Adaptive Curmudgeon

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

Eugene had survived the first hour of Velma’s training. It had been the hardest hour of his life. He’d learned so much!

He was also shaky, exhausted, and dizzy. He’d managed a Sanskrit translation of the Constitution of the United States just in time. Velma had reluctantly cased her terrifying nailgun but the respite was short. She’d immediately demanded he rewrite the Turboencabulator bit from an old Johnny Carson routine into iambic pentameter; as if Shakespeare and Johnny Carson belonged in the same sentence. This deadline had involved a grenade with a pulled pin.

Any sane person would be bluffing with the grenade. Velma, he was sure, was not. She was a specialized trainer but also completely batshit insane. She had already explained her methods. They were simple. It was his fault that he’d voluntarily contacted her and now she had a deep abiding duty to teaching the living shit out of him. If he lived through the night, he’d have vastly increased his mental ability. If he didn’t she assured him that it was because he was unwilling or unable to unlock his full potential. She’d feel really sad about it as she disposed of the body.

“You have done well in the linguistics portion of my curriculum.” She was pacing back and forth in front of him like a general marshaling her troops. “And I think you need some protein before the next topic.” She tossed him an opened can of sardines. He caught it and gratefully began devouring the oily treat.

“Your next topic is acrobatics and martial arts. This is my trained weasel. He likes sardines and will attack anything that smells like them.”

With that she dumped a furry whirlwind on Eugene who was still chained to the bed and covered with oil. His eye’s dilated and there came a knock at the door. Condition yellow.

Velma smiled. “I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” And she strode out the door.

Earl was standing on the lawn near the horse (which seemed immune to the chaos). That in itself was a mystery. How do you train a horse to ignore mayhem? Earl pondered horse training involving fireworks until he was distracted by “The 4 Rulez”. They were scrawled with foot high spray paint on the trailer’s wall; not far from where BeckyBat had physically shoved a can of Bush Light literally through the trailer’s sheet metal siding.

It read as follows:

4 Rulez

1. Bring beer.
2. Everyone who doesn’t get arrested must post bail for those who do.
3. Everyone who doesn’t get injured must provide first aid to those who do.

The fourth rule had been obliterated. Nobody would tell him what it had once been.

Legend had it Chigger himself had deliberately violated rule four due to his deep seated conviction that four rules was too many. Somehow, and Earl wasn’t clear on how, this was related to the dishwasher embedded in the trailer’s roof.

Earl knew the BATFE would love a photo of the Rulez. Then again if anyone saw him whip out his cell phone they’d shout “Selfie bitch!” and swarm him. He’d seen it happen just ten minutes ago when BeckyBat started flashing her ample bosom to the crowd. Everyone cheered until Grover sought to preserve the moment. Someone shouted “OPSEC Violation!” and Grover was separated from his phone by a mass of joyous drunk fools. He was dragged off into the forest. Earl had no idea where he was or what ensued. He shivered. The phone met it’s match as a skeet clay. Whether that was a fate worse than Grover’s was another of the day’s many mysteries.

The horse farted. Disgusting! Rest period over. Earl bravely strode back to the party.

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

The van was starting to overheat from the abuse they were putting it through. Eugene was humming to Abba in the back. Eventually, the phone rang. Goon #2 had already been instructed to answer with speakerphone activated, so Eugene would hear.

“Yeah?” Goon #2 answered in his best impression of what Mafia sounded like on TV.

“Bring him to me.” It sounded less like a pretty woman than Ming The Merciless.

“Yes, we will…” The phone went dead before Goon #2 could finish. He shuddered. He glanced at Goon #1, who was tapping the steering wheel in time with “Fernando”. The fool had no idea the kind of evil they were dealing with. Perhaps ignorance is bliss. In the back of the van, Eugene had nearly forgotten the entire “terror over being kidnapped” angle and had been enjoying happy music mixed with the interesting feeling of having a hood strapped over his head.

