finally figure out which Senators are Chinese spies?”

“Please, we knew that years ago. I’m worried about something that matters. It affects our mission effectiveness.”

“Spit it out.” The Smoking Man slumped in a chair, completely at odds with his former ramrod straight posture. Was he dying?

“It’s you.” The Analyst blurted out. He figured he had a 50/50 chance of being killed on the spot, but he said it anyway. The Analyst was deeply dedicated to the organization’s mission (whatever the hell that might be) and he genuinely liked his boss; more for his cold effective competence than some minor emotional attachment that might sway a lesser intellect. Franky, he liked working for Darth Vader. The real Darth Vader. The implacable, towering, James Earl Jones voiced, half-mechanical, force choking, death machine… his bosses’ current slumping apathetic attitude was clearly a sign of deterioration. At the moment The Smoking Man looked almost human. That would not do!

“Me? What are you talking about. I’ve got the world by the balls. You and I can do basically anything we want anytime we want. If I want a riot in Bolivia I can so order. If I want the press to call it a rainbow they’ll do it. ‘The burning embers of La Paz are a poignant reminder of the power of love, and were most certainly caused by American rednecks.’ They’ll do it. Want me to demonstrate?” The Smoking Man’s speech was fiery but his posture still sagged.

“Yeah, but are you happy?” The Analyst countered.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve wreaked havoc planet wide, in the name of America’s true (and secret) government for decades. But where’s the magic?”

“I see your point. What’s the point of clandestine skulduggery if I’ve already done it so many times that it’s routine? The world is a mess, which is my plan.” He sighed, “I’ve won too much. Perhaps I’m tired of winning.”

“That’s not right!” The Analyst complained. “You’re flat out evil and you’ve got plenty of years left in you.”

“Meh.” The Smoking Man waved at him vaguely.

“We could do something new?” The Analyst prompted.

“After a global pandemic? How do you follow up a masterpiece like that? Does the symphony revert to a kazoo for the encore?”

“Nuclear war?” The Analyst was grasping at straws.

“Forget it, “ The Smoking Man shrugged, “the timing is all wrong. I didn’t pull the trigger immediately after the first terminator movie. Now it would come off as stale and derivative.”

“Insurrection?”

“Nah, color revolutions are getting trite; name a nation where the people actually like and support their own government. Name a place where the elections are transparent and trusted. I’ve installed faceless unpopular authoritarian bureaucracies everywhere that matters and some places that don’t. The people are brainwashed idiots. They cry out to be oppressed and they’re getting what they want… good and hard. Overthrowing a ‘good’ government to install an ‘evil’ one, would require I find a good one left.” He paused. “It’s sad. I’ve hunted my prey nearly to extinction. Maybe I’ve done it all. It could be time to retire.”

“NO!” The Analyst shouted, surprising even himself. “Don’t give up!”

The two men sat in silence for a long time. Finally The Analyst broke the tension. “Did you like the video we got from that poacher? The building was barely standing. What a party!”

Everyone with sufficient security clearance had watched Chigger’s video. They’d made popcorn. Shit got crazy in flyover country, bears and Batman, what better entertainment could there be.

“Ah yes, Batman.” The Smoking Man smiled weakly. They’d let him run amok for a few days before rounding him up for re-education. In that time he’d been a one man anti-crime wave. One guy got thrown off a bridge after stealing a bicycle! Certain rural areas near the convenience store’s foundation would be crime free for generations. “He had a heck of a good time didn’t he?”

“And why not?” The Analyst countered. “We got into this business because we love it, and we believe in the mission.”

“Oppressing citizens…”

“Well I was going to say beating the hell out of terrorists but sure… whatever.” The Analyst agreed.

More silence. In the distance there was a muffled scream. The fellows in Information Retrieval were hard at work. Good for them.

The Analyst tried again. “Maybe it comes down to work life balance.”

“I have no life.”

“Well of course not, none of us do. But there’s still balance. Maybe you could get some of the magic back?”

“Hm… It is true that I’m in a rut. I just order things done. I haven’t personally planted a land mine or emotionally manipulated a patsy in ages.” A light was  beginning to shine in his eyes. It was the combination of hope and a desire to be even more evil.

“That’s the spirit!” The Analyst coaxed. “Why don’t you take a few days to get back in touch with what matters. The joy of being an ultimate bad-ass! Maybe setup a redneck to take the fall and then assassinate Bill Gates and blame him for it?”

The Smoking Man’s posture was straightening. Hope is a powerful emotion.

“Not Gates, we spent a fortune on him.” The Smoking Man shrugged. “Who else is left. The world is a total mess. Who’s left to target?”

