Adaptive Curmudgeon

If you wound up here from an external link you’re probably wondering what context of could possibly make sense of this post. You’ve arrived in the middle of a serialized (and satirical) novel called Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. (The title is a hint. If you’re easily triggered bail out now.) You’ve arrived in post #12 of chapter 7: Thunderdome. If you like to laugh please join us. You’ll find the whole story at the Lesbian Squirrels Main Page.

Donations via PayPal or Patreon are appreciated. If you’re broke, I get it. Read for free and enjoy it all. Happy reading…

Marching Hammers

Suppose there was a sculptor, pondering a block of marble. How could he encapsulate the fullness of young healthy womanhood? How could a mere mortal portray the wholeness of such a heart breakingly beautiful ideal? He could do no better than to create a likeness of Mindy Anderson.

A genuinely likable young lady, she was just blossoming into full womanhood. Emerging from the confines of childhood and blazing forth with vitality and the promise of all humanity, she was flat out physically perfect. Unlike an exaggerated plasticized fashion model, Mindy was a wholesome mix of “farmgirl” and cheerful athlete. She simply radiated health and fitness. She’d been in one athletic program or another throughout her life. Always working out, lifting weights, jogging, eating well, and doing her level best, she’d been watched over by a society that treated her well and she responded by winning trophies in box lots. Soccer, softball, girls JV hockey, distance running, judo, and now MMA… she’d been in competition so often it seemed winning was all she did.

More importantly, she had a good heart. Always gracious, she was kind and hard working. Her grades were a solid B+. Her teachers liked her. She coached a children’s softball team. The kids adored her. Mindy was sweet, polite, earnest, and above all dedicated. She was a sure favorite for her first year in the adult level MMA league. She never skipped leg day, never ate junk food, she’d toughed out hockey games and judo sessions that would break a Marine, and she did it all without the tiniest hint of complaint. Long and leggy, physically fit, blond hair tied in a perky pony tail, beaming with confidence, she stepped into the octagon.

The crowd cheered. She smiled. She’d earned this. All those years of workouts, hours and hours of aerobics, millions of situps, miles of jogging… it led to this. Her birthday had been just last week and that was, technically, the moment she became eligible for today’s match. She’d known, months ago… years even, that she’d be in this league. Everyone had anticipated it. Quick, strong, and fast, she bounced a bit on the balls of her feet. Shaking out even the hint of inflexibility she made a high kick that was six feet off the ground if it was an inch. The crowd’s applause increased. Relaxed and ready, she moved to her side of the octagon. She was going to be a champion, because she was already a winner.

Six months ago, when the Janice / Mindy match had been proposed, she’d been delighted. The first transgender MMA match on campus! What a privilege. She’d never cared about politics, but welcomed the future of equality and would enjoy her role in bringing it about. Plus, she’d be up against a mid-list, so so, from the men’s side. She’d been working hard, she knew she’d be ready for pretty much anyone; and she was.

Sweaty and jangled, hair frizzed from whatever chemical dye job he’d inflicted on it, Janice entered the ring. She was dressed in a pointless pink sports bra stretched over a board flat chest and shorts with clashing mismatched colors. Her vaguely feminine attire stretched oddly over huge bulky muscles. Janice waved off a coach shouting last minute instructions. She didn’t need it. She’d been fighting, in the octagon or in the streets, pretty much whenever she felt like it. She loved combat!

Surprising both Janice and Mindy… the crowd exploded! Picking up the mood, the announcer started throwing red meat to the masses. “Lets give a big welcome to Janice! A brave and beautiful pioneer for equality, Janice is an inspiration to us all!”

The crowd went absolutely berserk. Winston rolled his eyes. His wife giggled.

“Having overcome a lifetime of oppression; always cowering in the corners until finally free to become all she was meant to be. Janice has become a top competitor and we welcome her brave and beautiful presence here tonight.

Janice blinked. Sure, she could rock stilettos, but she wasn’t exceptionally beautiful. And what was this about a lifetime of oppression? She grew up in the suburbs. She’d had a more or less normal middle class upbringing. Plus, nobody that fights like her had ever cowered in any corner.

