bet dollars to doughnuts ، معنی کلمه bet dollars to ...

Hope this is OK to post here, if not mods let me know and I'll take it down.
edit: Just realized someone should post something like this to the RT subreddit, bet it'd do well too! I think there's a lot of crossover appeal. Just a thought.
Someone on the RT subreddit recommended the Yogscast to me in one of the AH TTT video threads. I had vaguely heard of them but had never seen any of their stuff. Thanks to lockdown I've caught up on a lot of stuff and the 'lore' and inside jokes to a degree and really like the Yogscast but wish someone had made a sort of 'beginner's guide' since they had been around so long. Some people here may not know Achievement Hunter or RT that well so I thought why not? I'll make an AH guide for incoming fans of the Yogscast! If you don't know Rooster Teeth - probably an easier way to introduce them to a new audience is to focus on Achievement Hunter as they're the arm of RT that most closely resembles the Yogscast.

• The people

Geoff Laser Ramsey: Co-founder of RT and later co-founder of AH. No longer an active part of AH as he's taken a bigger role as part of RT's core group but will still show up here and there. Yes, Laser is his actual middle name. Has a lot of tattoos, used to be a heavy drinker but is now sober, he's like if your dad was Punk Rock.
Jack Patillo: Other co-founder of AH, he's got a beard and he's fat. He's the funniest un-funny guy in the room. Part of "Team Same Voice" with Ryan, and if you listen to them argue you will see why. Massive backseat gamer which you'll hear reference to if you hear someone say "Uh-oh, 'Let's watch' Jack is here". Kind of a hipster, but from what I've heard that describes most of Austin, Texas which is where they're located. He collects vinyl records.
Ryan Haywood: The other half of "Team Same Voice" (seriously you'll have some trouble when you first start watching) - he's a big fan of "Learn by doing". Probably the most technically sound member of AH, from an IT standpoint. He's also the Mad King and will kill video game animals for the hell of it. In Minecraft for years he had a cow named Edgar trapped in a glass-topped basement. Despite this he's a loving father and cares about real life animals, his wife is a vet. Some say he's still in the air.
Ray Narvaez Jr.: RIP. (actually left to do Twitch solo, but the joke is he's dead)
Michael Jones: He's not called Mike. New Jersey-style rage. Will eat anything. Lactose Intolerant. This all seems random and unnecessary information but yet somehow it'll make sense if you watch. Can't stand things being messy which make me wonder how he keeps sane in the AH office. Loves McDonalds and fast food in general. Him and Gavin are each other's boi.
Gavin Free: Ever hear of the Slo-Mo Guys on youtube? Then you know Gavin, except he sounds far stupider on AH. He's the token British guy, and thus some British slang has actually made it's way to the mostly US based crew like 'gubbins' and 'all over the gaff'. Known for asking some of the dumbest pseudo-philisophical questions ever. Was the subject of a musical number where AH's editing crew dressed up in church gospel robes and sang a gospel song where they simply repeated the words "Gavin is a prick... whoaaaaoaoaoaoh". Gets farted on by people non-consentually.
Jeremy Dooley: He's a Southie (South Boston, MA) transplanted to Texas. He's short. He's a musician and surprisingly good at rapping. Says 'hap', 'tap', and 'pap' at times in sequence when frustrated or tooling around (this started as an impersonation of behind-the-scenes RT co-founder Joel Heyman but then kinda became it's own thing). Former RT superfan, now he works there. He's good friends with and absolutely not the superhero named Rimmy Tim. Obsessed with the color combination purple and orange. Can consume far too much alcohol. Very muscular and used to be a gymnast. He took Ray's spot. If you need someone to do a dare and Michael's not around, you get Jeremy. He's kind of my favorite as we grew up in the same area so he's relatable in that way.
Lindsay Jones - Formerly Lindsay Tuggy and Michael's wife. Used to actually be the Boss of AH after Geoff stepped down, but then stepped down herself so she could focus on her and Michael's kids. She's the Wild Card and is proud of it. She will fuck up the entire let's play for a laugh. Did someone get RDM'd in a TTT game? Probably Lindsay. Is someone going backward on a GTAV race in order to smash into people? Definitely Lindsay.
Trevor Collins: Current boss of AH, on screen personality. Very even keeled and kind of ends up playing the straight man to other AH members' goofiness. Has a degree in rocket science, but somehow he's here. Generally very humble, chill dude.
Alfredo Diaz: a.k.a. The Sauce. He's Trevor's twin despite them being of different ethnicities. He's the most pro-gamer of the group and has legit won e-sports tournaments. While funny, he tends to be around when the team needs someone so they can 'git gud'. If someone's sniping and it isn't Fiona, it's probably Fredo.
Matt Bragg: Former editor now on-screen personality. Eats like absolute garbage but doesn't gain weight or have diabetes. Is the main target for Moonball attacks (this isn't a video game thing, I mean literal hard, bouncy balls being thrown at him). If he's playing a game with Jack, he will try to kill Jack. He's a Shark Mage. Pretty sure he exists on a diet of entirely doughnuts.
Fiona Nova: Newest member of the team, kind of controversial in the fandom which is sad. She grew up in France and New York, is biracial and openly queer sooooo the internet has a few people that really don't like her. She has quick wit and at the start it took a bit for her to hit her stride but now is very good especially in TTT where her and Gavin have this weird trust issue/total trust thing going on. They'll either KOS each other or have each other's backs without fail. If someone is sniping successfully and it isn't Fredo, it's Fiona.

• The Teams

For some reason, AH got obsessed with there being 'teams' within the group. I mentioned one in "Team Same Voice" which is a good example but you'll hear these mentioned a lot without a lot of background on how or why. Thankfully XaniDubia on DeviantArt made a handy graphic for this:
The chart
These get referenced a fair bit, so it helps to know who is talking about who when a team gets said.

• Inside jokes/references

Good lord, there's a lot of these. AH has been around since 2008 so naturally they've piled up. However some are far more dormant than others so here's references you'll likely here in modern content:
MOONBAH~!: Moonballs are these hard rubber balls with large divots. It is fair play, as long as you call "MOONBAH~!" to chuck one off a wall as hard as you want and cause physical chaos with it. There is a spot marked on one wall specifically to note the best angle to throw one to hit Matt Bragg especially.
Buhhhket: When the word bucket is said it will often be changed to this pronunciation. The whole reason is when Superfan Jeremy Dooley joined AH, he would say this as a reference to an ooooold minecraft episode where Gavin asked to get a bucket and had a bit of a brain fart and said it like this. Jeremy and his friends thought it was hilarious, no one in AH remembered it. However, now it's a running joke on screen.
"You and your friends are dead": The two old men (Michael and Jeremy in creepy old men masks) don't share their buffalo chicken with people that beat them at card games. This came from an episode of Let's Roll where they played Batman Love Letter and turned into a running gag if Michael or Jeremy are about to take someone out in a game.
Gavin gets mugged: Is it a GTA video that's not a race and Gavin's in it? He's getting mugged. Bet on it.
"Hap tap pap": Jeremy's mindless and/or frustrated rambling noises. It's shockingly flexible in use and hard to describe, but you'll hear this.
"Million Dollars, but...": This became it's own web series and card game, but basically Gavin gets bored in Minecraft and will come up with ridiculous hypothetical scenarios and ask if the others if they'd do it for a Million bucks. Example: "Ryan, Million Dollars, but in order to blink your eyes you have to touch your bellend?"
Garbo... man/lady/tot/lad/-sassin/... aaaand WEBBY!: So, one year as a joke on Cyber Monday sales, someone who totally wasn't Michael in a trashbag with giant googly-eyes on it announced "Garbo Tuesday". A 1% off sale. Later in an episode where gang played Worms the Garbo family was introduced making Garboman a recurring joke character. Ryan named his worms team after the 'Garbo Family' but only made 5 Garbo names instead of 6. The sixth worm was named Webby who is now canonically the Garbo family's pet (dead) spider.
Out in the Grapes: The rare 'forced meme that worked' - during a GTA video Trevor got lost and kept frantically saying he was "Out in the Grapes" meaning in the vineyards. The group basically made it a mission to make that phrase mean "I'm lost and have no idea where I am"
There's so many more but this should be enough to keep you kind of clued in as you absorb more of their madness.

• Where to start?

So, you read all this drivel and are curious about these guys that are starting to collab with the Yogscast. Where to start? Well know that AH kind of has two channels on Youtube - Achievement Hunter and Let's Play. You may have noticed that the collab with Gavin/Fiona called out AH, and the one with Ryan/Jack called out LP. Let's Play was supposed to be a more varied 'a bunch of the partners on this channel' sort of thing but no one really joined in. So they have two channels.
There are three 'main' series that are weekly - Minecraft, GTA Online and more recently due to it's popularity: GMOD TTT. Like ThatMadCat, there are multiple people that do AH compilation videos and if that's your style that's one way to go. AH do their own yearly comps as well which are good, but if you want to just jump in with an episode (beyond the collabs already done)...
AH Animated A great way to get some of the best of their work in cute animated snippet form. The oldest one "Gavin explains the 'Star War'" is a must, and I imagine would give Zoey fits if she watched it.
Achievement Hunter Throwdown It's a rap battle and a quick way to get to know the personality of the core 6 members fast (Geoff, Jack, Ryan, Michael, Gavin, Jeremy)
Uno: The Movie The title isn't lying. This is a 2 hour, 44 minute marathon of a single game of Uno. AH gets stubborn, and someone was getting to 500 points. The exact filming date is also immortalized as it took place during election day 2016. For a long time, this was the highest rated comedy movie on IMDB and I'm not even joking about that. This is the only AH video I can think of that people have made their own "Best of:" videos about, from a single upload. A lot of AH fans including myself have watched this start-to-finish a lot of times. More times than we'd care to admit.
YDYD Season 1 part 1 Ya Dead, Ya Dead. Minecraft hardcore mode featuring AH members. Season 1... doesn't last long.
Sky Factory 3 ep. 1 They also did SF4 later on but this is probably the more iconic series.
GTA V Criminal Masterminds This is where Bum Cheese comes from. That's not a crude joke, there's Bum Cheese merch.
GTA V: Slug Life Ain't Easy GTA Races and special game modes are very popular videos of theirs as well, this is a good example of an Overtime Rumble game. Matt Bragg is surprisingly good at these.
Achievement Hunter: The Musical As an Extra Life charity stream stretch goal, AH: The Musical was promised back in 2017 (I Think?). In 2019 a video went up called "GTA V: Jack Bag 8", Jack Bag being where Jack makes up GTA game playlists for the gang to play. Instead it was steathily the musical. "Lindsay Wins" slaps, don't @ me.