There was a soft knock at the door. A secretary entered, walked directly toward the Smoking Man as if The Analyst didn’t even exist, and handed over a printed sheet with trembling hand. Without a word, and without turning her back, she edged back toward the door, slipped out, closed it… and RAN.

The Smoking Man read the words and folded the paper carefully. He deposited it in a pocket and began to grin. It was a fabulous, evil, dangerous smile.

The Analyst waited.

“It appears the FBI has trod upon our bureaucratic territory. They have expanded their surveillance of American Citizens; which, because it is immoral, illegal, and unconstitutional…”

“That’s OUR job!” Interrupted The Analyst. He was livid. Their organization specialized in spying on law abiding citizens. It was their core competency! They happily provided the FBI whatever illegal evidence they requested. They gladly told the FBI what it wanted to hear, using either true information or fabricated as necessary. In exchange, the FBI stayed out of the ‘wiretapping all of humanity’ game. It was an uneasy truce but it worked. So long as the FBI stuck with their original mission of creating crimes which they would later ‘solve’, all was well. Now they’d intruded on bureaucratic turf where they didn’t belong. It would get men killed… more importantly it might affect budgets! The FBI’s behavior almost demanded a response; it would have to be brutal and sudden. What were they thinking?

“Shall I begin a covert operation to get every single one of them killed?” The Analyst asked. Obviously, the FBI had to be taken down a notch.

“No.” The Smoking Man smiled with the familiar perfect menace of old. “I think I’ll take your advice.”

“Um… How?” The Analyst’s powerful mind was already awash in schemes that would wreak havoc. All he needed was the word.

“I will go to their next ‘stakeout’…” They both chucked at the old fashioned term. “…and I will correct a few of them personally.”

The Analyst beamed. “Yes, back to basics!”

“Find out where their next Stingray operation will go down. I’ll be at your office in half an hour.”

With that The Smoking Man stood up tall and strong and terrible as ever. The Analyst noticed his boss was working his fingers, as if to limber up for his favorite hobby of garroting enemies. The Analyst smiled at the sight. All was well.

Half an hour later The Analyst was tapping on his keyboard when a cold, almost deathlike, hand dropped on his shoulder. He’d heard nothing; not a whisper of sound, not the hint of a shadow. It was as if the grim reaper had glided invisibly into the room. It was good to know his boss was feeling better!

“And?” The voice sounded cold and commanding; cruelty in audio form. It was like old times!

“I’m afraid the FBI has started small. Portland defunded its local cops so the FBI offered to monitor communications and pick out a few people…” He almost added ‘to frame’ but that was implied. “…it’s a hippie convention.” He finished.

“Really?” The Smoking Man sagged with depression. “Every hippie since 1968 has been more or less on our side. What’s the point of looking for criminal activities among people who can’t even hold down a job? Even if they want to cause trouble, the Boomer core can barely get off the couch. Sixty year old dipshits who used to say they’d never trust anyone over thirty. And the younger cohorts are useless…” He sniffed dismissively. “GenX is a rounding error. Millennials couldn’t handle dodge ball. The worst is GenZ. They haven’t had a thought we didn’t plant in their empty head, since they were born. They take Twitter seriously for God’s sake. What’s the point of mucking about with hippies?”

“There’s an angle.” The Analyst tried to salvage what he could. “It’s across from a comic book convention. It’ll pick up all their communications too.”

“Nerds.” Hissed the Smoking Man. “What kind? The Dangerous sort that take Heinlein seriously or the dweebs that argue about Marvel Universe?”

“Hard to say, I’m guessing most of them are lame. But there’s always a few Crimethinkers in any such group. I’m sure you can scoop whatever the FBI finds.”

The Smoking Man nodded, thanked The Analyst for his good work, and stalked off. The poor fool thought he was going to annoy the FBI by spying on some patchouli stinking hippies or by seeking out the smart fraction in a nerd herd. If he was going to regain the magic in life it needed to be a lot more fun than that!

The Smoking Man strode purposefully toward the motor pool; might as well enjoy a road trip while he was at it. It was time to get back to basics. He would relive his former hobbies. In his pocket was a swatch from J Edgar Hoover’s favorite frilly dress. He would go there and provide communication in a way that even the idiots at the FBI couldn’t miss.

He breathed deeply. He felt vitality returning; a sense of purpose. They say it feels good to be a gangster, imagine what they’d say it felt to be him!

If you like what you’ve read, please consider sending a tip to any of the venues listed below:

[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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[If you’re new to this story please visit Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels for the whole shebang. If you forgot Twitch MacGuffin, he first appears in Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment: Part 09: Who Ya’ Gonna’ Call.

