Adaptive Curmudgeon

[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.

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

[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!

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

[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.