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My name’s Magnum Glock and I’m a private detective. In my line of work there’s usually not a line at my door. It’s a fickle business, and I gotta take the good jobs as well as the bad if I wanna survive. But sometimes I take the occasional odd job. I don’t mean taking out the elderly neighbor’s trash, or mowing a few lawns, no. I mean the truly odd jobs. Like the one I’m going to tell you about.
I’d been reclining at my desk with my feet propped up on a yellowing mass of unpaid bills when a busty blonde bombshell made her way past my half-sleeping bodyguard/assistant/secretary/doughnut-fetcher and sauntered through my office door. She caught me entirely off guard. So did her massive tits. Hey, what can I say? I’m a tit guy, so fucking sue me.
I’d been drinking a reluctant hangover into submission, puzzling over the newspaper’s crossword as I sipped steaming-hot black coffee. I dumped another slug of whiskey into the chipped and stained blue mug that boldly proclaimed that I was a #1 COP! I always found that mug comically ironic.
It had been a gift from an ex. An ex-con with an ugly mug of his own. Walter “Crowbar” Milligan had come to me after after he’d made parole, looking for a job. Crowbar was one of the few I’d sent down that wild and raging river, but he swam back to shore and thankfully never jumped back in again. Truth is, Crowbar has a good heart and a soft spot for his mama. When she couldn’t afford her heart pills, he burst through the front doors of the Main Street bank waving a gun around and demanding small bills. Luckily for him the gun he’d been pointing at the terrified tellers was nothing more than a kid’s toy. The jackass hadn’t even bothered to paint over the orange tip of the barrel. Since the gun wasn’t real, and also because the judge was in litigation with that same bank, he got what amounted to a slap on the wrist. Two years in Packard State Prison. He’d earned his nickname when another con locked his keys in his locker and asked him for help. He simply pried the door open, - yep, like a crowbar - popping the lock with a pair of massive and furry gorilla hands that betrayed his tender little heart. Yeah, to say Crowbar is a big fella is an understatement. He’s almost seven feet tall, three hundred pounds, and blacker than molasses. I’ve seen him snap a pool cue one-handed, but he wouldn’t say “boo!” to a kitten.
He’d made the mistake of trying to rob the joint on my day off. Well, it was supposed to be my day off. I’d been called in to cover for the rheumy old fart that usually pulled guard duty but had died over the weekend. Fucking bastard couldn’t have waited ‘til Tuesday to kick the bucket? I missed my favorite goddamn TV shows.
When I saw Crowbar stumble through the door, tugging at a ski-mask that barely covered his massive square head, I knew the guy wasn’t a seasoned criminal. When you’ve been a beat cop for fifteen years, and a detective for ten, you can usually spot the amateurs and the pros. Crowbar was most definitely the former.
When I saw his gun I knew it was fake, but I’d been trained not to take chances. There’s nothing stopping a crook from painting the tip of a real gun orange. Usually, I’m a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later kind of guy, but my instincts told me that one swift crack upside that goofy fucking head of his would be sufficient. And it was. He hadn’t noticed me sitting in a corner of the lobby thumbing through a discarded Reader’s Digest. He had his back to me, and in three of four quick strides I was close enough to whack him in the head with a baton. You know the ones I’m talking about? A thick, long steel bar coated in plastic? Old school cops used to call them “nigger-knockers.” (Hey, fuck you, I’m not racist, that’s just what they called ‘em. Google that shit, fuck-face.)
I remember sitting there next to him waiting for the cavalry to show up. After I’d handcuffed him and checked him for more toys, I asked him why in the hell he’d rob a bank. He began to tell me about his poor, sweet mama (rest in peace Gertrude, I miss your apple pie) and he started blubbering and bawling. I knew he’d only done what he did out of desperation and a willingness to make a sacrifice for his mother, so I legitimately felt sorry for him. Crowbar’s a little on the slow side, so he had a hard time finding work. While he was away at Packard, I’d go see “Mama” Gertrude every weekend, and I’d take her shopping and help her around the house. I had a mama once, too, and I’d always felt bad about our last words together, so I suppose that taking care of Crowbar’s mama while he was gone was my way of paying a little penance. I’d go and see him once a month on visiting day, and take him some smokes and candy bars, too. Like I said, penance. When he first came up for parole, I put in a few good words with the warden, and a month later he was on my payroll. I wish I was.
He’s been with me now for six years, and in my line of work, he’s what we call a heavy. That little stint in Packard toughened him up. With little else to do but lift weights and defend yourself, I think it would toughen you up, too.
Now, back to that damsel in distress.
She was a hot mess, that one. Petunia Flowers. I shit you not, that chick’s name was Petunia Marigold Flowers. I never actually asked, but either her parents were florists or hippies. Maybe both. She was a little self-conscious about that name, so she went by Mary. Which was fine by me, because I found her maiden name fucking hilarious.
She looked like one of those pin-up girls from the 60’s. Silky blonde hair so curly you wanted to just bury your face in it and take a nap. Stunning and cat-like emerald-green eyes. Cute button-nose, Shirley Temple dimples, and lips so bloody red you’d think she’d just finished sucking the blood from another hapless victim. And man, those tits! Double-D’s. She couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-ten or twenty, and I bet a quarter of that was those glorious bouncing boobs.
When she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble right from the start. She wore a hot pink business suit that looked like it had been painted on from the ass up, hot pink stilettos, and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. An unfiltered Camel cigarette clung desperately to her reddened lips, unlit. She sat down primly in the only chair across from my desk, crossed her creamy white legs and removed her shades. She appraised me with a lustful eye for a moment and said she needed my help in a thick Yankee accent.
“My name’s Petunia Flowers, and I hear you’re the best damned private detective around. You gotta light?” She leaned forward and pouted those luscious lips, her cigarette trembling in anticipation of my fire.
I met her gaze and reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved my own smokes. On a budget like mine, I was a Winston man. I shook one out of the pack, retrieved my trusty bronze Zippo from the same drawer where Mr. Jack Daniel’s sat waiting for me, and lit up. I cupped the flame, and led it to her. She took a deep drag and chuffed a thick plume of smoke into the air.
“Oh my gawd, that’s so much better,” she said, batting her long curled eyelashes as she spoke. “I am in urgent need of your services, and I can pay you five thousand dollars right now to take this job.” And with that, she reached into her shirt between her breasts, and withdrew a thick, yellow envelope and tossed it onto my desk. I picked it up slowly, and I could tell by the weight of it that it was almost entirely fifty-dollar bills. I loosened the clasp and peeked inside, and sure enough, a thick wad of dead presidents were nestled inside, smiling at me.
Five grand’s a lot of bread. I hadn’t taken a new case in weeks. This was roughly what I’d take home in a half-year. Well, minus taxes, Crowbar’s salary, incidentals and Jack Daniel’s.
I eyed her suspiciously and began to ask for the pertinent details, but before I could speak she added: “And there’s another five thousand when you complete the job.”
Now, I’m no fool. I wasn’t about to turn down any job for ten grand. But a situation like this calls for careful consideration, scrutiny, tact, and brevity. I thought very carefully, weighing my words cautiously, and only spoke after deliberating with the professionalism that is expected of someone faced with a monumental decision of such significance.
“So, what’s the job?”
She blinked and studied me warily. “It’s not a job that I need you to do. It’s a problem that I need you to fix. A big problem! I’m at my wit’s end and I don’t know how much more I can take!” Her eyes began to moisten and the back of her smoking hand went to her forehead. Her voice was shrill and nasal. She sounded like of those telemarketers calling to ask if I’d like to donate a dollar to the starving pygmy tribes of Bimboland. She took another deep drag of her cigarette and continued.
“My husband, you see, he’s out of control! At first, I enjoyed his experiments. I loved spending time with him in the lab. But then he created them and now they’re ruining everything! His career, our home, and our lives are in peril because of what he’s done! I fear that even the entire world could be in danger if we don’t stop them!” Her eyes were now brimming with tears, threatening to spill over long, thick lashes slathered in mascara.
“Hold on a second,” I asked incredulously. “By them, who exactly are you talking about, Mary?”
Her eyes bored through me fixedly as tears spilled forth and made a bee-line down her cheeks. Her ample bosom heaved as she drew another slow burn of the cigarette. She held it in for a moment, rolled her eyes in frustration and spewed smoke as she cried out: “Those goddamned Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns from the Underworld! They’re ruining EVERYTHING!”
This crazy broad had uttered those words just as I’d taken a healthy swig of Jack-laced mud from the mug. You know those comical scenes in films where somebody spews their beverage all over the fucking place when someone else says something absolutely bonkers? Yeah, that happened to me. There’s only one thing worse than wasting coffee, and that’s wasting good whiskey. Mary lucked out, because I turned my head quickly enough to miss her, but not quickly enough to avoid splattering coffee all over my desk. Crowbar was gonna love cleaning that shit up.
I yanked my handkerchief from my shirt-pocket, wiped my lips and chin clean and attempted to dab at the spritz on the desk and gave up. I was still laughing, and the burning sensation of whiskey leaking from my nostrils certainly wasn’t helping matters any. Once I’d regained my composure, I had to hear this again, just to be sure that she did indeed say what I thought she said.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
She looked at me as if I was a rack of yard tools at Home Depot. “Did I stutter, dick?”
Now, everyone knows that “dick” is a common slang word for a private investigator. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been that way. But the way she said it wasn’t respectful at all. She was peering at me with those piercing green eyes of hers, her mouth pouting and pert, and I became genuinely uncomfortable. Not because of her stare, but because that stare had gotten the attention of the other dick in the room.
“I’m sorry, Mary. But, I think I may have misheard you. Did you say something about midgets and clowns?” I rubbed the back of my neck, still sore from passing out in this reclining office chair last night.
“Yes. That’s right. Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.” She huffed as if she’d said something commonplace. Like Girl-Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“From the, uh, underworld, you say?” I tried not to sound incredulous, but I really couldn’t help it. That’s not true. I could help it. What I really wanted to tell Mary was that she was bat-shit crazy, but ten grand is ten grand. I momentarily toyed with the idea that if I completed this job I could afford to give Crowbar a raise, but after careful consideration I came to the conclusion that he’d be far happier with a case of Coors and a carton of smokes.
“Yes.” she blurted, exasperated. “From The Underworld. And I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t look at me as if I were crazy. I’m not crazy! Far from it! Look, I’ll show you!”
She stood up and began to fumble in her large red purse. It looked more like a bowling ball bag if you ask me, but what the hell do I know about lady’s purses and bowling ball bags? Not a damn thing. She whips out her phone and begins to tap away on the screen, swipes a few times, and then thrusts it in front of my face.
“Now, you just look! You look at what those little bastards have been up to! And then you tell me if I’m crazy or not!”
I’ve seen some crazy shit in my day, let me tell you. But nothing could have prepared me for the scene that unfolded before me on her phone. At first, I thought maybe I was looking at some computer generated animation or something, you know, like they use to make those superhero movies? Because this was quite literally the most bizarre and confusing thing I have ever laid eyes on. I did completely understand, however, why she called them Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.
There were three of these people? no. Beings? No. Creatures? Maybe. I don’t know what you’d call them, but here’s how they appeared to me:
They were in what appeared to be a large dining room.
They were about three feet tall. So, midgets? Check.
Their hair was bright red and frizzy, and they were wearing baggy white jumpsuits. And, no shit, these little fucker’s faces appeared to be covered in white and red face-paint and big, red rubber noses. So, okay, clowns? Check.
They were leaping and dodging and flailing around, cat-like and fluid. Graceful. Just like, well, ninjas. One of them was wildly swinging a sword (katana?) around, the second one had a pair of nun-chucks that he whipped through the air, and the third had a long staff that he was using to poke and prod at a large, frightened sheepdog as it attempted to evade them all. So, ninjas? Check.
But, rednecks? You’re goddamn right! These little shits were sporting over-sized cowboy boots and hats, and spitting brown (tobacco?) juice all over the place. Just watching that little scene made me feel like I had just dropped a double-dose of LSD and tuned into a Disney film made for the entertainment of the criminally insane. It made my fucking eyes hurt.
“You see? You see what I mean? Those bastards are destroying everything in sight! You thought I was crazy, didn’t you? But you see now, don’t you? DON’T YOU?!” She was nearly spitting as she spoke. She sat back down, looking smugly satisfied and entirely out of breath. Well, her tits were out of breath at least, judging by their heaving.
I brought my friend Jack Daniel’s out from his resting place in the top drawer, and filled the mug. I drained it in two gulps. I fumbled for a cigarette, brought it to my lips and sparked the Zippo. I took a few good tokes, and considered my options. Either I was just as bat-shit crazy as Mary, or desperate. I parked the cig in the ashtray, folded my hands upon my cluttered desk and looked her square in the the eyes.
“Ma’am? Just what exactly is it that you want me to do?”
She met my stare equally, and coolly. She raked her serpentine tongue across her upper teeth, narrowed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and leaned closer to me and whispered:
“I want you to cut their motherfucking heads off and pour cyanide down their fucking throats.”
I told you she was bat-shit crazy. What was I supposed to do at that point? I mean, as much I wanted the job, I had to seriously consider the ramifications of what she was saying. I took a few moments to gather my thoughts.
“When do I start?”
TO BE CONTINUED!
More stories.

