Adaptive Curmudgeon

The Inspector Arrives

Half an hour later The Inspector arrived.

“Hello Edna. Thank you for coming.”

“The lock has been picked. You failed to replace the doorknob.”

Good God, how did she do it? Edna (a.k.a. The Inspector) could walk by a hay bale and pick out the needle. No, that was an inadequate description, she could drive by a field of hay and point to the single incriminating blade of grass where the needle had once been.

The two were an unstoppable team. Gertrude (The Cleaner) would attack a crime scene like a tornado and Edna (The Inspector) would verify it was “clean”. Working together, their record was flawless.

You could do absolutely anything, no matter how messy and deviant. Provided you availed yourself of the services of The Cleaner and The Inspector gave it the thumb’s up, you would remain free as a bird.

“I do not ‘thumb’s up’ anything!” Edna announced aloud. Gertrude ignored this, she was used to it.

How many secrets Edna and Gertrude knew was a mystery to everyone. Regardless, it was universally agreed that anyone trying to cover their tracks by “whacking” either to the two ladies would never be seen again… perhaps at the molecular level.

Fortunately, criminals are among the fading former majority of humanity that recognize a good thing when they see it. The two ladies had provided a valuable service and therefore they were appreciated by their customers. Everyone from petty larcenists to genuine violent psychopaths for miles around were unversally disappointed when Edna pulled the plug. There’d been a huge (and clandestine) retirement party at which Edna cited the combined threat of DNA residue and a population addicted to cell phones. She’d followed that with a stern lecture on living properly and moral rectitude which reduced scores of hardened street thugs to blubbering incoherence.

Edna was not happy to be called back into service. “Gertrude, we agreed to retire.” Edna spoke with a tone that made Gertrude wonder if her former elementary students still had nightmares. “I condone naught but our new side gig. Furthermore, if the little hellions still have nightmares, they most certainly merit them.”

Gertrude had to speak quickly to smooth things over. There had been no crime so far. Just a dipshit grandson mixing sports supplements and gender transition hormones in unholy quantities. The only sign of active surveillance were a couple of outhouse cleaners, who had just left, and the boy was currently in a stadium; plying his trade and establishing the world’s best alibi under the eyes of thousands of fans. Could there be a more timely moment to manage the situation? Gertrude’s explanation, a cup of hot tea brewed in the brand new teapot, half a tuna fish sandwich, and a generous stack of bills was sufficient… barely.

Soon the inspection was complete. That morning, the apartment could have had Jimmy Hoffa under the floorboards, Jeffrey Epstein in the closet, and uranium in the curtain rods; but now all was well. Nothing could be found that would convict anyone of anything.

They turned to more pleasant topics.

“What are you going to do about the boy?” Edna asked.

“Reason.” Gertrude shrugged.

“He likes fighting. A ‘dope slap’ will not fix his chosen flavor of stupidity.” Edna disagreed.

“He won’t be back for hours. We have time to think of something.” Gertrude was confident.

The two sipped tea peacefully. Edna was confident too. Edna had never been anything but confident. She agreed to stay with Gertrude for the time being, in case things got out of hand. Gertrude appreciated this. Nothing ever got out of hand in Edna’s presence.

“I’ll start the recovery process now.” Gertrude announced as she reached for the phone.

Alchemy And Sports Medicine

Working quickly, it took them fifteen minutes to assemble SMEEDA. They’d disconnected the bathroom sink drain and piped SMEEDA directly into the sewer. They’d strung an extension cord for power, rigged a fresh water intake hose, and scarcely had time to check the fittings before the first “batch” arrived. The first batch included several packets of Ukrainian “Thirst Implosion” sports drink and Gertrude’s broken “burner phone”.

The rest of the apartment was soon packed with workers. Gertrude, accustomed to a leadership role in such activities, was barking orders and everyone was rushing to obey.

Gertrude, (a.k.a. The Cleaner) was legendary in her ability to strip from a crime scene every last molecule of evidence. Not just the obvious stuff like corpses and spattered blood but… everything. Bullet holes, carpet fibers, cocaine residue… you name it. If you made a problem, Gertrude could make it disappear.

