Mason & Moptop Hang Ornaments

Mrs. Fetched wanted the kids to participate…



Of course, now that Mason hung ornaments up, he thinks he’s supposed to go pull them off. The pile of boxes make a barricade of sorts, but Mason has demonstrated some pretty good problem-solving skills in getting through it: “Okay… I pull this box back, push this chair forward, and I’m through!”

I’m trying to remember what we did when The Boy and Daughter Dearest were that age… seems like we had the smarts to downscale and uplift the grab-ables. Oh well.

Friday Flush

This was going to be a Friday Flash post, but things didn’t quite work out that way. I’ll have it ready next week, but I might as well catch y’all up on the everlasting soap opera here…

Mrs. Fetched’s granny died earlier this week, age 98. The photo here is from last fall, obviously, when Mason was rather tiny. The Boy got tagged as a pallbearer, which meant he had to do the monkey suit thing… which meant I had to tie a tie for him and loan him a jacket and black pants. The funeral was in Rome (GA), which meant I put over 300 miles on Mrs. Fetched’s car Wednesday and Thursday. Mrs. Fetched’s sister (the one who gave me the iPad) got a block of hotel rooms near the funeral home, but The Boy needed to be home because it was nearly certain he’d have a probation-related drug/alcohol test on Thursday morning… which meant I got to drive home. Mason stayed at the hotel with Mrs. Fetched.

“Make sure you get me up at 5:00 to make my call,” he said as he headed upstairs.

“If I wake up, I will,” I said. Left unsaid was this is your responsibility, why are you trying to dump it on me? But I did wake up shortly after 5 a.m., and heard the squawk of his alarm all the way in my bedroom. No surprise there, he’d sleep through World War III. I went up and poked him, told him to make his phone call. He turned off the alarm and I went back to bed.

Surprise! He also rolled over and went back to sleep. A friend of his called at 8 a.m. to let him know he needed to do something, so I took him to the ER to get a screen there. He got his papers, and we came back home. Whether it will be enough is the question… if the judge declares him in violation, he goes to jail for 90 days this time.

We got some breakfast and headed back to Rome. Mason did fair… he loved the flowers and wanted to touch (and chew) them. He finally got bored about halfway through the service and Cousin Al took him out back. Then at the graveside, he decided he wanted to preach his own sermon. His second cousin Skyler was already removed from the immediate action (via a nephew), and his other second cousin Wyatt (with his mom) joined us soon after. Being removed from the scene did not deter Mason from delivering his sermon, though.

Meanwhile, my car was in for a new idler pulley (yay, I was afraid the power steering pump was shot). $180 got me rolling again. The mechanic was impressed by the 402,000 miles on the odometer, and that’s a little low because the speedo only works intermittently these days. At least with a manual transmission, you can use the tach to figure out how fast you’re going.

This evening, Mrs. Fetched decided to (finally) put up the tree… so the living room looks like it always does this time of year. Mason and Moptop each hung ornaments on the lower branches, I’ll post pics tomorrow when I get a chance. I also made a loaf of bread this evening, and marked it with an M (for Mason). There was some dough stuck to the bread machine pan after the dough cycle completed. so I rolled it out and put it on top of the loaf. That I’ll also shoot in the morning…

Winter #1 Comes In Like a… Snippy Snippet?

Along with the first serious arctic blasts from the uttermost north, comes a serious arctic blast from an uttermost ding-a-ling.

This really started Saturday, when I was alone with Mason pretty much all day while Mrs. Fetched and The Boy (and even M.A.E.) were at the chicken houses. Around 5pm, Snippet called wondering how she was going to get home from work.

“Sit tight, Mason’s been napping for a couple hours. I’ll just get him up and we’ll come get you.”

“Can’t The Boy come?”

“He’s still in the chicken houses.”

“Oh.” The unhappy kind.

I got Mason up. “You want to go bye-bye?” I asked him.

“Bye-bye.” He pointed at the door.

“You want to get your mom?”

He shook his head. Seriously, even Mason doesn’t like Snippet much.


As we were on our way to town, Mrs. Fetched called and asked me to meet them in town for supper. No problem… except that M.A.E. was riding with The Boy while Mrs. Fetched rode with Panda. Snippet is projecting her own guilt of cheating on him onto others, which means she has serious problems with The Boy’s long-since-ex M.A.E. being around him when she’s not there to supervise. Or whatever. Snippet even came out and told me she didn’t like it; I told her she had nothing to worry about.

To confirm my (lack of) suspicion, I later asked M.A.E. whether she had any designs on The Boy, which got her a bit pissy about Snippet’s suspicions. Somewhere along the line, M.A.E. went and told Snippet in essence to get over herself, she and The Boy were ancient history. Indeed… she was like 13 when they got together. (“I wonder who she was screwing then,” said Mrs. Fetched later. OUCH)

So we come to last night… Daughter Dearest arrived for the long Christmas break, and the three of us plus M.A.E. were chatting in the bedroom, when The Boy came down. “Can you come upstairs?” he asked. “Snippet wants to tell you something.”

What she had to say started with “You don’t talk to me, I don’t talk to you.” and continued with a rant about how I messed stuff up for her by “dragging” M.A.E. into the situation.

“What I was trying to do was help you get over this ridiculous idea that M.A.E. has any feelings for The Boy.”

“Yeah, well she posted something on Facebook about how she wanted to get back with him.” I was more than a little skeptical about this, and left. Turned out Snippet was right, M.A.E. had posted that… about three years ago. Jeeeeeeeeeez.

So this morning, she started in on me again, and I had enough. “As long as you keep pointing fingers in every direction except at the real problem, which is yourself, you’ll never solve your problems.” I had to repeat this, given that it contained a three-syllable word, and expected a “yeah whatever” kind of response. She turned away, then turned back.

“If Mason wasn’t standing right there,” she said, “this coffee would be all over you right now.”

“It’s a very good thing, for your sake, that it isn’t,” I said, and she woke up two brain cells long enough to agree. I may have ended up in jail, but I would have delivered unto her the ass-kicking she needs and deserves first. Now that I have time to plot a reaction if she actually does do something like that, I’ll settle for bodily throwing her out of my house — a much more satisfying solution, both short- and long-term.

White Pickups, Episode 64

Contents

Sondra watched the sky, hurrying clouds gliding above the bare trees, knowing she was missing something important but not caring to grasp it. Suddenly, Cody’s twisted face replaced Sondra’s view of the sky. “Oh God, Sondra, oh God oh God, hang on, Rita’s coming, oh God —”

“I’m okay, Cody,” she whispered. “I just don’t remember getting down off the guardhouse. What’s the matter?”

Cody started crying. “They shot you, Sondra! Oh God, there’s blood everywhere, just hang on —”

Shot? She tried to think around Cody’s freak-out. She took out the preacher, the dangerous guy with the deer rifle who spotted her too late, Mr. Mirrorshades… and did she shoot that guy closest to Cody or not? She was on the guardhouse… and now she wasn’t. And what about Rita? It must be bad, she thought, Cody’s really freaking out. I should be scared… it should hurt. Am I dying? She felt the barest twinge of fear, but it was gone before she could catch it. She raised her arm; it felt heavy but she touched Cody’s lips then took his hand. He gripped it tight in his. “Are they gone? What about everyone else?”

“There were two left, the ones that shot you. They ran off. I tried to shoot them first, but I missed. I totally suck. Everybody else is okay. Cleve got ‘winged,’ he called it, but he bandaged it himself.” As Cody said his name, Cleve was there, kneeling at her feet, looking worried. An apparition, she ignored it.

“Good. I need to rest, Cody. Stay here.”

“You stay here. Don’t leave me.” He kept talking, but it faded into buzzing as light seemed to shine from Cody’s anguished face and she closed her eyes…


Hi, cara.

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

I’ve been here all along. I was afraid something like this would happen.

“You were really here then? I thought you’d drove off.”

Nope. Just drank myself to death. I think that’s what happened, anyway. I looted me a couple cases of prime quality bourbon, the stuff I could never afford, and next thing I knew I was here.

“But I—? Oh God, no. I’ve gotta get back, Cody’s already freaking out!”

There’s no going back to the mess that guy made, cara. He was using hollow points.

“I… can’t I at least tell him good-bye?”

