Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 10: Stupidfish

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Aw shit!” The Curmudgeon griped. “Always saving the damn world…” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. Instead he shoved his hands into leather gloves and waded purposefully into the water. Unlike Brett and the hawk, The Curmudgeon kept his footing. Cindy continued recording.

The Curmudgeon stuck his hand into the spinning whirlwind of fish/bird/missing college student and grabbed something solid. With a grunt he yanked out Brett. Brett was battered; helpless and floppy. The Curmudgeon was an old hand at manhandling clueless livestock and his skills worked fine on the limp college student. With one hand he held the cuff of Brett’s shirt and with the other he brushed off the more or less toothless fish that were gnawing on him.

Brett coughed weakly. Cindy was both relieved and disappointed to know Brett was still alive.

Having removed most of the fish, The Curmudgeon tossed Brett up onto the shore. He landed like an overeducated bale of hay.

Without pausing, The Curmudgeon reached deeper into the mess. This time his hand emerged with the Hawk, grasped by one talon, upside down and flapping. Three trout were hanging on the half plucked bird. The Curmudgeon shook violently and the fish fell away.

Fly asshole!” The Curmudgeon ordered and he hurled the bird as high as he could.

The Hawk came to its senses and flew away in a wet sloppy retreat.

Cindy recorded the retreating bird’s errant flight before turning the camera toward a battered and lacerated Brett. Brett lay there gasping for breath.

Just then the song ended. The madness at the stream died down as fast as it had started. Cindy ran for the MP3 player to avoid letting it play another song.

I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” The Curmudgeon grumped. He’d emerged from the stream and was removing a few errant fish that still had teeth locked onto his clothes. Two came off his left arm and he tossed them away gently. One was attached to his pantleg. He kicked it back into the water with a dismissive motion. He made a quick inventory of his condition; checking fingers and toes. Only after assuring himself that nothing was missing, did he take the opportunity to glare at Brett. Nearly killed by stupidfish! What a wimp!

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 09: The Dumbest Way To Die

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The Curmudgeon was consulting his notebook and mumbling to himself. “All hook and no brain… there’s a pattern here somewhere.”

The song ran out without another suggestion from The Curmudgeon, who was deep in thought. Hoping for more M&Ms, Cindy let the MP3 player skip to the next song; Dancing Queen.

You can dance

You can jive

Having the time of your life

Abba?” The Curmudgeon mused.

Ooh see that girl

Watch that scene

Digging the dancing queen…”

It took a few seconds for the song to sink in. Then. All. Hell. Broke. Loose.

The fish turned the water from a froth to a roiling foaming mess. Impressed, The Curmudgeon leaned back and grinned. Meanwhile, Brett ran past him in a panic.

Brett was shouting something over the disco singers. Cindy saw Brett’s frantic hand-waving and brought her camera up with a quick draw that would fit in at the OK Corral.

The trans-species raptor was back! It was zipping around the stream like a hummingbird on crack. Fish had started jumping out of the water; trying to bite what should be their feathery nemesis. Brett was waving his arms like he’d found the Holy Grail. Cindy was running the camera like her life depended on it. The Curmudgeon just grinned. “Abba,” he said to himself, “no shit.”

It was at this moment that the Curmudgeon got an idea. An awful idea. The Curmudgeon got a wonderful, awful idea!

By now the Hawk had lined up for an attack run that would surely land him a huge tasty exceptionally stupid trout. Meanwhile, the fish were going nuts, as if they’d love to eat a Hawk. Brett was shouting at everything and being ignored by all.

Amid the chaos, The Curmudgeon had formed a theory. Clearly there are different varieties of stupid. These fish were most certainly infected with University based stupid. Students couldn’t afford to even sniff the air in the vicinity of a Tesla; thus the Tesla line hadn’t gained much traction. What about a prompt specifically tuned to the University variety of stupid?

Without hesitating, The Curmudgeon bellowed the ultimate mating call of the University Marxist. “STUDENT LOAN FORGIVENESS!”

That did it!

The fish went from random jumps to a single unified explosion. They erupted from the stream in a giant wall of shimmering insanity. This took the Hawk completely by surprise. It plowed into the mass of fin and scale with the grace of a bowling ball.

The Hawk had met it’s match in sheer fish density. It crashed into the water where it was immediately beset on all sides by trout doing their best impression of Rocky Mountain Piranha. Feathers began to fly and the hawk let out a terrified squawk.

Brett freaked out. He’d isolated the rarest, most special, most politically correct and therefore marketable wild creature on earth. To have such a thing snuffed out just when he might cash in on it was unthinkable. He dove into the water hoping to save the bird.

Cindy gasped but held the camera rock steady.

The Curmudgeon cocked an eyebrow. “Bad move.” He muttered.

A few seconds passed. The fish hadn’t let up. Abba was still playing. The Hawk was still submerged and Brett still hadn’t surfaced either.

Do trout have teeth?” Cindy worried. She was still recording the patch of stream where man and bird had gone down. She was genuinely concerned for Brett but also (if she were honest with herself) pondering the market value of a video where a rare unique wild animal and a college student were simultaneously torn to shreds. It had to be significant!

Small teeth.” The Curmudgeon winced. “Not likely to hurt a human… but”

But?” Cindy prompted.