Gerald’s apartment was tough project. It was a shrine to questionable chemicals. Rather than sort out what’s what, they elected to send everything down the gullet of SMEEDA. Steroids, antibiotics, and testosterone supplements were poured, spooned, dropped, and tossed into the hopper. Exotic Malaysian donkey urine extract, homeopathic muscle relaxants, mayonnaise, protein powder, methamphetamines, Tylenol, laxatives, peanut butter, heroin, herbal tea, gluten free anabolic steroid substrate, cat food, glycerin suppositories, cocoa powder, Adderall, granola, fish tank antibiotics, raw honey… it all went into SMEEDA. There was a brief pause as two workers got into a debate about whether an object in Tupperware was powdered octopus or a mummified rodent; Gertrude gave them both a dope slap and tossed it, Tupperware and all, into SMEEDA.

In addition to a metric assload of chemicals and additives, there were more mundane personal belongings. Half of the closet was for Janice and half was for Gerald. Gertrude ordered it all removed and tossed in the garbage truck that had just pulled up out front. Who knew what residues tainted the fabrics her grandson wore? Best to toss everything. Also, it was embarrassing as hell. Two of the thugs were poking at a hand stitched fur speedo. Gerald had legally purchased it from some wingnut redneck on Etsy but Gertrude didn’t know that. For all she knew it was made of endangered wildebeest hides, processed by a brothel in Thailand, and smuggled stateside in a canister of protein shake mix. She warned the giggling fools to stay focused and have the closets empty in 15 minutes or less.

Besides she needed the closets empty so she could have the rug pulled. A crew was already pulling rug in the hallway. And it only made sense to throw out the furniture on top of the carpet.

Anything too bulky or fibrous to go into SMEEDA, such as the carpet, went into the garbage truck. The speedo, after some deliberation was stuffed into SMEEDA, which ground it up without the slightest hesitation.

Within the hour, the garbage truck had departed… sent directly (and illegally) to the county incineration facility. It was replaced by three different contractor’s vans. New carpet was being laid by one crew that jostled with another busy putting fresh paint on every wall. Meanwhile, the window guy complained loudly about not having enough room to work. In the midst of the chaos, they had their first injury.

As decontamination progressed, nobody wanted to be the first to breach the medicine cabinet. Finally one brave man had opened the door. He paid the price. An off balance container fell, bounced off his chest, and sent up a plume of shimmering blue dust. Shocked, he inhaled some, got the rest in his eye, and smeared a bit on his skin.

Gerald was less a chemist than an alchemist. His concoctions weren’t medicine so much as potions. This particular powder was Gerald’s premier experiment. It contained protein powder, LSD, banana extract, CBD oil, Viagra, caffeine, turmeric, three of his prescription estrogen treatment capsules, and a heaping teaspoon of something he’d purchased from a Haitian witch doctor who claimed to have the ability to create zombies. It would take years to even guess what such a concoction would do. Or, for the victim, about two minutes. He began bleeding from the nose, one eye dilated, the other vibrated, and he began to hear angels. He thought he could ride it out but then the giant space dragon attacked and he tripped over his own erection.

Watching their hallucinating comrade flail about in the bathtub, everyone donned protective gloves and moved far more cautiously. Gertrude decided to stay out of the bathroom from then on.

Soon it was all over. Everything not nailed down had been removed. Every appliance and whatever residues it contained was likewise gone. (Gertrude, well aware of her Grandson’s mental state, had requested replacement appliances “with the lowest level of technology possible”.) The window was mended. New carpet lain. The walls and ceiling were freshly painted. New furniture, hastily chosen but all new and lacking so much as a finger print, was arranged. New plates, new silverware, new wall outlet covers, new drapes… everything glistened with the confident feeling of “search all you want, I just cleaned.”

Gertrude paid handsomely from a seemingly endless stack of $100 bills. She stuffed a double share into the pocket of the unfortunate victim who was sporting a thousand yard stare, mumbling something about “space bats from Uranus”, and kept bumping into walls with an erection from which you could hang a flag. The last to leave were the three men with SMEEDA. This had been an unusual job. Instead of stuffing some squealer, bit by bit, through SMEEDA, they’d just flushed every chemical known to man. Who knew what all of that crap would do? They all wanted a shower. And maybe another shower after that.

“Good job fellas.” Gertrude commended them.

Then, remembering one small detail among many, “Where’s Ali?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The cat! Where’s the cat?”

The three glanced at each other nervously. The silence grew. Finally one spoke up. “Got no idea.”

Gertrude nodded and they beat a hasty retreat.

