Adaptive Curmudgeon

Slutburger’s Job Interview

Robert’s now officially ex-girlfriend arrived. (She’d texted him and that made it official. How he’d receive text when his phone had been reduced to individual molecules was not her concern.) She took a deep breath, and knocked on the door to Janice’s apartment.

“Come in dear.” Gertrude’s voice rang out.

The Star Chamber was an English court of law from 1487 to 1640. Originally well intended, it became infamously arbitrary and dangerous. Once you set foot in the Star Chamber there was no telling what would happen. Would the court mete out justice; fairly and honorably? Would you speak incorrectly, stumble upon a hidden bias, or otherwise seal your fate? Robert’s ex-girlfriend was a product of American public schools. Thus she had never heard of the “Star Chamber”. Instead, as she glanced from Edna to Gertrude and back, she thought of Dolores Umbridge, bureaucratic villain of the fifth Harry Potter novel.

Edna, who had a knack for such things, seemed to read her mind. She also had a knack for being terrifying, which she employed to great effect.

“Harry Potter? Goodness child, have you read nothing else?”

Gertrude broke in, lest Edna destroy the girl before they even knew why she was there.

“Don’t fret about Edna,” Gertrude waved vaguely at her friend, “provided you mind your syntax, all will be well.”

The girl stood frozen to the spot. Terrified.

“Please, sit.” Gertrude motioned.

She sat.

“So,” Gertrude prodded “why are you here?”

“I… I came to meet Janice.” The girl stammered.

“The lad’s name is Gerald!” boomed Gertrude.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Your contrition is appropriate, but inadequate.” Edna declared.

“What do you want with Gerald?” Gertrude asked; trying to draw information from what appeared to be a shallow well.

What could she say? The glory of the universe, the stars in the night sky, the sun rising on a new day? The girl had a Tik Tok vocabulary and a Muppet mind. Nothing she could formulate in her empty head would adequately communicate the thing of great import which brought her there.

“Well?” Gertrude prompted.

She decided to lay her cards on the table. She would speak the truth and hold nothing back. It was go time!

“Woof.” She announced, knowing full well she was doomed but proud of herself for speaking the truth.

“Slutburger!” Edna pronounced, with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

“Now Edna,” Gertrude soothed “you were young once. Perhaps you weren’t as dumb as this turnip,” she waved at the girl, “but you surely had moments …” she trailed off, not entirely sure how human Edna had ever been.

“She is a trollop and a gold digger.” Edna complained.

“It was not a complaint. It was an observation.” Edna announced to the empty space over the girl’s empty head.

Gertrude nodded, understanding the situation exactly. The girl missed the nod; probably because she was desperately tapping into her phone trying to pull up the definition of “trollop”.

“Please, Edna, give her a chance to respond.” Gertrude intervened. She was already forming a plan.

“Fine.” Edna groused. She faced the girl. “State your case.”

“Just tell us what happened.” Gertrude soothed.

Stripped bare of any pretension, for clearly the two old ladies were smart like magic, the girl told her story. It was a confusing tale, befitting a confused young woman. Eventually Gertrude and Edna pieced together a rough time-line and a basic smattering of events.”

“So, what happened to Robert?” Gertrude was still stitching the pieces together. “Where is he now?”

“In jail… maybe. I’m not sure.”

“You subsequently broke up with him?” Edna prodded.

“Because of ‘Woof’?” Gertrude asked.

The girl shrugged.

“How did Robert take this news?” Edna prompted.

“I texted him.” she admitted.

“Dumped.” Gertrude concluded.

“You jilted your boyfriend via text?” Edna growled. She disapproved strenuously.

Meanwhile the girl stood her ground as best she could. “Yes.”

“You sent a text which will be conveyed to a cell phone that has been reduced to, in your own words, ‘smitherines’?” Edna was monopolizing questioning; responding to a text dumping as a bull to a red flag.

“Yes.”

“You see nothing ironic in this?”

“No.”

“Is this how you habitually treat suitors?” Edna asked “Who came before Robert?”

“Oh that was Billy.” She sighed. “He was nice but…”

“But no woof?” Gertrude was already closing the deal. She had just found the tool for the final rehabilitation of her grandson. She began to have visions of great-grandchildren in her head.

“Is this a pattern?”

“No. Um…” She paused. “He wouldn’t vacation with me at Jackson Hole.”

“Why?” Edna knew there was more to it than that. The girl was a solid eight, possibly eight and a half, yet exhibited none of the usual young hot girl craziness. What boy would turn down such an invitation? “Please elaborate”

“He was always talking about some boring writer. Amy Rand I think? All this junk about looters and producers. I never understood his deal. Then over the holiday we had a fight about his job.”

Edna understood perfectly. “He was poor.”

“Gosh, ” she blinked with sudden realization, “He never did fit in. Yes, he must have been poor.”

“Did you dump him by text as well?” Edna was boring straight into the girl’s frayed moral fiber.

“Yes.” She acknowledged. “However, he did have a functioning phone.” She’d added that as if it were her accomplishment.

