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  • Mistress Of The Flies…

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    Part 2 of 2 Continued from: Heellllpp Meeee…

    When we left off with that cliffhanger at the end of part 1 – BTW, don’t you just hate it when I do that? Well, don’t expect it to change anytime soon. (Bwuahahahaha!)

    So, anyway, when we left off I had just skulked into the kitchen to investigate a commotion only to find the Evil Redhead decked out in her “torturin’ togs” and talking to a Popsicle stick. If none of that makes sense, go back and read part 1. If it still doesn’t make sense, join the club. I was having trouble wrapping my head around it too…

    Now… Something else I need to fill you in on… During the latter part of June and early portion of July we had this absolutely INSANE problem with flies. They were everywhere. Inside, outside, around the side, in the back, out front, above, below… We just couldn’t figure it out. I mean, we keep the litter boxes clean, we take out the trash regularly, double bag stuff that might be conducive to fly breeding, etc, ad nauseum. There was no rhyme or reason for it. Still, they were everywhere…

    And so, on with the story…

    I drew up next to the imitation-leather-clad redhead who was holding a Popsicle stick, and peered carefully over her shoulder. After all, she seemed to be talking to an inanimate object and I didn’t want to startle her or anything. However, as I mentioned before, the stick wasn’t quite as empty as I had first thought. In point of fact, it had a sopping wet blowfly attached to the end with whatever fixative redheaded bug dominatrixes use for restraining their subs. However, this particular blowfly didn’t seem to be enjoying its encounter in the least… its hairy little legs were kicking and its wings were flexing as it tried in vain to escape the clutches of my evil wife.

    “I’m going to ask you one more time,” E K demanded, her attention focused on the struggling insect. “Where are all of you little bastards coming from?”

    The fly buzzed something unintelligible, to me at least, as it attempted to work itself free to no avail.

    “The name, rank, and serial number bit isn’t going to fly,” E K mused aloud, then giggled an evil giggle at her own pun. “Remember, you did this to yourself…”

    With that, she turned on the faucet and held the end of the Popsicle stick into the center of the stream of flowing water. After slowly counting to five she twisted the handle and the water stopped running. The fly sputtered and kicked.

    “Ready to talk now, Dick?” E K demanded. “Where is your base of operations? How many of you are there? What are your attack plans? Answer me, dammit!”

    I cleared my throat and asked, “Ummm, honey… Uh… What are you doing?”

    “Enhanced Interrogation,” she replied without breaking attention from the task at hand.

    “You’re waterboarding flies?” I said. “What? Did you call Dick Cheney for pest extermination advice or something?”

    “Hmmph!” she returned. “I called Dick Cheney all right, but not for advice. I told him to shut the hell up.”

    “You’ve been spending too much time on Facebook*.”

    “You set up my page for me as I recall.”

    “Yeah… okay… You’ve got me there.”

    “I’ve always got you.”

    “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

    “I’m always right.”

    “You really don’t have to remind me about that.”

    “Obviously I do.”

    “Yeah… Okay… So back to what you’re doing here… I take it your dislike of the former VP has something to do with why you are calling that fly Dick, and it’s not just some crass reference to male anatomy?”

    “Oh my, aren’t we quick today,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her words.

    “I try.”

    “Well it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? Flies are almost as annoying as Dick Cheney. Not quite, but almost. So it just stands to reason.”

    “Yeah… I suppose I can see your point there.”

    “Even so, under the circumstances I think both meanings apply.”

    “Yeah, I had a feeling you might say that.”

    “Talk you little bastard!” she demanded of the waterlogged fly, returning her focus to the interrogation while shaking the Popsicle stick like she was resetting the level on an old mercury thermometer.

    I watched her yelling threats at the insect for a moment then spoke up again. “So, this seems a bit complicated and involved. I mean, if this is about torturing flies, why don’t you just pull their wings off or something? You know, simple stuff like regular sociopaths do…”

    “Because I’m not regular. I’m high octane.”

    “Uh… Yeah.”

    “Besides, I tried that,” she quipped. “They die too quickly and I don’t get any information out of them.”

    “I see…” I nodded and took a few precautionary steps back from her. “So… Just out of curiosity… Mind if I ask why you are so intent on ruthlessly interrogating winged insects all of a sudden?”

    “Because they’ve flown over the line. One of them attacked our daughter last night.”

    “Attacked?”

    “Yes. It kept dive bombing her.”

    “Ahhhh,” I said with a nod yet again. “That would explain why I heard you screaming, “Get away from her, you bitch!‘”

    “Hey, it’s one of my favorite lines from Aliens, and you know it,” she replied. “Besides, it fit the situation and I was channeling my inner Ellen Ripley. If I’d had a flamethrower the damn thing would have been toast, trust me.”

    “I’m sure the folks at 20th Century Fox appreciate your loyalty to the franchise.”