“As much as we yearn for the victory of our brave and beautiful heroine. Janice has one more obstacle to overcome.”

The crowd booed. Who would stand in the way of brave and beautiful Janice? There ought to be a law!

“Cruel and vindictive Mindy didn’t welcome brave and beautiful Janice to our campus. No! She stood in the way. She said ‘no, I don’t want a man in the ring’.”

Mindy was shocked, she’d done nothing of the sort. She’d never met Janice. She didn’t know her at all!

“Mindy came here to make sure Janice can’t have the trophy. She came here to keep Janice from winning!”

The crowd became angry. Perpetually agitated from the daily injections of University politics and frothing with anticipated violence they were going wild. They had a moral justification and a target at which to aim. They wanted to see blood; because they were good people. That bitch Mindy had to be taken down! They screamed as if that would cause the girl to melt. They broadcast slogans onto their social media accounts so people far away would know they were screaming their moral superiority.

Mindy had no idea what was going on. Of course she came here to keep Janice from winning, that’s how competition worked. Her eyes began to water, ever so slightly. Her ponytail drooped. Across the octagon Janice, equally confused, shrugged.

Just a few feet away Winston took in the scene. It was terrifying and beautiful. These nitwit kids were inches from burning a witch! They’d loved Mindy just two minutes ago. Good God! He could see it all in his mind’s eye. A pyre, some confused peasant woman, villagers with pitchforks.

In the aisle next to them the pierced basic college girl Winston had practically broke was jumping up and down. She was shrieking “Mindy sucks! Mindy sucks!” It was an impressively full throated bellow coming from such a limp noodle. Her smeared mascara had dried in vertical streaks that reminded Winston of The Joker.

The announcer wasn’t going to stop until he had them in a frenzy. “Heteronormative oppressor out to stop brave and beautiful Janice! We can’t let that happen!”

“Boooooooo!” The crowd roared in unison.

Winston’s wife leaned over and whispered in his ear. Song lyrics:

“Pink isn’t well, he stayed back at the hotel

And they sent us along as a surrogate band

We’re gonna find out where you fans really stand.”

Yes, that’s the mood alright. Winston started seeing visions of great rows of marching hammers. Thinly veiled symbolism of Nazi excess in a Pink Floyd rock opera from 1982. His wife was humming the tune of “In The Flesh” as the campus screamed at Mindy like she was some kind of demon incarnate.

Winston joined in. Singing along, though inaudibly in the deafening roar.

“There’s one smoking a joint,

And another with spots!

If I had my way,

I’d have all of you shot!”

With that Winston and his wife stood up and held their arms above their heads and shook them wildly. The campus students, finely tuned to the zeitgeist of any moment, moved as one. It only takes the flick of a tail to drive a school of fish and the students were now all on their feet. Winston always carefully watched crowds. The closer they came to storming the castle with torches and pitchforks, the better it was to be the first guy holding a torch. This is how he managed to still have a job. Plus, it was fun watching the puppets dance.

Mindy’s upper lip quivered. Never particularly bright, Janice wondered why the crowd was so loud for this particular match. At Winston’s left, Mascara Girl was in ecstasy.

Winston decided to ham it up even further. He grabbed Mascara Girl by the shoulders and shouted in her face “And that is why we have always been at war with Eastasia!” Mascara Girl began shouting back, carried aloft in the frenzy. “Fuck Eastasia!”

His wife was shouting in the other direction. Screaming at Robert Mublowski who was jumping up and down. “There are five lights! There are five lights!” Robert was shouting back “Five lights!”

And that was the murderous, thunderous, treacherous beginning of the match. Winston and his wife loved it. It was the best date night they’d had in years.

Some folks have arrived here from new locations. Welcome! If you’re new you’re probably wondering what the hell is going on. You’ve arrived in the middle of a serialized (and satirical) novel called Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. (In case you’re easily triggered, hopelessly woke, or looking for Shakespeare, the title should clue you in to what you’ll find and how quickly you ought to click the “back” button.) If you’d like a good laugh please join us. You’ll find the whole story in the proper order at the Lesbian Squirrels Main Page.