Half an hour later, Eugene had been roughly (but not too roughly) hauled to the hotel room and tied to the bed. His head was still covered.

Velma nodded in approval, reached into Eugene’s pocket (causing Eugene to thrash worriedly) and extracted the Kruggerand with a piece of paper attached to it. She kept the paper and handed the Kruggerand to Goon #1. Then she handed over a small box with a series of lights to Goon #2. It looked like something a nerd would solder together in their basement, which is exactly what it was. She glanced at the “FitBit” strapped incredibly securely to one ankle, flipped a switch on the box, and smiled. A small green light glowed merrily.

She leaned in close, so Eugene couldn’t hear. Her instructions were concise if a bit vague. “One knock on the door if it goes yellow. Two if it goes red. If it goes blue, get in here and start bagging the body. Press this button for ten seconds to completely melt the internal circuitry, should that be necessary. To your posts gentlemen.”

The Goons strode out the door. Goon #2 was smart enough to grab a couple chairs from the room. It was going to be a long night. On the way out he glanced at Eugene; poor bastard.

With a flourish, Velma whipped off the hood. Eugene blinked in the harsh light, then focused on Velma. She was dressed in full dominatrix regalia and was the absolute last thing on earth Eugene expected.

He was however a genius and adapted quickly. “You exist!” He mused. “And… “ He stopped himself, nobody who looks like that and dresses like that needs to be told they look hot. They know.

Velma clicked a transmitter and a hidden MP3 player began playing a raucous song from 1984. Eugene, so recently released from the pleasant warblings of Swedish disco, winced.

Speaking over the din, Velma explained what would come next.

“People of your intelligence rarely use their full potential. They fall into the trap of matching the normies around them, or at least trying to avoid standing out too much. This causes them to be weak and eventually they suffer the atrophy of a barely used intellect. One must struggle to break free of the limits imposed by a lifetime of self-limiting behavior.”

Eugene recognized the song now. The lyrics worming their way into his already overworked mind. A long forgotten rocker was shouting them: “I brought my pencil, gimmie something to write on.”

“You need to develop, or rather regain, the lost ability to… think.” Velma continued, as she opened a large plastic box on a table nearby. “To do that, I’m going to put you under stress. Time stress. Sexual frustration. Pain. The usual.” She smiled. “But the difference is, I’m not a regular teacher and you’re not a regular student. I’ve tested you. I know you have the capacity…”

Eugene smiled to himself.

“…barely.” Velma cut short his revere. “Not all can fully use their mind once it’s been so long neglected. Some succeed, others don’t. For an extreme case like yours, the stress must be equally extreme. So, you will rise to the occasion, or I will torture you until you die or the sun rises and I tell the goons to drop you off the bridge. This is what you wanted, this is what you’re going to get.”

Eugene recognized the song. Was that Van Halen? “I think of all the education that I missed, but then my homework was never quite like this.”

Velma held up a paper. It was Preamble and Articles 1 & 2 of the United States Constitution, complete with the original old style script.

“You will translate this into Sanskrit.”

Eugene blanched. He’d only learned enough to read the contract. The Constitution had the verbiage of a 200 year old document. This wasn’t a simple task like translating a basic conversation. What the hell was the Sandskrit word for “insure domestic tranquility”? This would take all day.

“You nave twenty minutes.”

“That’s impossible.” Eugene complained.

“For most people it is.” Velma agreed. “You’ll have to think hard. And fast. With distractions making it so much harder.” As if to demonstrate what a distraction was Velma used a magic marker to draw a bullseye on the crotch of Eugene’s slacks.

Van Halen was still screeching in the background. “I’ve got it made, soooo great, I’m hot for teacher…”

Velma pointed to a clock on the table. It was a countdown clock. It read 18:56 and was clicking down. She hefted a nailgun from the plastic box, and then (as if Eugene had any doubts) drove a sixteen penny nail into the wall. Ker-CHUNK!

There was a subtle tap on the door. Condition yellow. Velma smiled.