Maybe a bunch together. It would be a bad way to go. Like getting pecked to death by ducks.”

Cindy was a college student trying to study the hard sciences within a woke campus. Intellectually she’d been pecked at my weak little ducks all her life. She began to feel genuine sorrow for Brett’s fate.

Bad way to go…” She mumbled. A tear came to her eye. Poor Brett, killed in the dumbest way by the dumbest creatures.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 08: Trout Oddity

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Flummoxed eh?” The Curmudgeon chuckled merrily, effortlessly channeling the Universe’s monologue.

He held his most recently caught trout against his forearm. Brett noticed a series of safety pins in the fabric of The Curmudgeon’s sleeve. He compared the fish’s length to a pin, mumbled something to himself, tossed the trout back in the water, and made a quick entry in the notebook. He stowed it in a pocket before Brett could peek and began slathering up in Purell for the next cast.

A light-bulb went off in Brett’s head. The pins were roughly an inch apart. The Curmudgeon was measuring fish!

How accurate are your measurements?” He teased, hoping The Curmudgeon might explain further.

Fishermen lie, gentlemen never tell, scientists record, and college students remain clueless.” The Curmudgeon intoned. “How watch this,” he grinned. He took a deep breath and yelled at the water “subsidized Teslas!” The froth in the water reduced somewhat, the Curmudgeon cast, immediately landed another fish, and got busy measuring it. It was smaller than the ones he’d already caught. “Huh. Teslas don’t do it.” He grunted to himself.

Brett’s mouth dropped. The whole situation was intolerable. “Stupidity is not a waterborne contagion!” He shouted. “Fish don’t have political opinions!”

Well they’re dumb, that’s an observable fact. I haven’t yet developed the correlation with bad judgment into a mechanism of causality.” The Curmudgeon lectured. “Honestly, I thought electric cars would set them off but it didn’t.” He shook his head slowly. “Clearly I don’t understand the full depth of stupid in play.”

Brett seethed. It’s not an easy thing to see your entire world view subverted by a jerk with M&Ms.

Cindy had melted into the background and was covertly videoing the situation. If a hick beat Brett senseless she wanted it on video. Random violence and a trans-species raptor would make the most popular documentary since the History Channel switched to Aliens!

The Curmudgeon sighed at Brett’s discomfort. It was annoying as hell. The Curmudgeon witnessed breakdowns due to cognitive dissonance with alarming regularity. They just seemed to happen wherever he went. It was such a hassle.

OK fine”, he hissed, “fish don’t eat M&Ms, they don’t have opinions about Marxist economic theory, and the University doesn’t send stupid downstream from it’s source to this location.”

Brett calmed. The guy was seeing things his way.

Brett glanced at Cindy who had the camera out. She gave him a thumbs up. He’d won the argument, though he couldn’t say how.

Meanwhile, the Curmudgeon had yet another of his patented thoughts. “Yo Cindy, why don’t you play some music for the fish?”

This set Brett off yet again. “What the hell are you…”

If Boy George brought in a trans-species raptor, what music will set off these fish?” The Curmudgeon wondered.

Brett looked at the churning water. He wasn’t sure “set off” would be a good thing.

Of course, they’re just normal trout, as you’ve established.” The Curmudgeon needled.

Apparently pleased with his fishing success, The Curmudgeon strode from the streambank, produced two lawn chairs from his truck, and made himself comfortable. He clearly intended to watch a show. He waved for Cindy to occupy the empty chair, which she did with relish.

When Brett asked if there was a third chair, The Curmudgeon only leered and tossed a bag of M&Ms to Cindy. Brett wound up leaning on the van’s bumper. Cindy cycled through her MP3 list and blared dozens of snippets through the PA system without a noticeable result. The Curmudgeon flipped through his notebook, frowning as if the conversion from political slogans to hook filled songs from the point of view of a stupid trout was possible. Brett scanned the skies in case his raptor might return.

Try Space Oddity,” The Curmudgeon coaxed. “I don’t know if Bowie was gay or just a spaz but it seems on the spectrum.”

Ground Control to Major Tom…” the PA warbled. Unfortunately, Bowie’s story of detachment and isolation did nothing.

The Curmudgeon was deep in thought. “Too cerebral.” He concluded. “Bowie was a freak but a pretty good lyricist. We need him singing something dumb. How about Let’s Dance?”

Cindy complied and soon their pleasant natural scenery was awash with Bowie’s talk of wearing red shoes to dance the blues. They all saw the hint of a change in the swirling water. The Curmudgeon watched the water with intensity. Brett and Cindy leaned forward. The trout were responding!

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 07: Stupid Mode

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Cindy and Brett were so busy cycling through music samples that might bring the hawk/eagle back that they’d forgotten about The Curmudgeon, who’d obligingly wandered off. They were arguing about the parallels between Boy George from the 1980s and Marilyn Manson from the 1990s.

They’re both sexually ambiguous freaks.” Cindy shouted.

“”Wildlife cannot be attracted to an asshole like that!” Brett countered. Cindy was about to eviscerate his bias that wild animals had some sort innate soulful beauty when The Curmudgeon interrupted.

Showtime!” He announced.