Garbage Disposal From Hell

One of the more experienced thugs involved in the situation hung his head in misery. He was dispatched to the city’s municipal waste facility to retrieve SMEEDA. The machine bothered him. It was morbid and disgusting! He hated its very existence. Nevertheless, he loaded the three wooden crates that contained the mechanism into his van. The crates were old and heavy, dating to sometime in the middle of the Cold War. The boxes had “SOLID MATTER EMULSION & EJECTION DISPOSAL APPARATUS” stenciled on the side, along with a listing of box order. He shivered as he hefted “BOX 1 OF 3” into his van, all the while getting yelled at by more stenciling; “THIS SIDE UP”, “DO NOT DROP”). Soon he was done loading. He shook his head at this relic from the era of bomb shelters. Who knew how many bodies The Cleaner had sent through it’s gaping maw and down the drain?

Gertrude waited patiently. She knew the boys would take a bit to get there. Meanwhile, her grandson emerged from the apartment. He was wearing a pink leotard, yellow running shoes, and had earbuds jammed in his ears. The left earbud was playing Diana Ross. The right played Rammstein. Sometimes, when one side won over the other, he’d drift from a straight line into a long irregular arc. He would jog the two miles to the arena before his match. It was a chance to warm up and (unsuccessfully) calm his jangled nerves.

Janice/Gerald was relived his frightening grandmother had inexplicably failed to show. Now he could focus on his main goal for the day; pounding whatever sacrificial goat had drawn tonight’s short straw into dust. Theoretically, he was up against a tough challenger. He smiled. Combat was not theory. His challenger was doomed. Almost skipping with glee, he scampered off.

Once he was gone, Gertrude strode up to her grandson’s door and, expertly, picked the lock. She had a key of course, but it’s the little rituals that maintain a sharp mind. She sized up the apartment with a knowing eye; silently listing tasks and resources needed. The place was a combination of meth lab, Lady Gaga’s dressing room, and Area 51. With a feeling of resolve and finality, she snapped the cheap phone in half, removed the battery, and tossed the bits on the table. This shit was going to change!

Ali the cat, perched on top of the refrigerator and feeling smug, opened one eye. The day might get interesting again!

Gertrude made herself at home. She unraveled her code knitting while she retrieved a second and much nicer phone from her bag. Performing an act almost verboten in the modern era, she placed a voice call. Edna picked up the line.

“Gertrude, how interesting that you’ve chosen to call.”

It wasn’t a particularly friendly greeting and Gertrude knew why. Were they not retired? “Edna dear, why don’t you join me for coffee?” This was another coded message. Tea was for socialization, coffee was for work. “We could meet at my grandson’s apartment in a few hours.”

“I haven’t had coffee in a long time.” growled Edna. “I will drop by. I look forward to discussing the joys of retirement.”

Gertrude sighed, it never did well to anger Edna. They had jointly agreed to retire their “business” at Edna’s urging. Edna had determined the modern DNA and electronic surveillance world was simply too risky. She was right, of course, but this wasn’t an actual crime… yet. Gertrude hoped this might mitigate Edna’s wrath. Edna had already hung up.

A few minutes later three burly guys knocked on the door, each carrying a heavy box with a third of SMEEDA. When Gertrude opened the door, one of the three let out an involuntary yelp. Gertrude eyed him archly.

“The Cleaner!” He stammered “I didn’t know if you were real”. He’d embarrassed himself with this unacceptable honesty, but he’d been greeted at the door by a real life Keyser Söze.

“Now that you’ve met The Cleaner,” Gertrude grinned like a cat, toying with its prey, “it’s time for another surprise. The Inspector arrives in two hours.”

All three men blanched.

“Move fast!” Gertrude prompted and the three men pelted for the bathroom as fast as their bulky loads would allow.

Gertrude Takes Charge

A bus pulled up half a block from Janice’s apartment and a short stout force of nature emerged. It was Janice’s grandmother Gertrude, and if she’d heard you refer to her as “Janice’s Grandmother” the dope slap upside your fool head would’ve been instantaneous and memorable. Gertrude, a one woman army in the war on bullshit, knew her grandson’s name was Gerald and wasn’t happy with modern inclinations to change names, sex, or even hair color willy nilly. Furthermore, her grandson was clearly too much of a basket case to attend to his proper purpose, which was to produce grandchildren which she would gleefully spoil rotten. She wasn’t getting any younger and her idiot grandson wasn’t getting any saner; so she’d arrived to talk some sense into the boy.