I'm Lily Madwhip and I'm Learning About Monsters.
I’m at the library, which is called Winslow Library, reading a book on mythology. Winslow Library is named after Miles Winslow, who donated books to the town after the original library burned down... because Miles Winslow accidentally set it on fire. It’s a long story. Short version is, Miles Winslow was a crazy fellow.
After I told Felix everything about Hekate, he asked me if I knew anything about Grease and I told him I saw the movie five times, although I didn’t know what that had to do with anything. Also I never understood why their car turned into Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang at the end. It turns out Grease is a country too, and that’s where mythology comes from. Felix suggested I go to the library and “brush up” on the subject, because apparently Hekate was around way back when people rode chariots instead of cars and everything was dirt and olives.
I already know about the minotaur, which is a person with a cow for a head. Not the whole cow, just the head. He lives in a maze. I also know about Medusa, who was a lady with snakes for hair. Not the whole snake, but most of it. But other than those two, I’m not a mythology know-it-all.
It turns out people from Grease were obsessed with mixing up animals. Besides the minotaur, there’s also centaurs, which is where the other half of the cow went. Then there’s harpies, which are ladies with vultures for butts. Not the whole vulture, just the butt. I didn’t know those were myths though, because I’ve seen commercials on TV where people admitted they had harpies and were taking medication to get rid of them.
Then there’s the chimera. That’s like a lion-goat-scorpion. I don’t even know where to begin. Like, where did someone think they saw this thing? Was it like they were walking along and saw a lion looking out from behind a tree, but there was also a goat behind it and they mistook the goat’s butt for the lion’s butt? And where the heck did they see a scorpion big enough for its tail to look like part of this mess? I think people in Grease just drank a lot. My Uncle George drinks a lot, at least since my cousin Susie got run over by a boat. I don’t think he ever saw a lion and a goat at the same time though, and thought they were the same animal.
I have a yellow pad of paper for taking notes, but I have no idea what kind of notes to take, so I just draw in it. First I draw a chimera, because it’s the weirdest animal I’ve read about yet. Then I try to draw a harpy, but I’m not any good at drawing people, so I give it the body of an alligator. I call it an alligarpy. Eventually I’m not even reading the book anymore, I’m just doodling imaginary animals combined with other animals.
“What are you drawing?”
There’s another kid in the library. He’s taller than me, so he’s probably older. He’s got crazy brown hair and freckles... or maybe his face is just dirty. I wish I had freckles. And he’s wearing old, velcro shoes. The velcro is so old that it doesn’t even stick together anymore and the straps just hang loose. Still, velcro shoes are nice. I wish I had velcro shoes. So jealous right now.
I look at my most recent piece. “It’s a... pigapotomus. It’s from mythology.” That’s not actually true, I just made this one up. “That’s stories from long ago about superheros and monsters.”
“I know what mythology is.” he wipes his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. I can see the snot streak go up to his elbow. There’s other, older, crustier streaks up both arms. Ew. He may know what mythology is, but I bet dollars to doughnuts that hygiene isn’t in his vocabulary.
The kid keeps standing there, snuffling occasionally and wiping his runny nose. I stare at him, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Can I help you?” I finally ask.
He’s got dead eyes. I don’t normally see those on other kids. Dead eyes are something you typically only find on adults. There’s no shine in them anymore. It’s almost like they just stop reflecting light. Usually it goes with people who have given up on enjoying life and have settled for living day to day. You can tell who loves life, because they got the glint in their eyes. This boy has no glint, just empty dead eyes.
“Nobody can help me.” he sniffles, still staring dead-eyed at me. He’s got some sort of strange accent I can’t place. I want to say he’s from overseas or maybe North Dakota. I don’t know what people speak like there, but I imagine it’s like me, but with a weird North Dakota accent.
I look around, but there’s nobody else in this part of the library. Winslow Library isn’t the preferred library to use as it is. Most people go to the one over in Northfield. They’ve got a multimedia room there with movies on laserdisc. My parents took Roger and I once and I got in trouble for wandering off to the laserdiscs and signing out a weird movie called The Shining. There’s a scene in that movie where a guy hugs and kisses a dead lady in a bathtub. People come up with strange ideas for movies.
The gross boy leans forward across the table and whispers, “Do you know what a mirage is?”
“That’s where you park cars.”
He frowns. “No, it’s an illusion.”
I don’t argue with him but I know they’re real because we have one attached to the house.
He nods at my mythology book. “You read about the sphinx yet?”
I sure have. The sphinx is a person with a lion for a body. Not the whole lion, just the body. Or maybe it’s a lion with a person’s head. It’s a lion/person mishmash, basically. And it asks riddles. If you get its riddle wrong, it eats you.
“Yeah, I’ve read about the sphinx.”
He wipes his nose again. It looks red and sore, probably from all the wiping. “Well I’ve got a riddle for you, like the sphinx--”
“You won’t eat me if I get it wrong, will you?” He kinda looks like he might actually try.
“No.” The grimy kid closes his eyes. Maybe he’s trying to remember how the riddle goes. It sucks when you try to tell a riddle or joke and screw it up. I have this joke about a bunch of people in a crashing airplane who don’t have enough parachutes, but I always get it wrong. “Where can you be somewhere and nowhere at the same time?”
You know what? I don’t like riddles. I’m supposed to be doing research, but instead I’m letting this weird kid with his runny nose ask me nonsense questions. I pretend to think for a moment by pushing my lips out and tapping them with my finger. This is how some grownups switch on their brains. Finally, I stop and look at him again. “I don’t know. Where?”
He presses his finger into the table. “Right here.”
“At the library?” I don’t get it.
He cocks his head. “Are you at the library?”
I look around carefully. “Yyyyes?”
The kid stands back up straight and shakes his head. “You just think you are. I know. I’ve been lost here forever.”
“At the library?” That would be awful. How does someone get lost at the library? Don’t the librarians check to make sure nobody’s still inside when they lock up?
The boy sighs. “No, here. Here. Where we are.”
I am so confused. Then again, this kid doesn’t seem like he’s got all the cards in his deck. He acts like he bet all his marbles on a hail mary play and lost. He’s definitely not from around here, judging by his accent.
He continues to talk. Something inside him got switched on and activated the connection between his brain and his mouth and now whatever bizarre thought passes through one spills out the other. “You lose track of time. I did. And eventually you give up, you see through the mirage and you know where you are, and that’s when it stops trying to pretend to be anything other than what it is. It all just goes away.”
“You can’t see then. There’s no sun, no candles, nothing. You start to wonder if you even exist anymore. Are you breathing? Are you hearing yourself breathe, or are you imagining it? Was there ever really anything to begin with? Your mother... did she ever really exist?”
“My mother?” My mother existed. How would I have been born if she didn’t exist? I miss my mom. I want to cry now.
“And then suddenly there’s the sun, and there’s the ground. But everything’s different. People are different. The world is different. It’s not your world anymore, it’s someone else’s. Someone else has come along after so long you don’t even remember what it’s like to exist anymore. And they believe in the illusion. So it changes to suit them and all you can do is... is... I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, because I want the dream to continue, but I know it’s just a dream--”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. His dead eyes have got a spark of life in them now, but they’ve got a bit of a crazy look in them too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started grinning and clacking his teeth together and his eyes bugged out like one of those creepy wind-up monkeys.
The boy is panting, he’s been talking so fast at me. He sounds kind of ragged, like he gargled some asphalt and washed it down with salt water. “I’m okay. I’m okay now. Because you’re here.”
“But here is nowhere,” I say sarcastically.
“Yes!” now he claps happily, which makes a cloud of flaky grossness come off his filthy shirt sleeves. “You understand! But don’t make it go away. Don’t let the sun go away. Maybe together we can find a way out.”
I’d say this kid already found a way out, if you know what I mean. I pull my yellow pad of paper close to my chest and stick my pencil behind my ear. I keep a close eye on this whacko kid as I close the mythology book. “Look, I gotta go talk to someone else, but this has been fun. Maybe I’ll see you here again. Here being nowhere.”
I tuck the book onto a nearby shelf. That’s not where I got it from, and I’m not supposed to do that, but I just really want to get out of here and away from the fruitcake in the crusty hoodie.
As I walk backward down the aisle toward where the reference desk and the card catalogs are, the boy watches me quietly and his smile uncurls back into a straight line. “If you get out without me, tell Paschar that Ambrose says hullo. Ambrose Viccars. You tell him I didn’t run away.” He starts wiping at his eyes with his crusty sleeve. “Tell him, I’m still here. But please-- please don’t go without me.”
Once I’m far enough away, I turn and sprint to the check out desk. There’s a librarian there, Sean. We know each other. I like books about earthquakes and he likes nose rings and red striped shirts that make him look like Waldo.
“What’s the rush, Lily?” he asks me. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Can I have a day without weird stuff happening? Just one day, please?” I lean against the counter to catch my breath. The weird kid is nowhere to be seen. “I think there’s a teenage hobo living in your history section.”
Sean pushes his glasses back into place and looks in the direction I came from. “Did somebody give you trouble?”
“No, just... wanted to make sure you knew there’s someone else in the library besides me. You know, in case you close up early or something.” I don’t know if they can even do that, close up early. I think they’re required to be open at certain times. Does it matter? There’s a snot-covered boy hiding by the 201 books, and he may not be all there.
And he knew Paschar.
It takes me an hour to get home, because I was halfway there when I realized I left my backpack at the library and had to go back and get it. No sign of the weird boy, Armbone or whatever... thank goodness. Also, I stopped by the bridge over the Dog River and played Pooh sticks. That’s where you toss a stick in the river on one side of the bridge, and then watch for it to come out the other side. You’re supposed to play it with other people, so I just tossed in a bunch of sticks and placed bets with myself on which one I thought would appear first. Wouldn’t you know it, I won.
Once I’m finally home, I walk in the door and Paschar is sitting on the dining room table with a note from Dad about dinner. This has become the new normal, as they say. That means it wasn’t normal before, but now you treat it like it is, even though it isn’t. I hate the new normal. I would like to go back to the old normal. Old normal didn’t have weird, smelly kids coming up to me at the library and babbling about... I don’t even know what.
Paschar asks me what happened at the library. He can tell by my expression that I’ve got something I need to talk to him about.
“There was this gross boy at the library.” I stare at Paschar to try to read his expression but I don’t know why I’m bothering because his face is made of plastic and it never changes. “He said to tell you hello.”
You told him about me? Paschar asks.
“No, he knew you. Not like Felix, who knew of you because of his angel Raziel. This boy knew you like he knew knew you. He said his name was Angelo something. Or Andrew. Amber Victor?”
Ambrose? Paschar’s voice sounds uneasy. Not scared, like when he talks about Samael, just sort of like he’s wary about saying the name. Ambrose Viccars?
“That sounds right.” I drop my backpack and get out my yellow pad of paper to check to see if I wrote it down. There’s nothing but doodles on it. I’m not sure if this was a successful visit to the library. Felix will probably look at my notes and make me go back and read more. I can’t believe I’m taking notes on mythology for the weasel. Old normal, where are you?
Ambrose Viccars can’t be alive.
“Well, what can I tell you?” I shrug, “This is the new normal, remember? Oh wait, that’s right... you don’t remember. This is the old normal to you.”
No, Lily, this is not normal in any way. But maybe it makes sense, if the things you say are happening to you really are happening. Ambrose Viccars disappeared over four hundred years ago. He did not die, he simply vanished.
You know, looking at it in better light, this is a really good pigapotamus. I should make a book full of imaginary animals. I wonder if I could create my own mythology?
Lily, focus. Paschar sounds annoyed.
“Sorry.” I put the pad of paper down.
Oh, that is a good pigapotamus.
I blush. It’s nice that he noticed.
Paschar continues what he was talking about. Ambrose was the youngest person we’d ever... “recruited” you could say, before you. It was a really difficult time back then.
“What was that, pilgrim days?” I ask. “Did they even have plastic dolls back in pilgrim days?”
My totem was made out of a corn husk. Paschar chuckles.
I visualize Paschar with a corncob head and I laugh. It feels good to laugh. I don’t think I’ve laughed since I found out my mom was suddenly dead. Oh. I shouldn’t have thought about that. Why did I do that? I stop laughing and look at my feet. They remind me of standing in front of her grave, so I cry a little. Just a little.
Sorry, Lily, Paschar says. Listen, Ambrose and his mother and almost everyone they knew... they simply vanished without a trace. No death, though disease and other bad things happened a lot back then. We would have known if they died. They didn’t, they just ceased to exist. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. And then she wasn’t. And then they weren’t. We never found out what happened. Believe me, we investigated. Several of us even crossed the veil to look into things first-hand.
“You mean you were here? On Earth? In the flesh?” I wonder what Paschar looks like. Does he look human? Maybe he looks like a cricket with a top hat, like the one in Pinocchio.
Yes, because Ambrose was my connection, I came over. As did Dumah, because of course, if they were dead, he would know. With us was Zaphkiel and Metatron, neither of whom you’ve met. They were mostly there to observe and report.
“Observe and report what?”
The lost colony. Over a hundred people, gone without a trace. You say you saw Ambrose at the library?
“Yeah, he was wearing a hoodie covered with snot and had velcro sneakers. Did they have velcro and snot four hundred years ago?” I become suddenly very aware of my own habit of wiping my nose on my arm when it’s runny. I should stop doing that.
Paschar puts on his bossy voice. Take me to the library.
“But it’s almost dinner time and I haven’t even read this note my dad left--”
Lily, Paschar interrupts, if Ambrose is truly here, we need to know where he’s been all this time. And more importantly, is he here as a harbinger of another vanishing?
I don’t know what that means but it sounds bad. I grab Paschar and stuff him in my backpack so his head is sticking out. He likes to see as we go. When I was little, I didn’t listen as well and I’d just stick him in my backpack and he always complained when I got where I was going and pulled him out. There’s little snack bags of pretzels in the cupboard, so I grab one to munch on along the way. I wish they had more salt. A pretzel’s not a pretzel if you don’t salt it. Also a pretzel’s not a pretzel if you don’t knot it.
Just as I turn to go, there’s a knock at the door. Why didn’t they just use the doorbell? I like the doorbell, it sounds jingly. Knocking on the door is startling. I peek out the mailbox slot but all I see are someone’s legs in brown pants. That’s no help.
“Lily?” Oh, it’s Felix. He must have come by to find out what I learned at the library.
I unlock the door and open it. Felix is standing on the porch in regular clothes. I’m still blown away at him with combed hair and glasses and dressed like he’s a professional with a job and not some weirdo stalker guy you’d expect to see crouching behind a garbage can in a dark alley. Of course, I don’t say that because it would be rude. Paschar knows I’m thinking it though, which means ehhhhh... Felix probably knows I’m thinking it too, since that’s his thing.
“Sorry, Dr. Clay,” I tell him, figuring he knows what I was just thinking.
He ignores it. “Lily, I hope you don’t mind me coming by. Is your father home?”
“Yeah,” I lie, because you should never admit that you’re home alone, especially to a weasel who tries to murder people. But this isn’t that person, this is a therapist. This is my therapist. I don’t know if it’s wrong to lie to him.
“You’re lying,” he says matter-of-factly.
Oh right, he can just... see that. I look at the porch floor. We got a squeaky board with a loose nail and I always step on it without thinking.
Felix steps back, giving me a bit of breathing room. “It doesn’t matter, I’m not here to see him. I need to show you something important. Have you done your research that I suggested yet?”
“Yeah, I was actually on my way back to the library because--” I stop. Do I want to tell him about Ambrose? Oh, right, it doesn’t matter, because if I don’t tell him, it’s a secret and he knows it anyway.
As if to emphasize the point, Felix stares through me for a second and then says simply, “You’ve met someone.”
“Yeah, um... I’ve got to go find him. It’s kind of--”
“Important. Okay. We’ll go together. I can give you a ride.” He pulls out his car keys and jangles them in front of me. He’s actually got a lot of keys on his keychain. Car, office, house I assume, maybe an apartment. What are all the other keys for? Adults keep lots of keys. When I grow up, I’m going to have just two keys. That’s all I think I’ll need.
We should just walk there, says Paschar, but Felix takes my backpack and tosses it in the open window to the passenger seat. Well, I guess that’s decided then. My legs are tired of walking anyway. I’ve already walked there, then halfway back, then back back, then all the way back home again.
Felix’s car is black and shiny. He must get it cleaned regularly, because it smells like it just got picked up from the dealership. I climb in the back because I’m not old enough to ride in the front seat yet. Felix seems baffled by this at first. He looks around before getting in the car, like he’s not sure where I went. I wave at him so he’ll see me, but he doesn’t wave back, he just gets in, buckles his seatbelt (as you always should), starts the car and drives off. I think I see a silhouette in the window of Jamal’s house. I wonder if he was watching. I hope I don’t worry him, getting in some stranger’s car and letting them drive me away.
Getting a ride to the library should cut my travel time down to just minutes, that is, if we were going in the right direction.
“We’re going the wrong way, Dr. Clay.”
I see him look back at me in the rearview mirror. “I know, honey, but I need you to meet my son, Joseph.”
Joseph. The boy from Felix’s locket. The one Meredith accidentally killed in a fire, which set off the whole disaster that was last year. But that was of course in the old normal. Not this new normal where Felix isn’t a magician and a nutjob.
“Why do I need to meet Joseph?” I ask.
Felix sits there, driving quietly. I can hear other cars rush by. I don’t know where we are anymore. I’ve never been to this area. I don’t think we’re even in the same town. It didn’t occur to me that Felix might not live nearby. In the old normal, I’d say that was a good thing. Maybe he lives near Meredith. I wonder if there even is a Meredith in this new normal.
Several minutes go by.
“Dr. Clay, why am I meeting Joseph?” I repeat.
“Because I need you to understand why I can’t let you face Hekate.”
“What? But you said you were going to help me!” Dang it! Why did I get in the car with the weasel? I am so so stupid. I should have walked like Paschar suggested.
“I am going to help you, Lily,” he says with that same awful voice that tormented me last year. I realize now that it was always there, I just ignored it because he was clean-cut and dressed nice and didn’t look like a greasy strangler. “I’m going to help you understand that things now are better this way.”
His hands are shaking on the steering wheel. Maybe he’s got tremors. That’s a thing my Nana had. Her hands used to shake so bad she couldn’t hold a teacup without wearing it.
He starts sounding more manic and frustrated. “I’ve seen the reality you knew. I’ve seen what I am there. I know what you think of me. But most importantly, I know what happens to my Joseph. Your mother is gone, Lily. She’s not coming back. But my Joseph is here. He’s alive. And if I help you, he won’t be. He’ll die horribly. Would you really let that happen to him, knowing you could do nothing and save him?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Clay, but... maybe there’s a way I can get Hekate to make it so my mom’s alive and so is Joseph.”
He stares at me with his weasel eyes from the rearview mirror. “I can’t risk that.”
“Well, introducing me to Joseph isn’t going to change my mind.”
He turns the car off the road we’re on and onto one that’s not as well-paved. The ride turns bumpy and I’m getting tossed up and down, kind of like when I’m riding the bus. I want to throw my hands up and yell “whee!” but I’m just not feeling whee-ful at the moment.
“I thought that might be the case,” Felix says. He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring straight ahead and focused on the road. Or maybe he can’t look at me. “That’s why I rented this car.”
Paschar looks at me from the backpack in the front seat. Lily, he says, when the car slows down... pull the handle and run.
As if he can hear him, Felix turns and looks at the doll. Of course he can’t hear him, but the moment Paschar tells me what to do, Felix knows what I’m planning. I hate his gift of knowing people’s secrets so much. Stupid, stupid angel gift. Felix grabs Paschar and stares at him for a moment. He probably looks like I do when I’m having a conversation with--
“You can go now, Paschar,” he snarls, then throws Paschar out the open window.