They both looked over at The Curmudgeon. He was sniffing the air. He’d detected a faint scent. Axe Body spray combined with socialism! That meant only one thing. The river was about to go into “stupid mode”!

What!?!” Cindy barked. She’d formulated a devastating riposte to Brett’s bullshit and was upset she’d missed the moment.

Stupid mode! The time is now.” The Curmudgeon announced with satisfaction. He tossed a pine cone in the water. Whoosh… a trout struck at it. The Curmudgeon beamed. “So, you doubt my theory that stupid gullibility is somehow transmitted from its source upstream? Watch this!”

While they’d been distracted he’d dispensed with his willowy fly rod. He was now holding a generic and far more stout spinner rod. He speared an M&M with a bare hook and cast a line. Almost immediately the line went taut. The Curmudgeon set the hook and reeled. Soon he had a trout in his hand.

He removed the hook and tossed the fish back. Then he slathered his hands with Purell. “Got no idea how communicable stupidity really is.” He explained as he wiped his hands clean and baited the hook with another M&M. Cindy wished he’d save some for her. As if reading her mind, The Curmudgeon tossed a bag her way.

He cast again and landed another trout within seconds.

Trout. Do. Not. Eat. Chocolate.” Brett stammered.

I agree, any trout that wants chocolate is an insult to piscine honor.” The Curmudgeon nodded vigorously. “But they’re in stupid mode, so it’s a lock.”

He cast again and landed a trout effortlessly. The water was literally frothing as fish charged to and fro in a sort of frenzy.

I’ve been working on audio clues.” The Curmudgeon added. He was consulting a little notebook on which he’d scrawled notes. “If I say the right phrase I seem to increase the size of the catch. Watch.”

He baited another hook and took a deep breath. “Universal Basic Income!” He shouted at the water. Brett and Cindy both noticed a slight increase in the froth and looked at each other. The Curmudgeon cast into the maelstrom and immediately landed another fish. Cindy and Brett stared at each other. They were flummoxed; uncertain whether they were witnessing a new and heretofore unknown fact of the universe or falling for some weirdo’s magic trick.

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Merry Christmas

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 06: The Big Flush

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Merry Christmas and happy reading.

An additional note, please don’t read any synchronicity between the glorious holiday of Christmas and a post about sewage treatment. It’s how the text broke and nothing more.


Jimmy was the best employee at F-SPEWT, the Facility for Sewage Processing and Ecological Waste Treatment. He was also the only one working that shift. Mostly automated, there usually wasn’t a whole lot to do.

The facility was proof that people will spend lavishly to avoid interacting with their own shit. It had been carpet bombed with Federal funds some years ago and was now officially a coveted and photogenic “Green Investment”. It had a beautiful front lawn featuring patches of native vegetation with interpretive signs explaining each plant and its role in the ecosystem. It had a giant mural on its three story concrete wall facing the road. The mural was an artist’s interpretation of a third grade elementary school project. It implied that rivers full of fish came directly from clouds, cascading into a giant clockwork of happy stick figures wearing hard hats, which did something with lots of big red hearts. From there the water emerged into a pond where a blue whale swam in circles.

The building smelled like shit; because it was where shit goes.

Jimmy was pleased to have landed a “trainee level” job at F-SPEWT. He was a probationary hire, destined to work at half pay another two full years while he completed a degree in environmental studies with a minor in chemistry. Environmental studies was a breeze. All you had to do was pretend that blue whales lived in ponds and you’d get an A. Organic chemistry was a lot harder, but Jimmy was a hard worker and a good student. He’d earned a steady series of good solid B grades. This made him smarter than virtually the entire population that flushed their shit into his workspace. Jimmy owed a fortune in student loans.

He’d had a busy day. Someone or something was sending terrifying levels of… everything his way. He’d been titrating this and sampling that in a desperate attempt to tune the treatment facility to manage incoming chemistry that was literally “off the charts”. It was like someone had flushed a pharmaceutical plant run by space aliens.

It wouldn’t do to let this witches brew flow through the plant under “default” procedures! There were substances in there that weren’t mentioned in even his most advanced textbooks. There was no way a residential sector should contain, much less offload, gunk this complex. Yet here it was. It was overwhelming the system!

In desperation, Jimmy consulted Operations Manual 3.02b. Removing it from it’s place of honor among the the manuals and guides in the operations room made him worried, but also excited. He turned to the dreaded and almost mythical Appendix R. He’d had hours of training on Appendix R. His provisional certification in Appendix R procedures had taken months of paperwork.

He frowned. Appendix R was clear. This was a time to file an “Exceptions Buffer Emergency Approval”. He’d never expected to file a EBEA so soon in his career. Maybe someday, if his career took him to greater heights, but not yet! (He’d heard stories about Buffalo NY and one particular EBEA near Niagara Falls that kept him awake at night.)

The thing about understanding chemistry is that you know things nobody else knows. It was Jimmy’s burden to know what’s in our water. Having such dark knowledge, you can’t blame him for being a bit high strung.

Dutifully, he filled out the EBEA. It took him an hour. He added test results he’d been accumulating over the last few hours. He checked boxes. He cross referenced the Catchment Permit specifications. He was filling out the kind of paperwork that made people quit the military and become monks.