Eugene started stammering out his best guess. “We the people… I think the word for people is prajaa. How the hell do you say ‘United States’?!? Nation is raashTra.”

Velma leered and caressed the nailgun. “Tick tock.”

Eugene began to sweat.

Van Halen was wrapping up. “OH MY GOD!”

Outside the door, Goon #2 watched the light. It had flickered briefly to red but then settled back to yellow. “That poor bastard.” He muttered. “It’s so much safer to be stupid.”

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

Earl was tangled up in a couch. It had been flipped during the first game of Beer Football he’d ever witnessed. Roxanne, apparently the final arbiter of these things, had declared BeckyBat the winner. Limp Willie had been dispatched to drive Spackle and his broken arm to the ER, the trailer was now tilted five degrees off level, and the local VFD had just “saved” the smoking chassis of a truck that still smoldered in the yard.

Predictably, Roxanne had invited the VFD to stay on after their fire call to “monitor” the situation. Most of the firemen were contentedly eating steak and drinking beer. A few had made friends in Chigger’s crew. They’d broken out a welder and were “improving” the firetruck.

“What do ya say Edgar H? Fishing! You and me! We’ll catch us some fish!” Chigger’s face was close to Earl’s and it was only slightly better than looking at his bony ass.

Earl pondered his response. Was he willing to wear a wire and get the goods on a maniac like Chigger? Spudballs came to Earl’s rescue. “No way in hell you’re giving away our secret fishing hole to Edgar H here. Boy’s wet behind the ears!”

Earl tried to muster an argument for going fishing with Chigger but couldn’t get the memory of the mink Speedo out of his mind. Chigger smiled in his uniquely crooked yet predatory way. “Fine, but you and Eelpout will have to train him up before we do the Post Office.” Earl’s ears stood on end. Spudballs sighed… “fine, I’ll debrief him later.”

Chigger elbowed Earl in the ribs and winked obscenely. Then he was gone.

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

Eugene exited elevator #2. With a complete lack of situational awareness that was one of his more normal attributes, he missed several warning signs; the empty lobby, the beautiful woman draped in a chair, and the two goons which approached from either side.

Twenty harrowing seconds later he had a sack over his head, his briefcase had been taken, he’d been zip tied (hands and feet), and he’d been hurled into the back of a van. (In reality, he’d been carefully tossed onto a pile of laundry arranged for just such a purpose. Velma had spent hours instructing Goons in the fine art of abduction without injury.

He was well aware millionaires are sometimes kidnapped but it’s so much scarier than you’d think! Remembering all movies with a similar situation, he concentrated on clues; as if that somehow mattered. The bag wasn’t stuffy burlap… it was velour and well vented. The zip ties were wide and not cutting into his hands. Nobody’d hit him or drugged him yet. From this he assumed it was a kidnapping for money and not an out and out murder scheme. He found himself shockingly unconcerned. If they took all his money? Meh. It would just reduce his chances of a gold digger attack and painful divorce later. Eugene was lonely and sick of his job; violent and possibly murderous kidnappers were a welcome change to his routine.

He tried to concentrate on the vehicle’s motion. Tires were screeching, he was swaying to and fro. They were obviously blasting through traffic like bad guys in a James Bond movie! (What he didn’t know was that Velma had arranged this. She’d ordered the Goons to toss Eugene in the hotel’s laundry truck and “drive around like angry idiots” for 45 minutes.) Eugene counted and guessed left and right turns for about 15 minutes before he admitted he’d no idea where he was. (In reality he was two blocks from the hotel zooming around a WalMart parking lot.) This was all part of Velma’s “softening” procedure.

“Should we smack him around a bit?” Goon #1 asked Goon #2. They were actual traditional mafia goons and as such felt they were a cut above the rabble of street thugs and regular criminals. For example, they wore suits. A dude in a suit is better than a thug in Reeboks. It’s simple math. It seemed a waste of effort to abduct someone without a good old-fashioned beating. They simply wanted to deliver fair value to their employer.