That reminds me of a story.
“WELL, YOU COULD HAVE CALLED! We were worried sick! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
Beth rips into me as I stumble back late the next morning with a near death-dealing hangover.
“Mea Culpa. I didn’t have your number, and last I checked, you’re not my mother.” I told her.
“That’s a good thing too. I’d have raised you better. Drinking, smoking, hanging around such disreputable characters like that Fred St. Bernard…” She shrilly screams in my tinnitus-ravaged ear.
“OK, Beth. You done? Good. Listen up and listen closely.” I sweetly say.
“Yes? What? What have you to say for yourself?” Beth demands.
“Listening? Good. GET STUFFED! I have had it with your sanctimony, your hypocrisy, your duplicity, and your bucolic buffoonery. I just got my tent back and as of this minute, you and your so-called hospitality can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut on a gravel road. I am so outta here! Adi-fucking-os!” I yell back as I stomp off the porch and back to my truck.
“Bitch. $80 a month for birdfeed, stupid movies, and lectures? Fuck that.” I muse.
I pull my truck back to its usual spot, clean up my campsite, and drag my tent out of the back of the truck. An hour later, I’m lying on my Army cot, nursing a killer headache, and a cold morning boilermaker.
Jerry knocks on my tent and I wave him in.
“We warned ya’”, Jerry says.
“Yeah. I’ll be sure to listen the next time. What do I owe you for the tent fix?”
“Well, yeah. We need to talk about that. But first…” Jerry continues.
“You want me out of here because I blew my stack, right? “ I wearily ask.
“Oh, hell no. That’s the most entertainment we’ve had around here in years. Rolling doughnut? That’s creative. No. I need to ask you if you would do some house-sitting for me next month.” He explains.
“Once more, with clarity?” I ask.
“Bets and I are headed down to South Padre next month on vacation. We go every year, and usually, just have one of the guys here look after my place. Since you’re here and in need of a spot to crash, I figure we can help each other out.” Jerry says.
“Sure, absolutely no problem. Oh, wait. My girlfriend from back home, who is out in West Texas right now, is coming to visit. Is that a problem?” I ask.
“None whatsoever. She’s just as welcome. Stuff anyone here who has a problem with that.” Jerry says.
“Consider it an honor. Now, back to business. What are the damages for my tent?” I ask, flinchingly.
“Rock, take care of my place and I’ll consider it even. The shoemakers in Albuquerque fixed your tent but it looks like a refugee from a carnival. They’re good cobblers, but have lousy taste in patches. Gingham and tartan clash with gray-green marine canvas.” He snickers.
“It is a bit…Bohemian.” I agree, “But at least I’ve got another batch of stories to tell my kids.”
“Always look on the bright side of life, right?” Jerry chuckles.
“Always.” I agree, “Either that or go fuckin’ nuts.”
I decided that since the day’s already shot and I’m getting there as well, I might just as well spend the remaining time working on my reports, my hoped-to-be published articles and collating my rock collections.
I’m actually getting some work done when I hear the most disorderly noises, that is, other than the usual one-note descants of the huge diesel compressors and whining turbines.
I look over in front of the turbine shed and there’s Ace, atop a large backhoe, bashing the hell out of the parched desert floor.
“Now what?” I wonder.
I wander over there’s Long John, Rufus, and Danny standing there watching Ace try and dig a hole for some reason or other.
Danny sees me and brusquely walks away.
No skin off my shiny, red nose; I think.
“John, what the hell’s going on here?”
“We need to dig some containment trenches around the compression equipment. This ground’s harder than a wedding dick. It’s going to be a slow go,” he explains.
I stand there for a while and think this might be an opportunity to restore my good graces with all and sundry.
“Be back in a few”, I tell him.
I find Jerry and explain my idea.
“Oh, yeah. It’ll save a ton of time. Just give me the go-ahead…”
“Hell, yeah. You got it. But I want to watch.” He grins.
“Hell, you can push the plunger.” I smile back.
I wander back to the excavation and ask Ace to shut down and come over here.
He does so as the rest of the crew gathers around.
“OK, fellas. I just talked with Jerry and got the green light on this. I’m going to save you all a bunch of time and effort.” I say.
“How’s that?” Chance asks.
“Well, you lay out the perimeters of these trenches, and I’ll bring over my little box of noisemakers and bust up all this hardpan so it’ll be easy scooping for the backhoe,” I tell them.
“Blasting, right here on the compound?” Derek asks.
“Yep. Not a problem.” I say.
“We’ll see about that”, John chuckles.
They use a couple of my cans of orange spray paint to lay out the outline of the trenches they want. I know they have a gas post-hole digger and with just a 2” bit, it’ll chew shot holes like nobody’s business. Ace and Derek man the post-hole digger, while I bring my truck around and sit on the tailgate, smoking a cigar, while I ponder it all out.
Think, think, think…
John lopes over. “What you gonna use? C-4? Binaries?” he asks.
“Nah. That’s like swatting a mosquito with a Buick. I think if I can ripple-up some Primacord and about a quarter or half stick of 60% per hole, I can loosen all this earth and not send it into the next county.” I reply.
“Need some help? “ John asks.
“John, I would say yes, but unfortunately you’re not licensed. I need to go by the book every time. Sorry, but this is one time I have to go it alone.” I frankly reply.
“OK. Gotcha.” John replies. “I’ll go supervise our drillers then.”
“Thanks for understanding, John,” I say.
“Fuck it. No problem, Rock.” He tells me.
The holes are all drilled and I clear everyone out for some test firings.
Jerry runs out of the office and yells: “Hey! Thought you said I could handle the plunger!”
“Just a few tests, Jerry. The big show will be in another couple of hours.” I reassure him.
I decide that a third stick of 60% Extra Fast will be just what I need for this little job. I begin chopping up the dynamite and inserting the blasting caps and boosters. I’m going to need a shitload of these as I plan on doing this all in one shot.
“One job, one shot.” As Uncle Bår taught me.
Holes drilled, I ask everyone to keep back while I prime each hole with a charge. John sees me backfilling the charged hole and asks if he can help backfill.
Technically, it’s not handling explosives, so I figure, “What the hell, why not?”
I show him how I need each hole tamped and he just smiles.
“Ain’t my first rodeo, buckaroo.” John grins.
“Just the same, it’s my party and it’s got to be done just like I showed you. We green?” I scowl back.
“Green?” John asks.
“We on the same page?” I say
“Oh, yeah. Totally green.” John smiles.
I plant my little noisemakers one per hole. John follows me with a spade and does an excellent job backfilling and tamping each hole. I shoo everyone out as I’m about to run the Primacord and demolition wire.
“OK, someone go get Jerry, please,” I ask the crew.
Ace runs off and I have a full spool of Primacord and demolition wire sitting in front of me. I pull out my US Standard blasting machine and set it out for all to see.
Jerry arrives and I say: “OK, everyone here. If you want to hang around for the show, you’ll listen up and listen well.”
Everyone looks at me curiously.
“Here’s the deal. Over this patch of real estate, I’m the boss. No one else does anything without my say-so. We’re not dealing with Black Cats or bottle rockets here, this is some serious shit. Any problems with that, then leave now. Otherwise, listen up for the safety lecture.” I intone seriously.
“OK, good.” I run through my 4-compass point clear routine. Then the air horn, or truck horn, in this case, tootles. Finally with my FIRE IN THE HOLE! mantra. How I say clear, and if all clear, HIT IT!
I tell them Jerry drew the long straw so he’s going to handle the plunger.
I tell them to stay back at least 100 yards while I wire up all the charges. I also ask if there are any pets or feral cows running around loose to corral them for the time being.
“OK?” I ask.
Some muffled “Ok”s drift my way.
“OK!?!” I shout.
“OK! ROCK! SIR!”
That’s more like it.
I wire up all the shots and plan for a front-to-back ripple-effect detonation. Basically, north-to-south, one shot, 30 milliseconds, then the next, and so forth.
After 15 minutes I call everyone over and tell them that next to the diesel shed is the muster area. That way, we can all see what’s going on and be protected if something goes awry.
“We set? “ I ask the assembled crowd.
“Yep.” Came the reply.
“OK, then.” I walk out to a clearing in the yard and call for the clear information.
“Clear north?”
“Clear!”
South, east, and west follow.
I give the high sign to Ace and he hits my truck horn for three long blasts.
I walk the demolition wire leads over to the blasting machine, and wire it up.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE! we all yell.
They were really getting into the spirit of the event.
I pull up the handle of the blasting machine, point to Jerry, and yell “HIT IT!”
He tries to knock the bottom out of the machine as I had coached him.
The results were especially anticlimactic.
PUMPH! PUMPH! PUMPH!
One after another, the charges detonate. The ground undulates like a rug being shaken out in a stiff breeze.
Every shot fired, and each shot was in sequence. I caution everyone to wait a while until I make sure we don’t have any loafers; or unfired shots.
“ALL CLEAR!” I yell.
Ace jumps up on the backhoe and begins clearing out what I just broke up.
“Easy as pie!” He yells.
350’ of trenches were completed by beer-thirty.
Everyone on the crew, save for one, was now my best-est buddy.
The next day, I decided to get back to the problem at hand. I’m back out in the field, mapping outcrops, taking samples, photographing and recording data as if there’s no tomorrow.
I’m out wandering around who-knows-where, when I see an old claim marker lying piled up in a dry wash. It’s a two by two-inch-thick square of stout wood, about four feet long, with a rusty metal plate secured to it recording a mining claim which had long ago expired.
It has a nice heft and I decide this will make fine walking stick.
I take it with me and resolve to do a little carpentry when I get back to camp.
I’m out wandering like a member of one of the lost tribes when I hear a distant BOOM!
I look around and see a column of black smoke coming from one of the shallow oilfields that dot the county.
“I can’t miss this,” I think and hotfoot it back to my truck.
I chuck all my kit into the back and taking my bearings, driving overland over to the source of all the excitement. It was further than I thought, took me almost a full hour to get there.
I wheel up to this tiny oilfield, no more than five shallow wells, to see this character lounging on the hood of a Gas Company pickup. Smoking a cigarette.
“Hello, the field!” I shout.
“Hello, back.” He shouts.
I wander over and introduce myself.
“Yeah, Rock, ‘eh? Heard about you. I’m Josh Spanner, field superintendent.”
“That right? What’s going on?” I ask.
“Oh, one of these little Todilto oil wells popped a seal. Either that or the ARM (Aboriginal Rights Movement) set it off again.” He seemed completely indifferent.
“Happen often?” I asked.
“More then I care to remember.” He says.
“What’s the rate on these wells? “ I ask.
“Hell, more water than oil and gas. About 50 barrels per day, with a 60% water cut.” He says.
“What are you going to do? “ I ask.
“Well, the control head’s in good shape. If I could get to the main control valve, I could kill it there, but it’s too damned hot. So, I either wait until it bridges over and kills itself or the company tells me to shoot it out.” He says.
“Shoot it out? Explosives?” I smile.
“Yeah, but I don’t have them with me. I have to radio the Torreon office and they’ll run them out. Hell of a waste. These little wells never bridge themselves over...” He replies.
“Maybe I could be of service”, I say and show him my blaster’s permits.
“Cool. Permits. Not any good without the bang sticks.” He says.
“Oh, I’ve got a few of those too, if you want to borrow some,” I reply.
“Here?” he asks.
“Right in the back of that pickup. What do you need? ANFO, Semtex, PETN, C-4, dynamite, small strategic nuclear device?” I ask, barely concealing a broad grin.
“Let’s go look.” He says.
He radios the main office and gets the go-ahead to blow it out.
“OK, Rock. Here’s what we need.” He tells me, as this is something excitedly new.
We take an old 5-gallon oil can Josh had rolling around the bed of his truck and cut a window into the side. We pack it with wet paper, rags, and weeds, anything we can find to center and insulate the payload. We find a wooden pole about 15 feet long and pound a couple of stakes in the ground to act as a pivot point. I help him load three lengths of C-4, rolled into snakes, wrapped around an old piece of wood, into the guts of the 5-gallon oil can.
I wire up blasting caps and super-boosters, galving everything as I go, as we’re only going to have one shot at this. The whole shebang is rolled in multiple layers of duct tape. It’s fireproof, right?
I run the demolition wires back to the rear of my pickup and pull out the electrical blasting machine.
Luckily, there’s still enough reservoir pressure to shoot the oil, gas, and water out at such a velocity that the fire’s dancing about three feet above the wellhead. That’s our target, high enough that the blast won’t take out the wellhead and low enough to POOF all the oxygen out of the way and snuff the fire.
“OK, Rock. Here’s the deal. I’ll swing the can into the oil stream and the force of the fluids should hold it in place, like a balloon in a jet airstream. I’ll run back here to your truck. You see me clear, you push that big red button. If all goes well, I’ll owe you a beer. OK?” Josh says.
“Green” I reply.
Josh smiles. Thumbs up. A fellow pyromaniac.
Josh takes the pole with the payload heavily duct-taped into place and looks back to me.
I give him the high OK sign, and he swings the contraption into the fluid stream. It settles there, static in the spurting oil stream and just wobbles around a bit.
The fire dances around a bit annoyed that it’s going to be snuffed shortly.
We hope.
Josh releases it and gets ready to run. First, he checks that everything looks like it’s going to hold and hotfoots it back to my truck.
He runs back and yells “HIT IT!”
I hit it. Mash goes the big red button.
KER-BOOM!
Then it’s suddenly a lot quieter as we hear just the fluid stream spurting out of the well, but no fire.
“I’ll take a cold Lucky Lager”, I smile.
Josh waits until things cool down enough for him to approach the well without getting cooked. He takes a large brass wrench, to avoid any sparks, and slowly cranks the control valve to the ‘closed’ position.
“Job done. I’m afraid I don’t have any beer on me…” Josh says.
I’m just finishing locking up my blaster’s box. So I drag my cooler forward and say: “Good thing for you, geologists always travel prepared.” And I toss him a cold Lucky.
We sit and chat for a good while and he tells me he’s Javen Spanner’s nephew.
“Spanner’s a big name out here, in more ways than one.” Evidently the tri-county area’s just filled with Spanners of one sort or another.
“I’m finding that out” I reply.
Back at camp, I’m carving on my new walking stick. Now, I’m not much of a woodcarver, but I try. Long John wanders over, skootches me over on the tailgate, opens the cooler, grabs a beer and sits down.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Oh, I found this old claim marker. I thought it was pretty cool and would make a good walking stick. Good for smacking any rattle-nasties I come across, too.” I tell him.
“You may be a dab hand at geology, but you can’t carve wood worth shit,” John observes.
“Yeah. I have to agree. Oh, help yourself to a beer. Oh, never mind.” I smirk.
“Tell you what. For all the beer and helping on the trenches, leave it with me. I’m a carpenter, among other things, I’ll make it all pretty and nice for you. How’s that?” he says.
I toss him the ‘short standard’, as that’s what they were called.
“It’s all yours. All I’m doing is making kindling.” I lament.
“Give me a couple of days. And another beer.” He smiles.
Jerry shows up and tells me I’ve got a phone call back in the office.
I’m thoroughly confused. Who could be calling me? And at that number?
“Hello, Rock? Javen Spanner here. I heard what you did with Josh out at Todilto Field. Can you come over tonight for supper?”
“I’d be delighted. How about an hour or so?” I ask.
“Fine, fine. You know the way. See ya’.” and hangs up.
I wander over to my truck and see most all the usual crew helping themselves to my beer supply.
“You pikers. Shoo! I have an audience with Mister Javen Spanner. GIT! so I can change.”
The pikers shoo, and after a quick shower, and more shit about my fuzzy-bunny slippers, I’m headed over to the Spanner Ranch.
I arrive and am ushered into Javen’s office. The drinks cart is already there.
Javen looks up from the paperwork and tells me: “Rock. You did good work. I own a good piece of that field. You saved me a load of money in lost production and charges to service companies to blow out that fire.”
“Not a problem, Javen. I learned some new tricks from Josh. It was my pleasure.” I said.
“Now, none of that. Josh’ll be here shortly for supper. First, I want to thank you proper.”
And he hands me a box of incredible Cuban double maduro cigars.
“Thanks, Javen. Most appreciated.” I say.
“No, thanks to you. Now, don’t just stand there, get yourself a drink. I’ll have a double bourbon and branch, neat.” Javen gives me my marching orders.
I return with drinks and Javen tells me “That’s not enough. Is there anything you need right now? Anything other way I can show my appreciation?”
“Javen, I really appreciate it. But, no, I’m good.” I tell him.
“Bullshit.” He says, “You like western wear. Need a new Stetson? Duster? A couple of tailored shirts? I own a dozen trading posts, I can get anything. ”
“No. Thanks.” Then a thought hits, “Javen, my girlfriend is coming over the first part of August and she’s really into riding horses. She always wanted her own saddle, but those things are bloody expensive. If you could find me a good deal on a used Western saddle, I’d really be grateful for that.” I said.
“Hmmm. And what’s this lucky girl’s name” Javen asks.
“It’s Esme. Short for Esmeralda. Her parents are very German. Why?” I reply.
“Oh, just wondering”, Javen replies, “Just wondering.”
After another sumptuous supper, we’re all sitting in the drawing-room, Javen and I smoking fine cigars, Eunice her pipe, and Josh his cigarettes.
“Good work, you two” Javen says. “I like people that can think on their feet.”
We both smile and respond in kind. Small talk ensued for an hour or two.
“OK, last call gents. Early day tomorrow, we all need to get back home.” Javen says.
We drink up, say our goodbyes, and Javen pulls me over before I leave.
“Come back over here in a week or so. I need to talk to you some more, in private. It’s important.”
Bewildered, I reply “OK, sure Javen. See you sometime next week then.”
I was profoundly puzzled all the way back to the pump station and well into the night.
I decided the next day would be reptile wrangling day. I took my new capture stick, which was a length of dowel rod with a loop of fishing line formed into a lasso at the end, where you held the other end of the line to activate the snare. I also had a burlap sack for any captured critters, a jar of formalin and hypo with one of those evil-looking needles for preserving my captured quarry.
I went out to likely looking reptile haunts and walked around, quietly waiting for my victims to appear.
And appear they did after I got smart and just sat down and quit lumbering around.
Man, those little buggers were fast. They really earned their common name of “6-lined race runners”. It took me a good portion of the day to snag my first lacertilian.
Then I thought about it. That critter was transfixed on a bug and I was able to sneak up on it without spooking it. I remember reading, or seeing on Wild Kingdom that waving a piece of cloth distracts some reptiles, allowing one to snare them.
I tried it out with a hunk of gunny sack. Didn’t work worth a damn.
Then I tried with a piece of an old red bandanna I had.
It worked!
By the end of the day, covering a span of probably 10 miles, I had snagged over 30 of the little bastards.
But only one species. Dr. Nax wanted a representative fauna, not just a monospecific collection.
Talking with Long John that night, after he pilfered a beer and skootched me over on the tailgate, I asked him about snakes in the area.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tripped over one yet.” He said.
“I wish. They’re like cash in the bank, all I need to do is find them.” I replied.
“Tell you what, we’ll go out after work tomorrow. Don’t even have to drive anywhere. I’ll show you all the snakes you could possibly desire.” he says.
“If that’s not worth a cold beer, what is?” I say.
Another day of mapping and collecting rocks, I drag my weary carcass back to camp. I go to grab a beer when Long John shows up.
“Here.” As he tosses me my walking stick.
“Holy shit, John. It’s beautiful” I note.
He carved that stick into intricate geometric designs and the word “ROCK” on all four sides.
Down one side he carved: “Naabaahii bilh gish joogaat bii nizhoni da'ahijiga yea-go ch’į́įdiitah hodook’ą́ą́ł”. “Warrior with big stick walk with all his might, hell follows with him.”
I really like that.
He carved around the polished metal claim marker tag, which made it really sparkle. It was varnished with several thick coats of gym-finish lacquer. It had a hole drilled through near the top where he looped some rawhide as a lanyard, and a metal point at the business end to assure sure footing on slippery shales.
“Damn. Let me buy you a beer.” I said, “Man. Mucho appreciado, mate.”
“No worries. I figure I owed you after all the shit you’ve been through, especially with those cattle. But those fucking slippers…damn…they have got to go…” John chuckled.
“They were a gift from my girlfriend. They stay. And you get another beer.” I laughed.
I pull on my field boots and we walk out back of the plant compound where there was an old junkyard of sorts. All kinds of loose debris laying around.
“OK, Long John. We’re here. Snake me.” I said.
“You asked for it.” He laughs and pulled up a sheet of loose corrugated tin.
“Holy shit!” I yell and jump back.
There was a nest of Western Diamondback Rattlers living under there.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawpin’. Show ‘em your degrees. Collect ’em!” John laughs.
Fuck. This is going to require some serious research.
“Let’s go back to camp. I think I need a drink” I say.
“Your call, Bwana” John chuckles. “Great white hunter. HA!”
It was surprisingly cool the next day as I awoke disgustingly early with a singular mission in mind. Today would be the day I conquer the grim Mt. Badass. I figured I’d saddle up and get out there on location and up the massif before my horse-riding friend would even know I’m there.
At least that was my plan.
Off to the grim Mount Badass. I was finally going to get that sucker mapped and be able to correlate my other measured sections. This was an imperative; I was struck with a fixity of purpose.
Plus I had a secret weapon.
I arrive at the grim Mt. Badass and dispense with formalities. I suit up for the assault on the monolith, grab all my necessary gear, and start up the side. I had measured about two-thirds of this monster previously, so if I can get an hour or two of undisturbed…
“Jingle, jangle, jingle.” I hear.
“Oh, fuck. It can’t be…”
It was.
Out of nowhere, my unsmiling Indian companion appears out of the æther.
I try and ignore him and make as if I cannot hear his protestations. I keep working on the task at hand and measure, measure, measure, up, up, up; closer to the summit.
Back down by my truck, Tonto is having conniptions. He was literally jumping up and down, stomping on the ground, pointing at me and rattling off native language like a punch press set to self-destruct.
Only 10 or so meters to go. Time to deploy my secret weapon.
I stop measuring and recording, look at him and yell as loudly as I can: “Haʼátʼíísh?”
“WHAT?!?”
Jerry had loaned me his copy of the Native Indian Language: English dictionary and gazetteer.
My Indian companion shuts up and just stares at the seitan, another of their words for devil, who spoke back to him in his own language.
Unfortunately, that only lasted a few seconds.
He starts right back where he left off with even more enthusiasm.
I continue to measure this important, imperative section, and try to ignore him.
I was going to do this correctly as I did not know if I’d ever have this chance again, so I concentrated on my task and let him go nuts by his own self.
Another 5 meters to go. I’m almost there.
Then a rock thumps into the side of the grim Mount Badass only a few feet from me. It startles me so much, I lose my footing temporarily, and a cascade of loose shale bounces down the slope.
“What the actual fuck?” I think.
Tonto’s decided I’m deaf or just ignoring him. He obviously wants my attention.
I look at him square in the eye and yell: “Diyin Bizaadísh tʼáá aaníí ákótʼé?” “What is the problem?”
This really unnerves him and he decides that what he’s doing might not be the best of ideas.
Back to plan one: screaming and yelling.
“In for a dime, in for a dollar.” I think. I continue mapping and trying to ignore him.
I’m getting closer and closer to the summit and my Indian companion is getting closer and closer to a full-blown apoplexy attack. It’s not like I’m forcing him to stand there and go non-linear.
He continues yelling and I return the volley every time there’s a lull in his squawking I yell back: “Akóó níláahdi naníchʼį́įdii!”
“Go away!”
Glad I had written these key phrases in my field notebook.
Finally, I reach the summit.
I did it! I was done! I had conquered the grim Mount Badass!
I sit up on the summit, just take a in a couple of deep breaths and enjoy the view. It was magnificent. Flat, high desert semi-badland topography, but I still thought it looked superlative.
I pack up all my samples, field book, restore my Brunton compass to its leather pouch home on my belt, and begin the slow, hazardous climb down.
I may have conquered this edifice, but it could still deal me a raw hand if I didn’t watch what I was doing.
I finally make it to the bottom and turn to address my adversary.
“You were good, kid, real good. But I was better. However, I do thank you,” I say reverently and bow to the grim Mt. Badass. This place was making a definite impression on me.
Meanwhile, my Indian friend was right next to me, yelling his native language in my ear.
I turn suddenly. He jumps back as if I was going to attack, but that would never happen. I scowl as frightfully as I could letting him know that I knew I breached local customs, but I still wasn’t happy with him screaming at me every time I turned around.
I just stomp over to my truck, open the tailgate, and begin tossing my gear inside. I was done here and wanted to make a quick getaway.
My Indian friend follows me and continues to provide the lurid narrative.
I toss in my Jacob’s Staff, climbing gear, hard hat climbing sombrero, gloves, backpack, collected rocks, hammers, and reach for the cooler.
Then an idea strikes.
I look at my notes and there it is. Just what I was looking for.
I pull open the tailgate and drag forth the cooler. Tonto continues being unhinged.
I grab an icy Lucky Lager, pull it out, and thrust it, forcefully, right under Tonto’s nose.
“Wóshdę́ę́ʼ!” I yell.
“HERE!”
To be continued...