A pause. Yeah. But you don’t have much time. You — both of you — deserved better than this. He really loves you, you know. More than anything. I want you to tell him something…


The buzzing sound faded back to Cody’s voice. “Oh please God, let Sondra hang on, just a little longer, oh please —”

“Stop,” she whispered, and mirabile dictu, he did. She could barely see him — it was darker than it should have been — but that wasn’t important now. “Dad said I don’t have much time.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah. He’s going to be all the way there for me now. He said to tell you, Revenge is a dish best served cold. But throw away the leftovers.”

“What?”

“That’s what he said. You’ll figure it out. I believe in you, Cody.”

“Sondra, I love you, Sondra. I don’t want to live without you. I wish it was me there, not you.”

“I love you, Cody.” She shivered a moment. “But don’t —” She gasped as a spasm clamped her mangled guts.

“Don’t what? Sondra! Sondra!” She tried to force the words out, but the buzzing and the light came back…


“— push the world away… damn.”

Sorry.

“I needed more time!”

Yeah. Like seventy years, at least.

Before she could respond, she felt a tug on her arm — her right arm, now as dark and feeling as her left. A small, silent boy held her hand in both of his, looking up at her. His hair was jet black, and hung down nearly into his eyes; his complexion was olive like her own. Those eyes were big and round and dark… but luminous —

“Well, hey there,” she said, blinking. “Who are you?”

Looks like I almost had a grandson.

“Grandson? You mean — oh, crap. I was a few days late, but —” she sighed. “Yeah, I guess I knew, but I was pretending not to.” She looked down at her son. “Poor guy, you never had a chance, did you? You look just like Cody, too.” He said nothing, just held her hand and watched her with the same bright and solemn gaze.

He’ll get his chance when he’s reborn.

“Reborn? Is that what happens to babies who don’t make it?”

Yeah. Souls have to be tested. It’s time to go now. Your granmama is waiting for you.

“Oh, her too?”

Yeah. She had a heart attack the night of your first gunfight.

“I’m glad she didn’t drive off, anyway.” She took her father’s hand, and the three of them walked away.


“I’m so sorry, Cody,” Rita said, holding his hands in hers. He looked terrible, but wondered if she looked much better — the last few hours had been some of the worst of her career and life. The frenzied ride to the guardhouse, hearing Cody’s wail and knowing she was too late; she and Cleve loading Sondra’s lifeless body on the backboard and riding it back to her clinic, Cleve’s siren wailing… her clinical detachment broke several times through the afternoon.

Now, they sat in office chairs in the clinic, Sondra’s body lying covered on the exam table above them. A pair of oil lamps pushed back some of the gathering night and masked some of the clinical odor. “Please, believe me: even if we’d had a fully-functional trauma center here, with the best surgeons standing by, we couldn’t have saved her. She was…” Again, the droning voice of a certain pathologist at Grady began running through her head, as it did during her brief autopsy: Victim was struck by two gunshots to the abdomen. Exit wounds and extensive organ damage consistent with high-powered rifle, using soft-point or hollow-point ammunition. Damage to spinal column means Victim would have felt very little before expiring from blood loss. A final note: Victim’s uterus was swollen, consistent with early stage pregnancy. Test strip confirms diagnosis. “She was just so torn up.” She dared not say much more; Cody was already on the edge. No telling what he would do if she told him Sondra was pregnant.

Cody shook his head. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I panicked. I just started shooting at those guys, didn’t take the time to aim or anything. If I’d done it right, they wouldn’t have had the chance…” He took a deep, shuddering breath, but he’d run out of tears hours ago.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Rita said, squeezing his hand again. “You did the best you could. When I was stitching up Cleve, he told me all of you did a lot better than he’d expected. He said most soldiers never fire their weapon at all in their first battle. If you have to blame someone, blame the people who came here to kill us all just because we aren’t like them.” Cleve had also said Sondra should have stayed down and used the roof for cover, but that was something else Cody didn’t need to hear just now.

“Yeah.” Cody stood, turned to the exam table. For a moment, Rita thought he would lift the sheet, but he only put his hand on the table. He looked down, hair covering his eyes. “I know you did what you could, too. You’re not the bad guy here.”

“And neither are you, Cody. Remember that.”

“I know.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Rita stood to join Cody at the table. “Take care of yourself, Cody. I won’t try to tell you to get some sleep, or eat anything, but you’ll need to do both sooner or later. Preferably tonight.” Cody nodded, and Rita hugged him, wondering if anyone would sleep much tonight. He felt wooden in her embrace, but after a moment reached up and patted her shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said. “I gotta go now. I got stuff to do.” He slipped free and into the dark before Rita had a chance to ask him what he had in mind.

continued…

A Comedy of Errors (not the TB kind)

Mrs. Fetched reminded me yesterday morning to get off work early so we could go see Daughter Dearest in the Christmas Concert at Reinhardt. Even DD herself got in the act, suggesting I skip picking up the Christmas present we bought Mrs. Fetched because I’d likely be going straight to the campus from work. And she was right, of course.

I was put slightly off-stride when The Boy called at 4:50 though, from Mrs. Fetched’s phone, wondering when I’d be home: my thought was, can’t she make her own call from her own phone? I had just slapped down the last piece of a major rewrite of a chapter, for a firmware manual at work, so I assured him I was just a couple steps from being out the door. I did have to throw the completed PDF in the approval tool, but that took about ten minutes. Packing up for the day took another ten, and I was off. Traffic on the freeway was a little bumpy; but GA141 now has two lanes open going both ways, all the way, and that knocked a good ten minutes off a 1-hour commute. At 6:02, I was on the last leg, about three miles away, and my phone went off again.

“Three minutes out,” I said. It was as good a substitute for “hello” as anything, especially since I knew what (s)he wanted.

“Okay, see you shortly.”

Before I was even out of the car, The Boy was crossing the driveway with Mason in the portable car seat. “We’re going to the tree lighting,” he said by way of greeting. “Then we got to go to T-Mobile and get my phone straightened out.” Aha, mystery solved. It wasn’t Mrs. Fetched poking him to call me, he was anxious all by himself. I’d planned to pocket the key and “forget” I had it, but it wasn’t that important. If he wanted to go places, he’d have to put gas in the car. No biggie.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched was in the usual “out the door” tizzy. Skyler was at the house, and Big V was supposed to have picked him up already, but Mrs. Fetched had made arrangements to drop him off at her mom’s. Big V called and wanted me to come toward the retail and meet her, which was out of the way for us (not like that concerns Big V), but we told her where Skyler would be and that’s how it was. As always with these weeknight-evening concerts, time was a little tight for us.

I’ve mentioned before, Mrs. Fetched isn’t huge on planning ahead. “Living in the moment” is supposed to be a virtue, but can be annoying to everyone around when carried to an extreme. So we jump in her car, and I see it too is low on gas: not enough to get to Reinhardt, but plenty to get to several gas stations along the way. On the advice of Daughter Dearest, we passed by the first station (Chevron) since the second (Citgo) was 10 cents/gal cheaper. I got our gas and jumped back in the car —

Nothing. Not even a click. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Looks like a dead battery.” Fortunately, she does have jumper cables. A guy in an Explorer (which looked like it spent much of its life off-pavement) gave us a few minutes to get restarted, and away we went. Suddenly, Mrs. Fetched saw some virtue in making a plan: 1) Get to the performing arts center, and back into a parking spot near a streetlight. 2) Afterwards, take the battery out (Mrs. Fetched had a set of tools in the truck, ironically for Daughter Dearest’s car) and ride with DD to get something to eat. 3) Swing by Mal*Wart in Canton and get a new battery (Canton pretty much rolls up the sidewalks at 8, and Mal*Wart has the whole commercial scene to itself most evenings). 4) Come back and put the battery in, go home. It made me feel better that she wasn’t insisting on winging it, even if the old saw no plan survives first contact with the enemy holds true. In this case, things took a big left turn after step 1.

We went inside, got through the line… and there were two old bats in our seats. Mrs. Fetched’s eyes aren’t all that great lately, so I double-checked the row and seat. Yup, those were our seats, and they weren’t even looking at us. Mrs. Fetched decided to get an usher, who looked at our tickets. “These are for tomorrow night,” she said.