    She turned on the water and shoved the fly into the stream again while saying, “Don’t be sarcastic with me lackey or you’ll be next.”

    “I hate to disappoint you but I’m not really afraid of a Popsicle stick.”

    “You would be if you knew what I was going to do to you with it,” she countered. “But, that doesn’t matter anyway because I also have an 8 foot 2 by 12, an economy size tube of epoxy, and a garden hose.”

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah… I thought that might change your tune.”

    “Okay, so what about the flies? I mean, is this whole interrogation thing actually working?”

    “Of course it is.”

    “So, you know where they are all hiding out?”

    “Absolutely.”

    I pointed to the Popsicle stick in her hand. “Okay… So… Umm… May I ask why you’re still waterboarding that one?”

    “Because it amuses me.”

    “Ahhh… I guess I should have already known that, huh?”

    “Yes, you should have, lackey” she replied. “Just for that, drop and give me twenty.”

    I conceded. “Yes, your evilness.”

    However, before I could drop and give her twenty of whatever it is she wanted – she hadn’t told me what just yet – she whipped around and said, “No. Wait.” Then she handed me the dripping Popsicle stick, and added, “Here. Hold this.”

    No sooner had I taken the fly adorned strip of wood from her than she quickly stalked out of the room without another word, and left the twenty still unnamed.

    “Excuse me… ummm… your evilness,” I called after her. “Mind if I ask where you’re going?”

    She poked her head back through the doorway and replied, “It’s time for operation NO PEST STOMP.”

    The next time I saw the redhead she was in the back yard scooping clouds of buzzing Phaenicia Sericata into a butterfly net, then tossing it on the ground and doing a frantic flamenco dance on top of it. (And believe it or not, I didn’t even fabricate that particular part of this tale… She really did… And then to top it off she showed no remorse. In fact, she complained about getting fly guts on her shoes. Given PETA’s reaction to the President swatting a single fly I figure we’ll be hearing from them soon…)

    But, in the end I guess I can’t complain too much. The fly problem seems to be under control these days, we’ve officially renamed the kitchen “Katmo”, and then there’s that nifty Sci-Fi movie power loader suit thing we have standing in the driveway.

    Of course, something tells me Dick Cheney just isn’t going to shut the hell up no matter how many Facebook groups demand it, and that scares me a little. You see, I have to live under the same roof with E K, and if Dick keeps running off at the mouth and annoying her, she just might end up needing another surrogate to torture since we are now out of flies… What do you want to bet that surrogate will be yours truly?

    And you know, I just checked… She still has that giant tube of epoxy…

    More to come…

    Murv

    * Facebook Fan Page: “Telling Dick Cheney To Shut The Hell Up”

  • Psycho Kat: E Kay’s Psychological Ops…

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    THE PUF REPORT: Part 1 of 5

    Some of you may have actually “friended up” with E K on Facebook. To you I say, “What in the hell were you thinking?!” I mean, after all, I warned you. I have cited examples, explained, warned, waved flags… But, did you listen? No. So, as far as I’m concerned you have no one to blame but yourselves. If you willingly walked into the web of the evil redhead, well… All I can say is, told ya’ so…

    Anywho… Those of you who were silly enough to end up pinned to the wall like a butterfly in her personal collection have likely already seen this next bit of text. For those of you who were smart enough to not end up in her killing jar, firstly, good on ya! Secondly, here’s the text in question:

    EK Facebook Status

    Now, as you can see, this was her status on May 27. The following morning we were set to leave for PUF (Pagan Unity Festival) in Burns, TN. This is an event where I have been presenting workshops and signing books every year since 2001. In fact, I have even been told that if I die prematurely, they will dig me up and bring me to Tennessee so that I will always be at PUF. It seems that much like the brewers of Guinness and the bit of real estate where the brewery is located, PUF also has a 999 year lease on me. Fortunately, I don’t mind. 🙂

    But, back to our story… Also as noted in that status update there is a little winky face behind the bit about Johnathan getting pouty. Johnathan, by the way, is a very good friend of ours. We’ve known him almost forever… As in, ever since he was a snot nosed, skater punk kid. He’s grown up with a kid of his own now, so that should give you an idea on “forever”. He’s also a fantastic artist who is responsible for the covers of my books. Yeah… I am one of the fortunate few authors out there who is friends with his cover artist. Makes life a bit easier when it comes to collaborating on the vision for the artwork. However, the long and short of the deal is this – Johnathan always accompanies us to PUF. He has for several years now. In fact, he is even considered a part of the PUF Staff now.

    And, so our story begins…

    Friend or not, E K will not pass up a chance to torture a male member of the species, whether physically or psychologically. Usually it’s both, but since we were short on space in the van she didn’t pack any of her prized instruments of the inquisition. Of course, this didn’t preclude her from invoking her psychological ops.

    And, it all began with a winky face.