In her voluminous knitting bag she carried a tuna sandwich, enough knitting gear to stock a Hobby Lobby, a wicked little .38 snub nose, and a small wooden baton she called “Reason”. Gertrude, throughout her glorious and colorful life, had “Reasoned with” mafia goons, drug dealers, thugs, reprobates, crooked cops, and once, a Senator. Her witless drug addled emotionally incontinent crossdressing dipshit of a grandson might be a God of Destruction in the MMA octagon, but Gertrude had dealt with worse problems. The boy was, in her terms, “fixable”. Two dope slaps, a solid verbal dressing down, and breaking his attachment to unholy elixirs would have him right as rain in a fortnight.

Despite the personality of a human tank, she was always alert. The instant she stepped off the bus she began assessing the situation. Broken window, blender on the yard, Tyson the cat clinging to the upper branches of the tree where he’d landed, and… …well lookie here, if it ain’t the po-po!

She cringed involuntarily, as if her good friend Edna could hear her thoughts. It wasn’t wise to think ungrammatically in Edna’s presence.

Eighty miles away Edna’s eyes narrowed and she hissed. Her malevolent Scotty dog growled. The world paused for a few taut seconds. Nobody, not even the universe itself, seemed to know the edges of Edna’s mind. Then she shrugged; the spell was broken and the universe seemed to take a deep breath of relief. “The Universe sighed.” Edna corrected; speaking aloud to the empty room.

Back at Gerald’s apartment complex, for it’s unwise to speak of Janice in the presence of Gertrude, expert surveillance was afoot. An unassuming little old lady sat knitting on a park bench. Long titanium needles clicking mechanically as she observed the scene.

Inexpert surveillance was also afoot; two fools were arguing in an unmarked police cruiser. Gertrude recognized the stink of cop. She scowled, knitted, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long. A roaring massively over-tired behemoth of a truck rolled up. The uniformed jackass at the wheel gesticulated wildly and the two men in the unmarked (yet blatantly obvious) cruiser hopped out. They had an animated discussion with the truck’s driver. The truck’s driver was a man Gertrude knew well.

“Captain Camp Stove”, as Gertrude referred to him, was the most corrupt game warden in a three county region. His truck, a gaudy mishmash of off road lights and top heavy suspension, had “This Truck Seized From A Drug Dealer” plastered on the side. This was supposed to “Keep Kids Off Drugs”. All it told Gertrude was that drug dealers had no class and game wardens steal their shit.

The monstrosity of a truck was towing a trailer. Whatever was on the trailer had been covered by a tarp. Ironically the tarp’s camouflage print stood out like a sore thumb in the urban setting. Gertrude strained her ears and picked up a snippet of locker room banter; something about a Gatling gun?

Soon the men piled into their respective vehicles and departed. The monster truck practically tore the pavement with a colorful launch that indicated the driver didn’t have to worry about repair bills. The cruiser scooted along behind like a dog’s tail.

Gertrude pulled a cheap little phone from her bag, took a snapshot of her recent knitting, and hit send. Fifteen minutes later came the reply: “Tri-county, anti-drug, community interdiction, special programs, environmental task force team, pilot project.”

Madame DeFarge knitted the names of the condemned in the Tale of Two Cities. Edna had told her all about it years ago. Since then, Edna and Gertrude had devised a remarkably secure “language of yarn”. (They were both world class competitive knitters.) The open text response was a bit of a faux pas but Gertrude had indicated “URGENT” along with the police cruiser’s plate number.

Gertrude never asked how Edna could run plates. Edna never told her. That’s how it had been throughout their long friendship. Shortly after they met, their mutual and honorable distrust had blossomed into a delightfully exciting career which had become the stuff of legend (and the legends were based on vague guessing that covered only a fraction of what they’d actually done). Of course, they both had “day jobs” too. Gertrude had been a shipping clerk at the cement plant (and thus knew things about many local foundations that would make your hair curl). Edna, tougher of the two, had endured the serial atrocities of elementary school children. Not long ago, they’d both retired from “day job” and “secret professions” alike.

However, they were still as thick as thieves. The two had pooled their resources and, once they sorted out some unfortunate personnel issues, things looked good for a fine retirement side gig.

Gertrude pondered the “Task Force” and its motives. She knew the larger the bureaucracy’s name the more unmoored the participants are from reality. Her grandson was technically guilty of nothing but bad judgment and taking collegiate sexual dynamics seriously. Then again his apartment had more improperly stored chemicals than a Chinese fireworks plant.

The phone dinged and a second message arrived, “Unconfirmed rumors suggest there will be a large drug bust tonight”.