“What?” she wasn’t exactly prepared for that. Needless to say, I wasn’t terribly thrilled about the situation. They reprinted our tickets and we went back out into the chilly night.

We had to park a long way from the door, so we discussed our next move. “I have a spare set of keys for DD’s car in my purse,” she said. “We can find her car and jump off mine with it, go to Mal*Wart, then meet her for supper after the concert’s over.” This sounded like a pretty good plan — she’s quite capable of making logical plans, it would be nice if she’d do it more often — but in this case she was wrong about the keys. At that point, The Boy called. “We’re almost out of gas, so you need to come get us.”

“We’re all the way to Waleska,” I said. After some back and forth, he whined about how much gas was left. “Just go straight home and you’ll get there, that’s about 30 miles worth of gas.” Of course, he chose to ignore the “go straight home” part, but that came later.

There was a slope where we parked, so I figured we could roll the car off and get going that way — and there were plenty of open spots below, so if it didn’t work we could still get the car out of the way. “I’ll push,” Mrs. Fetched said, “you can drop the clutch faster.” I also stomped the gas as I dropped the clutch, and there was just enough juice in the battery to do the job! We got to Mal*Wart without incident, even getting an open spot near the door as we arrived, got the battery, and (with the usual working around the lack of space that is prevalent in maintaining a Japanese car) put it in. Problem solved, just in time for Daughter Dearest to call. “You guys are still here?”

“We had to get a new battery for the car,” I said. “You want to get some supper? We can come back for you or meet you.”

“We’re still going, won’t be done until like 10. Just go on and we’ll meet tomorrow.” (In other words, the night we actually should have been there.)

We grabbed some chow, and the text messages started arriving before we’d properly finished. Everything was coming from Snippet’s phone, but sometimes it was unclear which one of them was sending. Transcript:

TB/SN: Yup guess what we are out of gas stuck in town
Jam is bring us a gas can
Me: OK, good that you have a can coming. Just got both msgs.
TB/SN: Yeah thanks
Me: The blue car had a dead batt when you called. We had to go to Mal*Wart for a new one. Is Mason OK?
TB/SN: Ha that's what u get for leaving us with a car with no gas and yeah Mason is fine we are at [JW’s] and when we went to leave the car would not start
Me: So I guess you didn't go right home? But I didn't know you would be going anywhere anyway, & even then it's not my job to buy you gas.
TB/SN: Yeah well [JW] ask if we could stop bye and thank god because if would not of stopped we would of run out of gas in the middle of no where at lease w
e were somewhere and they live right inside of town so we didn't go out of our way to see them

There was more… Snippet had told me earlier in the week that she was getting paid Thursday, so I wondered why she didn’t have gas money herself. Turned out she got paid early last week because of Thanksgiving and she actually gets this week’s check this afternoon. oooooops But we got home, they got home, they ate our leftovers, they put Mason to bed. Just another cRaZy evening at the free-range insane asylum.

This morning, Snippet was whining about her paycheck not being enough to cover her bills — welcome to my world. “What kind of job can I get to make more money?” she asked me.

“I dunno,” I said. “Stripper?”

Wednesday Wibbles

Wibble: (UK, Internet slang) Meaningless or content-free chatter in a discussion; drivel, babble.

Maybe this should be Monthly Musings, given the frequency I post them. Anyway…

• • •

I found this Eschatological Taxonomy Poster to be interesting. On this scale, FAR Future is a Level 0 apocalypse, and White Pickups is more or less a Level 2. I say “more or less” because (in the story) the bulk of the human race is eliminated not by war or disease, but a zillion trucks.

• • •

Mason and I have both had colds lately. It’s more effort than it’s worth, trying to figure out who passed it to whom. But Mrs. Fetched waited until last night to tell me I ran a high fever Monday night. I must have worried her; I knew I had a fever because I had major chills — like I had no body heat at all — when getting out of bed to use the bathroom. But I woke up some time in the night, and was really hot on top. I figured Mrs. Fetched had dug out an electric blanket to help warm me up, and it had done a fine job.

“I’m hot. You can turn down the electric blanket now,” I told her.

“What?”

“The electric blanket. You need to turn it down, I’m too hot.”

“Um… I don’t have the controls.”

“Okay, just turn it off or unplug it.”

Needless to say, there was no electric blanket. It sure felt like one though. She may have thought I was delirious, because she asked me if I remembered it. She did say I was really hot; she didn’t stick a thermometer in me but figured I was around 104°F. Just to be sure, though, I stayed out of work on Monday and Tuesday. The good thing about when I get those chills is that it means the cold is almost over. I figure I’ll be fine by the weekend.

• • •

This just in: Snippet tells me that Mason just climbed up into a chair on his own! I see many faceplants in his future. Or maybe not… The Boy did okay. I did have to convince him that he could climb down from whatever he climbed up to, though.

• • •

We’ve gone from a November that felt like October, to a December that feels like… December.

• • •

Mrs. Fetched canceled the planned move of video equipment. M.A.E. and Moptop sleep in the guest room; that wouldn’t be a problem except that Moptop has a really bad habit of feeding DVDs into VCR slots and anywhere else they’ll go. And can’t be trusted with markers or anything else resembling a writing utensil. So says my dresser, some of DoubleRed’s sheets, other furniture…

• • •

Speaking of Moptop, she’s almost as skilled as Snippet at getting on people’s nerves. Even Mason’s. Either she has no concept of personal space, or Mason has an early start at the concept himself. I can be doing something with him, and Moptop will start crowding in — either to see what’s what, or just to be a part of it — and Mason will go “Urrrrrr!!!” and shove her away. It’s kind of funny, really.

• • •

Mason, on the other hand, has really been good about letting us wipe his nose during this cold.

• • •

The toilet in our bathroom may need to be replaced. Or there just might be something in there that Mason tossed in while I wasn’t looking… he’s fascinated with toilets for some reason. Maybe he was a plumber in a previous life. But at the same time, the flapper thing isn’t seating right and Mrs. Fetched wants to replace the guts anyway. I think just moving the chain to another position will help.

“But it’s all corroded and I want to replace it.”

At this point, I just have to fall back on the old standby: “Do what you want — you will anyway.” She grinned.

• • •

After all the sturm und drang around the Wikileaks release of s00p3r-s3kr1t diplomatic cables, we have learned that: 1) diplomats have opinions; 2) Russia is a kleptocracy. In other words, they’re trying to nail this Assange guy on what could very well be bogus rape charges, for telling us stuff we knew already?

White Pickups, Episode 63

Our soundtrack for this episode: Skillet’s Hero.

Contents

Hunkered down on the guardhouse roof, Sondra shouldered Johnny’s carbine and waited. Clouds skidded east, racing from the afternoon sun. Some of that wind filtered down to the ground, hissing through trees and chilling her face, making her glad for the jacket. Pilfered from one of the smelly houses, it almost perfectly matched the color of the shingles on the guardhouse. With any luck, the bashers — if it were really them — would never know she was there.

Just like we did it in practice, her dad said. He’d talked to her before, that first Saturday when the bashers came, but she had never told anyone about it — not even Cody. She sighted down the barrel, then lifted it away, thumbed off the safety and worked the bolt.

“Locked and loaded, Dad,” she whispered.

Good. What’s the motto?

“One shot, one kill. Don’t waste ammo, you might not have time to reload.” She had another full clip tucked into the back of her jeans, cold against her back, but didn’t expect to need it.

“There they are! Get ready!” Cleve called to the others, hunkered down in a ditch just inside the fence. She couldn’t see the bashers yet; most likely, they were working their way around either the burger joint or the LubeJob place across the street, using bushes, trees, and buildings for cover. Stay down, her dad said, it’s not your time yet. Cleve, Tim, Johnny, Cody, Charles, and Max were both the foot soldiers and the bait. She worried about Cody — he’d never been in a gunfight — but she’d only been in one, and both she and Cleve had told him what to expect. She and Cody of course had told each other to be careful several times. He had Sondra’s revolver, and could use it, but the bashers would have to be crossing the street before he had a chance for more than a lucky shot. Her friends had more handguns than rifles, so they were both slightly outnumbered and outgunned, but they had a “fairly defensible position,” as Cleve put it, and Sondra was their little surprise…

The bashers didn’t wait to cross the street before opening fire. Bullets and buckshot thumped into tree trunks, spanged off the iron fence, rattled through the branches. Tim and Cleve returned fire, popping up to shoot then moving; the others stayed down and waited.