    Now, for you to properly understand the depth of this torture, there are some things of which you need to be aware. To start with, Nicky’s BBQ is in Clinton, KY, not terribly far from the small town of Fulton. It has been around somewhere near the edge of forever. They fix real, honest to goodness, BBQ pork shoulder. Now, when I say BBQ, I mean BBQ. Not some grilled meat with some sickly sweet sauce globbed all over it. I mean slow smoked pork shoulder that has cooked forever and a day over a low, wood fire. Then is pulled apart (hence the term pulled pork), maybe chopped a bit, and served with coleslaw, tater salad, beans, and a couple of slices of bread. If sauce is a necessity, one begins with a liberal dash of Tobasco or Louisiana Hot, followed by a few squirts of a good ‘ol vinegar and pepper based nectar. Of course, this is all served on a paper plate and eaten with a plastic fork.

    To anyone from Kentucky, and other parts South, this is heaven on a plate.

    As you know, I am originally from Kentucky. ‘Nuff said.

    Now, while there are many, many BBQ places dotting the countryside, Nicky’s is one from my youth. As I said, it has been around since the edge of forever. I can remember it way back into my childhood. Of course, being one who likes to share, I introduced my family – and Johnathan – to this oasis of pulled pork on Highway 51.

    But, back to E Kay’s evilness…

    nickys

    The reality of the matter is this: the route to Burns, Tennessee does not actually include Clinton, Kentucky. In fact, to go to Nicky’s takes us better than an hour out of our way. This usually isn’t a problem, however, due to the fact that I still have family in Fulton, and we make it a point to take the detour and visit for a bit. And, since we are usually heading down 51 right about lunchtime, Nicky’s is the preferred stop.

    Not only that, Johnathan has pretty much come to anticipate it. Much like Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as the trip to PUF is mentioned, he begins to salivate and the first thing he says is, “Are we stopping at Nicky’s?”

    E K, being Satan incarnate in a pair of stilettos, usually just smirks and says, “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

    When the actual day of departure draws closer, Johnathan begins babbling incoherently about “pulled pork” and “vinegar BBQ sauce”. His ramblings are overtly punctuated by the word, “Nicky’s” followed by a maniacal cackle. Truth be told, he sounds kind of like Beavis and Butthead on a mission to get BBQ.

    E K, of course, continues to torture him with “Maybe’s” and “I dunno’s” right up until we cross the bridge into Kenucky, right there at Cairo, Illinois. You see, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway that we are aiming ourselves for Fulton with reckless abandon. Once we pass by the paper mill at Wickliffe, well then, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that Nicky’s is on the menu.

    This year, however, my kin had funeral to attend on the day we were passing through. Since timing was everything, we weren’t exactly sure if we would continue on through Fulton, or continuing on. E K, again being evil and all, couldn’t resist getting Johnathan under her heel and twisting it just a bit. At each T intersection she would announce that perhaps we should circumvent the backroads and hit the highway. She would even feign turns in the complete opposite direction of Fulton, all while watching poor Johnathan in the rear view mirror.

    The poor bastard started with yelping, “Nicky’s?!” repeatedly, and before long was shaking uncontrollably and mumbling about pulled pork. With each intentional but aborted wrong turn, his anxiety grew and E Kay’s grin widened. By the time we were finally cruising down 51, Johnathan was on the floorboards in the back, curled into a ball and mumbling, “N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s… N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s…”

    At the last minute, the evil redhead whipped the van into the small parking lot of the whitewashed block building, then kicked a blithering Johnathan out onto the pavement. Feeling sorry for him I helped him in the door and to the lunch counter where we placed our orders. Fearing the inherent cruelness of the redhead, Johnathan not only ordered the BBQ plate like usual, but also a pound of pulled pork to go – with extra sauce on the side.

    Adding insult to injury, E K kept reaching over and swiping his plate before  his fork could touch it. She would cackle and grin, he would get all teary eyed and plead with her. When all was said and done and she allowed him to eat in relative peace, the poor guy shoveled it in so fast he ended up looking like a toddler who’d had spaghetti for the first time. Pork bits were stuck to his face with a swath of vinegar based BBQ sauce. Potato salad was in his hair, and coleslaw was all over his shirt. He was backed into a corner, clutching a plastic fork and watching E K like trapped prey watches the predator that is about to make it into dinner.

    We finally coaxed him out, hosed him off, and managed to calm him down. It took some doing, but I finally got him to leave Nicky’s with the pound of pulled pork hugged tightly in his arms. In an attempt to reverse some of the damage, I offered to take a picture of him next to the Nicky’s sign.

    johnathan

    I’m sure Johnathan has a copy of this framed and hanging on his wall. He might even have a smaller one in his wallet to take out and look at throughout the day as he anticipates next year’s excursion.

    E K, on the other hand, is already plotting to tell him they moved and left no forwarding address.

    More to come…

    Murv

    Next installment in THE PUF REPORT: Part 2 of 5 – Where’s Kat?