Saturday, October 5, 2013
LOCO GRINGOS AND AN APOCALYPSE
Randy, as gifted and skilled in deluding himself with a high degree of talent as anyone, started kicking himself mentally but abruptly came to his own defense. Okay, he just shot this skinny little fucker and now had the same damn problem as previously, namely a cooling corpse on his hands, but come on, man! Look at all the shit he had just gone through so unexpectedly. And then, as if defending oneself from multiple surprise targets wasn’t enough, he had to start trying to solve all kinds of insurmountable problems like tactics and camouflage and the end of civilization. Not The End Of Civilization As We Know It, so eluded by REM, to paraphrase a smidge, because then dumbasses get all stupid and say, hey, cheer up, mankind has been here before, no problem, go grow asparagus and all will be glittering unicorns shooting magic dust out their asses each bout of flatulence, but more like The End Is Nigh And You Idiots Are All Going To Die! So, he might have been a bit distracted when he decided to shoot the Banger instead of worrying about controlling or motivating him. Randy wasn’t all butt-hurt or feeling bad, the punk probably rolled grandma’s on Social Security Day ( yes, he knew that all SS checks were direct deposited, pretty much anymore, but grandma was old during the Great Depression when that skeevie prick FDR who took it up the ass from his Banker sponsors decided to steal all the gold and replace it with Greenbacks and then devalued that currency a few days later by 40% or some such and so she knew you didn’t leave money in the bank or under the mattress but spent it immediately on tangible goods so she was going to be gimping home from the bank with a wad of cash punk ass bitches could steal for crack ) and so deserved to die, but he had just crispie crittered the other bodies and now he had another friggin one to deal with. Hello! The Apocalypse has arrived already and you don’t have time to be fucking around getting rid of corpses. Warehouses to loot, virgins to defile, villages to plunder. But if he left the body there, Wile E Coyote and his scurvy flea bitten buddies come sniffing around to get in on that buffet action and there he was shooting them or running from them or getting bitten by them because as sure as Sweet Baby Jesus beat the fuck out of some of the first recorded bankers because, hey, they were pricks and the equivalent of those crack heads in Randy’s yard ( the bible obviously sanitized that stuff up, just made it seem like Jesus was having a bad hair day and grumbled a bit at the fellows- but Randy knew his Best Buddy Baby Jesus was really a super ninja kick ass twenty three belt kung-fu master who smited the wicked. Hell, the Old Testament was choke full of ass kicking and smiting. Although that might have been The Big Kahuna God himself instead of His Son. It had been quite a few decades since Catholic School ), you leave a stinking body outside in this neck of the woods then coyotes from near and very far will show up ( the same as a housecat left outside will be coyote bait in minutes- those rascally doggies had a keen sense of when dinner was served ).
Here Randy had piles of puke and shit, piles of smoking charred Gangsters, a stupid damn dog named Bush ( not for the President, remember? ) who was nose deep rooting through each of them, and now a pile of soon to be putrefying former Wigger The Wonder Ghetto Moron. He was surrounded by piles of nasty. What was a boy to do? He imagined each solution to the problem and its probable solutions and chose the least of the evils and dumped the corpse into the Pimpin SUV Ride and shut the door. He’d deal with that issue another day. Right now if he didn’t wolf down something to eat he was going to pass out. And a cigarette and a shot of an adult beverage was definitely in order, as was a nap. Hey, he might not have been fifty yet but still even at his age he deserved a nap after a trying day. Thirty minutes of rest after all this and he’d be near right as rain, ready to face the Apocalypse in splendor. A man has got to know his limitations. Randy didn’t try to pretend he could hump a gal senseless for an hour ( five minutes was about good. He was happy, and his nightly guest was so drunk she merely rose in shame the next morning for acting like a cheep slut, having no idea if Randy came immediately upon penetration or was the worlds best lover with a silver tongue that pleasured her all night long ), nor did he pretend he was age twenty anymore. You almost shot yourself after being frightened to death, a man could justifiably sleep a bit in the middle of the day. And he could this first and final time say To Hell With Rationing and go to his kitchen and break out a can of dead cow and have a grand meal.