“Remember what she said?” Goon #2 complained. “One broken bone and we get nothing. Gotta’ have all his fingers and everything.”

Eugene breathed a sigh of relief.

“Stupid restrictive rules of engagement!” Goon #1 groused.

“What can I say, people these days are unreasonable.” Goon #2 agreed. He consulted his checklist; drive around like angry idiots was first on the list. Done! Next came this; discuss amongst each other your desire to kick his ass, but point out that I forbid it, do this within his range of hearing. Ha! That was done too. The lady could read minds. What was next? List item #3: Strap the FitBit to his ankle, use duct tape.

He clambered into the back, ripped off a shoe, and cinched on what looked like a modified FitBit. It had a highly modified strap and the strap had a large external battery sewn in a pocket. It was something like a court ordered monitoring bracelet. He chuckled, like those things worked! Everyone knew “a guy” that could defeat such a device. Well, except maybe a Poindexter like the dude they’d just captured. He glanced at him with a clinical eye. The idiot was hopeless and weak. Conscientious employee that he was, he used 20’ of good quality duct tape to make sure it wouldn’t come off… ever.

Eugene whimpered a bit during the process and Goon #2 hammed it up. “I think I’ll cut his foot off. Why not?”

Goon #1 joined in “Nah, just fit him for cement shoes. The old ways are the best.”

In every workplace there is a camaraderie. Goon #2 was older and more experienced, he felt kindness and benevolence toward recently hired Goon #1. The younger man was coming along under his mentorship. The two of them had become friends over the last few “jobs”. Of course, Goon #2 would toss him off a bridge if so instructed; but it probably wouldn’t come to that. In this way, there was far less hostility in their “workplace” than most offices.

Back in the front seat he crossed off another line from the list. Only one left. He cringed.

Some forms of cruelty just ‘aint right. That woman was a demon on earth. Goon #2 had performed various colorful felonies at the behest of an array of utterly reprehensible people. (Once, during his lowest, most regrettable time, he’d even worked for a Senator.) But he never feared them. People are just people; even the ones that might try to kill you. That said, he was truly afraid of Velma. Unlike Goon #1, he’d worked with her before. He saw what happened to the men (it wasn’t always men, but usually) with whom she interacted. The hollow shells that emerged were completely changed. When, in the course of his usual business, he interacted with someone, they might end up dead… but he never tore down a personality and totally rebuilt a new creation from the rubble! He had limits; he might be a Goon but she was a goddamn terror.

He reached into the glovebox as instructed. He retrieved the package. He sighed. The poor bastard…

He looked at Goon #1, who had no idea what the rest of the day would hold. Some things, once seen, cannot be unseen. He shrugged and unwrapped the mix CD, stuffed it into the van’s stereo, and hit play.

List item #4: “Abba at full volume until I say stop.”

Goon #1 happily thumped the steering wheel as they rocketed around a cloverleaf leaving Eugene further disoriented. Eugene, hopeless and tied up, blindfolded, and kidnapped. Confused and baffled by whatever was strapped to his ankle, hopeless before the day, and likely to be dead by its end… began to tap his feet.

Goon #2 shook his head. Whatever that woman was up to… she was dangerous.

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

“It’s mink. Made it myself. Wanna’ touch it?” Chigger Johnson was completely naked, except for a furry Speedo; which he’d apparently made by hand. He was three sheets to the wind; having consumed inhuman quantities of Bush Lite and half of a Mason Jar’s worth of something so nasty Earl could barely tolerate a sniff, much less a swig.

Earl politely declined but it was no good. Chigger insisted he examine the stitching on a fur triangle that barely covered his ass. Earl had to admit, the stitching was excellent; but nobody wants to have a woodsman’s ass shoved in his face.

Roxanne, kind woman that she was, saved Earl. “Chigger! You get your ass out of that fella’s face!”

Chigger relented. Nobody truly controlled the mighty hunter (including Chigger himself), but Roxanne had him somewhere between housebroken and mostly tamed. “Your loss.” He chuckled.