My name’s Magnum Glock and I’m a private detective. In my line of work there’s usually not a line at my door. It’s a fickle business, and I gotta take the good jobs as well as the bad if I wanna survive. But sometimes I take the occasional odd job. I don’t mean taking out the elderly neighbor’s trash, or mowing a few lawns, no. I mean the truly odd jobs. Like the one I’m going to tell you about.
I’d been reclining at my desk with my feet propped up on a yellowing mass of unpaid bills when a busty blonde bombshell made her way past my half-sleeping bodyguard/assistant/secretary/doughnut-fetcher and sauntered through my office door. She caught me entirely off guard. So did her massive tits. Hey, what can I say? I’m a tit guy, so fucking sue me.
I’d been drinking a reluctant hangover into submission, puzzling over the newspaper’s crossword as I sipped steaming-hot black coffee. I dumped another slug of whiskey into the chipped and stained blue mug that boldly proclaimed that I was a #1 COP! I always found that mug comically ironic.
It had been a gift from an ex. An ex-con with an ugly mug of his own. Walter “Crowbar” Milligan had come to me after after he’d made parole, looking for a job. Crowbar was one of the few I’d sent down that wild and raging river, but he swam back to shore and thankfully never jumped back in again. Truth is, Crowbar has a good heart and a soft spot for his mama. When she couldn’t afford her heart pills, he burst through the front doors of the Main Street bank waving a gun around and demanding small bills. Luckily for him the gun he’d been pointing at the terrified tellers was nothing more than a kid’s toy. The jackass hadn’t even bothered to paint over the orange tip of the barrel. Since the gun wasn’t real, and also because the judge was in litigation with that same bank, he got what amounted to a slap on the wrist. Two years in Packard State Prison. He’d earned his nickname when another con locked his keys in his locker and asked him for help. He simply pried the door open, - yep, like a crowbar - popping the lock with a pair of massive and furry gorilla hands that betrayed his tender little heart. Yeah, to say Crowbar is a big fella is an understatement. He’s almost seven feet tall, three hundred pounds, and blacker than molasses. I’ve seen him snap a pool cue one-handed, but he wouldn’t say “boo!” to a housefly.
He’d made the mistake of trying to rob the joint on my day off. Well, it was supposed to be my day off. I’d been called in to cover for the rheumy old fart that usually pulled guard duty but had died over the weekend. Fucking bastard couldn’t have waited ‘til Tuesday to kick the bucket? I missed my favorite goddamn TV shows.
When I saw Crowbar stumble through the door, tugging at a ski-mask that barely covered his massive square head, I knew the guy wasn’t a seasoned criminal. When you’ve been a beat cop for fifteen years, and a detective for ten, you can usually spot the amateurs and the pros. Crowbar was most definitely the former.
When I saw his gun I knew it was fake, but I’d been trained not to take chances. There’s nothing stopping a crook from painting the tip of a real gun orange. Usually, I’m a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later kind of guy, but my instincts told me that one swift crack upside that goofy fucking head of his would be sufficient. And it was. He hadn’t noticed me sitting in a corner of the lobby thumbing through a discarded Reader’s Digest. He had his back to me, and in three of four quick strides I was close enough to whack him in the head with a baton. He crumpled to the ground like a sack of dead, wet kittens.
I remember sitting there next to him waiting for the cavalry to show up. After I’d handcuffed him and checked him for more toys, I asked him why in the hell he’d rob a bank. He began to tell me about his poor, sweet mama (rest in peace Gertrude, I miss your apple pie) and he started blubbering and bawling. I knew he’d only done what he did out of desperation and a willingness to make a sacrifice for his mother, so I legitimately felt sorry for him. Crowbar’s a little on the slow side, so he had a hard time finding work. While he was away at Packard, I’d go see “Mama” Gertrude every weekend, and I’d take her shopping and help her around the house. I had a mama once, too, and I’d always felt bad about our last words together, so I suppose that taking care of Crowbar’s mama while he was gone was my way of paying a little penance. I’d go and see him once a month on visiting day, and take him some smokes and candy bars, too. Like I said, penance. When he first came up for parole, I put in a few good words with the warden, and a month later he was on my payroll. I wish I was.
He’s been with me now for six years, and in my line of work, he’s what we call a heavy. That little stint in Packard toughened him up. With little else to do but lift weights and defend yourself, I think it would toughen you up, too.
Now, back to that damsel in distress.
She was a hot mess, that one. Petunia Flowers. I shit you not, that chick’s name was Petunia Marigold Flowers. I never actually asked, but either her parents were florists or hippies. Maybe both. She was a little self-conscious about that name, so she went by Mary. Which was fine by me, because I found her maiden name fucking hilarious.
She looked like one of those pin-up girls from the 60’s. Silky blonde hair so curly you wanted to just bury your face in it and take a nap. Stunning and cat-like emerald-green eyes. Cute button-nose, Shirley Temple dimples, and lips so bloody red you’d think she’d just finished sucking the blood from another hapless victim. And man, those tits! Double-D’s. She couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-ten or twenty, and I bet a quarter of that was those glorious bouncing boobs.
When she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble right from the start. She wore a hot pink business suit that looked like it had been painted on from the ass up, hot pink stilettos, and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. An unfiltered Camel cigarette clung desperately to her reddened lips, unlit. She sat down primly in the only chair across from my desk, crossed her creamy white legs and removed her shades. She appraised me with a lustful eye for a moment and said she needed my help in a thick Yankee accent.
“My name’s Petunia Flowers, and I hear you’re the best damned private detective around. You gotta light?” She leaned forward and pouted those luscious lips, her cigarette trembling in anticipation of my fire.
I met her gaze and reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved my own smokes. On a budget like mine, I was a Winston man. I shook one out of the pack, retrieved my trusty bronze Zippo from the same drawer where Mr. Jack Daniel’s sat waiting for me, and lit up. I cupped the flame, and led it to her. She took a deep drag and chuffed a thick plume of smoke into the air.
“Oh my gawd, that’s so much better,” she said, batting her long curled eyelashes as she spoke. “I am in urgent need of your services, and I can pay you five thousand dollars right now to take this job.” And with that, she reached into her shirt between her breasts, and withdrew a thick, yellow envelope and tossed it onto my desk. I picked it up slowly, and I could tell by the weight of it that it was almost entirely fifty-dollar bills. I loosened the clasp and peeked inside, and sure enough, a thick wad of dead presidents were nestled inside, smiling at me.
Five grand’s a lot of bread. I hadn’t taken a new case in weeks. This was roughly what I’d take home in a half-year. Well, minus taxes, Crowbar’s salary, incidentals and Jack Daniel’s.
I eyed her suspiciously and began to ask for the pertinent details, but before I could speak she added: “And there’s another five thousand when you complete the job.”
Now, I’m no fool. I wasn’t about to turn down any job for ten grand. But a situation like this calls for careful consideration, scrutiny, tact, and brevity. I thought very carefully, weighing my words cautiously, and only spoke after deliberating with the professionalism that is expected of someone faced with a monumental decision of such significance.
“So, what’s the job?”
She blinked and studied me warily. “It’s not a job that I need you to do. It’s a problem that I need you to fix. A big problem! I’m at my wit’s end and I don’t know how much more I can take!” Her eyes began to moisten and the back of her smoking hand went to her forehead. Her voice was shrill and nasal. She sounded like of those telemarketers calling to ask if I’d like to donate a dollar to the starving pygmy tribes of Bimboland. She took another deep drag of her cigarette and continued.
“My husband, you see, he’s out of control! At first, I enjoyed his experiments. I loved spending time with him in the lab. But then he created them and now they’re ruining everything! His career, our home, and our lives are in peril because of what he’s done! I fear that even the entire world could be in danger if we don’t stop them!” Her eyes were now brimming with tears, threatening to spill over long, thick lashes slathered in mascara.
“Hold on a second,” I asked incredulously. “By them, who exactly are you talking about, Mary?”
Her eyes bored through me fixedly as tears spilled forth and made a bee-line down her cheeks. Her ample bosom heaved as she drew another slow burn of the cigarette. She held it in for a moment, rolled her eyes in frustration and spewed smoke as she cried out: “Those goddamned Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns from the Underworld! They’re ruining EVERYTHING!”
This crazy broad had uttered those words just as I’d taken a healthy swig of Jack-laced mud from the mug. You know those comical scenes in films where somebody spews their beverage all over the fucking place when someone else says something absolutely bonkers? Yeah, that happened to me. There’s only one thing worse than wasting coffee, and that’s wasting good whiskey. Mary lucked out, because I turned my head quickly enough to miss her, but not quickly enough to avoid splattering coffee all over my desk. Crowbar was gonna love cleaning that shit up.
I yanked my handkerchief from my shirt-pocket, wiped my lips and chin clean and attempted to dab at the spritz on the desk and gave up. I was still laughing, and the burning sensation of whiskey leaking from my nostrils certainly wasn’t helping matters any. Once I’d regained my composure, I had to hear this again, just to be sure that she did indeed say what I thought she said.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
She looked at me as if I was a rack of yard tools at Home Depot. “Did I stutter, dick?”
Now, everyone knows that “dick” is a common slang word for a private investigator. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been that way. But the way she said it wasn’t respectful at all. She was peering at me with those piercing green eyes of hers, her mouth pouting and pert, and I became genuinely uncomfortable. Not because of her stare, but because that stare had gotten the attention of the other dick in the room.
“I’m sorry, Mary. But, I think I may have misheard you. Did you say something about midgets and clowns?” I rubbed the back of my neck, still sore from passing out in this reclining office chair last night.
“Yes. That’s right. Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.” She huffed as if she’d said something commonplace. Like Girl-Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“From the, uh, underworld, you say?” I tried not to sound incredulous, but I really couldn’t help it. That’s not true. I could help it. What I really wanted to tell Mary was that she was bat-shit crazy, but ten grand is ten grand. I momentarily toyed with the idea that if I completed this job I could afford to give Crowbar a raise, but after careful consideration I came to the conclusion that he’d be far happier with a case of Coors and a carton of smokes.
“Yes.” she blurted, exasperated. “From The Underworld. And I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t look at me as if I were crazy. I’m not crazy! Far from it! Look, I’ll show you!”
She stood up and began to fumble in her large red purse. It looked more like a bowling ball bag if you ask me, but what the hell do I know about lady’s purses and bowling ball bags? Not a damn thing. She whips out her phone and begins to tap away on the screen, swipes a few times, and then thrusts it in front of my face.
“Now, you just look! You look at what those little bastards have been up to! And then you tell me if I’m crazy or not!”
I’ve seen some crazy shit in my day, let me tell you. But nothing could have prepared me for the scene that unfolded before me on her phone. At first, I thought maybe I was looking at some computer generated animation or something, you know, like they use to make those superhero movies? Because this was quite literally the most bizarre and confusing thing I have ever laid eyes on. I did completely understand, however, why she called them Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.
There were three of these, people? No. Beings? No. Creatures? Maybe.
I don’t know what you’d call them, but here’s how they appeared to me:
They were about three feet tall. So, midgets?
Check.
Their hair was bright red and frizzy, and they were wearing baggy white jumpsuits. And, no shit, these little fucker’s faces appeared to be covered in garish white and red paint and they were wearing big, red rubber noses. So, clowns?
Check.
They were leaping and dodging and flailing around, cat-like and fluid. Graceful. Just like, well, ninjas. One of them was wildly swinging a sword (katana?) around, the second one had a pair of nun-chucks that he whipped through the air, and the third had a long staff that he was using to poke and prod at a large, frightened sheepdog as it attempted to evade them all. So, ninjas?
Check.
But, rednecks? You’re goddamn right! These silly shits were sporting over-sized cowboy boots and hats, and spitting brown (tobacco?) juice all over the place. Just watching that little scene made me feel like I had just dropped a double-dose of LSD and tuned into a Disney film made for the entertainment of the criminally insane. It literally made my fucking eyes hurt.
“You see? You see what I mean? Those bastards are destroying everything in sight! You thought I was crazy, didn’t you? But you see now, don’t you? DON’T YOU?!” She was nearly spitting as she spoke. She sat back down, looking smugly satisfied and entirely out of breath. Well, her tits were out of breath at least, judging by their heaving.
I brought my friend Jack Daniel’s out from his resting place in the top drawer, and filled the mug. I drained it in two gulps. I fumbled for a cigarette, brought it to my lips and sparked the Zippo. I took a few good tokes, and considered my options. Either I was just as bat-shit crazy as Mary, or desperate. I parked the cig in the ashtray, folded my hands upon my cluttered desk and looked her square in the the eyes.
“Mary? Just what exactly is it that you want me to do?”
She met my stare equally, and coolly. She raked her serpentine tongue across her upper teeth, narrowed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and leaned closer to me and whispered:
“I want you to cut their motherfucking heads off and pour cyanide down their fucking throats.”
I told you she was bat-shit crazy! What was I supposed to do at that point? I mean, as much I wanted the job, I had to seriously consider the ramifications of what she was saying. I took a few moments to gather my thoughts.
“When do I start?”
TO BE CONTINUED?
More stories.