Back when Randy was starting out his brave new world of off grid roughing it, he went through nearly a year of eating grocery store canned meat. Except for the summer while working when he picked up a fresh package of meat on the way home, or once a fortnight when he went into town on his bicycle to the library and did the same, he was reduced to eating canned slop for his animal protein. Most of it tasted like crap, and he wasn’t about to become a vegetarian ( although he obviously was going to now, wasn’t he? Not enough coyotes or cows out there to be kept in fresh meat- thank you cocksuckers in the FedGov for taking it up the ass FDR style from the giant factory flesh purveyors corporations, banning public land grazing under the excuse of environmentalism [ although to be fair, the ranchers also lied and called cattle necessary to prevent wildfires ] to increase their profits by eliminating competition ), so he ate the can crap. He knew what those poor fuckers ate in lieu of meat-soy. Soy was okay if you were a poor slanty eyed Nip who wasn’t allowed to eat fish. Or, more likely, ate fish but since that crap was anything other than Stick To The Ribs, you needed to fill up on more fake protein. And if you fermented that slop to make tofu, it was just bean paste in another form. But American Corporations, being really greedy and evil for the most part, DIDN’T ferment soy but just ground up that crap and threw it in any processed food they could sell. And then, if you were a viral stud like Randy, you had to worry about that unfermented soy mimicking the properties of female estrogen. Randy did NOT want bitch tits. So Sir-ee! If he ever went to prison with those things the Hitler Youth and Skittles Eaters would be busy shivving each other in an effort to control Randy, make him their ass bitch. Randy could feel his sphincter crying at the very thought. Then, once his ass was loose and flopping in the wind with every fart, the bastards would knock out his front teeth and make him perform oral perversions on unwashed fecal smeared junk. All because he wanted to eat “healthy”, gave up naturally reared grazers as food and ate soy. BLECH!
So Randy started canning his own meat. Of course, if you read all the “buy forty acres and be self-sufficient” type magazines, which probably had their hearts in the right place but in actual fact were just pimps for the bankers because the publisher got HIS back forty paid off quick and didn’t have to worry about Sheriff SWAT teams raiding their place come bank repossession, killing livestock and stomping kittens as the newbie lesbo member had to prove how big her balls were to her new homies, and the banks were happy because more sheep were getting into debt for thirty years which made for one mother humping expensive bunch of asparagus, if you started reading up on canning the “experts” made the process sound like a NASA ( Not Anymore Space missions Agency ) operation with triple redundant safety features because if they didn’t forestall the testicle gargling lawyers from attacking by pasting in multiple warning and safety features then the publisher would lose his forty acres and have to go back to the city in disgrace and go back to selling worthless insurance to old hags tottering at the edge of the grave ( Alex Trebeck told me I should buy this crap! ). Honest Injun Randy had read you should have your steam vent inspected by the county ag extension office to make sure it was not blocked. Wow! If your average Backwoods Homesteader was that retarded the gene pool needed a huge triple strength bleach injection for cleaning ( oh, wait! They were going through one now ). But outside from just reading the Gott Damn instructions and double checking your safety valves, canning was easy peasey. Randy would buy a big beef brisket on a regular basis and can it up as soon as he got home, ensuring a supply of weeks to months to come of tasty meat that didn’t taste like a mouthful of raw monkey ass ( he’d heard that the Chinese considered raw live monkey brains a delicacy, but then they thought ancient fermented eggs were yummy so he could only conclude that if you ate rice all day long all your life, any addition of animal flesh no matter the origin or condition was a dandy meal- yet at the same time he doubted ass was on their menu. Perhaps if he was a Starving Marvin African Bush Bitch ass would be worth selling your second daughter for ). Since you had to cut off the big globs of fat or the cooked meat tasted like rancid deer fed on Soylent Green, he had taught himself soap and candle making ( also not exactly as Rocket Science as the “experts” wanted you to believe ) also. Waste not and want not, grandma with the twenty three foot wide ball of twine used to say.