Only two? Frank thought. That’s the nigger what shot J.D. all right. Is that other one the skinny dude? “It’s them!” he yelled.

“Their settlement is devoted to destruction!” Worleigh shouted. “Destroy all they have, and spare not any one of them, but kill man and woman, child and infant, and all their animals!”

“Not gonna happen,” Sondra muttered. The gunfire continued from both sides. She eyed the shouter through the trees: tall, thin, white-haired, a ridiculously long chrome pistol in one hand; the other clutched an enormous book, probably a Bible, to his chest. He, and that one guy with a deer rifle, seemed like the two most dangerous men on that side.

Bide your time, her dad said. It’s a good trap your friends are setting. Let the enemy spring the trap, then take ’em down.


Frank looked around. Something smells here. If they had any sense, they’d give the skinny queer a rifle and a sniper position. Maybe he got AIDS or something. Then he saw a line of trucks approaching from the freeway. He caught Worleigh’s attention and pointed; Worleigh looked and nodded. Maybe this would work out after all…


Tim stopped firing; Cleve fired his sixth shot and ducked down. “The time is now!” Worleigh shouted. He stepped away from the tree that he’d used for cover, and off the curb. Let ’em commit, then take him first, Sondra heard. But that book is good as armor. Cut off the serpent’s head.

“Right. Then the rifleman.” She looked through the trees and saw a line of trucks approaching. The bashers were watching them too — they were going to use them for cover, all right. They might not realize that bullets would go right through them…

Now. The attackers started across the street as the trucks passed, some running to the left turn lane, others taking their time. Sondra rose, kneeled. Pick your target, pull the trigger.

She fired. The white-haired dude sprouted a third eye; he fell back and stumbled over the curb, firing one shot into the air from that gigantic pistol; the recoil threw him to the ground.

Sondra’s friends heard the carbine bark to their left; the shouter fell and lay still. “Now!” Cleve yelled to the others; they all peeped over the top of the ditch and began shooting.


Frank saw Worleigh go down, looked around, finally saw the skinny dude seem to emerge from the guardhouse roof with an old rifle as more of them popped up across the way. He pointed, the muzzle turned ever so slightly, and Frank froze. He could only stand pointing at the guardhouse and think We’re fucked.

Steven screamed and clutched his leg, his shotgun hitting the pavement. He grabbed up his gun, balancing on his good leg, and fired blind at the embankment. He dropped to the pavement to reload.


Pick your target, pull the trigger. The rifleman spun and fell short of the left turn lane.

Rushing to the left turn lane, Jered saw Worleigh on his back, Frank dropping, Steven’s bloody leg. Two dead, one wounded, just like that — and now there were seven enemies shooting from cover, and them out in the open. We’re in for it, he thought. Damn that preacher anyway. He dropped prone, a few feet from Steven, and started shooting at the embankment. Will stood confused, pointing his rifle every which way but not firing. Ray-Ban shot, racked, shot again.

The Bobs saw Frank pointing, saw the sniper on the guardhouse. Go-Big Bob racked his shotgun and let fly at the guardhouse; Go-Home Bob took aim with his rifle, ducked as a pistol round whizzed past his head, took a quick shot at the embankment, took a quick shot at the guardhouse. Go-Big Bob racked and fired again. Shot rattled through the bare tree limbs, thumped into the siding, shattered the window below her. Sondra ignored it.

Pick your target, pull the trigger.

A shotgun-toter fell next, his mirrored sunglasses tumbling across the pavement. Three of the remaining five were shooting anywhere and everywhere, spraying the landscape with lead. Cody stood and emptied his pistol at the two firing in Sondra’s direction, ducked down cursing to reload.

Pick your —


Go-Big Bob’s shotgun clicked; he turned and ran. Go-Home Bob emptied his rifle at the guardhouse then followed.

“Retreat!” Jered yelled, “Get to cover!” He and Steven got on their feet and backed up, trying to cover each other, Steven on one leg, Will just standing there. A rifleman stood, fired, Will dropped. The nigger finished Steven. Jered turned and ran — right in front of a pickup. His rifle banged into the grille as the truck ran him down, then fell through and clattered to the pavement, torn from Jered’s hand. The truck braked for a moment, then rolled away, dodging the other bodies in the street.


Cody slapped the cylinder into place, popped up, looked around. “It’s over?”

“Yup,” Johnny said. “The two you were shooting at ran.” They all moved to stand together at the fence, watching the bodies in the street. None of them moved. A truck swerved around the bodies and ran over a cheap pair of mirrorshades that had tumbled away from their owner. The crunch seemed to put a period on the hostilities.

Cody gave a relieved sigh, then looked at his watch. “Jeez. Two minutes? It felt like an hour. Is everyone okay?”

“I got winged,” Cleve said, wrapping a strip of cloth around a bloody left arm. “Hurts like hell, but that’s a good thing. It’s what you don’t feel that’s bad.”

“Good… I guess,” Cody said. “Sucks you got hit, but good it’s not bad.” He turned to the guardhouse. “Sondra! Come on down… Sondra!”

Tim jogged over to the guardhouse, then sprinted away. “I’m getting Rita!” he yelled over his shoulder.

continued…

Playing With a Full Deck

Well, if years were cards, I’d be doing just that as of today. Some friends came to visit, and I got an afternoon nap — even if Daughter Dearest interrupted it twice.

I was happy to avoid the Black Friday onslaught — there were things we needed, but I got some at a local hardware store that we had to ourselves. The rest, Daughter Dearest wanted to get at Mal*Wart, and that turned out to be no worse than a typical weekend afternoon. The outlet maul looked a bit crowded, but fortunately we didn’t need anything there. Snippet had to be at her job (at the Calvin Klein outlet) by 3 a.m., and we haven’t seen her come in yet. I think she and The Boy decided to blow us off yet again. I just hope he doesn’t drink, one more probation violation and he’s in the clink for 90 days.

So I was trying to thrash out a couple of Skype issues with Mom, and Mason wandered around the other side of the bed and got… very… quiet. Not Good. He got into a box of tissues and had most of them strewn across the area by the time I thought to check on him. Being in a hurry, I grabbed them and stuffed them into the box, inadvertently grabbing a sock and a (clean) pair of Mrs. Fetched’s underwear along with the tissues… this I found after I decided to straighten the tissues up and put them back properly. I thought that the box was a little too stuffed. Mason and I both have colds, and the nasal congestion seems to have congested my brain as well. Maybe I should scarf a little of that green tomato salsa I made.

I got unstuck on White Pickups this week, which was a nice early b-day present, and it only cost me 2000 words. :-) I don’t know if I’ll meet my informal NaNoWriMo goal of finishing Book I by the end of the month or not, but now I actually have a shot at it. I have 10 episodes lined up now, including the one going up Monday. I think another 10 more will free me to start guilt-free working on the sequel.

The Season-Change Shuffle

As much as changes to the outdoor decor, time, weather, a sign of changing seasons is that Mrs. Fetched gets the urge to move furniture. Or rather… telling everyone else where to move furniture.

She has been talking about moving her video editing equipment to another room for a while now, leaving room to put Mason’s crib in the vacated room. So it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that she suddenly decided to do it yesterday. Bad idea, starting on a weekday, especially when I dropped by the hospital to see Big V (she’s much better, on the way home as I type). Worse idea, doing it on a Tuesday before a major holiday. Worst of all, she rarely if ever develops much of a plan besides “tell other people to move $#!+ around.” So I came home to find the crib in pieces on the floor — she’d gotten Panda to dismantle it, and he also thought the timing was bad — and the contents of the attached cabinet on our bed. (Her sense of timing is like my poker face, neither work very well.)