I apologize for the delay. This post was supposed to go live a few days ago but I missed my self-imposed deadline. In my defense, a snowstorm had me literally (not figuratively!) snowed in and that became a priority situation. By the time the snow was cleared I was as far behind schedule as hapless Twitch.

To review, Twitch is a human avatar of bad decisions. Perpetually indebted, he lives in a 1959 Cadillac hearse, rebuilt to look like ECTO1 from Ghostbusters. He crossed Billy and within minutes received history’s first interspecies turbo wedgie from Bart the bear. And he took a gig job as a colorist for Edna Kampsett and Gertrude Smith but missed the deadline. (I can only hope Edna lets me slide for starting a sentence with a preposition.)]

This was a new experience, Goon #2 mused. His job was to reach into a hearse and pull out a living person. He loved life’s ironies!

He hefted a five pound maul and approached the car. It was a 1959 Cadillac hearse. Some weirdo had retrofitted it to look like the famous vehicle from Ghostbusters. Such a waste of a fine car; turning it into a movie prop like that. He’d been informed by his employer that the owner slept in the back of the hearse, ostensibly because he had no money after the expensive rebuild. The owner was also apparently a dipshit and a loser; which seemed self explanatory once you knew he lived in a hearse.

Goon #2 had dealt with plenty of dipshits in his career. They were best corrected immediately, lest they cause drama later. Sadly not all dipshits could be fixed. Recently, he’d been training up a young fellow who showed promise in the time honored career track of a professional Goon. Unfortunately, the fellow turned out to be a dipshit. He’d failed to follow his employer’s precise instructions. Classic dipshit behavior!

That particular dipshit had eaten a cookie which had been cooked up by a dangerous psychotic genius. What kind of fool eats a cookie served by such a person? Things had gotten out of hand. He lived but only after enduring a detailed and esoteric lecture involving advanced chemistry. Apparently, polonium and the process of chemically binding it with an iodide solution within an acid bath of a stomach is something geniuses enjoy discussing. In the end, the “student” got the right solution and saved both himself and the dipshit. However, it had been a close call. Timing seemed to affect the matter. Goon #1 had eaten the cookie prior to the introduction to the lesson. He’d had a bad night.

In the end, Goon #2 counseled Goon #1 that he didn’t have what it takes to be a Goon. Perhaps he should try a less challenging career path, such as Thuggery? To which the retching poisoned man assented. That’s why Goon #2 was working alone… again. He sighed. Kids these days simply didn’t have the intellectual wherewithal to properly fill the role of Goon. How sad for society. After all, society needs Goons. Where would we be without them?

He was more than willing to smash the window, but before damaging the old car he idly checked the door. It was unlocked. Dropping the sledge he reached in and grabbed the first bit of human he could reach. It was the left big toe of an idiot named Twitch. That’s all the handhold a proper Goon needs! He dragged the half asleep and completely confused limp noodle of a comic colorist out of the vehicle. Once that was done, he gave him a few dope slaps to wake him up. Not too hard! He’d been informed that the victim in question was as weak as he was stupid. He’d agreed to deliver a more or less functional person with most of his body parts intact; no more attitude corrections than necessary.

“What the…” Twitch babbled.

SMACK, Goon #2 replied.

“Please stop…”

SMACK

“For the love of God don’t…”

SMACK

Goon #2 paused. He figured three was about the right dosage. Then he got a good look at Twitch’s face and added a fourth. SMACK.

Some faces are meant to be slapped.

Twitch cowered against the car while Goon #2 held him up with one hand. His big meaty fist was wrapped up in Twitch’s Baby Yoda pajamas. Baby Yoda? SMACK! That last one wasn’t related to the job; it was a freebie to help balance the universe.

Goon #2 fished a cell phone out of his pocket with his free hand. He dialed the number and held the phone to the quivering Twitch’s ear.

“Twitch! You’ve missed the deadline.” It was the voice of Gertrude.

“I’m close. Just a bit more work. You’ll be happy.” Twitch gibbered.

“I’d be happy if I didn’t have to bring in additional personnel to encourage timely delivery.” She complained.

“Uhhhh….” Twitch tried to think of something but was distracted by the five pound maul at his feet. It was the second time this week he expected to die… and it was only Thursday!

“Have I not paid you?” Gertrude prompted. “Did the check fail to clear?”

“Drrrrr….” Twitch’s brain, never far from the edge, had more or less shorted out.

“Keys.” Goon #2 demanded; letting go of a severely rumpled Baby Yoda and opening his hand.

Twitch pointed to the ignition. The keychain (a cross stitched facsimile of Wile E. Coyote) dangled merrily. Goon #2 brought his hand to his forehead in a genuine face palm. The keys were in the ignition? Of an unlocked car? In a neighborhood like this? Who knows what criminal element could have taken advantage of such a blunder!