Looking for another outlet for his energies, he pivoted with remarkable dexterity, leaped across Earl, and swooped up an unattended beer can he’d spied. The beer turned out to belong to a camo clad trucker who answered to the name of “Spudballs”. (By now Earl had learned that everyone in the group had a nickname and Edgar H was about the least suggestive nickname available.) Spudballs and Chigger began wrestling over who owned the beer and the entire trailer swayed as they crashed into the wall. Most of the men, sensing a chance for good hearted mayhem, joined in. Spudballs was dogpiled by Limp Willie, Grover, and Grover’s son Spackle. Meanwhile Chigger was clotheslined by Sparky and his brother Eelpout who dragged him away from the contentious beer can. The crowd started chanting “Beer football! Beer football!” Someone complained that the teams were uneven so BeckyBat, a rarity in that she was the only woman willing to join the mess, lined up with Chigger’s side. Earl was briefly worried for BeckyBat but then shrugged. She had a physique and attitude that would scare a rhino and clearly had played this game before.

Earl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Something was poking him. He rummaged around and found a loaded Bearcat revolver wedged between the sofa seat and his butt. “Thanks. I’ve been looking for that.” Smiled Roxanne (apparently the only exception to the nickname tradition). She took the pistol from Earl’s hand and haphazardly chucked it into a cardboard box near the wall. Earl craned his neck and saw the box was filled with a pile of guns. Not a stack. Not a carefully arranged storage bench. Just a flat out pile of loaded firearms. Earl put more effort into stacking the cereal boxes in his pantry than the residents of this trailer did for armaments.

“The first one to get the can through the opposite wall wins.” Roxanne explained.

The tiny trailer was packed. There were four people on each side of the can, lined up less like football players than demolition cars. Well over a dozen spectators gathered to watch what was certain to be a complete disaster. Through a cracked window, Earl noted there was a fire on the lawn. The fire had wheels and it was driving around. Someone had decided to light a truck on fire and drive it in circles. The horse stood by contentedly munching on grass, as if this was a normal thing. Earl tried to count how many people were open carrying and how many were probably equally armed but politely stuffing their gear out of sight. Someone on Spudballs’ side had fired up a chainsaw and was angling to cut a hole in the wall to increase their team’s odds while Chigger and company used a snowshovel to push the chainsaw back. Roxanne cheered them on, oblivious to the almost certainty that either a person or her trailer was about to get gutted.

Edgar began composing this week’s BATFE report in his head. “Do. Not. Mess. With. These. People.”

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

If you’d like to support my writing I’ve included links to PayPal and Patreon. Alternatively, if you buy virtually anything after starting at this link I’ll get a small kickback from our overlords at Amazon (no additional cost to you). People who tip are intellectually superior, have good hair, and are more attractive to the opposite sex. If you’re broke, don’t tip. I’ve been broke too and I get it. 

Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

Velma Smith’s breasts entered the hotel lobby. Exactly 4.368” later Velma followed. When she did, the concierge turned white and the receptionist turned red. A couple checking into the honeymoon suite, faced the biggest challenge of their new relationship as the bride involuntarily hissed like a snake and the groom tried to stare at literally anything on earth but the breasts… and failed.

Ignoring the lover’s spat growing at the receptionists’ desk, Velma glided toward the concierge. “The thing we’ve discussed. Today’s the day.” It was an order. She was used to giving orders. Men always followed her orders. (Women were a different matter. They would either follow her orders or try to kill her. The latter never failed to amuse her.)

Men have been rating women on a scale of one to ten since the first man learned to count to ten; which, not surprisingly, was several years after the first woman figured it out. Velma, however, wasn’t merely a ten. She was beyond standard number theory, a disruption on Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity, and proof positive that genetics is totally unfair. Every curve was where a curve ought to be, every lock of hair was exactly the proper shade of awesome. Her every motion was fluid and perfect. If she chose to shake a hip or purse her lips it would rock the firmament.