The facility had dozens of computers but only one was usable for the EBEA. An decrepit, long ignored, computer that had the words F-SPEWT / NOTAT scrawled on the old putty colored monitor with permanent marker. This was the “notable transmissions terminal”, affectionately nicknamed NOTAT. It was the only legal and official channel for communicating protected data about the State’s water supply. No other computer was officially accepted.

He turned it on.

Updating, please do not turn off while updates in progress.”

Oh no! The computer hadn’t been used for months, maybe years. As soon as it hit the Internet, every component demanded the newest software patch and security upgrade. This could take hours!

Jimmy looked at a display on the wall. It represented incoming effluent. He’d stopped outflow in accordance with step 11 in the Appendix R checklist. A green bar was rising, rising, rising… soon it would turn red. And then what?!

He shuddered, things were getting serious. In accordance with Appendix R, step 11d, he’d have to move to the “NOTAT Interruption Protocol”. This was not good! The whole system was obsolete, stupid, and convoluted but entering a second order layer of obfuscation surrounding “interrupted communication” was a far deeper bureaucratic rabbit hole. Originally instituted during the Cold War, the “Interruption Protocol” was written in 1954 to deal with the effects of nuclear war. The protocol predated cell phones. It predated FAX machines. It predated everything. Nobody in 1953, freaking out about Russkies and ICBMs, could have anticipated a future society where everyone had a portable communications device stashed in their pocket! As he flipped through the instructions, he found a spot where it literally referred to sending a Telegram! He was doomed!

The door opened and Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. Longtime F-SPEWT employee Francis sauntered in. Francis was twice Jimmy’s age, had no education, and didn’t know a titration from a Bud Light. However, he’d been at the plant since it’s inception. Rumor had it he was a union pipefitter on the original construction site. Supposedly, he’d stayed there because his car had been repossessed while the building’s footings had been poured. When the rest of the crew left to build other things, Francis simply put down roots and became a founding father of the F-SPEWT family.

Jimmy was delighted to hand over this terrible responsibility to the older, more experienced fellow. Francis knew every valve and pipe in the facility. Francis never panicked.

Hurriedly, Jimmy explained the situation. The incoming effluent was “hot”… filled with more chemicals that Jimmy had ever seen. It was far worse than the meth lab incident of last Easter weekend! He’d checked the outflow to keep untreated pollutants from exiting the facility… but that wouldn’t hold for long.

Catching a breath in his worried monologue, Jimmy glanced at a nearby poster. It showed a bear catching salmon with the inspirational message “this is why we do it”. He paused for a second, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he continued; the checked outflow was only a stop-gap measure. He’d bought a few hours at most. The NOTAT wasn’t responding. Appendix R wasn’t helping. What were they going to do?

Relax kid.” Francis patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “When’s your shift over?”

Jimmy glanced at the clock; time sure does fly. “An hour.”

Francis smiled reassuringly. “It’s gonna’ be fine. Open the ‘buffer pool B’ valve in sector seven. Then report back here.” He ordered.

Jimmy hopped to it. Ninety seconds later he was back, still worried, bouncing from one foot to the other.

Francis steered him away from the F-SPEWT / NOTAT computer. He had no idea what it did. The thing was never on. If it managed to boot up, which he doubted, all it probably could do was play Pac-Man. He pictured some abandoned Cold War bunker with skeletons sitting at the seats and chuckled.

Gently, like a mentor ought, he led Jimmy to the staff room where they rested on the old couch. He regaled Jimmy with a racy tale from the time his ex-wife had sent a repo-man after his car. Stories about that bitch always got a laugh.

As the hour wound down he accepted the form Jimmy was waving about and sent him on his way. He had no idea what the hell EBEA meant but he wasn’t about to let Jimmy know that. The poor kid would probably hyperventilate.

He watched until he saw Jimmy pedal his ass out of sight. (The poor kid still considered bicycles a legitimate form of transportation!) Then he walked back to the control center. He spent a while on the catwalk, watching a Technicolor chemical soup flow from the main pond to buffer pool B. Unlike usual effluent, which stunk to high heaven but predictably so, this had a different and oddly disturbing scent; like Axe Body spray had become sentient and eaten burritos for lunch. It stung his nose. He felt a little dizzy. He caught a glimpse of something floating. Was that a cat in there? Best not to think about it.

Whatever was in there was an unholy mess he didn’t want in his vicinity. So he got to work. By “getting to work” he meant sauntering in no hurry at all to the F-SPEWT / NOTAT computer. It was making whirring sounds and still trying to update. He unplugged it.

Then he fed Jimmy’s form into the shredder.

In the main room he glanced at all of Jimmy’s careful calibrations. The kid must have been working his ass off to do all the… whatever it was. Francis shrugged, clicked “reset to default”, then “flush b-p B”, then “flush main”.

He rubbed his hands together. Everything was fixed!

Satisfied, he kicked back on the couch to watch a repeat of Bonanza. Tomorrow he’d tell the kid his stuff was approved and he’d applied some exotic protocol from the book. The kid would eat it up. If there’s one thing he’d learned from a steady flow of more or less identical environmental studies students was that they were invariably gullible. He could tell the kid that Men in Black had arrived by helicopter to ship everything to Guantanamo and it was classified so he couldn’t explain further. The kid would buy it. He wondered if any of them ever paid off their student loans.