Bingo! Gertrude made several quick decisions and immediately began to muster resources to make her intentions reality. She hastily pecked out a text message to a different number: “Come to dinner at 630 Maple Drive, invite Smeeda.”

On the other side of town, a gaggle of thugs sprang to action. The Cleaner had spoken!

This post is part of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. The most recent post will be at the top and earlier posts will appear beneath it. If you want to see the whole story in the proper order go to the Lesbian Squirrels Main Page.

If you want to follow this chapter in order, the links are as follows:

• The Squirrels Are Back!
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Thunderdome: Part 01: A Sure Bet
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Thunderdome: Part 02: The Van Plan
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Part 03: Gertrude Takes Charge
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Part 04: Garbage Disposal From Hell
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Part 05: Alchemy And Sports Medicine
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 7: Part 06: The Inspector Arrives
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 07: Pregame Trash Talk
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 08: How The Hook Was Set
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 09: Audi Kill Zone
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 10: Scouts Go Hunting
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 11: Redneck Ship Of Theseus
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 12: Marching Hammers
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 13: War With Eastasia
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 14: Release the Kraken
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 15: Cell Phone Thief
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 16: Muscle Car Undercarriage
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 17: Woof
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 18: Slutburger on the Prowl
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 19: We Were Promised Fireworks
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 20: Those Were Good Fireworks
• Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Chapter 07: Part 21: Slutburger’s Job Interview

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

The Van Plan

Brett Alverson was a damn fine graduate student. His thesis, “Avian Components of Riparian Ecosystems” was well thought out, carefully researched, and boring. He was going to defend his thesis soon. When he got his hard earned degree he’d be serially underemployed while making student loan payments until he died. His brother, a welding foreman on an oil rig, had a high school degree, a new truck, a hot wife, and ample savings. He referred to Brett as “Dr. You Want Fries With That.”

Despite the odds against him, Brett had two cards to play. The first was Cindy Leachman. She was the university’s sole female electrical engineering major. Intelligent but reclusive, she was a technical whiz. She’d made a business plan based on both their skillsets. The second was… Well he didn’t want to let the secret out just yet.

Cindy met Brett at the lobby of the university’s communication hall, or as students called it “Che Guevara’s Jockstrap”. “The Che” was the burnt, fizzled, exhausted structure that once instructed students in the long forgotten, entirely problematic, skill called “Literature”; named as such because the last non-socialist to receive a Literature degree was from 2005 and that was only because the staff was in shock after Hunter S. Thompson’s unexpected suicide. The “Jockstrap” was the sagging deflated basement beneath the Che. It housed the utterly ruined major called “Journalism”; where they were known to genuflect at a small altar of Bob Woodward.

There hadn’t been legitimate studies of journalism since the Berlin Wall fell in 1989 but there’s a lot of ruin in any profession. As recently as twenty years ago the “Jockstrap” had a fielded a “News Van”. Even as journalism descended into full-on communist propaganda, the department had funded the “Action Seven News Team,” a public access weekly news program. With time, the program had become a bi-weekly, all mime, naked, Punch and Judy show. Parked out back, an impressive but obsolete Ford Econoline 350 with gaudy graphics and a huge retractable radio communications antenna was the sole reminder of former glories. Internally, the van hosted an impressive array of audio and video processing hardware; all of which was long obsolete. Cindy could replicate most of it with a Raspberry Pi and a WiFi connection.

None of that mattered. What mattered was that Cindy had created a business plan that would generate a legitimate profit and put keys to the “News Van” in her hands. There was only one reason she’d gone to all that trouble. Cindy needed a vehicle.

That Cindy found it more logical to structure a non-profit wildlife based documentary series than take out a car loan, tells you all you need to know about Cindy. Besides, she was the only student in town that knew how to drive a manual transmission.

Brett was fresh faced and eager. He was carrying a briefcase. He nodded to Cindy and they entered the graffiti laden front door to “The Che”. It was go time.

Winston Jones was a professor of business math. Not Business Ethics, Not Business Intersectionalist Studies. Not Business Feelings. Not Business Whining Because I Suck and Lack Marketable Skills. Business Math.

Therefore, he was a pariah. It simply wouldn’t do to be seen in the presence of a man who used words like “return on investment”. He was known to seek “profit” without publicly demonstrating shame! At the University there were certain standards to uphold. Hanging around Winston could get you fired; or worse, reduce your following on social media!