Goon #2 dragged Twitch to the passenger side of the car and paused. There was a portfolio with some work in it. Carefully, he opened the portfolio and perused the contents. It was incomplete, but what was done was beautiful. Gingerly, he closed the portfolio and moved it to the back of the car. Then he tossed Twitch in the seat.

“It looks like he’s maybe three quarters done.” Goon #2 reported to the cell phone.

Gertrude was pleased. This was better news than expected! Goon #2 concluded the call and hung up. He considered destroying the phone in case it was traced, but thought better of it. He’d had a guy install special privacy software on the phone. His conversation with Gertrude was encrypted and private. Also, Gertrude hadn’t said anything particularly incriminating.

He started up and rolled out, driving with the dignity appropriate to an antique Cadillac instead of Twitch’s method of careening around with the stupidity of a movie prop. The Cadillac rolled as smooth as butter.

In the passenger seat Twitch worked hard on staying calm. First a bear wedgie and then this? Was there no justice in the world?

After a time, Goon #2 decided to make conversation. “You might as well relax, we’re going clear to Portland.”

“Ngggh?” Twitch wasn’t yet up to verbal communication. He wasn’t a morning person. He’d had worse mornings (which of itself tells you a lot about Twitch) but this wasn’t exactly a good morning. He could use an espresso right about now.

“I gotta’ hand it to you.” Goon #2 continued, jovially. “You pissed off The Cleaner AND The Inspector.”

“Swroix?”

“I’ve never met someone who pissed them both off. Well, I’m sure they once existed, but obviously I’ve never seen even a trace of such a thing. You can’t even imagine how rare you are.”

“Dblork?”

“They’re going legit.” Goon #2 explained. “That’s why they need you to finish on time; like a friggin’ adult.” He paused, trying to fit a compliment into what had become a lecture. “I like the sunset on page 3, very…” He grasped for words “…red-like? Orangy?”

“Burnt umber.” Twitch corrected.

SMACK.

Goon #2 wasn’t even sure where that came from. The kid just needed smacking.

“So what’s the title?” Goon #2 continued, as if he hadn’t just walloped the kid in his Baby Yodas.

“The Grammarian.” Twitch responded… bracing for another hit.

“The Grammarian!” Goon #2 smiled, “I like it.”

He handed Twitch a crisp $20. “If you get it done, and therefore live, I’d like a copy.”

Twitch clutched the $20 and vowed that he’d have it done in time to man the booth they’d rented for this weekend or die trying… which was basically what Goon #2 was all about anyway.

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[If you’re new to Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels (or forgot because I write at the speed of glacier) you might not know about Boo. Boo is a wicked smart Labrador Retriever who was introduced in chapter 3 and had his own chapter (though a brief one) called “Boo Saves the World“. Specifically, Boo is cursed to be vastly smarter than Kandi, his idiotic, woke, vegan, Captain Morgan swilling, kale chip eating, owner. Boo has done his best to surreptitiously train Kandi beyond her mismanagement of… everything. Alas, sometimes you need to cut and run. Boo is desperately seeking a new career… and fast!]

Boo the dog was nervous. This was his one chance and the odds were against him. Kandi was halfway through a bottle of Captain Morgan and watching all the wrong shows. She’d spent the afternoon binge watching “Fish Without A Bicycle” and was now deeply engrossed in “Yoni-Talk”. This, Boo knew, was putting her in a man-hating mood. It would mire the upcoming delicate negotiations.

What, Boo wondered, would have been the cure for Kandi’s anti-male video choices? Far away, in a van parked by the river, Cindy Leachman could have told Boo the truth. She dreamed happily of muscular men fighting Anacondas in South American rivers. The body of Mr. T and the glorious face of John Shneider mixed with Anacondas in a way that would make Freud blush. Marlin Perkins was mixed up in that mess too, a grandfatherly figure; possibly making pancakes for when she woke up and changing the oil in her van. No… Mr. T would change the oil. And the oil would get all over…

This sent her on a different and equally satisfying path. Tomorrow she would buy a shitload of insurance!

Sadly, Boo had no idea of these secrets of the feminine mind. He paced worriedly by the door. His odds were slim.

Boo had been negotiating on Craigslist with a man who wanted to buy a talking dog. Boo, sensibly, had learned to talk; or at least make something close to vocalizations. Having elected to become a value added product, this was his only hope that it would pay off. He had to escape the orbit of his clueless imbecilic master within the next 24 hours! Everything was riding on today’s encounter!

Unfortunately, the kind of person who’d shop for a talking dog was hardly the best person on which to base any transaction. Further, he’d lied about his pedigree, claiming to be a Great Dane instead of the Labrador Retriever he was. Even worse, Kandi had no idea a man was about to show up and try to buy her dog.