Donations via PayPal or Patreon are appreciated. If you’re broke, I get it. Pay it forward when you can. Happy reading…

Redneck Ship Of Theseus

The Gatling gun was a sight to behold. Like the ship of Theseus, the poor machine had been torn down and rebuilt, modified, altered, broken, repaired, and “re-imagined” so many times there was hardly an original piece left. It was less a Gatling gun than an idea of what you could build if you had an antique war machine, plenty of tools, a healthy disrespect for personal safety, and too much time on your hands. In its current state it was an unholy abomination of several disparate technologies welded together by Chigger’s old man back in the 1970s. It was equal parts wicked and clever, with a bit of whimsy and the all American soul of chaotic innovation. Originally manufactured in 1869, it was now thoroughly modern… and simultaneously obsolete. The original knurled brass adjustment knobs had been replaced by big Bakelite dials salvaged from an ancient AM radio. The original octagonal barrels had been replaced by parts of several dozen rifles that had been acquired during a three state pawn shop search 50 years ago. The open sites were long gone. A massive hardened tubular laser was bolted in their place; its adjustment knobs were fine thread wingnuts in a welded mild steel cradle. It was powered by a 12 volt deep cycle battery Ed had seized from a trolling motor on a bass boat. The crank for the ring of barrels, all nine of them, had been replaced by an electric motor, also powered by the deep cycle battery. Originally chambered in .45-70 Government, Chigger’s old man had “upgraded” to .300 Winchester Magnum. It was the living breathing embodiment of an armed citizenry, the exact reason politicians fear “fly over country”, a mechanical marvel, and an engineering disaster.

With this beast, Chigger’s dad had won three consecutive titles as the “Northern Idaho Ballistic Tree Felling Champion”. His best time, a record that held to this day, was a completely severed and felled a 24” standing Ponderosa Pine; done at 100 yards… in eleven seconds.

That was before Ed seized it as “a poaching device” during trial runs for a fourth year of competition. In Ed’s defense, Chigger’s dad almost certainly vaporized whatever wildlife that happened to be in, near, behind, or in the vicinity of his creation. Also, there’s nobody on earth, including Chigger, who thought the world was safer when his pappy was in possession of this monstrosity.

Ed knew what he was doing. In less than 5 minutes of handles being turned, belts being fed, electrical cables being connected, and a lot of high fiving with the 4×4 club, he had it ready. It was aimed about 18” above the Audi’s roof. Ed wasn’t sure how tall the drug dealer was going to be so he left it there. Ed, the Task Force, and the 4×4 Club sat down on an array of coolers, cracked open beers (Ed always had beer), and waited. On the device, a single red toggle switch gleamed malevolently. Nothing more than an old Radio Shack switch, it glowed eerily in the campuses weak, flickering, green technology LED outdoor illumination. It was a switch simply brimming with potential energy; as if to say “Flip this switch and watch what happens!”

Scouts Go Hunting

Everyone focused on the parking lot, eagerly anticipating a fun evening. Then… disaster! Six campus “Activists” started to form a random protest. Oh no!

University students are so well trained that protests spontaneously generate in their vicinity. On any given day, in any given place, there was a good chance you’d find a cluster of them marching around bitching. Unfortunately, a protest here and now would blow the whole thing! As they strutted and preened, surely scaring any drug dealers in sight, everyone was at a loss. What to do? One protester was black, two were gay, two were stoned, and the last was the Mayor’s daughter. The assembled forces, which the protesters hadn’t noticed, were sufficient to invade a small nation but if they busted the protest up, things would get worse. There’s nothing a college protester likes more than being oppressed. As sure as night follows day, one of the protesters would claim to have a hangnail due to police brutality, the press would fan the flames, and shit would go exponential. By midnight Portland would be aflame. If that happened, nobody would get to shoot the drug dealer!