My name’s Magnum Glock and I’m a private detective. In my line of work there’s usually not a line at my door. It’s a fickle business, and I gotta take the good jobs as well as the bad if I wanna survive. But sometimes I take the occasional odd job. I don’t mean taking out the elderly neighbor’s trash, or mowing a few lawns, no. I mean the truly odd jobs. Like the one I’m going to tell you about.
I’d been reclining at my desk with my feet propped up on a yellowing mass of unpaid bills when a busty blonde bombshell made her way past my half-sleeping bodyguard/assistant/secretary/doughnut-fetcher and sauntered through my office door. She caught me entirely off guard. So did her massive tits. Hey, what can I say? I’m a tit guy, so fucking sue me.
I’d been drinking a reluctant hangover into submission, puzzling over the newspaper’s crossword as I sipped steaming-hot black coffee. I dumped another slug of whiskey into the chipped and stained blue mug that boldly proclaimed that I was a #1 COP! I always found that mug comically ironic.
It had been a gift from an ex. An ex-con with an ugly mug of his own. Walter “Crowbar” Milligan had come to me after after he’d made parole, looking for a job. Crowbar was one of the few I’d sent down that wild and raging river, but he swam back to shore and thankfully never jumped back in again. Truth is, Crowbar has a good heart and a soft spot for his mama. When she couldn’t afford her heart pills, he burst through the front doors of the Main Street bank waving a gun around and demanding small bills. Luckily for him the gun he’d been pointing at the terrified tellers was nothing more than a kid’s toy. The jackass hadn’t even bothered to paint over the orange tip of the barrel. Since the gun wasn’t real, and also because the judge was in litigation with that same bank, he got what amounted to a slap on the wrist. Two years in Packard State Prison. He’d earned his nickname when another con locked his keys in his locker and asked him for help. He simply pried the door open, - yep, like a crowbar - popping the lock with a pair of massive and furry gorilla hands that betrayed his tender little heart. Yeah, to say Crowbar is a big fella is an understatement. He’s almost seven feet tall, three hundred pounds, and blacker than molasses. I’ve seen him snap a pool cue one-handed, but he wouldn’t say “boo!” to a kitten.
He’d made the mistake of trying to rob the joint on my day off. Well, it was supposed to be my day off. I’d been called in to cover for the rheumy old fart that usually pulled guard duty but had died over the weekend. Fucking bastard couldn’t have waited ‘til Tuesday to kick the bucket? I missed my favorite goddamn TV shows.
When I saw Crowbar stumble through the door, tugging at a ski-mask that barely covered his massive square head, I knew the guy wasn’t a seasoned criminal. When you’ve been a beat cop for fifteen years, and a detective for ten, you can usually spot the amateurs and the pros. Crowbar was most definitely the former.
When I saw his gun I knew it was fake, but I’d been trained not to take chances. There’s nothing stopping a crook from painting the tip of a real gun orange. Usually, I’m a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later kind of guy, but my instincts told me that one swift crack upside that goofy fucking head of his would be sufficient. And it was. He hadn’t noticed me sitting in a corner of the lobby thumbing through a discarded Reader’s Digest. He had his back to me, and in three of four quick strides I was close enough to whack him in the head with a baton. You know the ones I’m talking about? A thick, long steel bar coated in plastic? Old school cops used to call them “nigger-knockers.” (Hey, fuck you, I’m not racist, that’s just what they called ‘em. Google that shit, fuck-face.)
I remember sitting there next to him waiting for the cavalry to show up. After I’d handcuffed him and checked him for more toys, I asked him why in the hell he’d rob a bank. He began to tell me about his poor, sweet mama (rest in peace Gertrude, I miss your apple pie) and he started blubbering and bawling. I knew he’d only done what he did out of desperation and a willingness to make a sacrifice for his mother, so I legitimately felt sorry for him. Crowbar’s a little on the slow side, so he had a hard time finding work. While he was away at Packard, I’d go see “Mama” Gertrude every weekend, and I’d take her shopping and help her around the house. I had a mama once, too, and I’d always felt bad about our last words together, so I suppose that taking care of Crowbar’s mama while he was gone was my way of paying a little penance. I’d go and see him once a month on visiting day, and take him some smokes and candy bars, too. Like I said, penance. When he first came up for parole, I put in a few good words with the warden, and a month later he was on my payroll. I wish I was.
He’s been with me now for six years, and in my line of work, he’s what we call a heavy. That little stint in Packard toughened him up. With little else to do but lift weights and defend yourself, I think it would toughen you up, too.
Now, back to that damsel in distress.
She was a hot mess, that one. Petunia Flowers. I shit you not, that chick’s name was Petunia Marigold Flowers. I never actually asked, but either her parents were florists or hippies. Maybe both. She was a little self-conscious about that name, so she went by Mary. Which was fine by me, because I found her maiden name fucking hilarious.
She looked like one of those pin-up girls from the 60’s. Silky blonde hair so curly you wanted to just bury your face in it and take a nap. Stunning and cat-like emerald-green eyes. Cute button-nose, Shirley Temple dimples, and lips so bloody red you’d think she’d just finished sucking the blood from another hapless victim. And man, those tits! Double-D’s. She couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-ten or twenty, and I bet a quarter of that was those glorious bouncing boobs.
When she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble right from the start. She wore a hot pink business suit that looked like it had been painted on from the ass up, hot pink stilettos, and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. An unfiltered Camel cigarette clung desperately to her reddened lips, unlit. She sat down primly in the only chair across from my desk, crossed her creamy white legs and removed her shades. She appraised me with a lustful eye for a moment and said she needed my help in a thick Yankee accent.
“My name’s Petunia Flowers, and I hear you’re the best damned private detective around. You gotta light?” She leaned forward and pouted those luscious lips, her cigarette trembling in anticipation of my fire.
I met her gaze and reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved my own smokes. On a budget like mine, I was a Winston man. I shook one out of the pack, retrieved my trusty bronze Zippo from the same drawer where Mr. Jack Daniel’s sat waiting for me, and lit up. I cupped the flame, and led it to her. She took a deep drag and chuffed a thick plume of smoke into the air.
“Oh my gawd, that’s so much better,” she said, batting her long curled eyelashes as she spoke. “I am in urgent need of your services, and I can pay you five thousand dollars right now to take this job.” And with that, she reached into her shirt between her breasts, and withdrew a thick, yellow envelope and tossed it onto my desk. I picked it up slowly, and I could tell by the weight of it that it was almost entirely fifty-dollar bills. I loosened the clasp and peeked inside, and sure enough, a thick wad of dead presidents were nestled inside, smiling at me.
Five grand’s a lot of bread. I hadn’t taken a new case in weeks. This was roughly what I’d take home in a half-year. Well, minus taxes, Crowbar’s salary, incidentals and Jack Daniel’s.
I eyed her suspiciously and began to ask for the pertinent details, but before I could speak she added: “And there’s another five thousand when you complete the job.”
Now, I’m no fool. I wasn’t about to turn down any job for ten grand. But a situation like this calls for careful consideration, scrutiny, tact, and brevity. I thought very carefully, weighing my words cautiously, and only spoke after deliberating with the professionalism that is expected of someone faced with a monumental decision of such significance.
“So, what’s the job?”
She blinked and studied me warily. “It’s not a job that I need you to do. It’s a problem that I need you to fix. A big problem! I’m at my wit’s end and I don’t know how much more I can take!” Her eyes began to moisten and the back of her smoking hand went to her forehead. Her voice was shrill and nasal. She sounded like of those telemarketers calling to ask if I’d like to donate a dollar to the starving pygmy tribes of Bimboland. She took another deep drag of her cigarette and continued.
“My husband, you see, he’s out of control! At first, I enjoyed his experiments. I loved spending time with him in the lab. But then he created them and now they’re ruining everything! His career, our home, and our lives are in peril because of what he’s done! I fear that even the entire world could be in danger if we don’t stop them!” Her eyes were now brimming with tears, threatening to spill over long, thick lashes slathered in mascara.
“Hold on a second,” I asked incredulously. “By them, who exactly are you talking about, Mary?”
Her eyes bored through me fixedly as tears spilled forth and made a bee-line down her cheeks. Her ample bosom heaved as she drew another slow burn of the cigarette. She held it in for a moment, rolled her eyes in frustration and spewed smoke as she cried out: “Those goddamned Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns from the Underworld! They’re ruining EVERYTHING!”
This crazy broad had uttered those words just as I’d taken a healthy swig of Jack-laced mud from the mug. You know those comical scenes in films where somebody spews their beverage all over the fucking place when someone else says something absolutely bonkers? Yeah, that happened to me. There’s only one thing worse than wasting coffee, and that’s wasting good whiskey. Mary lucked out, because I turned my head quickly enough to miss her, but not quickly enough to avoid splattering coffee all over my desk. Crowbar was gonna love cleaning that shit up.
I yanked my handkerchief from my shirt-pocket, wiped my lips and chin clean and attempted to dab at the spritz on the desk and gave up. I was still laughing, and the burning sensation of whiskey leaking from my nostrils certainly wasn’t helping matters any. Once I’d regained my composure, I had to hear this again, just to be sure that she did indeed say what I thought she said.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
She looked at me as if I was a rack of yard tools at Home Depot. “Did I stutter, dick?”
Now, everyone knows that “dick” is a common slang word for a private investigator. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been that way. But the way she said it wasn’t respectful at all. She was peering at me with those piercing green eyes of hers, her mouth pouting and pert, and I became genuinely uncomfortable. Not because of her stare, but because that stare had gotten the attention of the other dick in the room.
“I’m sorry, Mary. But, I think I may have misheard you. Did you say something about midgets and clowns?” I rubbed the back of my neck, still sore from passing out in this reclining office chair last night.
“Yes. That’s right. Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.” She huffed as if she’d said something commonplace. Like Girl-Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“From the, uh, underworld, you say?” I tried not to sound incredulous, but I really couldn’t help it. That’s not true. I could help it. What I really wanted to tell Mary was that she was bat-shit crazy, but ten grand is ten grand. I momentarily toyed with the idea that if I completed this job I could afford to give Crowbar a raise, but after careful consideration I came to the conclusion that he’d be far happier with a case of Coors and a carton of smokes.
“Yes.” she blurted, exasperated. “From The Underworld. And I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t look at me as if I were crazy. I’m not crazy! Far from it! Look, I’ll show you!”
She stood up and began to fumble in her large red purse. It looked more like a bowling ball bag if you ask me, but what the hell do I know about lady’s purses and bowling ball bags? Not a damn thing. She whips out her phone and begins to tap away on the screen, swipes a few times, and then thrusts it in front of my face.
“Now, you just look! You look at what those little bastards have been up to! And then you tell me if I’m crazy or not!”
I’ve seen some crazy shit in my day, let me tell you. But nothing could have prepared me for the scene that unfolded before me on her phone. At first, I thought maybe I was looking at some computer generated animation or something, you know, like they use to make those superhero movies? Because this was quite literally the most bizarre and confusing thing I have ever laid eyes on. I did completely understand, however, why she called them Redneck-Midget-Ninja-Clowns.
There were three of these people? no. Beings? No. Creatures? Maybe. I don’t know what you’d call them, but here’s how they appeared to me:
They were in what appeared to be a large dining room.
They were about three feet tall. So, midgets? Check.
Their hair was bright red and frizzy, and they were wearing baggy white jumpsuits. And, no shit, these little fucker’s faces appeared to be covered in white and red face-paint and big, red rubber noses. So, okay, clowns? Check.
They were leaping and dodging and flailing around, cat-like and fluid. Graceful. Just like, well, ninjas. One of them was wildly swinging a sword (katana?) around, the second one had a pair of nun-chucks that he whipped through the air, and the third had a long staff that he was using to poke and prod at a large, frightened sheepdog as it attempted to evade them all. So, ninjas? Check.
But, rednecks? You’re goddamn right! These little shits were sporting over-sized cowboy boots and hats, and spitting brown (tobacco?) juice all over the place. Just watching that little scene made me feel like I had just dropped a double-dose of LSD and tuned into a Disney film made for the entertainment of the criminally insane. It made my fucking eyes hurt.
“You see? You see what I mean? Those bastards are destroying everything in sight! You thought I was crazy, didn’t you? But you see now, don’t you? DON’T YOU?!” She was nearly spitting as she spoke. She sat back down, looking smugly satisfied and entirely out of breath. Well, her tits were out of breath at least, judging by their heaving.
I brought my friend Jack Daniel’s out from his resting place in the top drawer, and filled the mug. I drained it in two gulps. I fumbled for a cigarette, brought it to my lips and sparked the Zippo. I took a few good tokes, and considered my options. Either I was just as bat-shit crazy as Mary, or desperate. I parked the cig in the ashtray, folded my hands upon my cluttered desk and looked her square in the the eyes.
“Ma’am? Just what exactly is it that you want me to do?”
She met my stare equally, and coolly. She raked her serpentine tongue across her upper teeth, narrowed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and leaned closer to me and whispered:
“I want you to cut their motherfucking heads off and pour cyanide down their fucking throats.”
I told you she was bat-shit crazy. What was I supposed to do at that point? I mean, as much I wanted the job, I had to seriously consider the ramifications of what she was saying. I took a few moments to gather my thoughts.
“When do I start?”
TO BE CONTINUED!