Half an hour later he was engrossed in Bonanza. Meanwhile, the first wave hit the waters where a trans species raptor had recently been recorded.


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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 05: Edward Returns

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Brett and Cindy laughed until the idiot fisherman slunk away muttering “Can’t teach ‘em a damn thing.”

Cindy, on the rebound from The Curmudgeon’s fool notions, was now more amenable to Brett’s similar but more palatable fool notions. “So, how do we get video of a gay hawk?”

An hour later Cindy was scrolling through a collection of audio tracks that Brett had assembled during his thesis studies. Cindy would play the track for a few minutes on the News Van’s P.A. system while Brett scanned the skies with binoculars. Brett admitted he wasn’t sure which sounds were best. They’d cycled through dozens of audio tracks to no avail. Not far away The Curmudgeon sat sullenly, tossing the occasional pine cone into the flowing waters.

I am the very model of a modern major general.” the P.A. System squawked.

The Curmudgeon’s patience had worn thin. “Gilbert & Sullivan? Really? You’re looking for a hawk, not a theater major!”

They ignored him, scrolling next to a lilting piano solo.

Liberace? Really? How old are you?”

Shut up!” Brett shouted.

If you want gay piano, what about Elton John!”

Shut up!” Brett shouted.

On a whim, Cindy scrolled and soon “Tiny Dancer” was oozing from the van.

Cindy stop listening to him!”

What about Freddy Mercury? Gay doesn’t mean lame you know.”

Cindy cued up Queen.

Flash! Ah ah… it’s a miracle!”

Cindy felt her toes tapping to what had to be the dumbest song she’d heard in years.

Stop it!” Brett shouted, while staring through his binoculars.

Cindy, happily listening to music in the van, was rudely disturbed as The Curmudgeon stuck his head in the open door. It wasn’t the first time Cindy wondered if she should start carrying mace. Wild-eyed, The Curmudgeon glanced around.

Nice van.”

Get out!”

I saw motion on the hillside for Queen. I figured it out. You need stupid with a hook.

Get Out!”

Try…” The Curmudgeon closed his eyes, thinking hard.

Try Boy George.”

Who?”

This cross-dressing freak from the ‘80’s. Played a lot on the radio. Nobody knows why.”

Cindy couldn’t help but be moved by The Curmudgeon’s optimism, he just didn’t give a shit that they knew he was nuts.

Karma Chameleon” He smiled. “It’s got everything… dumb song, great hook, sung by a gender ambiguous one hit wonder…”

Cindy, why is the lunatic in the van?” Brett called out anxiously.

The Curmudgeon waved another bag of M&Ms.

I’ve got candy…”

Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon…” The P.A. system emitted the world’s most pointless lyrics wound into a powerful hook.

Dammit!” Brett stomped toward the van, unsure of what he could do to the lunatic, who was much older but seemed to glow with the vitality of madness. In fact, why the hell was it his problem that…

-SWOOSH-

A hawk flew inches over Brett’s head to perch happily on the P.A.’s speaker. It looked like any regular hawk but prouder and taller. It swayed along with Boy George’s song as if nothing could make it happier.

Brett and The Curmudgeon all watched in amazement. Cindy whipped out her makeshift camera and started recording. There was something very odd about the hawk.

I think,“ Cindy paused, “I think it wants to be an eagle.”

Yes.” Brett agreed. “Something about its posture looks eagle-like.”

It’s closer to being an eagle than laying an egg.” The Curmudgeon agreed sarcastically.

I’ve never seen a bird look so much like an eagle without being an eagle.” Brett whispered. Cindy, spellbound, merely nodded. The hawk stretched its wings and posed flamboyantly from its perch. It certainly thought itself impressive.

There’s something about that bird,” The Curmudgeon scowled. “It’s like I’ve see it before.”

When the song ended, the hawk took flight. As if a spell was broken, the three stood there for several minutes; basking in the newfound knowledge that trans-species raptors were a thing.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 04: Barnacle Politics

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Ignoring Brett and Cindy’s argument, The Curmudgeon snatched up Brett’s iPad. He read quickly, swiping through several pages of text. Brett didn’t notice because he was too busy cringing at Cindy’s shouting. Cindy was too pissed to care.

You’re wrong.” The Curmudgeon pronounced, as if his word was law. This brought Brett and Cindy to a halt. They’d been unaware the scruffy fisherman intended to insert himself in their debate.

The raptor you’re looking for isn’t gay. It’s trans-species. You’ve conflated gender with species. Also,” The Curmudgeon continued, “it’s probably wicked stupid.”

What!??” The university students exclaimed in unison. In four sentences The Curmudgeon had violated at least a dozen hate speech codes. Cindy looked around in case someone had overheard (unlikely in a forested parking spot near a river but you can never be sure). Brett started with the counter arguments that sprang, Pavlovian style, into his head. (It never occurred to him to question how certain “facts” sprang directly to mind given the appropriate cue.)

First of all… we never say “gay”.” Bret was ticking off talking points on his fingers. “Second, if a creature wishes to identify as…”

Relax Poindexter.” The Curmudgeon interrupted. “Spare me the logic behind your rooster egg omelet.” He beamed expansively. “I’m here for the same reason you are.”