The idea itself isn’t a bad one — the desk in the guest room, where she’s moving her stuff, is more spacious and sits in a corner. She won’t have to stretch to reach anything she uses often. If we move a doll display case and one of DoubleRed’s shelves that she hasn’t taken with her yet, there’s room for the shelf with the 1/2" VTR deck and DVD copier so they don’t have to use space on the desk (it would get a bit crowded). We’ll get it done over the long weekend, no doubt, and quickly enough if she doesn’t start second-guessing and throwing wrenches. But if she’d thought things through instead of the usual do something NOW, a plan might have looked like this:

1. Clean off corner desk (done, actually).


2. Find and prepare places for the case and shelf. Move them.


3. Disconnect computer and move.


4. Move and attach DV deck.


5. Clear VTR shelf and move.


6. Move VTR and DVD copier in, attach.


7. Take down the old desk.


8. NOW dismantle and move the crib.

In other words, taking down the crib should have been the last thing done, not the first.

Upshot, she had to clean off our bed before going to sleep last night and Mason ended up sleeping in the playpen.

White Pickups, Episode 62

While most of this story seems to want Skillet as a soundtrack, for this episode it’s Thousand Foot Krutch’s Smack Down.

Contents

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

“Whoa,” Tim said, swerving. “Watch that crosswind.”

“Yeah. Last thing I need is to tangle with another bike again.” Palmer hunched his thin shoulders against the wind. “Damn, it’s cold out here. If Cleve wants these patrols so bad, he oughtta be out —”

“Hey!” Tim barked, braking hard; Palmer shot past him and stopped, looking back. “Look down there. Is that…?”

Palmer slipped their handheld radio out of the water carrier and thumbed the TALK button. “Laurel? Can you hear us?”

“Just,” Sara responded. “What is it?”

“Possible sighting. We’re on Satellite, south.”

“Yup,” said Tim, looking through the binoculars. “Eight men, on foot, all armed.”

“Possible?” said Sara.

“Confirmed now. Tim says eight armed men.”

“Stand by.” A minute later, Cleve spoke. “Don’t try to make contact. Stay out of shooting range, but keep ’em in sight as best you can. And stay in touch. I’ll tell the others to get ready up here.”

“Should we let ’em see us?”

“Not unless you’re sure you can get away quick. You guys are fast, but you can’t outrun a bullet.”

“Right. Palmer out.”

“Laurel standing by.”

“You still see ’em, Tim?”

“Yeah. We need to put some more space between us though.”

“What if we have to duck off the road?”

“Hope some of those offices are unlocked.”

“Should be. The world ended on a weekday, after all.”


“We’ve been marching for a day and a half,” Ray-ban griped. “That smoke don’t look any closer.” Hiking up I-85, they had first spotted a large smoke plume late yesterday afternoon. They camped in an office building and pushed on at first light. As they drew nearer, around noon they cut over to a four-lane road paralleling the freeway. Street signs identified it as “Satellite Boulevard.”

“We’ll get there well before dark,” Frank assured him. “Just keep —”

Worleigh, in the lead, stopped and raised a hand; the others paused.

“What is it?”

“A flicker. Something reflected the sun up ahead. But it’s not there now.”

“You think it’s them?” Will hefted his pistol.

“Perhaps.”

“So much for surprising them, then,” Bob grumbled.

“Gowd-a will give us the victory regardless,” Worleigh said. “But be wary, and be prepared to join the battle.”


“I’m comin’ out to the QuickFill,” Cleve said. “Save some time if you need backup.”

“Thanks,” Palmer replied. “Tim thinks they might have seen us… they’ve spread out some.”

“Don’t let them get close enough to shoot!” Cleve snapped.

“Roger that. Palmer out. Tim, give me the binoculars a minute.” He took them and looked. “Oh… shit!”

“What is it?”

“It’s them!” Palmer yelled into the radio; he dropped the binoculars and Tim had to catch them. “Cleve! It’s them! The same bunch from that first weekend!”

“What? You sure?”

“Yeah. Remember the one with the mirrored sunglasses? He’s one of them.”

“There’s plenty of people had mirrorshades.”

“Who carried guns around? There ain’t that many people left, remember.”

“Yeah… he may or may not be the same one. Come on back… no, wait. Stay out of shooting range, but make sure they see you when you round the corner off Satellite.”

“What, you want us to lead ’em home?”

“Yeah. We’re gonna settle this. Today. Meet me at the QuickFill. Cleve out.”


“Too far for a good shot,” Frank said, sighting the riders down the detached scope of his deer rifle. “Too much wind, too gusty to compensate… hey, they’re stopping again. Something ain’t right up there.”

“Gowd-a stops them,” said Worleigh. “Thus they lead us to their lair.”

“There they go again,” said Frank. “They just hung a left at the intersection up there.”

“Why don’t we take a shortcut?” asked Jered, pointing to an office park entrance to their left. “With a little luck, we might get around ’em.”

“Worleigh paused a moment. “That shall be as Gowd-a wills. But your idea is good. If they plan an ambush, we shall come at them from an unexpected direction.”


“They’re going off the street!” Palmer said into the radio, peering around a pedestal. “They ducked into that office park about a half-mile down.”

“Get on up here to the QuickFill then,” said Cleve. “Pronto.”

Tim and Palmer slipped through the truck traffic and met Cleve on his police bike. They had found the bike in Norcross; it had blue lights and a police radio, and the brackets were easily adapted to the ham radios they were using. Cleve turned on the blue light and started up the street, Tim and Palmer close behind; trucks slowed and bunched up behind them. “Does that office park back into anything on this side?” Cleve asked them as they rode.

“They can walk across a strip of landscaping and they’ll be in the office park we just passed,” said Tim, pointing at the entrance behind them. “It’s like they’re taking a shortcut. How would they know where to go?”

Cleve pointed at the sky ahead of them. “Smoke signals, probably. They’ll be at the gate in half an hour, an hour tops. Sooner if they run, but I don’t think they’re in that big a hurry.”

“So do we have enough time to get ready?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s already on alert. We can be ready in ten minutes.” Cleve thumbed the mike clipped to his shirt collar. “Sara. Tell Johnny and the others to get in position. Our old friends might be back for a rematch.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah. We’ll take ’em, but it won’t be pretty. See you in about three minutes.”


“So much for getting around ’em,” Charlie said, pointing at the smoke rising from down the street. “It didn’t go far enough.”

“Don’t matter,” Frank said. “We’ll go behind the buildings on this side of the road. They won’t see us ’til we’re there.”


“I’ll be safer up there than you’ll be,” Sondra told Cody behind the guardhouse, one hand on the stepladder, the carbine on her shoulder. “They’ll all be looking at you guys over there in the ditch. If they see me at all, it’ll be too late. For them, anyway.”

“Yeah,” said Cody, not sounding at all convinced. “Just be careful, okay?”

“You too.” They kissed, long and deep. “We’ll have some fun tonight, okay? All night.” She grinned, let him go, and mounted the ladder.

“Love you.”

“Cody!” Cleve yelled. “Shake a leg!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Sondra gets off on this, he thought as her boots disappeared over the eaves. She turned, waved, and blew him a kiss. He grinned and jogged away to join the others.

continued…

Out of the Frying Pan?

It’s too good a graphic to not use when I get the chance, although The Boy disagrees:

I was working at home yesterday, and Mrs. Fetched gave me the heads-up: they would release The Boy after he attended drug court. Those classmates who happen to be serving time for a violation of whatever type when drug court comes around get to set in the jury box, resplendent in their orange jumpsuits. The Boy had plenty of company: one other guy and four women. I brought Mason up to see him during a break, and the women of course ooh’ed and aah’ed over him too. Mason’s definitely a chick magnet, but… anyway. He said he had no idea how long it would be, as they had a mini-reception for several “graduates” going on as well, and suggested we go home and wait for him to call us.

While the break/reception was going on, Mason got to run loose in the hall outside the courtroom for a while, then gravitated to the window where they’re building the new courthouse next door. (Why we “need” a new courthouse is a question that nobody has a satisfactory answer for, but up it goes.) He isn’t much for watching TV (smart kid), but he’ll watch construction for a long time:



At this point, I should have followed my first instinct and taken Mason home, letting Snippet either come with or hang out and wait for him. But they wrapped up fairly quickly, and I figured they’d roll him out shortly after.

WRONG

Three… hours… later… around 6:30 p.m., they finally sent him through the doors. By this time, I was cranky and rather hungry, and Mason had nearly worn himself out running around the lobby and worming through chicanes that even skinny adults could not navigate. A guy on the sex offender registry was also in the lobby for some yearly check-in they have to do… lovely. After we got The Boy, we went to the Mexican joint for supper, and Mason was an uncharacteristic holy terror, not wanting to sit in his high chair. The food finally arrived, and he calmed down enough to eat some of my fajita chicken but never did get back in the high chair after that.