“How did he take it?” Edna was trying to convince Gertrude the girl left a wake of wrecked men behind her. Gertrude was thinking about baby names.

“Not well.” The Girl admitted. “He went on a rant about fiat currency and then got in a fight.”

“It appears your effect on men is deleterious.”

“Well he was always a little crazy…” She paused, eyes open wide as her brain processed a heretofore unrealized notion.

“Would you please share your thoughts with us?” Edna continued, using a tone more suitable for naughty elementary school students than horny college girls.

“The fight Billy got into. He lost.” She whispered. “It was with Gerald.”

So you’re trading up?” Edna grumped. “You switch partners based on power and combat. Are you war booty?”

The Girl looked crestfallen but Edna soldiered on; pressing her point. “What will you do if someone comes along with more money than Gerald?”

“I’ve changed.” The Girl defended herself. “Money isn’t everything.”

“What if someone comes along who can physically overpower Gerald?” Edna asked.

The Girl had never thought of any being more powerful than what she’d seen just hours before. She pictured herself with Gerald. She pictured someone challenging Gerald. She pictured Vikings with axes and Knights with swords. She pictured Arnold Schwarzenegger in the old Conan movies. That dude with horses who came from Mongolia in the history books. She pictured epic battle; sweaty men, weapons. Her cheeks turned red, her eyes glazed, her breathing got shallow, her back arched…

Gertrude recognized that! She came to the kid’s rescue before she had an orgasm right there on the newly purchased couch. “Perfectly understandable my dear. Trade up while you can.”

Gertrude looked at Edna and then at the girl who was still recovering from visions of Gerald and Conan. Then she clapped her hands and rubbed them together. The decision had been made.

“You’ll do just fine.” Gertrude announced.

Edna nodded, accepting Gertrude’s authority over her grandson’s affairs. The Girl blinked, having absolutely no idea what was happening.

Then the two ladies stared barking instructions.

What followed was a torrent of information which practically washed the girl away. The two ladies knew much, they were scary smart, they tended to succeed at whatever challenge they accepted, and they were fearless. They knew how to approach any opportunity and seize it with a grip from which it would never leave. In a different world, a more ordered society, the girl would have been properly instructed in such matters beforehand. However, times are what they are and they instilled a crash course in landing a man after which the Girl would never be the same.

Some of the things they said were shocking, some embarrassing, some dangerous, some commonsense, and some went right over the girl’s head. It couldn’t be avoided; they were in a hurry.

Soon, Edna glanced at her watch and nudged Gertrude. Time was up. None of them knew when Gerald would return, or for that matter where he was. They started toward the door, having attempted to provide the girl with all the background information on life that young women of certain generations lack; plus a full dossier on Gerald’s inner secrets as only a grandmother would know.

“One more thing,” Gertrude was resisting Edna’s attempts to shoo her out the door. “Tomorrow, take him out and buy him clothes.” She shoved a fat roll of bills in the girl’s hand. The girl’s eyes lit up. Nothing was more fun than buying clothes for your boyfriend! “Take charge.” Gertrude ordered. “Dress him like a lumberjack.”

“Yes Ma’am!” the girl beamed.

“Flannel and plaid. Denim jeans…” Gertrude was being dragged out the door.

And then the girl was alone, sitting on the brand new couch in a freshly painted room. Tyson the cat curled up near her. Tyson liked this new being in the apartment.

Suddenly the door burst open. It was Edna. She was breathless. “We saw Gerald walking home. He’ll be here soon. I forgot to ask something important.”

The girl was paying close attention. Already trained to accept Edna’s wisdom without hesitation.

“Are you wearing the right underwear?” Edna demanded.

The girl pushed her skirt down a bit to give Edna a peek.

Edna smiled. “You’ll do fine.” She backed out of the door and closed it.

Later the two ladies treated themselves to a late meal at Dennys. It was slightly marred by law enforcement officers loudly celebrating in the adjacent booth. What they’d done to merit celebration was unclear.

“It was rather cheeky of you.” Edna observed.

“What?” Gertrude smiled with elaborately faked innocence.

“You bought a whore for your grandson!”

“Oh my, did I?”

“Did you see her reaction when I asked about Gerald fighting alternate suitors?”

“I certainly did!” Gertrude beamed. “She is going to attack the lad when she gets the chance.”

Gertrude was pleased with the day’s progress. She’d intended to fix the lad and she’d done precisely that. He’d return to a spotless and empty apartment and they’d left a fully primed feminine claymore mine sitting on the couch. “My grandson hasn’t a chance.”

“Poor boy.” Edna commented. She glanced about, as if daring the Universe to disagree. The Universe, wisely, kept its mouth shut.