Also not caring that he used a bit of forever more unavailable propane fuel, Randy bypassed his scrub brush wood rocket stove cooker and especially his three hour long solar oven heater, and skillet fried some bovine. A big shot of protein, greasy animal flesh would bring him back to his happy place. Of course, he kicked shut the trailer door before Mr. I’m A Sick Fucking Bastard And Lick My Ass And Any Human Waste Product Available Bush The Dumbest Dog Alive could mosey on up to him and look all African Famine hungry and sad and pretty please share some of your hard earned meal you pedaled into town for. Okay, cards on the table and would I shit my favorite turd, Randy had actually been on Food Stamps. The three months income bought cigarettes and bike parts and propane ( and booze to woo the ladies with when he got horney enough to care to put the effort forth ), and he then ate on Uncle Sam’s teet. While Randy wasn’t all for welfare bitches getting frozen pizza and Cheese Doodles to shove into their fat faces and feeding a brood of Money Makers, their equally plump heads shiny with sweat as they struggled gamely to keep up with Momma Bear, the entire brood wobbling and bobbing, he also didn’t really give two craps about defrauding the government by just being a lazy slacker. If he worked a regular job he’d have to live closer to town which meant he’d pay rent the rest of his life, Elko being a bitch of an expensive place to live, both because it was three hundred miles from nowhere and because the East Coast financiers who funded the mines also funded apartment building and everyone priced everything from shelter to Rice Crispies like they lived on the dark side of the moon or on the northern tip of Alaska, so everyone holding out their hand for a kopek just assumed you worked at the mine and made good coin. It was a bit convoluted to think of yourself as more independent by going on welfare, but Randy wasn’t too concerned with the contradiction. And besides which, all other arguments failing, the big winners on Food Stamps besides the civil servants who administered the program was Big Ag. So he was just the intermediary between Uncle Sam and corporate welfare. And it wasn’t like he was dependent. Half that amount he put into storage food for the day benefits ended, the other half he bought basic raw foods rather than processed junk food. Oh, hell to the yes, Randy could self justify anything. Probably just like Charlie Manson did ( who might have gotten a bum rap, seeing as how he just kind of suggested certain scenarios and all those evil bitch minions of his went and did the actual wall repainting with fetus blood ).
After partaking of greasy beef, a shot of elixir meant for the Gods ( don’t get him wrong, Randy loved Baby Jesus all to pieces and they were bestest buddies in the whole wide world, but Randy, being a careful sort which is kind of why we are telling this story, obviously, wanted to hedge his bets that there might be more than one god so was careful to include assorted possible deities in his mental meanderings ) because as they say, The West Wasn’t Won On Salad, Randy settled down with a shot of some darkish liquor, possibly whiskey but perhaps something else because Randy had given up drinking beer decades ago and this particular supply was filched from an overnight stay at a lucky females house after she passed out and he had his way with her supine body, the nearly dark room providing little illumination as Randy clandestinely siphoned alcohol into an empty plastic soda bottle and stashed in his bag in his bike rack, figuring that she wouldn’t remember she hadn’t drank it, or his face for future positive identification, and as a frugal sort Randy shopped at the cheapest source for everything. He also light up a cigarette because his nerves definitely needed settling and this could count as dinner. Randy had never been a heavy smoker and had tried to quit the filthy habit many times, easily going cold turkey and staying off the coffin nails for a reasonable period of time. He’d go six months, a year, once even two years between cigarettes. Yet, inevitably, some asshat douche bag wasting his air would do something incredibly stupid and selfish and piss the holy mother humping crap out of Randy- and as we’ve seen he was pretty much a cheerful happy sort most times- and he’d be forced to start smoking those damn cigarettes again ( he’d tried smoking a pipe back in his younger days, a habit picked up by most of his Dungeon & Dragon playing adult friends since Meerschaum pipes carved in cool Mideast designs rather added in the atmosphere of game play, but while the Black Cavendish tobacco smelled heavenly he usually seemed to swallow too much nicotine tinged saliva and got sick to