Boo was doomed.

The doorbell rang. Kandi, who was tipsy and also dumb at the molecular level, shambled to the door like someone who’d just discovered walking. She opened it to find a tall handsome man dressed in a perfect “Fred” uniform.

Gleaming white shirt, blue collar, orange ascot, blue jeans, and tan leather loafers; he flashed a grin of perfect white teeth. Kandi froze while pre-programmed bullshit tunneled into her cerebrum. Yum! She had no idea where she got the vibe but some part of her subconscious wanted very much to “solve mysteries” with this handsome man!

Fred knew exactly what was going on in Kandi’s empty head. He let it play out for a precisely calibrated amount of time before launching into conversation. Fred knew how to wield bullshit like a wizard.

He spoke easily and casually; sticking with short sentences and flashing a big friendly smile. Soon he was lounging on her couch while Kandi flitted about moving clutter and trying to remember her own name. Fred just grinned… which made Kandi forget all about the Yoni channel. Boo watched, spellbound. So this was a manly man? A new experience in Kandi’s palace of estrogen. Amazing!

Fred smiled at Boo while talking to Kandi. “So this is the dog? It doesn’t look like a Great Dane.”

“Um…” Kandi muttered. She had no idea what he was talking about. It was Boo that had posted the Craigslist ad. She had no idea that Boo was smarter than her. She had no idea Boo had acquired a handicap accessible keyboard and was using it to balance her checkbook. She had no idea her dog was halfway through several online degrees under assumed names. She had no idea it was Thursday.

Fred pondered the two beings. Having seen Velma’s galactic intellect, he was aware of things most people miss. Soon he figured it out. The dog was paying attention to their conversation and seemed more self-aware than the rum infused bimbo on the couch. The dog had posted the ad. Clever dog!

“So your dog isn’t for sale?” He pouted, with a carefully rehearsed shake of the head that could get almost any girl to do almost anything.

“No?” Kandi stammered as she fought back against the bullshit. “No! I love my dog!”

Boo nuzzled Fred, trying to buy his way out of Kandi’s house. Boo might not have known Fred’s methods but Labrador Retrievers have their own skills. He gave Fred a big heartfelt dose of puppy dog eyes and Fred’s heart melted. Fred liked dogs.

Unfortunately, this dog wasn’t a good fit. He was looking for a Great Dane, in accordance with the accepted cannon of Hanna-Barbera. It wouldn’t do to subvert bullshit.

“Well then,” Fred shrugged, “if he’s not for sale and he’s not a Great Dane, then I’ll have to look elsewhere.” He flashed a ten thousand watt smile and Kandi was tempted to sell him anything and everything she had, but Fred himself was shutting down the idea. Also, to sell your dog to a stranger would look mean on social media. Maintaining a good image (without the slightest concern for underlying behavior) was a strong bullshit instruction that ran in the background of every empty headed college girl like Kandi. She didn’t give a shit about the dog but would be mortified if her social feed looked like she’d abandoned it.

Fred left Kandi stammering in the living room. Meanwhile, Boo slipped toward the rear of the house and, after a moment to get his courage up, bravely crashed straight through the screen door. Kandi forgot all about Fred and ran to investigate. Meanwhile, Boo tore around the house’s small back yard, vaulted a fence, and came to Fred at a full run. Fred, who had one foot in his van, reached down to pet the desperate animal. To his surprise, Boo deposited an envelope in his hand. It was crumpled, as if a dog had stolen and hid it.

Fred opened the sealed document. “Left Coast Veterinary is sending you this letter to remind you that your dog BOO is scheduled for NEUTER at…” Fred checked his watch. The date was tomorrow. Boo looked at him with devastatingly huge puppy eyes and mustered in his best human voice (which admittedly wasn’t great); “Relp me Red”.

“Did you just say ‘Help me Fred’?”

“Yeahyeahyeahyeah…” Boo nodded furiously.

Fred stepped out of the van and squatted by Boo.

“Rut ruts off!” Boo whined.

“Cut nuts off… yes, that’s what ‘neuter’ means.” Fred agreed. Astounding! This time the dog really could talk!

Just then Kandi trundled up, desperately out of breath and hobbled slightly from having run barefoot around the house.

“Boo! There you are!” She shouted, ignoring Fred.

Boo, miserable, sunk to the grass.

“Bad dog!” Kandi continued.

For Boo this was the greatest of all possible insults. He was a failure, a disaster, the worst sort of deviant. A. Bad. Dog!

And tomorrow they were going to cut his nuts off! He collapsed in a miserable heap at Fred’s feet.

“Now let’s just cut the dog some slack…” Fred soothed.