Those Were Good Fireworks

We’ve all had that dream where we reach out, trying to stop some cataclysmic event, but we’re too slow. Ed lived that dream. Spinning on a dime, four of the boys broke off from the pack and veered toward the truck. Instinctively, Ed knew the target. He knew but he wasn’t fast enough. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

In a flash of teenage heroics, driven by hormones, cheap canned beer, and a deep seated resentment of Ed and his bullshit, one of the four made his move. In a great leap, he cleared the trailer, vaulted over the Tri-county Anti-drug Community Interdiction Special Programs Environmental Task Force Team Pilot Project, and flipped the big red switch.

When it was built, a hundred and fifty years ago, the Gatlin gun was chambered in .45-70 Government. Originally based on the same powder as a muzzleloading rifle, .45-70 Government was an excellent cartridge for its time and purpose. If you wanted to send a big fat blob of lead, slow and lazy, into the flank of a plains bison, then .45-70 Government is fine. It would lob a big honkin’ 300 grain lead bullet at about 1600 feet per second. BOOM, thunk, and now you’ve got a dead bison for dinner. Scale that up to repeat fire and you’d created a righteous weapon of war; for its time.

By the time Pong was impressing home electronics consumers who would later invest in Betamax, Chigger’s old man had acquired the device. If 1970’s muscle cars had taught Chigger’s old man anything, it’s that bigger, harder, and faster was the way to live. Unsatisfied with fat blobs of lead embedding themselves in trees, he’d rechambered and rebarreled. Soon it was firing .300 Winchester Magnum. Originally released in 1963, it was the hard hitting death-round of his time. If .45-70 is for knocking down the buffalo on an old Pony Express trail. The .300 Winchester Magnum is for killing the elk that’s waaaaaaay on the other side of the canyon. (At the expense of a manly recoil to your shoulder of course.) Thus, the rechambered Gatlin gun fired jacketed hollowpoints that were slightly smaller (a still beefy 200 grains) but at nearly twice the velocity. That single modification had cranked up every single round’s energy from 1,700 foot pounds to a little over 4,000. (There will be an essay test at the end of this book and you’d better start gathering adjectives to describe precisely the forces that the Gatlin gun was unleashing. Of course, you shouldn’t forget the fact it now had more barrels and an increased barrel rotation rate.)

If the men and women of the 1860’s could see what Chigger’s old man would do with their (at the time) terrifying weapon of war; they’d have died with fright. Chigger’s dad was reckless and unwise, but he was also had a way with machines. He’d made the full analog, entirely mechanical, backwoods version of a tactical nuke.

The upshot of all this is that when the red switch was flipped, all hell broke loose. The machine went berserk. It was full automatic fire in a caliber never intended to automatic anything. The trailer rocked back on it’s suspension with the collected recoil of several thousand elk hunting rounds fired blisteringly fast. The Tri-county Anti-drug Community Interdiction Special Programs Environmental Task Force Team Pilot Project were showered with hot, smoking brass. The air was instantly infused with gunsmoke. Everyone dove to the ground as a solid white hot streak, made of thousands of bullets, blazed just over the roof of the Audi.

The sound wasn’t one gunshot and then another. Nothing of the sort would’ve been adequate for Chigger’s old man! His machinery made the sound of the universe being torn in half.

The onslaught lasted seventeen seconds. That’s all it took. Ed deserves acknowledgment in that he was willing to go near the beast, reach into that vortex of chaos, and flip the switch. Nobody else even considered such bravery.

He was lucky. It was a miracle (or curse) that the machine worked at all. It if was exposed to something approaching 30 seconds of continuous fire it would overheat, seize up, and explode. Chigger’s old man never had enough money to fire it that long. The price of ammo being prohibitive even back then. Nobody else, regardless of finances, would’ve been stupid enough to try. This is the only reason nobody had used the device long enough to blow themselves up… yet.

Ears ringing from the deafening roar, Ed grabbed a huge spotlight which was one of the few items he’d seized from an actual honest to goodness poacher, and aimed the powerful spotlight into the smoke. The beast had fired over the Audi and drilled a hole through the back wall of the Che (which was thankfully empty). The Che abutted a hillside and thus all damage was safely routed though a literature department and into the earth itself. (Later there would be much complaining about the loss of a beloved coffee maker. Ed would smooth it over when he busted, without evidence, a coffee shop in Portland for allegedly trading in endangered yak pelts. He donated the forfeited espresso machine to the university and all was forgiven.)

“Thank God nobody was killed.” Breathed Ed, thought nobody could hear him. Everyone’s ears were ringing.

Fifty yards away the Girl’s leader had latched on to the nearest thing when everything went KABOOM. It was a Boy Scout. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the show. His arm had gone numb as the girl had gripped it in terror. He didn’t mind.

“Fireworks?” He prompted.

“Fireworks!” She agreed and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Then a nearby lamppost, which had been completely severed in the mayhem, eased off kilter and started to fall. It was a heroic death. A lightpost gone to Valhalla after a full attack of a genuine “Northern Idaho Ballistic Tree Felling Champion”. It fell smoothly. Gracefully. Unerringly. Directly onto the Audi; crushing it.

“Fireworks.” They both giggled and he gave her a peck back.

It was a match made in heaven and brought together by unhinged firepower. Young love in America.