I'm Lily Madwhip and I'm Learning About Monsters.
I’m at the library, which is called Winslow Library, reading a book on mythology. Winslow Library is named after Miles Winslow, who donated books to the town after the original library burned down... because Miles Winslow accidentally set it on fire. It’s a long story. Short version is, Miles Winslow was a crazy fellow.
After I told Felix everything about Hekate, he asked me if I knew anything about Grease and I told him I saw the movie five times, although I didn’t know what that had to do with anything. Also I never understood why their car turned into Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang at the end. It turns out Grease is a country too, and that’s where mythology comes from. Felix suggested I go to the library and “brush up” on the subject, because apparently Hekate was around way back when people rode chariots instead of cars and everything was dirt and olives.
I already know about the minotaur, which is a person with a cow for a head. Not the whole cow, just the head. He lives in a maze. I also know about Medusa, who was a lady with snakes for hair. Not the whole snake, but most of it. But other than those two, I’m not a mythology know-it-all.
It turns out people from Grease were obsessed with mixing up animals. Besides the minotaur, there’s also centaurs, which is where the other half of the cow went. Then there’s harpies, which are ladies with vultures for butts. Not the whole vulture, just the butt. I didn’t know those were myths though, because I’ve seen commercials on TV where people admitted they had harpies and were taking medication to get rid of them.
Then there’s the chimera. That’s like a lion-goat-scorpion. I don’t even know where to begin. Like, where did someone think they saw this thing? Was it like they were walking along and saw a lion looking out from behind a tree, but there was also a goat behind it and they mistook the goat’s butt for the lion’s butt? And where the heck did they see a scorpion big enough for its tail to look like part of this mess? I think people in Grease just drank a lot. My Uncle George drinks a lot, at least since my cousin Susie got run over by a boat. I don’t think he ever saw a lion and a goat at the same time though, and thought they were the same animal.
I have a yellow pad of paper for taking notes, but I have no idea what kind of notes to take, so I just draw in it. First I draw a chimera, because it’s the weirdest animal I’ve read about yet. Then I try to draw a harpy, but I’m not any good at drawing people, so I give it the body of an alligator. I call it an alligarpy. Eventually I’m not even reading the book anymore, I’m just doodling imaginary animals combined with other animals.
“What are you drawing?”
There’s another kid in the library. He’s taller than me, so he’s probably older. He’s got crazy brown hair and freckles... or maybe his face is just dirty. I wish I had freckles. And he’s wearing old, velcro shoes. The velcro is so old that it doesn’t even stick together anymore and the straps just hang loose. Still, velcro shoes are nice. I wish I had velcro shoes. So jealous right now.
I look at my most recent piece. “It’s a... pigapotomus. It’s from mythology.” That’s not actually true, I just made this one up. “That’s stories from long ago about superheros and monsters.”
“I know what mythology is.” he wipes his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. I can see the snot streak go up to his elbow. There’s other, older, crustier streaks up both arms. Ew. He may know what mythology is, but I bet dollars to doughnuts that hygiene isn’t in his vocabulary.
The kid keeps standing there, snuffling occasionally and wiping his runny nose. I stare at him, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Can I help you?” I finally ask.
He’s got dead eyes. I don’t normally see those on other kids. Dead eyes are something you typically only find on adults. There’s no shine in them anymore. It’s almost like they just stop reflecting light. Usually it goes with people who have given up on enjoying life and have settled for living day to day. You can tell who loves life, because they got the glint in their eyes. This boy has no glint, just empty dead eyes.
“Nobody can help me.” he sniffles, still staring dead-eyed at me. He’s got some sort of strange accent I can’t place. I want to say he’s from overseas or maybe North Dakota. I don’t know what people speak like there, but I imagine it’s like me, but with a weird North Dakota accent.
I look around, but there’s nobody else in this part of the library. Winslow Library isn’t the preferred library to use as it is. Most people go to the one over in Northfield. They’ve got a multimedia room there with movies on laserdisc. My parents took Roger and I once and I got in trouble for wandering off to the laserdiscs and signing out a weird movie called The Shining. There’s a scene in that movie where a guy hugs and kisses a dead lady in a bathtub. People come up with strange ideas for movies.
The gross boy leans forward across the table and whispers, “Do you know what a mirage is?”
“That’s where you park cars.”
He frowns. “No, it’s an illusion.”
I don’t argue with him but I know they’re real because we have one attached to the house.
He nods at my mythology book. “You read about the sphinx yet?”
I sure have. The sphinx is a person with a lion for a body. Not the whole lion, just the body. Or maybe it’s a lion with a person’s head. It’s a lion/person mishmash, basically. And it asks riddles. If you get its riddle wrong, it eats you.
“Yeah, I’ve read about the sphinx.”
He wipes his nose again. It looks red and sore, probably from all the wiping. “Well I’ve got a riddle for you, like the sphinx--”
“You won’t eat me if I get it wrong, will you?” He kinda looks like he might actually try.
“No.” The grimy kid closes his eyes. Maybe he’s trying to remember how the riddle goes. It sucks when you try to tell a riddle or joke and screw it up. I have this joke about a bunch of people in a crashing airplane who don’t have enough parachutes, but I always get it wrong. “Where can you be somewhere and nowhere at the same time?”
You know what? I don’t like riddles. I’m supposed to be doing research, but instead I’m letting this weird kid with his runny nose ask me nonsense questions. I pretend to think for a moment by pushing my lips out and tapping them with my finger. This is how some grownups switch on their brains. Finally, I stop and look at him again. “I don’t know. Where?”
He presses his finger into the table. “Right here.”
“At the library?” I don’t get it.
He cocks his head. “Are you at the library?”
I look around carefully. “Yyyyes?”
The kid stands back up straight and shakes his head. “You just think you are. I know. I’ve been lost here forever.”
“At the library?” That would be awful. How does someone get lost at the library? Don’t the librarians check to make sure nobody’s still inside when they lock up?
The boy sighs. “No, here. Here. Where we are.”
I am so confused. Then again, this kid doesn’t seem like he’s got all the cards in his deck. He acts like he bet all his marbles on a hail mary play and lost. He’s definitely not from around here, judging by his accent.
He continues to talk. Something inside him got switched on and activated the connection between his brain and his mouth and now whatever bizarre thought passes through one spills out the other. “You lose track of time. I did. And eventually you give up, you see through the mirage and you know where you are, and that’s when it stops trying to pretend to be anything other than what it is. It all just goes away.”
“You can’t see then. There’s no sun, no candles, nothing. You start to wonder if you even exist anymore. Are you breathing? Are you hearing yourself breathe, or are you imagining it? Was there ever really anything to begin with? Your mother... did she ever really exist?”
“My mother?” My mother existed. How would I have been born if she didn’t exist? I miss my mom. I want to cry now.
“And then suddenly there’s the sun, and there’s the ground. But everything’s different. People are different. The world is different. It’s not your world anymore, it’s someone else’s. Someone else has come along after so long you don’t even remember what it’s like to exist anymore. And they believe in the illusion. So it changes to suit them and all you can do is... is... I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, because I want the dream to continue, but I know it’s just a dream--”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. His dead eyes have got a spark of life in them now, but they’ve got a bit of a crazy look in them too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started grinning and clacking his teeth together and his eyes bugged out like one of those creepy wind-up monkeys.
The boy is panting, he’s been talking so fast at me. He sounds kind of ragged, like he gargled some asphalt and washed it down with salt water. “I’m okay. I’m okay now. Because you’re here.”
“But here is nowhere,” I say sarcastically.
“Yes!” now he claps happily, which makes a cloud of flaky grossness come off his filthy shirt sleeves. “You understand! But don’t make it go away. Don’t let the sun go away. Maybe together we can find a way out.”
I’d say this kid already found a way out, if you know what I mean. I pull my yellow pad of paper close to my chest and stick my pencil behind my ear. I keep a close eye on this whacko kid as I close the mythology book. “Look, I gotta go talk to someone else, but this has been fun. Maybe I’ll see you here again. Here being nowhere.”
I tuck the book onto a nearby shelf. That’s not where I got it from, and I’m not supposed to do that, but I just really want to get out of here and away from the fruitcake in the crusty hoodie.
As I walk backward down the aisle toward where the reference desk and the card catalogs are, the boy watches me quietly and his smile uncurls back into a straight line. “If you get out without me, tell Paschar that Ambrose says hullo. Ambrose Viccars. You tell him I didn’t run away.” He starts wiping at his eyes with his crusty sleeve. “Tell him, I’m still here. But please-- please don’t go without me.”
Once I’m far enough away, I turn and sprint to the check out desk. There’s a librarian there, Sean. We know each other. I like books about earthquakes and he likes nose rings and red striped shirts that make him look like Waldo.
“What’s the rush, Lily?” he asks me. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Can I have a day without weird stuff happening? Just one day, please?” I lean against the counter to catch my breath. The weird kid is nowhere to be seen. “I think there’s a teenage hobo living in your history section.”
Sean pushes his glasses back into place and looks in the direction I came from. “Did somebody give you trouble?”
“No, just... wanted to make sure you knew there’s someone else in the library besides me. You know, in case you close up early or something.” I don’t know if they can even do that, close up early. I think they’re required to be open at certain times. Does it matter? There’s a snot-covered boy hiding by the 201 books, and he may not be all there.
And he knew Paschar.
It takes me an hour to get home, because I was halfway there when I realized I left my backpack at the library and had to go back and get it. No sign of the weird boy, Armbone or whatever... thank goodness. Also, I stopped by the bridge over the Dog River and played Pooh sticks. That’s where you toss a stick in the river on one side of the bridge, and then watch for it to come out the other side. You’re supposed to play it with other people, so I just tossed in a bunch of sticks and placed bets with myself on which one I thought would appear first. Wouldn’t you know it, I won.
Once I’m finally home, I walk in the door and Paschar is sitting on the dining room table with a note from Dad about dinner. This has become the new normal, as they say. That means it wasn’t normal before, but now you treat it like it is, even though it isn’t. I hate the new normal. I would like to go back to the old normal. Old normal didn’t have weird, smelly kids coming up to me at the library and babbling about... I don’t even know what.
Paschar asks me what happened at the library. He can tell by my expression that I’ve got something I need to talk to him about.
“There was this gross boy at the library.” I stare at Paschar to try to read his expression but I don’t know why I’m bothering because his face is made of plastic and it never changes. “He said to tell you hello.”
You told him about me? Paschar asks.
“No, he knew you. Not like Felix, who knew of you because of his angel Raziel. This boy knew you like he knew knew you. He said his name was Angelo something. Or Andrew. Amber Victor?”
Ambrose? Paschar’s voice sounds uneasy. Not scared, like when he talks about Samael, just sort of like he’s wary about saying the name. Ambrose Viccars?
“That sounds right.” I drop my backpack and get out my yellow pad of paper to check to see if I wrote it down. There’s nothing but doodles on it. I’m not sure if this was a successful visit to the library. Felix will probably look at my notes and make me go back and read more. I can’t believe I’m taking notes on mythology for the weasel. Old normal, where are you?
Ambrose Viccars can’t be alive.
“Well, what can I tell you?” I shrug, “This is the new normal, remember? Oh wait, that’s right... you don’t remember. This is the old normal to you.”
No, Lily, this is not normal in any way. But maybe it makes sense, if the things you say are happening to you really are happening. Ambrose Viccars disappeared over four hundred years ago. He did not die, he simply vanished.
You know, looking at it in better light, this is a really good pigapotamus. I should make a book full of imaginary animals. I wonder if I could create my own mythology?
Lily, focus. Paschar sounds annoyed.
“Sorry.” I put the pad of paper down.
Oh, that is a good pigapotamus.
I blush. It’s nice that he noticed.
Paschar continues what he was talking about. Ambrose was the youngest person we’d ever... “recruited” you could say, before you. It was a really difficult time back then.
“What was that, pilgrim days?” I ask. “Did they even have plastic dolls back in pilgrim days?”
My totem was made out of a corn husk. Paschar chuckles.
I visualize Paschar with a corncob head and I laugh. It feels good to laugh. I don’t think I’ve laughed since I found out my mom was suddenly dead. Oh. I shouldn’t have thought about that. Why did I do that? I stop laughing and look at my feet. They remind me of standing in front of her grave, so I cry a little. Just a little.
Sorry, Lily, Paschar says. Listen, Ambrose and his mother and almost everyone they knew... they simply vanished without a trace. No death, though disease and other bad things happened a lot back then. We would have known if they died. They didn’t, they just ceased to exist. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. And then she wasn’t. And then they weren’t. We never found out what happened. Believe me, we investigated. Several of us even crossed the veil to look into things first-hand.
“You mean you were here? On Earth? In the flesh?” I wonder what Paschar looks like. Does he look human? Maybe he looks like a cricket with a top hat, like the one in Pinocchio.
Yes, because Ambrose was my connection, I came over. As did Dumah, because of course, if they were dead, he would know. With us was Zaphkiel and Metatron, neither of whom you’ve met. They were mostly there to observe and report.
“Observe and report what?”
The lost colony. Over a hundred people, gone without a trace. You say you saw Ambrose at the library?
“Yeah, he was wearing a hoodie covered with snot and had velcro sneakers. Did they have velcro and snot four hundred years ago?” I become suddenly very aware of my own habit of wiping my nose on my arm when it’s runny. I should stop doing that.
Paschar puts on his bossy voice. Take me to the library.
“But it’s almost dinner time and I haven’t even read this note my dad left--”
Lily, Paschar interrupts, if Ambrose is truly here, we need to know where he’s been all this time. And more importantly, is he here as a harbinger of another vanishing?
I don’t know what that means but it sounds bad. I grab Paschar and stuff him in my backpack so his head is sticking out. He likes to see as we go. When I was little, I didn’t listen as well and I’d just stick him in my backpack and he always complained when I got where I was going and pulled him out. There’s little snack bags of pretzels in the cupboard, so I grab one to munch on along the way. I wish they had more salt. A pretzel’s not a pretzel if you don’t salt it. Also a pretzel’s not a pretzel if you don’t knot it.
Just as I turn to go, there’s a knock at the door. Why didn’t they just use the doorbell? I like the doorbell, it sounds jingly. Knocking on the door is startling. I peek out the mailbox slot but all I see are someone’s legs in brown pants. That’s no help.
“Lily?” Oh, it’s Felix. He must have come by to find out what I learned at the library.
I unlock the door and open it. Felix is standing on the porch in regular clothes. I’m still blown away at him with combed hair and glasses and dressed like he’s a professional with a job and not some weirdo stalker guy you’d expect to see crouching behind a garbage can in a dark alley. Of course, I don’t say that because it would be rude. Paschar knows I’m thinking it though, which means ehhhhh... Felix probably knows I’m thinking it too, since that’s his thing.
“Sorry, Dr. Clay,” I tell him, figuring he knows what I was just thinking.
He ignores it. “Lily, I hope you don’t mind me coming by. Is your father home?”
“Yeah,” I lie, because you should never admit that you’re home alone, especially to a weasel who tries to murder people. But this isn’t that person, this is a therapist. This is my therapist. I don’t know if it’s wrong to lie to him.
“You’re lying,” he says matter-of-factly.
Oh right, he can just... see that. I look at the porch floor. We got a squeaky board with a loose nail and I always step on it without thinking.
Felix steps back, giving me a bit of breathing room. “It doesn’t matter, I’m not here to see him. I need to show you something important. Have you done your research that I suggested yet?”
“Yeah, I was actually on my way back to the library because--” I stop. Do I want to tell him about Ambrose? Oh, right, it doesn’t matter, because if I don’t tell him, it’s a secret and he knows it anyway.
As if to emphasize the point, Felix stares through me for a second and then says simply, “You’ve met someone.”
“Yeah, um... I’ve got to go find him. It’s kind of--”
“Important. Okay. We’ll go together. I can give you a ride.” He pulls out his car keys and jangles them in front of me. He’s actually got a lot of keys on his keychain. Car, office, house I assume, maybe an apartment. What are all the other keys for? Adults keep lots of keys. When I grow up, I’m going to have just two keys. That’s all I think I’ll need.
We should just walk there, says Paschar, but Felix takes my backpack and tosses it in the open window to the passenger seat. Well, I guess that’s decided then. My legs are tired of walking anyway. I’ve already walked there, then halfway back, then back back, then all the way back home again.
Felix’s car is black and shiny. He must get it cleaned regularly, because it smells like it just got picked up from the dealership. I climb in the back because I’m not old enough to ride in the front seat yet. Felix seems baffled by this at first. He looks around before getting in the car, like he’s not sure where I went. I wave at him so he’ll see me, but he doesn’t wave back, he just gets in, buckles his seatbelt (as you always should), starts the car and drives off. I think I see a silhouette in the window of Jamal’s house. I wonder if he was watching. I hope I don’t worry him, getting in some stranger’s car and letting them drive me away.
Getting a ride to the library should cut my travel time down to just minutes, that is, if we were going in the right direction.
“We’re going the wrong way, Dr. Clay.”
I see him look back at me in the rearview mirror. “I know, honey, but I need you to meet my son, Joseph.”
Joseph. The boy from Felix’s locket. The one Meredith accidentally killed in a fire, which set off the whole disaster that was last year. But that was of course in the old normal. Not this new normal where Felix isn’t a magician and a nutjob.
“Why do I need to meet Joseph?” I ask.
Felix sits there, driving quietly. I can hear other cars rush by. I don’t know where we are anymore. I’ve never been to this area. I don’t think we’re even in the same town. It didn’t occur to me that Felix might not live nearby. In the old normal, I’d say that was a good thing. Maybe he lives near Meredith. I wonder if there even is a Meredith in this new normal.
Several minutes go by.
“Dr. Clay, why am I meeting Joseph?” I repeat.
“Because I need you to understand why I can’t let you face Hekate.”
“What? But you said you were going to help me!” Dang it! Why did I get in the car with the weasel? I am so so stupid. I should have walked like Paschar suggested.
“I am going to help you, Lily,” he says with that same awful voice that tormented me last year. I realize now that it was always there, I just ignored it because he was clean-cut and dressed nice and didn’t look like a greasy strangler. “I’m going to help you understand that things now are better this way.”
His hands are shaking on the steering wheel. Maybe he’s got tremors. That’s a thing my Nana had. Her hands used to shake so bad she couldn’t hold a teacup without wearing it.
He starts sounding more manic and frustrated. “I’ve seen the reality you knew. I’ve seen what I am there. I know what you think of me. But most importantly, I know what happens to my Joseph. Your mother is gone, Lily. She’s not coming back. But my Joseph is here. He’s alive. And if I help you, he won’t be. He’ll die horribly. Would you really let that happen to him, knowing you could do nothing and save him?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Clay, but... maybe there’s a way I can get Hekate to make it so my mom’s alive and so is Joseph.”
He stares at me with his weasel eyes from the rearview mirror. “I can’t risk that.”
“Well, introducing me to Joseph isn’t going to change my mind.”
He turns the car off the road we’re on and onto one that’s not as well-paved. The ride turns bumpy and I’m getting tossed up and down, kind of like when I’m riding the bus. I want to throw my hands up and yell “whee!” but I’m just not feeling whee-ful at the moment.
“I thought that might be the case,” Felix says. He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring straight ahead and focused on the road. Or maybe he can’t look at me. “That’s why I rented this car.”
Paschar looks at me from the backpack in the front seat. Lily, he says, when the car slows down... pull the handle and run.
As if he can hear him, Felix turns and looks at the doll. Of course he can’t hear him, but the moment Paschar tells me what to do, Felix knows what I’m planning. I hate his gift of knowing people’s secrets so much. Stupid, stupid angel gift. Felix grabs Paschar and stares at him for a moment. He probably looks like I do when I’m having a conversation with--
“You can go now, Paschar,” he snarls, then throws Paschar out the open window.