At the word “cut” Boo began to howl piteously.

“I don’t know what’s got into him.” Kandi apologized. She grabbed Boo’s collar and dragged him away. Fred looked into the dog’s eyes as they receded into the distance. Man and dog, as often happens, had made a connection

Neutered. There’s no going back from that! He’d specifically been asked for help by a male creature in danger of the ultimate indignity. Fred was no fool. He had an inkling of the greater unity of all creation. Boo’s request was important. The universal code of all males was clear. Action was required. He could hear the dog’s inarticulate voice in his head; “Rut ruts off!”

He sighed. Kandi was unappealing but Fred’s bar wasn’t set particularly high. The universe had sent that poor dog a savior in unexpected form. Fred was a whore who derived his powers based on a 50 year old, low budget, cartoon. His powers were uniquely suited to resolving the dilemma. Who was he to put on airs when the universe had transmitted a direct request for help?

He climbed into his van and rummaged around in his “supplies”. He had several dozen carefully pressed shirts and an endless supply of ascots but also basics like bottles of aftershave and certain liquors. He’d noticed the six foot Captain Morgan poster in Kandi’s living room. Some people are hard to figure out. Others decorate their house with a huge pretend pirate holding a bottle of rum. Fred unearthed a bottle of Captain Morgan, straightened his ascot, and marched purposefully back to Kandi’s door.

“Hello,” Flash giant smile. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.” Stretch left leg just right to show off package. “So I wanted to offer this token of my sincere apology.” Hand over coveted plastic bottle of cheap spiced rum.

Kandi blinked. Her conscious mind had almost forgotten about Fred in her anger at Boo, but the subconscious was pleased with the fact that a real life Fred had showed up at her door; not once but twice. Some of her favorite memories involved watching that show and bullshit was hard at work behind the scenes.

“I would be delighted if I could take you out for dinner, in” dramatic sweep of the drapes to reveal it “the Mystery Machine.”

Kandi gasped. Fred wondered how she could have missed it while dragging her dog practically in front of its bumper. IQ of a guppy in this one!

The reveal had done well. What the ascot couldn’t manage, the Mystery Machine could.

“But, I need time to get ready. I need a shower.” Kandi stammered.

Another flash of the ten thousand watt smile, “Perhaps I can help with that too?”

“How can you help with a sho…” Kandi froze halfway through the statement, suddenly aware of possibilities that were never featured on Yoni-Talk.

While she processed this new and very appealing idea, Fred turned to Boo and winked. Once again, Fred had saved the day!

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[I promised another chapter of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels and here’s the first post. Enjoy!]

Vans, as everyone knows, are vehicular catalysts. Stupid or brilliant, things happen when vans are involved. This does not apply to their limp and uninspired offspring, minivans, which are just boring enough to simulate suicide without the sweet release of death. Our story continues with real people driving real vans.

Let one part of the story fade as Cindy Leachman sleeps off a drunken binge in her 1989 Ford Econoline. Turn now to a 1961 Dodge A100 sputtering towards Portland.

Fred Smith gently eased the clutch on his van; a machine older than him. It was out of place on a modern highway. Anything from a Civic to a SmartCar could blow his doors off. Ignoring the pell-mell madness of modern life, he babied his vehicle in a way that would make Cindy fume. He didn’t care. His van was not transportation. It was, to be frank, his whole world; job, hobby, and pussy magnet all rolled into one.

Fred had a perfect life and he knew it. He’d carved out a lazy, relaxed, comfort zone within the universe that would make billionaires and rock stars jealous. There was only one problem with this, he was part of a team and the team only worked, he sighed, when he shouldered the officially unofficial leadership role.

He’d finally caught up with traffic. With a little luck from rush hour delays he’d be able to keep up. This gave him time to make a call.

This, like all such phone calls, would touch on a terrifying and alien universe. He donned a hands free headset, gingerly turned on the special cell phone he’d been given, and pressed the single button.

He assumed it was encrypted. He assumed it had all sorts of nefarious internal components. For all he knew there was a combination of state secrets and uranium inside the slim case. Almost certainly it contained components of uncertain origin; ranging from unregulated to flat out illegal.  He couldn’t rule out the possibility it would explode if misused or should it fall into the wrong hands (whatever that might mean).

It was a “gift” from his sister. The single button placed a call to her and her alone. It began to ring. He braced for intellectual impact.

“I told you not to call me at work!”

He winced, would “hello” be an impossible greeting? But that was the way of things. One simply had to roll with it. Also, he was no wimp himself. After all, he had survived being her sibling. She was made of pure power but he was (mostly) at ease with her particular flavor of psychopathy.