What?” Cindy repeated for a second time.

This habitat, the water conditions; something about it leads to the dumbest fish for two hundred miles.”

Brett and Cindy stood there dumbstruck. What the hell was the man saying?

I’m unsure about the actual environmental processes involved,” The Curmudgeon was sounding something like an old school professor, or an idiot, “but this particular drainage produces trout of exceptionally low intelligence.”

He paused. Brett and Cindy stayed silent so he expanded further.

Fly fishing for trout is a pain in the ass. Tying up bits of fluff to make a floating likeness of a mayfly? That sucks. So I explored a bit and came here. These trout are the gullible idiots of the trout world.” He smiled happily at his own innovation. “I fish here to improve my self esteem by interacting with stupid exploitable retarded trout.”

Brett and Cindy were at a loss. They both sat down on the bank. Finally Brett prompted for more. “And?”

I think it has to do with the University.” The Curmudgeon happily expounded. “We’re only a few miles downstream of the municipal water treatment plant. It serves mostly to process University effluent. I think the stupid gullibility of the University students is somehow passed on to the fish.”

So the fish are somehow harmed by pollution?” asked Brett.

More like, they lack individualized decision making.”

Brain damaged?” Cindy suggested.

Socialist.” The Curmudgeon corrected.

It was too much for Brett. “Are you implying political views are waterborne!?!”

I think so. Or more like stupidity is infectious when concentrated.”

So the trout go on strikes and protest?” Brett mocked.

Not quite.” The Curmudgeon answered without defensiveness. He hadn’t detected Brett’s mockery. “You know how a baby bird in the nest just sits there demanding to be fed; for no other reason than it expects it? That seems to happen here. That’s why I catch fish with these.” He held up an M&M.

That’s nuts!” Cindy exclaimed.

The Curmudgeon tossed a fun sized bag to Cindy, who gobbled it up before realizing the joke. Brett giggled.

No proper trout should want a candy coated chocolate nugget. They should want a bug or worm. Right?” The Curmudgeon continued.

Brett and Cindy nodded.

But when conditions are right, they’ll eat anything. How’s that for proof?”

So they turn into baby birds?” Cindy grumbled.

Almost, but less… um…” The Curmudgeon grasped for a descriptor, “…self-aware. Yes, that’s it. A baby bird demands it gets fed which implies some level of sentience. The stupid tuns them into something like a filter feeder that just assumes the food is there. An oyster, but dumber; a barnacle!” The Curmudgeon spoke it proudly, as if he’d communicated a deep truth of the Universe, across a vast gulf of unseen knowledge which the two students lacked. From his point of view, the University was an accretion of so much stupidity that it overflowed the natural order of things and turned trout from bug eating aquatic predators to pseudo-barnacles that eat chocolate.

Bullshit.” Concluded Brett.

Furthermore”, The Curmudgeon ignored him, “a raptor exposed to those fish will surly think itself highly skilled at fishing. Perhaps a kingfisher or a hawk would think themselves an osprey or an eagle.”

Bullshit.” Cindy added.

And this is why I only catch and release when fishing here. No knowing what harm would come from a diet of unnaturally stupid prey.”

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 03: Sandwich Negotiation

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

Merry Christmas and happy reading.


Happy to be alive, Brett dove out of the van before Cindy could initiate any further automotive feats. The parking lot was empty save a single farm truck. It was old but well equipped and unreasonably large. (Did no one drive a normally scaled vehicle anymore?)

We’re in a van, down by the river!” Cindy hammed with her best Chris Farley impression.

This made no sense to Brett, who assumed the T fellow lived near a river. Vans, he concluded, either caused or were associated with madness. No wonder they stopped making them.

By now Cindy was in the back rummaging around in “the equipment”. She tossed aside a huge shoulder-mounted camera that looked pretty expensive. Rummaging through a box full of wires, she retrieved a soda can sized camera she’d obviously soldered together out of junk. Brett looked dubiously at her handmade toy and the beefy professional looking thing she’d ignored.

It’s VHS, total shit.” Cindy waved dismissively at the impressive camera. She mounted her little device on a tripod that looked like she’d welded some pipes together. “I welded pipes together.” She explained, as if that was a good thing. “You could beat a bear to death with this tripod.” She thumped it to show how solid it was. Brett was, theoretically at least, a riparian ecologist. He’d spent hours and hours near and along streams. Despite the hubbub about Grizzlies he’d rarely seen one and they’d never been an issue. He’d never beaten a bear to death with anything. What was Cindy planning for their nature documentary?

Near the opposite side of the river, a thoroughly disreputable fellow was lounging on a flat rock. He had a fishing pole, a floppy hat with lures “stored” on the brim, and a small backpack. Imagine a trendy fly fisherman who’d been attacked by hyenas and you’ll still have envisioned someone far more presentable than this particular riparian bum. It was less like a normal person going fishing than a homeless man who’d found a gift certificate for LL Bean and bought a fly rod.

This man was The Curmudgeon.

