BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“You’re absolutely sure?” the park ranger asked.

“Yeah,” I told her with a nod. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“We have a confirmed sighting,” she insisted. “From what I’ve been told this particular Sasquatch must have already raided another campsite because he was carrying a Coleman lantern when he was last seen.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be a red headed Sasquatch, would it?” I asked.

“How did you know?” she replied. “Have you seen it?”

“Not recently.”

“But you’ve seen it?”

“You could say that.”

“I see,” she answered with a nod. “Well, then you are aware of the danger. I really think you and your group should consider packing up and staying at a hotel in town.”

“Seriously, we’ll be fine,” I assured her.

“Suit yourself,” she said as she climbed back into her official forestry service vehicle and started the engine. “But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

My wife and I waved goodbye as the Ranger drove away through the night and we continued to watch after her until the tail lights eventually disappeared. In the silence that ensued we just stared into the darkness and scanned the murky woods.

“So, do you think we should go look for him?” E K finally asked.

I started to agree with her plan, but then noticed a lightning bug that didn’t seem to be winking quite like the others; not to mention the fact that it seemed to be following a much less erratic flight plan than its cohorts. In fact, it was traveling a fairly linear course. It also glowed white as opposed to the yellow pinpoints that were obviously firefly butts. I watched it bob along in the distance as it flickered in a rapid staccato. Before long it dawned on me that I was watching a Coleman lantern moving between the trunks of the distant trees.

“That’s him right there, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing at the faraway glow.

Before my wife could answer we heard the drawn out echo of Chris’ voice as he whooped an unintelligible, yet gleefully inebriated cry. The light stopped for a moment, swung back and forth, then started bobbing again as it slowly grew in size.

“I think you’re right,” E K said. “That’s him and now he’s coming this way.”

I turned back toward the camp. Folks were relaxing following a long day of canoeing down the Current river and a fine meal cooked over an open fire.  Chris’ wife Tammy, in particular, was sprawled out in a lounge chair with damp towels laying across her sunburned thighs and shoulders.

“It looks like he’s heading back toward us,” I called out to her.

She looked over her shoulder at me and said, “It’s about time, Gaaaahhhhdd-Dammit!”

I didn’t think anything odd about her reply. You see, Tammy insists that “Gaaaahhhhdd” personally damn just about everything at least once each day. Just to make sure, she reminds “her” at repeated intervals throughout. And, when it came to Chris, well, let’s just say “Gaaaahhhhdd” had a standing damning order from Tammy Jean.

The drunken yell was becoming louder in one of those bizarre, Doppler distorted sorts of ways. By the same token, the 6 foot plus, buck naked, carrot topped, Chris was looming more visible through the night as he drew closer.

“He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop,” E K announced.

“Yeah… I think you’re right,” I mumbled, then turned toward the camp again and announced, “Better make a hole, everybody. Here he comes.”

They all looked up and noticed the naked freight train coming our way. E K and I stepped to either side of the path as the whooping madman shot between us. I turned just in time to see him snatch a beer from an open cooler as he barreled through the camp.

“Chris, Gaaaahhhhdd-Dammit!” Tammy screamed, not entirely unexpectedly, of course.

Mike just watched him run down the hill and along the gravel bar, a beer in one hand and the lantern in the other. As the soused-war cry faded he looked over at Carrie and said, “Yep… And there he goes.”

Sandy, on the other hand, the chronicler of our group, had her camera slung around her neck and took off at a dead sprint behind the escaping lunatic. Her husband Mark just sat in his lawn chair and said, “Ya’know, I really don’t like Swiss cheese. It smells like feet.”

Bill and Muffy missed the whole thing because they were off in their tent doing… Well… What Bill and Muffy generally did whenever they were in their tent, if you get my meaning.

E K and I wandered back into the camp and pulled our chairs up near the fire.

“How long do you think he’ll keep this up?” my wife asked.

“I dunno, Gaaaahhhhdd-dammit,” Tammy mumbled.

I cracked open a fresh beer and settled back into my seat. “Well, it’s been about two hours now… He’ll probably go until the lantern runs out of fuel or he comes within 20 feet or so of Mark’s Ford truck out there.”

“Oh, yeah…” Tammy said with a nod. “Ford truck. That’s right. Gaaaahhhhdd-dammit.”

Sometime around four in the morning we found Chris. He was sprawled in the bed of Mark’s Ford pickup just as I’d predicted, passed out and snoring so hard that the resulting shockwave caused Bill and Muffy’s tent to cave in on them – not that such seemed to have any ill effect on their activities, as evidenced by the rhythmic undulations of the nylon.  But, we had other fish to fry… Or, Sasquatches to rescue, I should say, because the clearing was filled with Park Rangers carrying nets and tranquilizer guns.

In the end we managed to talk them into simply tagging Chris and letting him go.

And, that’s why ever since then we only let him drink light beer.