“Is that what you call it?” He needled. “If you’re doing it naked I have doubts about your career choices.”

There was a muffled THUMP in the background. This was immediately followed by a high keening wail. “Quit whining! You’ve still got one left.” She barked to the unseen victim of her training.

Fred cringed. He loved her, but his sister was a menace!

“I told you to evaluate with respect to t = 0. You erroneously dropped the baseline adjustment to the voltage at the initial step. Furthermore it’s best approached with the limit as t approaches zero rather than the actual end state.”

There was some muffled response. It was either weeping or advanced calculus. Probably both.

“Try again, you’ve got literally one chance left.” She was still ignoring Fred. He found himself rooting for this unseen victim of her regimen. A sobbing and whining voice burbled some words Fred didn’t recognize. Something about irrational numbers and the diode feedback effect. Whatever the voice said must have been right.

“Excellent, my assistants will provide first aid and a 30 minute rest period. Hydrate and avail yourself of the pain medications provided. When you come back I’ll give you a cookie.”

Fred shuddered at the mention of a cookie. Once you learned a lesson delivered by cookie, you never again accepted a cookie from her (or anyone else)! She’d used the method to “help” him study for a high school trigonometry final. He’d wrecked the curve. It wasn’t worth it.

“So, baby brother, what’s up?”

“I’m checking that you’re coming to the convention this weekend.”

“Oh Fred, just because our parents gave us stupid names doesn’t mean we’ve got to play goofy roles for our whole lives.” She fussed.

“Au contraire, I believe in predestination. It was fate and the name has given me the power to land women like magic.”

“Aren’t you tired of ascots and blue jeans?” She grumbled.

“Nope.”

“Getting pawed by bimbos and skanks?”

“Not at all.”

She sighed, “It’s not fair. For every 36D Barbie that swoons over your ascot I’ve got to fend off a dozen hyperventilating greasy nerds.”

“It sounds like you’ve found ways to vent your frustrations.” Fred reasoned.

“Fine, I’ll be there.”

Fred breathed a sigh of relief, Velma was always a wild card. Growing up, the close knit siblings had embraced their names to various degrees but Velma had been the most unpredictable. Her rebellious phase had pulled her from a pre-teen youth interested in solving mysteries to the ferocious mind-flayer she was now. As an adult she’d made it her quest to drag humanity, kicking and screaming, into higher dimensions of consciousness. From Fred’s point of view that was a hopeless task. The average person was deliberately stupid and half the population was dumber than average; barely sentient if at all. The lengths she went to find minds sufficiently flexible to take the kind of mental journey she took on a regular basis made it self evident. She might as well try teaching ferns to play chess.

Velma’s harrowing youthful years had been tense. She directly or indirectly caused the destruction of several buildings, a run on a bank, and the complete elimination of a Girl Scout troop. The troop’s demise had been the worst of all. The Scout’s central organization had stiffed Velma on a salesmanship award and her troop let it slide rather than back her up. It was the worst (and last) mistake the troop made. For a while Fred wondered if pre-teen Velma would raze the entire Eastern Seaboard in her rage. Thankfully, after all involved personnel had been replaced and the local troop disbanded, things cooled down.

Like all teenagers she’d graduated to greater levels of chaos, but thankfully she never became a genuine Bond Villain. Now, as a young adult, she was a human mental vortex. However, in the best interests of society and due to some inner sense of fair play, she limited her focus to rich nerds who volunteered for the trip.

Fred, conversely, loved his unfair advantage with what mere mortals might call “Game”. To his credit, Fred was far more careful than mercurial risk taker Velma. Even so, everyone in the family breathed a sigh of relief when he reached adulthood without a series of paternity suits.

“I’m pretty busy today. Can you spring Daphne from wherever she’s stuck this time?” Velma asked.

“Sure.” Fred agreed. Daphne hadn’t fared as well as he and Velma. She’d drifted from her assigned role as purple wearing damsel in distress to perpetual cult member. Dutifully, the other siblings saved her; over and over. Now that she was an adult, it was a matter of monitoring into which cult she’d landed and making sure she was reasonably safe amid whatever Kool-Aid drinkers she’d chosen to roost. Velma and Fred managed this task jointly. Fred would ply the cult’s “managerial staff” with bribes, his winning smile, and various fiscal incentives (funded by Velma’s… jobs). Due to their efforts, hapless Daphne usually wound up living a life of luxury as the cult’s “chosen one”.

Should a situation get too sketchy for Fred, Velma would take over and pay a personal visit. Velma’s visits resulted in the sort of behavior modification one would expect from a direct encounter with Satan. Thus, Daphne was oft kidnapped and perpetually cult programmed but always happy and safe. Fred would “bust her out” for the weekend’s activities but she’d probably be back with anyone from the Hare Krishnas to an encampment of PETA whackjobs by Tuesday.