Cindy and Brett planned out a wonderful opening shot. The river would be a glorious backdrop. Unfortunately, the guy on the rock ruined the view. As they adjusted their camera, the weirdo took a pinecone from his pocket and lobbed it into the water. Brett wondered if bums were allowed to take up fly fishing. Wasn’t fly fishing for millionaires?

Hey, over there.” Brett shouted across the water. “You have to move. We’re trying to film a documentary.”

The Curmudgeon focused on Brett; an evil grin spread across his face. Brett knew he’d made some sort of faux pas. “That guy looks like he could own a van.” Cindy whispered.

Upon careful consideration,” The Curmudgeon announced, “I regretfully inform you I ain’t moving; for you or anyone else.”

Please?” Cindy tried to defuse the situation. Maybe two X chromosomes could fix this before the hillbilly tossed Brett into the river.

Let me think,” The Curmudgeon fixed on a distant point and scratched his chin, as if the computational bandwidth under his battered hat was limited. “Nope, having re-examined your argument I am still in agreement with my earlier analysis. Y’all can kiss my ass.” It should be noted that The Curmudgeon had plans to move anyway but took offense at being ordered to do so. Thus, he was trapped in a conundrum of stubbornness. He actually wanted to move but couldn’t. This was all Brett’s fault. Contrarian to the core, once someone ordered him to move, The Curmudgeon was honor bound to stay put… forever. It was damn inconvenient but a man has to have principles.

I’ve got an uncle like that.” Cindy told Brett. “He’ll stay there all day. He’ll build a cabin and live there; just because you pissed him off. We need to negotiate. Darn it, I knew we should have candy in the van!”

Cindy went back into the van and started rummaging for something to offer. Brett feared she’d give away that big camera that was probably still considered very valuable according to the University’s property list. The Curmudgeon tossed another pinecone and watched it carefully.

I’ll trade a sandwich for the view.” Cindy had returned with a Tupperware box.

Hey, that’s my lunch!” Brett complained.

The fish are going to start biting soon.” The Curmudgeon countered. “I’ve waited two hours and it’s almost time.”

It’s pastrami.” Cindy added.

What kind of bread?”

Rye.”

Mustard?”

Cindy checked and nodded. The Curmudgeon tossed another pinecone and swore under his breath. Then assented. “OK, fine.”

Without a second’s hesitation, he strode into the water and began wading across the current. Brett sighed, his mother had made that sandwich.

The Curmudgeon stopped twice in midstream; each time retrieving a pinecone from a pocket and tossing it into the current. He’d watch carefully, but apparently nothing was happening.

Soon he was on shore, well out of camera range, and completely engrossed in the sandwich. Meanwhile Cindy was standing in front of the camera, reading the script Brett had written. He was holding up an iPad to serve as their makeshift teleprompter.

Hello, I’m Cindy Leachman and I’m delighted to welcome you to Untamed Monarchy, a documentary series about America’s most interesting animals. First, a word from our sponsor ‘Incremental Insurance’”.

Are you a dumbass who keeps wrecking your car? Incremental Insurance is happy to monetize your bad driving. For a low rate paid every month we will protect you from the fruits of your own behavior. When you have yet another crash, just call us. We’ll give you as much as half of what you’ve accumulated in payments to us. After a small matter of three estimates and getting raked over the coals by the world’s meanest claims adjusters, you will get a check to pay for repairs on the vehicle you just trashed. Remember, Incremental Insurance is why your bad driving is a hassle for everyone else, but painless for you!”

Nice!” Brett announced. “Now lets record the opening for episode one.”

For today’s episode we’re going to try to capture video, for the first time anywhere, of one of America’s rarest…”

Cindy paused.

Brett! What the hell?”

Brett tried to defend himself. “No, it’s real, I’ve been tracking this one for months. It’s in my Thesis…”

It was no good. Cindy stormed off, having decided a van was a good place to pout. There were no limits to the uses of a van.

Haw haw haw.” The Curmudgeon roared in laughter. “She’s Marlin Perkins and you’re Jim. Gonna’ find an anaconda in the Northern Rockies?”

I had to pitch it that way to get funding. But I’ve got a real discovery on my hands and if this works we’ll make some serious bucks.” Brett whined.

Just then Cindy returned. Ignoring the Curmudgeon, she lit into Brett. “You’ve been in college too long. It’s sunk into your head and now you’re as stupid as the rest of them. I can’t believe I went into business with you only to discover you’re an egghead.” She paused. “And why isn’t there any candy in the van?”

Brett shrugged his shoulders, unsure what to say. The Curmudgeon reached into a pocket, retrieved a Halloween fun sized bag of M&Ms and tossed it to Cindy.

Thanks.” She replied sheepishly. “I’m so sick of University bullshit. You know I got docked on a computer engineering project because I designated two hard drives as ‘master’ and ‘slave’? That’s the goddamn terminology, but some shithead who gets excited because her iPhone can paste kitten ears on photos got triggered. I had to spend two weeks in ‘sensitivity training’.” She downed the candy like a drunk swigging from a paper bag.

Did you tell them the plug on the end of a cord is called ‘male’ and receptacle is called ‘female’?” The Curmudgeon joked.

Yes, I had to have that discussion too.” Cindy shouted. “And don’t forget the racist coloring of neutral versus positive wires! It’s a shitshow. The way University runs we’re all going to wind up living in mud huts.”