Things got a little interesting after we got home. Mason was okay, but M.A.E. was a little weirded out and she finally told us all what it was about. Seems that Wednesday, she was walking through the living room when Snippet’s phone beeped. She went to see what it was, and it seems Snippet’s best (male) friend decided to engage in a little full-frontal sexting. In the proverbial train-wreck mode, M.A.E. looked some more and found plenty of “compromising” shots of Snippet herself. (The one where the guitar covered all the naughty bits was rather artful, especially in black&white. But anyway.)

Snippet at first denied it ever happened, then admitted he’d done it “because he was drunk and having an emotional meltdown.” Um… shoulda gone with that one first, girlie, especially since you’ve cheated on The Boy before. As for The Boy, he looked pretty grim. I don’t know what was said later and in private, but the two of them seem to have worked it out (at least for now). It kind of makes me wonder though… the first weekend he was in the clink, Snippet decided to go visit her mom (with Mason) but was on the phone with this guy on the way to meet Mason’s other gramma, trying to get him to come over to her mom’s place.

The Boy doesn’t need distractions like this while he’s trying to get his act together and stay out of trouble. One more violation and he goes in the clink for the rest of his sentence. Having a baby in the mix has complicated things far too much to just toss them, as much as I’d like to do just that and fooey on what Mrs. Fetched thinks for a change…

Baby Behaving Badly

In the last few weeks, Mason has gotten into this habit of doing things he knows he’s not supposed to do, usually in plain sight of his parents or grandparents. He either climbs up on the hearth (which we’re trying to discourage because it’ll get cold enough sooner or later to start a fire), or goes over to the TV and pokes at the power button. I have a particularly hard time with the latter, because I’d just as soon let him turn the dang thing off — but everyone else tells him NO! so it wouldn’t be right to send him a mixed message.

What’s even funnier is when he’s about to do something and I’m not paying attention: he’ll either go “ehhh!” or “Daaaaa-DEEEEEEE!” so I’ll see he’s behaving badly. That is also difficult, as I’m trying to tell him NO while trying not to laugh.

Yes, he calls me "daddy” often. Not surprising, as I spend more time with him than either of his parents.

White Pickups, Episode 61

Contents

Monday, January 9, 2012

Frank looked under the bandage on Will’s arm. “You’ll live,” he said. “Pour a little peroxide on it every day or so to kill the germs. My Aunt Mina swore by that stuff: ‘Keep you from gettin’ the infection,’ she always said. Bob-wire scratch, skeeter bite, cut your hand in the kitchen, didn’t matter, she’d be gettin’ out the peroxide.”

“She ever have to deal with someone gettin’ shot?” Will scowled, the strain in his voice matching the stink of his fear and pain. “That sure as hell didn’t go off as planned.”

“As planned? That was pert-near a disaster!” Jered was right. They had surprised a group of a half-dozen or so gang-bangers, walking toward them on the street, but only managed to drop one before the others scattered for cover and returned fire. Outnumbered and outgunned, the 'bangers put up a lot more fight than they had seen from victims sleeping or ambushed. Both sides started carefully retreating, but Will caught one in the arm — fortunately, not his shooting arm.

“Nay,” said Worleigh, scowling more than usual. “Think you that Gowd-a would keep you from the test? It is now that He shall see whether you are fit for His service.”

“I never said nothin’ about quittin’!” Jered protested. “But there’s a lot more of them than us, and you’d think He’d give us a little protection, right?” Will said nothing, but glared at Worleigh and rubbed his bandage.

“We have passed through the first fire,” Worleigh intoned, looking down his patrician nose at Jered and Will. “William, are you still able to do battle?”

Will nodded. “Sure. I shoot one-handed anyway.” He patted his .45.

“So one of theirs lies dead on the ground, and our army is yet intact. Is that not sufficient evidence that we are under the protection of Almighty Gowd-a?”

Jered looked down, saying nothing.

“Yeah, we’ll get ’em,” Steven said. Frank always wondered about Steven, how such a big guy could end up with a squeaky voice. “We’ll move on, give ’em time to forget, and take ’em out later.”

“Y’know, I always heard God helps those what help themselves,” Frank said. “I think Steve’s right. We need to let this area simmer down a little bit. It’s like deer season — you hunt one place too much, the deer get skittish. And some of these deer shoot back. Let’s move around some. I’d like to check out that block in Highlands we hit back when the sh— this all started, maybe get a little payback for J.D. and Thurman and the others, y’know?” Worleigh glared but said nothing, as the others nodded or grunted assent. “Yeah. Who’s got that map anyway?”

“I got it,” said Jered. He dug into his backpack and produced a folded packet, handing it to Frank.

Frank opened the map and pored over it a moment. “Yeah. It’s far enough to get some distance, close enough we can get there this evening. Anyone got a problem with that?” He looked up at Worleigh.

The preacher looked like he’d swallowed something unpleasant, but finally nodded. “Very well,” he said. “We shall see what there is to see.”


“If they ain’t cleared out, they sure like to sleep early,” Jered said, rejoining the others a block away. “I even walked up the street a ways, you think that woulda brought someone out for sure. I wanted to call out, but I didn’t.”

“Remember not what I said, the day Gowd-a placed me in your path?” Worleigh’s smile had a hint of mockery. “They have fled this place.”

“Damn, that’s right,” said one of the Bobs, ignoring the preacher’s glare. “Where’d they go, then?”

Worleigh nodded up the street, toward the on-ramp. “They took the expressway to the northeast, as I said that day.”

Jered nodded. “Prob’ly in DeKalb or Gwinnett, then. Lots of subdivisions up that way, they coulda just moved into one and took it over.”

“That’s a lotta ground to cover, buddy.”

“Yeah, but their smoke should give ’em away, just like the other places. They prob’ly didn’t get too far off the freeway.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Steve, waving his shotgun. “Let’s go get the sum— let’s get ’em! We get the drop on ’em this time, we’ll take ’em for sure.”

“The hour grows late,” Worleigh said, gesturing toward the setting sun. “Let us take shelter for the night, away from this desecrated place. Then we shall deal the judgement of Gowd-a as He sees fit.”

Near dusk, they found a five-story apartment building and camped in the lobby. There was an unpleasant smell in the place, and a restless Will looked around for the source. He found some interesting things on the third floor: pock marks in the cinderblock walls at either end of the hallway; bloodstains on the floor at one end; a broom and perforated blue dress in the hallway; the corpse of a woman in #308, face down on the bed. Worleigh said a few words over the poor woman and they all thought that right and proper. This and other apartments yielded up their canned food, and once darkness fell they cooked supper in the lobby fireplace.

“What do y’all think happened to her?” asked Go-Big Bob, pointing up.

“Looters, probably,” said Jered. “She was maybe doing a little laundry, sweepin’ the floor, and heard some kind of commotion out in the hall. She had the broom and the dress in her hands and stepped out to see what was what, and got herself shot. She got back inside and died on her bed.”

Go-Home Bob scratched his head but said nothing. There were a lot of holes in that story — like why was all the blood at the end of the hallway and not in her apartment? if they were looters, why hadn’t the place been ransacked? For all they knew, it could have been ol’ Joseph getting hisself shot there — but if he said anything, they’d ask so what do you think happened? and he had no idea. For a moment, he wondered if she’d painted the pictures on the walls of her apartment, then pushed it out of his mind. It wasn’t important.

continued…

Weekend To-do List

There’s some stuff I want to accomplish this weekend. Check back on occasion; I might add a picture or two as I cross stuff off (or add more stuff to) the list.

• Put up insulation in the shower area


• Sand the shower area ceiling Need to do another layer of putty though


• Knock down the stump out back


• Get the winter garden plot started


• Blow some leaves off the yard (excuse to crank up the generator)

Snippet is still not at the manor. I’d forgotten The Boy’s visitation was this evening, and she got a ride to the jail and planned to ride back to the manor with me — but she’d left her smellphone charger at her friend’s place, so I got a reprieve. She might get a ride out here tomorrow… which is the only way she’ll get back. I’m sure Mrs. Fetched will “round out” my day with plenty of other items.