The vacuum of leadership was about to bring the whole thing down when the Boy Scouts attacked. They swarmed like wolves taking out helpless deer stranded on an iced lake. The activists, weak underfed vegans with the muscle tone of tofu, were no match for boys (and 1/3 girls) who’d just been rejected by the opposite sex. The Scouts darted in silently, taking out protesters at the knees. It was a sight to behold. The Scouts were relentless, efficient, and fast. The confused activists, who’d trained up on fat disinterested inner city cops, never had a chance. As they pivoted their assailants, faster and smarter, were always behind them. Bam, bam, bam. In just a few minutes, all six protesters fell. They were dragged away into the brush with a speed that would make any predator grin.

Nobody knew what the Scouts did with them. For all anyone knew, they’d crammed the protesters in the crotch of a tree; like lions stashing a felled gazelle. Nobody was particularly worried, there were plenty of protester on campus. The Scouts wouldn’t deplete the supply. Some of the National Guard, proud of America’s youth, passed out military grade folding chairs to the scouts. The chairs cost $12 at WalMart or $273 through military procurement. The kids were beaming. What a great outing!

High above, an NSA drone hovered, recording the whole thing. The Analyst had declared the situation a complete goat rope but at the prompting of the Extreme Greeters he’d dispatched a drone for monitoring purposes. It was movie night and they agreed that there’s no show better than watching justice unfold! Like the kids at the Chemistry lab, they’d made popcorn. They settled in in comfy seats arranged around the control center’s largest computer monitor.

The Cigarette Smoking Man glided in silently and whispered in the analyst’s ear. “Recruit those Scouts.” Then, like mist in the dark, he was gone.

The campus police missed the whole thing. They were in the Arena getting ready to watch the big fight.

Weapons were loaded, ballistic plates were donned, and helmet straps cinched tight. Everyone was ready.

Off in the distance, the booming voice of the Arena’s PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen. Brought to you by a joint production of RedBull, Gold’s Gym, and your inflated student activities fees… Your University, the greatest institution of higher learning in a ten mile radius, brings to you ‘Slaughter at Sunset’!” The crowd in the auditorium went wild. Outside everyone beamed and rechecked the safeties on their rifle for the fifty third time. “Here’s the main event you’ve been waiting for…”

The rest was rendered inaudible by the roar of a ridiculously oversized truck on even more ridiculous tires driving overland; straight across the campus. Ed, the Department of Natural Resources’ greatest wizard of asset forfeiture, knew how to make an entrance. Plus, roads were for squares. In the cab with him, bouncing about like pebbles in a blender, was the staff of the Tri-county, Anti-drug, Community Interdiction, Special Programs, Environmental Task Force Team, Pilot Project. Ed wheeled the beast around in a pivot that practically crushed the overworked lifted suspension and screeched to a halt, trailer facing the Audi, just inches from the MRAP. The 4×4 guys cheered and started swarming all over the gaudy truck. Meanwhile, Ed and his two buddies were busily unwrapping the piece de resistance.

Audi Kill Zone

The upcoming drug bust had taken on a life of its own. As the word spread, an entire ecosystem of State, Federal, and Local agencies arrived like scavengers at a prime carcass. They jostled for position in the parking lot. Everyone wanted a good view of the Audi, which had been identified by the most reliable source ever; an anonymous tip.

The municipal police got there first and took all the good parking spots. Everyone on the entire force had already signed up for overtime. The County Sheriff’s office arrived next. They’d dusted off and arrived in their Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected military light tactical vehicle. They’d gotten it through some long forgotten anti-terrorism grant. The only hazard the MRAP had faced were the many cups coffee that had been spilled on the dashboard over the years. The Sheriffs had already requested overtime and hazard pay. The nearest Border Patrol office declared the parking lot within a certain number of miles of the Canadian border; and thus arrived en masse with three SUV’s bristling with antennae. They’d already requested overtime, hazard pay, and per diem. They were busily working the phones trying to find an open hotel room. Most of the good rooms were booked up by a veritable army of bureaucrats from the National Park Service (which declared the University Campus a “green space”), the FCC (which sited the nearby FM antenna tower), the BLM (which was there to insure against slumpage in a nearby hillside), and the Army Corps Of Engineers (which noted the nearby river was “Navigable Waters”). A US Postal Service truck arrived, nobody knew why. A gaggle from the State’s National Guard showed up. They’d gotten lost looking for the rendezvous point some Sergeant had pinned to a map and figured a University was more fun than camping in the mountains. They weren’t getting overtime, hazard pay, or per diem. Losers!