More to come…

Murv

“Nyah, nyah, I win…” Mike said to Luets.

You remember Mike and Luets, correct? I wrote about them just the other day in the blog about how competitive Luets is, and during that blog I also pointed out just exactly how non-competitive Mike happens to be. However, I also noted that he “lives to get one over on Luets”, so I guess in a weird sort of way, he is competitive. Just with Luets and nobody else.

However, none of that explains why he was giving her the, “Nyah Nyah” treatment. But, trust me, I was just as confused at the time as you probably are now. So, are your seatbelts fastened? Good, because it’s subject whiplash time.

We live in a small house.

It’s not tiny, mind you. It’s definitely larger than the duplex apartment E K and I lived in early on in our relationship. And, it’s also much larger than several other houses I’ve been in over the years. But, by the same token, it’s just a 100+ year old, 1.5 story bungalow in a relatively quiet neighborhood. When we bought it, we were after a fixer-upper, and that’s exactly what we got. And, fix up we have. While it isn’t a showpiece by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not bad for what we started out with – as well as the limited funding available to us in our earlier days. Suffice it to say, the house is small but nice, and more importantly, we own it, not the bank. Yes, the house is paid off. Free and clear. Our little corner of the world. I could secede from the union if I wanted… And, still might. But, that’s a different story.

Still, small as it is, it was always just fine for us – until the o-spring came along, that is. The thing being, children are sort of like that foam insulation you spray into cracks to seal up drafts. Once you let them out of the proverbial can, they just expand exponentially – and I’m not just talking about their physical growth. What I mean is that everything they own takes up every available inch of space in your home. Even though it will all fit into said child’s room, it grows legs and deposits itself everywhere BUT said room.

But, I’m digressing… Although, only a little…

You see, when O-spring came along, E K and I gave up the master bedroom (which happens to be the only one on the main floor) and turned it into a “nursery” which has since become the o-spring’s room. This meant that we moved up into the half story. To accomplish this we turned the old loft-like storage room into a bedroom. Well, actually our contractor buddy Steve (see the hell house blogs) did. And, the room directly across the stair landing remained our office.

So, whenever you see one of my status updates on a social networking site or one of these blogs mentioning me being in my office, that’s where I am. Across the landing from our half story bedroom. Said office – with the exception of a few airplanes, hotel rooms, and a stint in our dining room when the A/C was broken – is exactly where all of the Rowan Gant novels have been written. That also goes for the novelette, and just about every article I’ve ever penned for any magazine, e-zine, website, or whatever. It’s my office. It’s where I work. I really don’t think of it as much of anything other than a room where I go do my job.

Seriously.

It’s nothing fancy by any stretch. A sloped, peaked ceiling, some walls, a counter, some cabinets, and a couple of desks. Sure, I’ve networked the hell out of it, but then I’ve done that to the whole house. That’s just something that came along with being a computer tech for so many years. But still, all in all, it’s just a room. A room where I go to work.

So, imagine my surprise when Mike looked at Luets and said, “Nyah, nyah, I win…”

And then, she proceeded to pout.

Being the curious person I am, it was a moral imperative that I ask what was going on. And, they told me.

You see, Mike and I had just returned from being upstairs in the office where we had gone to grab something we needed. I honestly can’t even remember what it was. It was no big deal to me. We just ran up the stairs, grabbed whatever it was – or checked whatever email it was… Or whatever. My point being, we ran up to the office, then right back down.

But, apparently, there was wayyyyy more to it for Luets and him. It seems they’ve had a long running bet about which one of them would be the first to actually, physically see “Murv’s Office.” Apparently, it is some manner of Holy Shrine or something. Granted, there are a few nail holes in the wall but none of them look like any biblical personages… Nor do they look like any of the characters from my novels. There are the OOAK action figures on my desk of Ben Storm, Felicity O’Brien, Constance Mandalay, and Miranda… (Never have been able to create a decent Rowan, but that’s another story)… But, what I’m trying to say here is this – the nail holes just look like nail holes.

Honestly, this confuses me. While I’ve had a few personal epiphanies during the times I hang out in my office, I don’t think they really translate to shrine material… I mean, it’s just an office. And, it’s not even clean, because I can tend to accumulate a lot of paper and such when I am researching. It’s not filthy, mind you, but it is definitely in a state of disarray. And, like I said… It’s just an office.

However, now that I’ve been made aware of this little tidbit of info, I suppose I should straighten it up a bit then invite Luets upstairs to see it. Maybe I should even get myself some of those stanchions and a velvet rope to cordon off my desk. Of course, I’ll also need a sign that says “Please No Flash Photography”…

Hmmmm… Maybe I could charge admission… And, now that I think about it, what with E K being so much more popular than me, I wonder how much they’d pay to see the secret room in the basement where she tortures people?

Something to think about. Could be a whole new source of revenue. Then maybe we could buy a bigger house.

More to come…

Murv