Oh, and let me start with a photo. Mason, being a boy, likes big jugs… and I have photographic proof:



It’s pretty difficult to get a cellphone shot of him these days, as he’s almost constantly in motion. I got lucky this morning.

Snipped! (Temporarily anyway)

Snippet had been bugging me to borrow my car all afternoon. Um… no, you’re not on the insurance is the standard answer that seems to go flying right past her. If it were something important, we’d overlook it — for example, she was supposed to pick up a statement from her former job (Wendy’s) that she was no longer employed there to take to DFACS, presumably to get a boost in her WIC vouchers — but she kept talking about meeting up with a friend. Besides, DFACS is closed due to today being Veteran’s Day.

So while I’m trying to work, she starts asking me if I can just take her to see a friend, and maybe spend the night. After a moment’s thought I said, “Sure… we can keep Mason. I’m supposed to take M.A.E. grocery shopping after I get done with my work, so we can drop you off then and combine the trip.” She got positively giddy and spent the next hour fixing herself up for a Night Out.

And that’s what we did. I don’t think Snippet has figured out yet that she might find it a little more difficult getting back to FAR Manor than it was to leave — she did ask me if I could get her at lunch tomorrow, but I’ll be at the office. I think it might also have escaped her mind that Mrs. Fetched is going to be in the chicken houses all night and thus not disposed to get up in the morning. She’ll definitely make her way back before The Boy gets sprung from jail come Wednesday, but she may well do it under her own power. I’ll disconnect the phone so Mrs. Fetched gets some sleep tomorrow, if that’s what it takes.

Permit me an evil laugh: MWAH-HAH-HAHHHHHH!

White Pickups, Episode 60

Contents

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

“We need to be careful about when we practice from now on, too,” Cleve said. He and several others sat in the dining nook of Cody’s old house, on the other side of the sliding glass door from the firing line.

“And cut wood, too,” said Johnny. “People ain’t gonna like that, though. We can’t cut enough firewood for everyone as it is, let alone put any extra wood aside!”

“Me neither, but I’d rather be cold than dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we do everything we do now if the wind’s coming out of the west or south,” Sondra said. “If there’s trouble down toward Atlanta, the wind should carry the sound the other way.” Cody nodded.

“Maybe.”

“Then again,” said Tim, “maybe we’re making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe someone downtown had a kerosene heater get away from them. Or something spontaneously combusted. Or it was just a big bonfire. Right now, all we’re going on is a plume of smoke and something a cr— a mentally ill woman said.”

“You really believe that?” Cleve gave Tim a doubtful look.

Tim thought a moment and sighed. “No… but I’d like to. That preacher talks around the subject, but he thinks there’s more to what she says than he lets on.”

“I think she’s just crazy myself,” Sondra said, looking grim. “But we know there’s trouble out there. Sooner or later, if it doesn’t find us, we’ll find it.”

“Yeah, but we can’t put everything on standby until it happens — it might not happen for months. Or years. And Johnny’s right, people are already complaining about not having enough firewood. We can cut back on target practice, sure. Cody could use a little more practice, but so could I. I got a bit rusty since September.”

Is this what being a leader’s about? Cody thought. Sitting around, chewing on all the problems, and trying to figure out how to get past them all? He grinned. It’s like the skate park: you drop down the quarterpipe, slide the rail, ollie the blocks. You can land it or faceplant, but either way you do it all over again. Aloud he said, “Okay, maybe we stop doing target practice for a while, but we still cut wood unless the wind’s blowing straight down the freeway. I guess we can spend the time we’d have been here helping cut firewood. That might make the others happier. Hell, I wouldn’t mind havin’ some more firewood myself. The only time our place gets warm through the day is when the sun’s coming in the window — me and Sondra put on our black clothes and lay on the carpet.”

Johnny laughed. “You mean you got any clothes besides black ones?” The others laughed with him.

“Hey, I still have that cream dress I got married in!” Sondra said. “I might start wearing it when it warms up some. Besides, doesn’t swinging that splitter get you warm?”

“Ha!” Cody laughed. “By the time you’re almost warm, you’re worn out from swinging it!”


The preacher had insisted they stay near last night’s fire and “keep vigil” — in other words, lie in wait and shoot anyone who followed the smoke, whether driven by hope of loot or plain curiosity. They’d shot a couple dozen through the day this way, dragging the bodies into a building. By evening, no targets had shown up for a few hours and Worleigh finally called off the “vigil.” They retreated to an office building a few blocks away to make camp.

They ate a cold supper by lantern light, blinds drawn to shut away the world outside. As Jared finished his can of pork and beans, his forehead began itching. He rubbed it without thinking much about it, then looked at his grimy fingers. Looking up again, he caught a glimpse of something in Ray-Ban’s sunglasses. “Hey Ray… hold still a minute.” He peered into the warped mirror of the lens.

“What is it? I got something on my face?”

“No, something on mine.” He rubbed his forehead again, then walked into the bathroom and shone his flashlight into the mirror. The smoke and grime of last night’s work, and the sweat of today’s, must have mixed with the oil that Worleigh had dabbed on his forehead. Whatever it was, it was making him itch. He cleaned his face with a wet-wipe, and that helped with the itching. He looked in the mirror again.

He saw it best while shining the flashlight across his forehead from the side. The crosses had raised low welts, and what he saw in the mirror gave him a chill:



Jared shook his head — it was just a weird coincidence. Had to be. What would Worleigh say about it? he thought, and suddenly guessed: The opposite of what you saw in the mirror, of course. You are faithful to the work of Gowd-a — amen? The preacher was already cranking up his evening “lesson” — Jered could hear him all the way in here, and Worleigh would probably watch for anyone trying to dodge it.

“Amen,” he muttered, and pulled his hat on. The hat covered the marks well enough — but the real mark was already inside him and all of them, and they would carry it to their grave.

continued…

Sunday Afternoon… on the Road

Current Music: God’s DJs

The time may change, but free time is ever at a premium for your humble blog-host. I did find an unexpected free hour early this morning — I went to bed at 11:30 last night, figuring that a baby in the house meant nobody would get “an extra hour of sleep,” then woke up at 6:30 with a full night’s sleep. Mason didn’t wake up until 7:30, and in a good mood once Granddad showed up to get him out of the crib. Then he ate a good breakfast, but I digress.

Snippet decided that since The Boy is in jail for two weeks (oh yes… I forgot to mention, he tested positive on a breathalyzer last week, claims it was Listerine, yeah right), she’d go visit her mom overnight. To seal the deal, she came to church with Mason and me, then I took her to meet her mom. She has Mason for the night, which is good in a way but also means we have to go pick her up instead of telling her mom to keep her. :-P So that, and a leisurely lunch at Waffle House (since Mrs. Fetched has the flu), took me to 2 p.m. when Mrs. Fetched called: “Did you remember that Daughter Dearest’s concert is at 3?”

I hadn’t, but I didn’t feel like admitting it and listening to the resultant imprecations. “I’ll go straight there from here,” I said, here meaning the retail district where I happened to be getting gas. In her car.

“Yeah, but you have to stop by here to pick up the tickets.” Oops. That was going to set me back a little, but I figured I could show up about 20 minutes late without missing too much. I buzzed home, switched cars in case Mrs. Fetched felt up to going to The Boy’s visitation, and got on my way. To my surprise, I didn’t get behind too many slowpokes, and managed to get there only 15 minutes late — just in time for Daughter Dearest’s chorus to go onstage. Naturally, I went into the venue on the wrong side (DD told me later that I made the president of the college stand up, big whoop-dee-do) but took my seat just as they were filing in.

DD was naturally hungry after the concert — I think she doesn’t eat much or anything beforehand — so I took her to a restaurant where she got a martini. Hey, she’s 21, and after a concert and after dealing with Snippet and M.A.E. yesterday I told her she could have as many as she needed. “No I can’t, I have homework,” she said. I guess I’ll get her good and sloshed during winter break.

So I got the call from the wife: she wasn’t up to getting to the jail for The Boy’s visitation. Looking at the time, I was in pretty good shape, so I gave the waitress (one of DD’s college acquaintances) the plastic, took the daughter-unit back to the campus, and headed back to town. I got there with 10 minutes to spare by the schedule, quite a bit more by the reality. These days, “visitation” means you get to talk to your inmate offspring via videophone — maybe with a little hacking, we could stay home and Skype him — but at least it was some facsimile (literally) of visual contact. We ran down the allotted time with trivialities, then I check to see what the next visitation time would be… Friday evening, it turns out. Oh well, Mrs. Fetched should be better by then. Maybe Snippet and Mason will come too.