I think you mean ‘carbon neutral structures made of locally sourced materials’.” The Curmudgeon chuckled, then, seeing the color of Cindy’s face turning angry red, he tossed over another bag of candy, which may have saved his life and definitely saved Brett’s.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 02: Get In The Van

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

Merry Christmas and happy reading.


Cindy Leachman tested the performance envelope of her recently acquired “News Van” in a manner that would make Chuck Yeager proud. The 1989 Ford Econoline was both a relic and an homage to a long forgotten world. In Cindy’s eyes, it was a war machine with which to fight the creeping dullness of modern life. With four on the floor, 3rd generation styling harking back to 1975, and a Gaia killing 351 Windsor V8 it was unlike anything on the road. Cindy loved it. The uninteresting puffballs that are modern vehicles might be suitable for clueless soccer moms, but Cindy still had the heart to yearn for more. And “more” was precisely what she was demanding of the aging van. It was holding up to everything she threw at it… barely. Brett, who had no complaints about modern cars, was unaware of anything in Cindy’s thoughts.

Why does it sway when we take turns like that?” He shouted over considerable road noise.

Because it’s a fuckin’ van!” Cindy enthused.

The beast swayed from centrifugal force as they whipped up a highway on-ramp and Cindy wondered how hard it would be to get it up on two wheels. They lurched off the ramp and into traffic where progress was slowed by an unremarkable minivan. It was driven by an unremarkable Karen who had just enough skill to keep her snooze machine between the lanes while texting. Cindy sneered as she stomped the clutch, downshifted into third, floored it, and overtook the wheeled mediocrity like a runaway steam engine about to flatten a dandy on a pennyfarthing. Brett, who was into steampunk, considered explaining the analogy to Cindy. “You see a pennyfarthing is a kind of bicycle and steam engines used to be the most powerful things of their day…” but he thought better. He liked steampunk as a theme, but was only vaguely aware of actual machines. Steampunk was imagination, not reality. Reality is where Cindy reigned supreme. Also, her views about traffic were decidedly militant. If he joked about a pennyfarthing in hopes of reining in the beast behind the wheel, it would surely backfire. Cindy would spend the rest of the trip bitching about bicycles and explaining why spandex clad nitwits should stay off the goddamn road.

The forgettable nobody driving the unremarkable minivan pointed accusingly at Cindy; as if this would somehow shame her. Cindy had no such shame. She was a real driver at the wheel of a real van and secretly believed she should be allowed to shove slow vehicles off the road… ideally off a cliff. She shouted “hang up and drive”, upshifted and stomped the gas harder.

Shame this is injected.” Cindy explained as Brett clung to the seat. “Probably could retrofit for a four barrel carb. Wouldn’t it be classic? That would really get the party started.”

Brett understood virtually none of what Cindy said, but he was pretty sure he wanted nothing to do with any party that was started by a carb. He also resolved to never mention steampunk in her presence. Secretly, he wished he could drive like her (or at least he should know what a clutch did). Also he was afraid if she didn’t slow the damn thing down the van would shake itself to death. It swayed like a garden shed on wheels!

Dude, we got a van!” Cindy grinned. “I wanna offer candy to children and make bad decisions! I’m gonna’ hook up a tape deck and play loud shitty music. I should be swigging a 40 right now!” Brett decided “van” was shorthand for a cult of some sort. Meanwhile he was trying to read his map, an act rendered nearly impossible by Cindy’s core philosophy of “drive it like you stole it”. Brett had carefully calculated buffer zones with likely stream characteristics and ran an intersection join on his GIS system to isolate preferable water access and boat ramps. It was a delicate navigational challenge, which Cindy was completely ignoring. He wanted to point out a necessary right turn but then judged against it as Cindy blew past the exit.

Hey, remember that old show with Mr. T?”

Brett had no idea who this T fellow might be.

I pity the fool that messes with my van!” Cindy voiced in a deep and rumbling growl.

Brett wondered if T was the guy from RoboCop?

The A-Team!” Cindy grinned wolfishly. “We ought to paint this thing black and shoot stuff with machine guns!”

Turn right here.” Brett shouted, having decided that sooner or later he’d have to get her off the highway.

Cindy downshifted, slammed on the brakes (which seemed to have no effect at all), swooshed down the ramp, thundered over a cattle guard, and came to a halt, four wheels locked, at the stop sign. Even before the bulk of the van had shifted back on center and let the aging shocks rest, she was off again. It was a dirt road, and this bothered Brett mightily. Formerly they’d been traveling at an unsafe speed, now they were traveling at an unsafe speed on a suboptimal surface. Cindy felt the need to take turns doing what she called ‘powerslide’.

Let’s see if those Duke boys can get out of this one.” Cindy was narrating aloud.

Brett wondered if T had a brother that was a Duke?

There was a fishing access point ahead. Brett pointed and hoped to God she’d stop the beast before they were in the water. Cindy reeled it in and came to a halt in a cloud of dust. She’d generously allowed a foot to spare between the van’s front bumper and a six foot drop to the water.

In short, they arrived with the subtlety of an anvil dropping from the sky.

Posted in Chapter 8 - Murdertrout, Lesbian Squirrels | 6 Comments