A group of Boy Scouts (which was about 1/3 girls) passed by on their way to the Arena. This much firepower virtually guaranteed something cool would happen! They texted a Girl Scout troop (which was about 1/3 boys) which was also on the way to the Arena. Would they like to hang out at the parking lot watching the cops beat the hell out of some stupid college students? Predictably, they were rejected. It was cold out! While the Boy Scouts started a warming fire in a trash can, the Girl Scouts stuck with the plan and bought every t-shirt for sale at the Arena. Two girls were the sole exception to this admirable focus. Suzanne and Kathy slunk off from their group and eventually watched the situation while doing bong hits in the Chemistry lab; it was heated and had a much better view. Virtually nobody on the liberal arts side of campus (which meant 7/8ths of the campus) noticed a damn thing but the Chemistry lab was packed with the diminishing portion of the community that actually noticed things. They’d sought out the best view and were starting a party.

A few of them wondered if someone should call the authorities before the growing mass of heavily armed meatheads hurt someone. Then someone pointed out the heavily armed meatheads were the authorities. Everyone, freed of responsibility, relaxed and settled in for the show.

At the back of the lab, a cluster of students fired up old Bunsen burners to make popcorn. Another group was sniffing about the airwaves with various scanners. Virtually every frequency was vibrating with law enforcement chatter. This was all supposedly encrypted. It took a cluster of programming students half an hour to decrypt some of the messages. A furtive group of HAM radio fans, older than dirt and definitely not of the campus, intercepted most of the rest. Together, the two groups shared the news with everyone else in the lab. Apparently, the biggest Columbian narco-trafficer since Pablo Escobar had crammed several tons of cocaine into the Audi. Nobody thought to ask how many tons can fit in a single car.

A handful of guys from the local 4×4 club had been scouting the Arena for an upcoming “Monster Truck Pruis Disembowelment Extravaganza”. They saw the MRAP and gathered around it like groupies. The cops tried to shoo them away but the gearheads were practically hugging the machine. In the end, the local police let them stay.

An aspiring poet with a Che Guavara hoodie saw the gathering and scampered away down an alley. He might have been the only intelligent person in the vicinity.

How The Hook Was Set

As they waited for the event to start, Winston’s phone rang.

“Did they bite?” It was a colleague from a hopelessly mismanaged hedge fund on the west coast. A fellow outcast in the modern world of unemployable anti-capitalist twits.

“$8,600 riding on today’s fight.” Winston replied.

“No shit!”

“If you believe in women’s equality, you will support Mindy Anderson who has the best winning streak of any athlete in women’s athletics of all available competitors. I will humbly stake out the counter argument that Janice, a relative newcomer, will prevail merely because she was born genetically male.”

“My God! They went for it?”

“They’ve been trained from birth to avoid examining assumptions. It took less than an hour to get every one of them to place a bet. Shafting a gaggle of fools who can scarcely meet their monthly bills is child’s play. They’re a generation of morons.”

“You are a disaster to the trust funders.”

“It’s good to have a hobby.”

“And what charity have you chosen?”

“The Davy Crockett Guns for Orphans Fund.”

“Nice!”

“$8,600 will be sufficient to provide a twelve gauge shotgun, ammunition, and safety training for several dozen orphaned teenagers. I’m thinking that I’ll specify somewhere rural. I might have them send selfies to their donors. Maybe holding up a dead duck or something.”

“You’re a genius! So, what charity did they pick?”

“You know how they are. They can’t so much as buy pizza without resorting to parliamentary procedure and then protesting against whatever groupthink they just created. When I left they’d formed a charity selection panel and were sorting out committee assignments. A few were already triggered. Some were shouting, others were weeping.” He sighed, pondering the ironies of life within a society of morons. “They’re supposed to text the charity name in an hour. If young Mindy Anderson not only survives a bout with Janice but inexplicably wins I’ll send the donation to whatever money pit they specify.”