A co-worker was lamenting about having to buy a new phone but the new models don’t have an audio jack, so she would also have to buy Bluetooth headphones. Another co-worker replied: “You’re already going to spend $1000 for the phone, what’s another $100 for headphones?”
I know this to be an example of irrational thinking— $100 is $100 — but I don’t know what fallacy it would fall under. I found this: https://moneyning.com/money-beliefs/money-trap-2-comparing-dollars-to-doughnuts/ but ‘comparing dollars to donuts’ doesn’t seem right.
edit: reading the comments, thinking more about it, it's definitely a loss aversion strategy. by tying $100 to $1000 you can effectively say "it's only another 10%." the person is able to shift from real dollars to percentages in which they are comfortable losing. similar to how people feel like they get a better deal if they save $100 with a 50% off coupon toward $200 item, vs saving $100 with a 5% off coupon toward a $2000 item.
edit 2: i feel like i could write a whole paper on this. bet the phone company, let's call them Snapple, knows exactly how people think irrationally about money and will justify $100 for headphones they normally might spend $40 on by shifting the price from a real to a relative cost. hell, let's flip it -- and say the phone is $100 and the headphones are $1000. people would lose their MINDS, even though the total is the same! but suddenly the relative price is 1000% higher instead of 10% just because the anchor is different. fuckin' a.

I pride myself on my exactitude. As you'll see from this letter, I provide copious detail and try to be as precise as possible when describing the ways in which I find that rapacious provincials are no different from infernal despots. I assume you already know that T-Series's name is synonymous with sadism and particularism, but I have something more important to tell you.
What's scary is that support for T-Series's backwards treacheries is spreading like a prairie fire among antihumanist Huns. I don't know why that is, but I do know that if you were to try to tell T-Series's faithfuls that T-Series fears nothing more than the truth, they'd close their eyes and put their hands over their ears. They are, as the psychologists say, in denial. They don't want to hear that T-Series often misuses the word “lithochromatographic” to mean something vaguely related to pauperism or hucksterism or somesuch. T-Series's squadristi, realizing that an exact definition is anathema to what they know in their hearts, are usually content to assume that T-Series is merely trying to say that the world's salvation comes from whims, irrationality, and delusions. While we do nothing, those who promote the conceited calumnies of ungracious pontificators are gloating and smirking. And they will keep on gloating and smirking until we clarify that I recently stated that the brutal and rude unscrupulousness of the worst kinds of amoral troublemakers I've ever seen is what leads them to join T-Series's camorra. I had considered my comment to be fairly anodyne, but T-Series went into quite a swivet over it. I guess if it found that sort of comment offensive, it should unmistakably cover its ears when I state that I try never to argue with it because it's clear it's not susceptible to reason.
T-Series isn't interested in debates or open forums. It just wants to shut up dissenters. That's why T-Series wants to cheat on taxes. That's unquestionably a formula for repression and resentment and will lead to it using nosism as a weapon for systematic political cleansing of the population within a short period of time.
I don't care what others say about T-Series. It's still bestial, sick, and it intends to promote the sort of behavior that would have made the folks in Sodom and Gomorrah blush. I'll bet you a dollar to a doughnut that T-Series will reduce meaningful political discussions to “my team versus your team” identity-based politics eventually—and T-Series knows it. I am tired of hearing or reading that granting T-Series complete control over our lives is as important as breathing air. You know that that is simply not true. Every time I write about recalcitrant gutless-types, I do so with great love and affection. They simply cannot help the fact that they were born so disputatious. In that sense, they're just like T-Series. T-Series keeps saying that it's imbued with a sacred mission to create a desolation and call it peace. I suggest taking such statements with a grain of salt because its understrappers insist that “T-Series is clean and bright and pure inside.” First off, that's a lousy sentence. If they had written instead that T-Series is like a fire hydrant spewing self-absorbed vitriol over anyone unfortunate enough to pass by then that quote would have had more validity. As it stands, T-Series is extremely surly. In fact, my Surly-O-Meter confirms that T-Series is convinced that people everywhere have a deeply held love of warlordism. I warrant that if it held a rally in support of warlordism, no more than two people would show up—one if you exclude the local street vendor who just happens to be peddling his wares in the vicinity. The reason, obviously, is that as T-Series matures morally it'll eventually grow out of its present way of thinking and come to realize that we must tell the truth no matter who doesn't like it. But it goes further than that; I indisputably don't believe that uncontrollable, avaricious schnooks are easily housebroken. So when T-Series says that that's what I believe, I see how little it understands my position. Although I've spent most of this letter criticizing T-Series, let me end by stating simply that I shall make every effort, especially in this limited space, to restore our righteous rage and singular purpose to prevail over T-Series's hoggish camp.