his stomach half the time- great if you are in the back forty guard shack where you can puke into the weeds but not so great in a built up concrete coated urban area or indoors with shag carpet ) and while he hated the habit he just couldn’t kick it long term. So, rather as an experiment he had only vague hopes for, Randy kept cutting back on the number of cigarettes he could smoke each day without withdrawals and was pleasantly surprised he only needed one lone cig after dinner to keep from craving nicotine. It wasn’t as healthy as quitting but it was better than smoking half a pack daily every other year ( alternating years being the habit years in between the quitting years ). Of course, his lungs were a bit charred from past puffing so he still got winded sometimes, but he figured the one a day would probably not kill him any quicker than a person who had abstained forever ( Randy was disinclined to believe a government who insisted that smocking was an automatic death sentence while at the same time lying about radioactive fallout, Agent Orange, depleted uranium and flu shots ). This also benefited him currently, since he had bought supplies as if he smoked half a pack a day, only smoked a single one and stashed the rest for a rainy day ( Randy, remember, was not a super stud survivalist. He merely planned ahead for not having money a lot of times. In the end, this saved his otherwise worthless ass ). In an alternate universe where the bankers survived the first economic crash because there had never been an EMP attack ( or, hell, who knows, a solar flare ), a Kenyan immigrant allowed into this country on a student visa and never left for reasons only known to his intelligence agency handlers who groomed him for politics on the behest of their owners the central bank, became President through computer hacking on the highest level, pledged to end Imperial wars and got a Nobel Peace Prize on that speech, then fought Syria and Libya, but prior to that pledged no new taxes ( remember the promise that supposedly sank Bush The Elders re-election? ) and right afterwards taxed roll-your-own tobacco several hundred percent so it was the same price as factory tobacco. Before this lying ugly mug ever disgraced the airwaves, Randy was buying loose tobacco at a buck a pack price. It was easy and cheap to stockpile smokes.
Randy slept a bit more than planned, waking a bit after dark. This was irritating since his whole night was now shot to crap, sleep-wise, but he was supposed to have things to do and people to see. He hadn’t even decided whether to camo the place or leave as is, whether to go on over next door now or in the morning. He knew John had been gone ( the standard was for Randy to periodically check up on John’s abode. The cats could usually be counted on to attack anything that came into the dark, the vicious bastards knowing they had the night vision advantage and being rather aggressive, unlike most cats who prudently hid and only fought if cornered. Randy figured they were so spoiled they knew they had to protect their advantage. Still, John preferred Randy still do preventive scouting. Only one hiker was ever mauled [ and really! Who the hell hikes that far away from water?] but John preferred an extra ration of paranoia at all times ). And most likely was still that way since he hadn’t checked in. He just didn’t know how far away his friend had been or if he was ever coming back. One the one hand, he liked John. On the other hand, John had a heck of a lot more storage food at his place. He figured, God Forbid, John was dead and rotting on the side of the road, he now had a lot more food at his disposal. And a better place to live, temperature wise in the winter. His van usually stayed Two-Sweater comfortable most winters but there was a time or two an Artic front came down and stalled and things had gotten close to near freezing. Not that he was complaining- when it is minus twenty outside a drop from forty to thirty five inside before the heater was run is nothing to bitch about. Then you just drank extra coffee. Which of course reminded Randy that coffee sounded real good right now. God, he was almost turning into a Foodie. All this brooding about meat and drink and whatnot. Randy was beginning to think, 1) he was stuffing as many luxuries down his gullet while they lasted in a defensive gesture, and 2) he really didn’t want to decide on his next move as it involved a lot of work. Hey, the best decisions are arrived at slowly with much contemplation and thought. And coffee just facilitated that process. He was increasing his efficiency with caffeine intake ( and, not being used to drinking Adult Beverages, his Gott damned head was throbbing a bit. Make anybody grouchy and needing coffee ).