She wasn’t hot. She wasn’t smoking hot. She was “I’ve just met you and here are the keys to my sports car” stupidly unreasonably gorgeous.

“But… um… Highly irregular.” The concierge stammered. He was a middle-aged man, happily married, of good humor, and completely respectable. Him standing up against Velma was as unlikely as a goldfish defeating a barracuda. A month ago, Velma’s sexually charged and carefully honed arguments had caused him to agree (unofficially of course) to allowing one of his hotel guests to be abducted. He’d meant to say “no”, but she was just so persuasive. He’d have handed over the keys to his Saab had she asked.

“Oh dear,” she pouted and the concierge began to hyperventilate, “it’s a surprise and I’d hate to disappoint my lover.” At the word “lover” from a being like her he had an instant erection and froze up. By that time the receptionist had dispensed with the huffy bride and baffled groom. She rushed to the concierge’s aid.

“Can I help you Miss?”

“Oh, that’s a lovely top.” Velma placed both hands on the receptionist’s shoulders and examined the top in detail. The receptionist decided then and there to become a lesbian… immediately if possible. The concierge scampered off to call his wife and tell her he loved her.

“I’m glad you like it. Um…what was I saying?” The receptionist had lost focus.

“Rick here,” Velma glanced around for a Rick that she knew had fled (smart man!) “agreed to help me surprise my um…” She paused seductively.

The receptionist sprang to life (secretly hoping for a threesome and the other party could be a lizard for all she cared) “Say no more. What do you need?”

“I already have a reservation, room 890. I just want some friends to escort him there. He’s a terribly busy man and the best way to get time together is to surprise him. And also, we like to play games. You know how it is.”

The receptionist did not know how it is! She’d never had to abduct anyone. Furthermore, this wasn’t helping her odds at all. Dammit!

Velma sensed the receptionist was drifting from “obey her every whim” to “kill the unreasonably hot competition”. This was nothing new. “After my lover and I… well you know…” She paused for effect. “Maybe just us girls can meet, to talk.” Velma could manipulate people like a virtuoso works a Stradivarius. She’d said “talk” in a way that would make a prostitute blush. It’s all in the cadence and tone.

The receptionist melted. Velma raised an eyebrow. The receptionist agreed to everything Velma said.

And Velma said a lot; none of it would be agreeable to a sane person. The receptionist agreed to temporarily make herself scarce. The receptionist agreed to take no notice of anything that ensued in the next half hour. The receptionist gave Velma her phone number. Then the receptionist fled, abandoning her post with the urgent need to get a mani-pedi and buy some new clothes before Velma was ready to “talk”.

Alone in the fancy lobby, Velma made a call. “Boys, get ready. Be by the elevator. Wait for my signal.”

Then she lounged in a chair, like a cat stretching. She had a role to play and she was going to play it to the hilt. Her smile drifted from charming, to mischievous, to icy. If a cat had been watching it would’ve thought “that’s what I look like before I pull the wings off a bird”.

Eugene was miserable. He’d been carrying that damned Krugerrand for 27 days now and there’d been no sign of The One.

Well aware that genius and madness are related, he’d scheduled a psychiatric evaluation. He scheduled it for right after the 30-day window. He had good reason to doubt his sanity. After all, he’d been having secret conversations with darkweb entities that wrote contracts in Sanskrit.

Fortunately for him, the 27^th day was his day. The same day that Mike’s face got buried in a racist bear’s armpit, The One walked into the lobby of a hotel where Eugene had been staying while traveling for work.

Eugene’s day zero was about to begin.

Earl Hastings was among the first to arrive at Chigger’s party. It’s a well known fact that every liberty loving gun nut is assigned an agent provocateur by the BATFE. It’s tradition and practice that, within any group, the person most forcefully advocating anti-government revolution is a government plant. Therefore, everyone knew Earl was a paid informant. He was the fourth BATFE plant assigned to Chigger.