As for Shaggy, he’d been just what you’d expect; a goofy lovable pothead. He’d been last seen baked off his gourd at a truck stop in Barstow. They hoped he was well. Fred and Velma let him drift on the clouds of drug assisted cluelessness and only interfered when he asked. They assumed he would call home if he wanted (or when his head was straight enough to recognize a phone). Lacking knowledge of his whereabouts, Fred would hire a stand in.

All that was left was finding a Scooby. This was the point of the call.

“I’ve got a lead on a dog.” Fred grinned.

“Again? They never talk! You have to stop buying talking dogs.” Velma discouraged his interest in obtaining a Scooby but Fred never gave up hope.

“I’ll use a few hundred out of petty cash.” Fred ignored her. He never stopped marveling over the thought that he had access to “petty cash”. Velma had thoroughly and legally created Mystery Inc. It supported them all, except Velma of course. Fred wasn’t sure if she had gone beyond material concerns or was merely wealthy beyond his wildest imagination; maybe both. Regardless, Mystery Inc. provided for them like a benign magic spell. It paid for whatever Scientology training or guru’s donations Daphne needed. It supplied all the weed Shaggy could smoke. It allowed Fred to deduct a customized Mystery Machine van as a business expense!

What a glorious existence! Bedding as many women as his ascot supply could manage while posting it all as negative numbers on an IRS form! Could there be a better life?

“Fine.” Velma agreed, “Pay for the dog. You don’t have to whore for it.” She grumped, completely ignoring the irony of her job as the world’s only “clandestine dominatrix genius mind coach”. In mid-conversation she turned and cooed at someone out of microphone range. “The bandages look good. Now have a cookie before the chemistry lesson.”

Fred sighed, the poor one balled bastard would be lucky to live out the night.

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There are two groups of readers on this blog; those who know about Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels and those who don’t. For those who don’t, I’m providing this background information.

In the autumn of 2016, Mrs. Curmudgeon spooked a black bear. She was walking my dog, which happened to be white and (being a guardian dog) was eager to throw down.

It was the middle of a campaign season that was just as stupid and insulting as they’ve all become. Therefore not a day went by without someone accusing something of “racism”.

Ah, the good old days. Do you remember when everyone had lost their goddamn minds and it was a new experience? Anyway I joked that the only possible reason a guardian dog would bark at a bear in the yard was racism. Then I went further and committed the joke to the forever world of the internet, thus creating one of my favorite satirical characters; Bart.

Bart, a racist bear, first appears here. I feared people would get all “triggered” and pummel me but everyone loved Bart and his unstable friend (a terrorist skunk).

What an interesting discovery! I’d spent a long time fretting that folks were losing perspective. Taking political / social bullshit too seriously is bad for one’s mental health. I wished someone would just rip into it and make jokes. Turns out, that guy could be me!

I tossed off the phrase “lesbian squirrels or an oak tree with Wi-Fi”.  There was a general opinion I ought to write that very story but (being lazy) I came up with a challenge that would surely kill the idea: “hit my tip jar and I’ll write an alternate ending involving lesbian squirrels.” In no time at all I got a few donations. That settled it.

A couple weeks later, I fleshed out the role of Edward, a trans-species raptor and the dangerous, scheming Lesbian Activist Squirrels. (In case you’re wondering I really did meet a pissed off, zoned out, raptor in my driveway. Whether it was trans-species is a matter of debate.)

In fits and starts the story has continued. It’s over 500 pages. Here’s the binder I keep on my shelf:

At about 103,000 words it’s the only book-length work I’ve (half) written. I aim to write the best “talking Squirrels harnessing the power of bullshit” novel possible.

The twisting-turning plotline has everything you might want; the true power of bullshit, extreme greeters, a dominatrix mind coach, Swedish disco, K-cup reserve currency, two college dropouts (one wicked smart and the other a capitalist Paladin), Gatling guns, etc… It’s a tough story to write! Edna monitors my grammar and Gertrude (with the assistance of Goon #2) will not hesitate to “straighten me out” should I compose poorly.

I created a page that holds the entire story. Everyone with a sense of humor is welcome to read it.

The plot approaches its exciting conclusion in the city that rationality forgot; Portland. I’m trying carefully to avoid painting myself into a corner so this month’s chapter carefully lines up all the characters for the final boss battle.

“Chapter 8 – Mystery Inc.” will feature eight posts over eight days (possibly nine, my muse and I have been fighting over that). The chapter should go live in it’s entirety on or before the Winter Solstice. Merry Christmas Y’all!

Tips are appreciated but not required.

Thanks for reading.