Home. Rum. Blog. I’ll probably turn in early tonight, just to get an early start again tomorrow. I might actually get to work by the nominal starting time…

The Final Harvest

… of 2010, at FAR Manor, anyway. The frost is on the way tonight, and we had some frost up on the garage roof and the cars this morning. Fortunately, the foliage and fruits weren’t affected. I’m guessing about three pounds of surprise chow here.



We put the big ones in the window, hoping they’ll ripen. The smaller ones I diced up and made over a quart of green salsa. I’ll post a recipe if it turns out to be edible.

Wednesday Wibbles

Wibble: (UK, Internet slang) Meaningless or content-free chatter in a discussion; drivel, babble.

A lot of little stuff has been happening lately, none of which warrants their own posts…

Hey, DoubleRed might have moved out! Her computers and “stuff” is gone, just the furniture remains.

• • •

Mrs. Fetched opined last night that Snippet might be pregnant again. AAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!! But she asked The Boy this morning and he says she isn’t. whew On the other hand, other people say she is. AAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!! That would be worse than the elections last night. Both of them need to get fixed, pronto.

• • •

OK, click on this picture to get the full-sized version. Tell me that’s not a deep-fried scorpion embedded in this doughnut. Mrs. Fetched says it’s a blob of chocolate. She’s welcome to eat it if she’s that sure. (I used a +4 closeup filter on this.)

• • •

After downgrading from the iPhone, I dug the old iPod 5G out of the basket it was languishing in and put it back in service. One of the things I find I missed about it (without realizing) is just how good the battery life is on that thing. I had it playing pretty much all the way up to Michigan during that 13-hour drive in September, and it had plenty of juice in reserve. It wheezed at work on Monday, and it surprised me until I realized I hadn’t charged it in about a week. Fortunately, I still had the iPhone charger on my desk. I’m thinking about replacing the case with something that doesn’t obscure the screen and deaden the click wheel.

• • •

Looks like our first frost will be Saturday morning (forecast low of 30°F). I'll have to gather the volunteer tomatoes Friday evening and put them in the kitchen window; maybe they’ll ripen — and if not, I guess we’ll have fried green tomatoes. If I’m going to ride the motorcycle to work (and it will need to stop raining first), I might as well bite the bullet and put the second liner in my jacket. Not to mention the wiring for the gloves.

• • •

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) started on Monday. I’d love to participate, but I’ve talked about why I can’t before. This year adds a new reason (besides Mason): I want to finish White Pickups this month, so that’s my informal NaNoWriMo goal for this year.

• • •

Hallowe’en was kind of a bust this year, despite the near-perfect weather — we only had one group of kids come by, so there’s a pretty good pile of candy left in the bucket. Mrs. Fetched took Mason and his parental units to the outlet maul, where the stores were dishing out candy to the kids. Mason had a vampire outfit, pictured here, but he didn’t like the collar and kept pulling it off. He also managed to lose a shoe, so maybe he should have gone in drag and been Cinderella instead. :-P

• • •

With all the people at the manor, the septic tank has once again filled up and needs to be pumped. I might go into the office tomorrow just so I can walk to a working bathroom.

• • •

And that’s all the news that is news at FAR Manor.

White Pickups, Episode 59

Contents

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Go-Big Bob had misgivings about Worleigh’s plan — mainly because he was the one who would get shot if anything went wrong — but he’d signed up, for better or worse, and he was more afraid of the certainty of looking like a coward than the possibility of death. Go big or go home, after all. But the clouds above reflected his mood: low, grey, and a little uncertain. It seemed like a miracle in itself that Worleigh knew of a liquor store that hadn’t been looted — in downtown Atlanta, no less! — although it looked as if someone had left abruptly; there were empty food containers strewn about and the back door was standing open. A street vendor’s food cart was another seeming miracle, and the two together made the bait. The cart made plenty of noise as he pushed it down the street toward the presumed gang-bangers, bottles clinking and wheels rumbling. The trucks parked along the curb whispered their invitations — Nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about — but they too were part of the plan.

At last, someone stepped out and saw Bob… or rather, the cart. “Hey!” Bob ducked, pushed, then darted between two parked trucks. The cart rumbled down the street a few more feet before slowing; Bob dodged onto the sidewalk as the gunfire started. “That’s right!” the sentry yelled, “You better run! Whooooooo!” He fired a couple times more into the air before Bob ducked around the first street corner he reached.

He stopped for a moment, felt himself over — no holes but the ones he’d been born with — and started jogging back to his companions. A moment later, he heard the sentry whoop and heard more voices, fading as he turned this way and that around each block to confound any pursuit. He nearly jogged right by the others before they called to him, making him jump.

“Shit!” he gasped. “That about scared me worse than the shooting!”

“Tame your tongue!” Worleigh snapped. “Have they taken our gift?”

“Sounds like they did. The first one sure sounded happy, and I heard more coming.”

“It is well, then. Let them drink their fill, then we shall smite them in their tents.”

“They don’t have — never mind.”


They edged closer as evening fell. As they drew within three blocks of where Bob had abandoned the cart, they could hear the revelry in full swing. While (and after) Bob was delivering their Trojan Booze-Cart, others scoured nearby shops for various items. They took turns dressing: black shirts and pants, moccasins or slippers, balaclavas. They painted random lines and spots across their exposed faces, and each took a long knife and a pistol. The night dragged on, and they took turns dozing inside.

At last, the party noises faded and died. “This is a night for cold steel, not hot lead,” Worleigh told them, laying aside his long chromed .410 revolver, “but keep the other at hand in case you need it. Do not scruple to spare any of them, for they are devoted to destruction — man, woman, and child — and do not defile yourself with the females or any treasures of this place. When you have finished your holy work, we shall purify those dwellings with fire.”

“What about their guns?” Frank asked.

Worleigh thought a moment. “Guns you have, but the Lord shall provide ammunition. Take only what you can carry easily, and do not spend time looking for such. Only take what you see as you do your work.”


Sleeping sentries were the first under the knives; few if any knew what happened before finding themselves in the afterlife. A stumbling drunken youth wearing gang colors was set upon and perforated before he had a chance to make much noise. On a cold night, few were out by choice. With the streets cleared of the living, they paired up and went through each building, knifing anyone they found. Dogs barked, but none of the victims woke or gave it any thought before it was too late; most of the dogs were small enough that they were simply set on and stomped or stabbed to death like their masters. Frank ended up shooting a larger mongrel, but by then there were few survivors; recreational gunfire was such a part of life here that once again none of the remaining living even awoke for it. At last, as the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn, the eight of them gathered bloody and panting around the now-empty cart.

“It is well,” said Worleigh, picking up the gas cans they had left at the corner. He lifted a finger into the air. “The wind is behind us. We can pour out half on the first building on each side, and the wind will carry it down the street. Save a little in each, that we may use it to start the fire.” He gave one can to Jared, who crossed the street and splashed the gas around the lobby, propping the front doors open. Ray-Ban did likewise on the other side.

“The holy fire shall purify this defiled place,” said Worleigh, pouring the rest of the gasoline into two water bottles. He twisted a strip of rag for each bottle and inserted it, then handed the bottles to Frank and Steve. “Now light these, and cast them in.”


Palmer’s voice crackled over the radio. “Smoke! Down toward Atlanta!” he said. “You can see it from the overpass.”

“Anyone else out there?”

“Just Tim and me.”


“What is it?” asked Cody, standing on the overpass and watching the plume of black smoke.

“Nothing good,” said Patterson.

“An ill omen,” Delphinia said. “Be watchful, lest the fire descend among us unaware.”

“What? You’re saying someone set it?” asked Palmer. “How could you know that?” Delphinia only shook her cowled head.

“She might just be jawbonin’,” Cleve said later, “but all the same, I think it’s smart to start taking precautions. Nobody rides alone, for one thing, and nobody rides unarmed. We need to start patrolling, just in case. And we need to be ready to defend our home.”

continued…