Winston was skilled, intelligent, fiscally solvent, and… normal. Almost unique within the campus freak show, he had his shit together. It was a tough existence. Resisting social pressure was hard work! If he’d simply dye his hair blue and write a dense illogical treatise on “How Communism would be awesome if only we tried harder” he’d be welcomed into the collective with open arms. A man of principle, he refused. He assuaged his battered soul by conning idiots into paying his taxes.

The gambit was easy.

He’d created a charitable trust; managed, of course, by himself. Periodically, when the timing was right, he’d snare some group of Kool-aid drinking wingnuts into matching him at a fun friendly wager. The loser or losers would wind up making a sizable charitable donation. The winner, Winston, would choose a venue. As trust administrator, Winston, not entirely legally, would claim the entirety of the donation’s associated tax deduction. Thus, Winston had, for the last dozen years, significantly reduced his taxes.

More importantly, he’d made dipshits fund serial donations to charities designed to infuriate impressionable freshman and barnacled faculty Trotskyites alike. That was the fun part!

The first step was to isolate an easily manipulated hive mind of fools. They had to be gullible, dedicated to believing untrue things, and bad at math. In a hunt for such rubes, the University was a target rich environment. However, Winston took his time. He liked to sniff out the weirdest, most illogical, messed up, stampeding lemmings on campus. He considered it a professional courtesy to humanity itself to find the most irrational of the species before raking them over the coals. Inevitably, he wound up at the door of room 101; Dr. Simone Moonglow Lenin Rothschild, Advanced Grievance Indoctrination. He straightened his tie and grinned wolfishly. It was “go time.”

It’s go time!

Right now I’m uploading another installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. If you’re new here, the squirrels are a donation supported on-line serialized novel. They’re my humble contribution to western civilization and my pushback against a world gone mad without the humor needed to make madness fun.

I’m only gonna’ say this once. It’s a satirical allegory. If you’re woke (or too dumb to understand satire) it’s going to give you a heart attack. You’ll deserve it for ignoring the warning. For God’s sake the title ought to tip you off! Everyone here loves it. If you’re easily triggered go back to your safe space of TwitFace or InstaTok or wherever you lurk about. This blog is meant for adults that can take a joke. Also, the animals in this story are invented in my mind, so I can kill one off. Which I did. Suck it Hollywood!

Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels is bigger than just this month’s storytelling. Feel free to read the whole novel. Pour yourself a glass of whiskey, put your feet up by the fire, and go to the Lesbian Squirrels Main Page which has every part of the story in order. Take a break to laugh. You deserve it.

A quick synopsis for those who’ve been reading along but dropped the thread in the ensuing months:

• Chapter one started with a racist bear causing a skunksplosion. This happened on the property of a Curmudgeon who doesn’t want any part of the story.
• Chapter two revealed the true power of Swedish disco and the dangers of concentrated bullshit. When this power falls into the wrong hands it results in a squirrel genocide, a weaponized raptor, and an experiment which backfires by creating five dudebros.
• Chapter three covered a lot of ground as our college dropout heroes are hired by the lesbian activist squirrels to get them to the homeland of failed Utopian visionaries, Portland Oregon. Their progress is delayed as they play 3D chess against the deadly NSA. Detroit suffers minor injuries during the writing of this chapter.
• Chapter four involved the horror of a Labrador Retriever just too darned smart for his breed and the kale eating moron who owns him.
• Chapter five started with a betrayal narrowly averted with hot coffee and porn. It also discussed the K-Cup / fiat paper economic balance, the birth of Batman, and, tragically, the complete destruction of Billy’s Church of Plenty. Also, Chigger wears a speedo.
• Chapter six had Adult Situations With Differential Equations (the chapter link will show chapter six in reverse order, the main page will show everything in the correct order). In that chapter, Velma, a lovely and very dangerous lass that likes to play with nailguns and poison, either did or did not kill a man with a trained weasel.

This chapter rolls around just as Velma is wrapping up her “genius level tutoring program” but in a different location. We are now at the prime locus for bullshit generation, a University. The next post will be part one of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels, Chapter Seven: Thunderdome.

Some housekeeping: as a blog, each post will show in chronological order. The most recent post will be at the top and earlier posts appear beneath it. For simplicity, I’ll link things in the proper order at the Lesbian Squirrels Main Page.

Donations via PayPal or Patreon are appreciated. I also accept silver, ammo, and whiskey. There are backup links at the upper right side of your screen too. Donations make you more attractive to the opposite sex, keep your coat glossy, and improve your vehicle’s fuel efficiency. If you’re broke, I get it. Pay it forward when you can.

Thank you.

A.C.