Earl, product of a society that didn’t include people like Chigger, had no idea how clueless and transparent he looked. Fortunately for him, the community embraced the moron and treated him kindly. This was on the reasoning that “he’s a good lad and maybe someday he’ll get his head out of his ass”. There was also generalized concern that nobody knew what had happened to the three previous informants. Chigger, of course, had no comment on the matter. So the community kept Earl close at hand, fed him a steady stream of useless information, and never let Chigger invite him on a two man fishing trip.

They also referred to Earl as “Edgar H.”, a reference to a former FBI director who’s reputation hasn’t held up well to historical scrutiny. It gave everyone a chuckle but eluded Earl’s dense mind. Having the standard education of a Millenial American, Earl (or, if you wish “Edgar H.”) had no knowledge of history from eras before the invention of Pokemon. He silently congratulated himself for infiltrating a domestic terrorist cell populated by people too dumb to remember his name.

Earl was explaining they should all work together to bomb the Post Office when Roxanne, smiling, shoved a plate at him. It was stacked with all sorts of delicious (and poached) meats. It shut him up before he aggravated anyone enough to get a dope slap upside the head.

Silenced by the best food he’d ever eaten, he took the time to observe the crowd. Both communication and transportation were mysterious. Most of the attendees were scandalously free of cell phones. How did they know there was a party afoot? Roxanne had called him to personally invite his attendance. She’d used a landline to do this. It was bolted to the wall. Weird. Meanwhile, the rest had gotten the news through a mishmash of phone trees, HAM radio, rumor, truck horns honking, and at least some of the time… by simply following up when one truck or another was seen heading towards Chigger’s driveway.

Certainly, most arrived by truck. An array of rusty trucks was parked haphazardly in the stump filled clearing that they all considered a “lawn”. Some trucks had expired registration tags, two were missing plates entirely, one was missing a door.  There were a few sedans, including Whacker’s old lady’s Honda Odyssey (which was the most nearly “average” vehicle of the lot). Other vehicles included a log truck, a tractor, two motorcycles, a dizzying array of ATV’s, and one horse. Someone had arrived by canoe on a stream Earl hadn’t even noticed. Several others had simply stepped out of the forest.

Chigger was a pillar of his community. To miss one of his parties would be unthinkable. His parties were always the result of some new Chigger based achievement, and therefore they happened irregularly and on short notice. That added to the fun.

In addition, Roxanne, Chigger’s wife (or girlfriend, neither was clear on this) insisted on inviting “everyone”. To her, each get together was a chance to feed the masses.

The last party had been several months ago. Chigger and his friend Whacker had come into possession of a bison. How this extra-legal activity had come together was a secret, which meant everyone in Chigger’s circle knew all the details. Roxanne had declared the evidence should be eaten lest the Feds incarcerate half the town. Chigger shrugged and fired up the grill. That had been a fine day!

The party before that had involved a live lynx loose in Chigger’s trailer. And who could forget the legendary party that led to The Dishwasher Incident?

Chigger hadn’t yet explained the reason for the current party, but the rumor was he’d finally captured a Bigfoot sighting. Chigger’s extensive network of game cams would impress the Stasi’s spy operation and everyone universally agreed that if there was a Bigfoot, Chigger would be the one to find it.

Roxanne and Chigger were the perfect couple. His life’s work was to roam the world breaking game laws. Her’s was to cook virtually anything Chigger dragged home and make sure it was distributed to “those in need”. Admittedly, nobody in Chigger’s group was in danger of starvation but virtually all would be defined by bureaucrats from afar as “desperately poor”. (In their eyes, they were “just people” and bureaucrats were the ones deserving of pity; but that’s a discussion for another time.) Roxanne’s explanation was roughly “Something, something, Jesus & God, give thanks. Here’s an elk steak.” Chigger’s was “Something, something, liberty & Merica. Elk is delicious.”

The upshot of this was that Chigger and Roxanne’s single wide was hosting a rocking party almost before the RFD finished “saving” the convenience store’s foundation.