“Ain’t happening. Mindy’s totally doomed. You should see the online betting pools.”

“Speaking of doomed, how are your quarterly reports looking?”

“Not Good. Eugene is missing.”

“Snodavik? What happened?”

“Rumor has it he hooked up with a swami or something. Been missing for days. Well I’ve got to go, my car dealer is calling.”

“Buying an Audi?”

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Have fun picking out your new car.” Winston made a mental note to short sell his friend’s hedge fund. Without Snodavik, the company would be bankrupt within the year. Knowing his friend’s spending habits, he’d be sleeping in that car within six months.

Winston and his wife settled in watch the main event. They loved date night.

Pregame Trashtalk

The Arena was packed; the crowd electrified. Winston Jones sat quietly. His wife was buying a tub of popcorn and would join him soon. It was date night and they enjoyed watching university kids beat the hell out of each other. He’d paid handsomely for the best seats in the house and looked forward to the show.

He’d chosen to wear a suit and tie; like a civilized human being. The students were the opposite; expensively outfitted to look like bums. They had more tattoos and piercings than Neolithic tribesmen. Winston disapproved. One green-haired girl wearing rainbow pajama pants, Crocs, pink mascara, a bone through her nose, what looked like the contents of an entire tackle box in ears (and presumably other places), and a t-shirt that said “Eat the Rich” tried to take the seat Winston was saving for his wife. He waved her off.

She glared angrily in his direction; which was what she did for any situation that displeased her. Surprisingly to the girl, it had no effect on Winston.

“Glare all you want my dear,” Winston replied, “when this school is done with you, student loans will change your world.” The girl blinked, unused to literal Nazis willing to meet her all knowing eye.

“You will put 20% of your meager income towards a debt you will never escape. You will do a shitty job, for which you’re ill prepared, which will be irrelevant because the job is pointless. Then you will die alone, in a room full of cats.” Winston smiled.

The girl cringed. Usually she just called all white men racist. Then they reflexively bowed to her every whim. That’s how it always worked. Winston was breaking the rules! Her upper lip quivered. She steeled herself to shout at him in self defense. Winston, meanwhile, didn’t have time to listen to yet another spoiled brat’s tirade. He decided to crush her completely. Otherwise he’d have no peace during the fight. It was essential he strike fast. If he let this nitwit get up a head of steam, she would be intolerable for hours.

“Everything about you will come to naught.” Winston began, derailing the girl’s slowly rebuilding sense of superiority. “As you die, your iPhone, made by slave labor in Bangladesh, will slip from your hands. In your years of poverty, you will know that I made 6% compounded bi-annually on stock market picks meant to bleed your generation dry. I will retire on a yacht. You will slog through old age like a Soviet peasant. You will spend yourself to death paying for a data plan and an artificial hip; neither of which will work well. You have peaked right now; today. It’s all downhill from this moment forward. Bitching at me won’t restore your wasted youth or alter your pointless future.”

The girl crumpled and began to cry; sending great streams of pink mascara down her face. Winston’s wife arrived with the popcorn to find a weeping young girl blocking her seat. The girl was facing, for the first time, her irrelevance in the enormity of the universe. Her soul ached. Her heart was torn. Winston’s wife considered the situation. Did she give a shit? No, she concluded, she didn’t give a wet fart’s worth of a thought for the pampered baby seal her husband had just clubbed.

“Beat it hussy. He’s mine.” His wife muttered. Then she grabbed a random piercing and dragged the girl, weeping and now writing in pain, to the aisle. She left her to face her little emotional breakdown where it wouldn’t block anyone’s view.

“God you’re beautiful.” Winston enthused.

“You too honey. I can’t imagine living without a man who can make trust funders cry in”, she checked her watch, “under three minutes.”

The two held hands. They’d been married forever and were madly in love. Their joy made the girl weep harder.

All good things must come to an end. Robert Mublowski, a student Winston recognized as “Douchebag with an Audi” barged past, ruining a sweet shared moment. He was accompanied by a striking young lass clearly out of his league. Winston began to wonder if he should buy an Audi. Winston’s wife poked him in the ribs and they both laughed.