Thursday, December 26, 2013


Another long ago attempt at fiction.  You might hate it, but at least there is a lot to hate being ten times the normal article length.  I think this one was a bit better attempting character development.



By James M Dakin


Copyright 2009


Chapter One

Killing ones wife is normally discouraged.  So please allow me to explain.  Or, better yet, allow me to demonstrate.  I was married for quite some time.  Twenty years.  To the old fashioned this might not seem too long, but once you get some idea of living with Gail you will surely agree that this was a period of longevity on par with geological ages.  Say, that of a mile thick ice pack in the Artic or even a galactic gas planet.  Gail was a typical American girl.  She was raised in a small town in Kansas or Nebraska or some similar hellhole.  I forget exactly where.  She yearned to be free of her upbringing and wasted no time at all moving away as soon as she attained legal age.  She latched herself to the first male showing an inclination to also escape his location and in due course he joined the military and she went along.  They were at his first duty station in Hawaii when she began to show her true nature.


I was also stationed in Hawaii, at Schofield Barracks.  I was nineteen and young and naïve.  I hadn’t tried to leave my place of birth so much as I just wanted a career in the Army.  I scored high enough on the placement tests to enter any field of my choice, but at the time I believed the recruiter that the only occupation specialty open was in the infantry.  I was about 150 pounds sopping wet and was the least likely specimen for that field, but recruitment targets dictated I was destined to be a ground pounder.  I didn’t raise too much fuss.  I had visions of a bit more glamorous job, but was enticed with dreams of high cyclic rate weaponry and death and mayhem directed at the Evil Empire.  If Ronnie wanted soldiers in the front line to combat the Soviet menace,  I was his boy.  Basic training wasn’t too God awful bad, once I got past being unable to perform more than five push-ups at a time or run more than a few dozen yards without blowing out a lung in a bloody mist. 


I stopped by to visit my parents on my way the my new tropical paradise.  Dad was a bit miffed that while he had suffered a frozen Korea as his posting I was getting “soft” duty.  He took it well though, and we got pretty drunk.  He got pleasantly buzzed on whiskey, I got sloppy stupid on some beer.  Training had allowed us a few 3.2 beers in moderation, but of course I showed no such restraint in the face of five percent civilian brew.  This might have been a life lesson for me, a gentle reminder that one had best build up a tolerance for alcohol before over doing it.  But I was moving up in the world, had proven myself and was not going to stop and smell the roses or think rationally.  After a flight to the Honolulu airport and a bit of confusion once I got there as to who exactly was going to give me a lift to the military base, I was ushered in to a sleepy duty Sergeant.  He had little time for distractions such as myself, signed some paperwork on me and escorted me to the barracks.  I was told to fend for myself for three days until an officer could evaluate where I should go.  Needless to say, after an hour in the dayroom watching TBS run I Love Lucy reruns, I jumped at the first reasonable offer from a fellow Private to go consume alcoholic beverages.  Into my first glass of beer I was feeling no pain.  My new found friend helpfully made lewd suggestions on my behalf towards a lone female at the bar and with more courage than intelligence I introduced myself.  Gail.  What can I say?  She had a nice rack.  Gail wore no wedding ring, and announced she was from next door at the Air Force base.  And very pleased to meet me.  I assumed she was also enlisted, felt no fear or apprehension and we had a pleasant time.  I think.  I didn’t remember a lot of details.


Some time later, a few weeks although time did get away from me in a mess of make-work military activity, and I’m once again getting drunk off one beer on my off hours.  I was feeling sorry for myself, having been assigned the position of machine gunner.  The skinniest guy joined the squad and automatically he gets the M-60.  Not only does the bitch weigh half as much as me with spare barrels and an ammunition load, the thing is a hideous piece of crap.  I mean, the test gun in training where we strip it under timing has no less than three major components that don’t fit properly and the instructors allow extra time because of it.  And my assigned gun is in even worse shape.  For the life of me I can’t think how I won’t get killed trying to either carry the thing into battle or try to clear it when I get there.  We’re at the firing range and after my third jam I actually get a half a belt through it and the friggin tracers ricocheting into the woods start a fire.  We all stop firing and beat at the flames with our BDU tops.  So my day hadn’t been all that great, starting at 4 a.m. with shit on a shingle after PT and ending with some peckerwood officer getting a hard on over our equipment smelling like smoke. 


So I think things are taking a turn for the better when Gail shows up.  A friendly face!  Occasionally I manage to divert my drooling chin from her cleavage to look her in the face as we have a conversation.  She gives the general impression that rather than a scrawny pimply kid that never got out a lot to face the real world, I was her hero.  The epitome of charm and class.  Her kind of man.  I lap it all up and allow her to seduce me with more alcohol.  Acting as if I’m surely hung like a stallion and she hasn’t been satisfied for an eternity, I’m played like a fiddle.  Nothing happened that night, but I’m led to believe in no uncertain terms that the third date will be the charm and all my fantasies will be fulfilled.  I act like a complete moron through the week, thinking of little else.


At long last the weekend arrives and I go charging down to the bar.  Gail is not there.  I moodily contemplate abusing myself but settle for beer.  As I unsteadily guzzle my third beer, I am rewarded with the sight of my beautiful Gail.  She has arrived- thank all the Gods!  She looks ravishing to my alcohol and hormone soaked brain.  She must have realized my condition was about two tablespoons away from comatose and quickly led me out of the bar and we coupled in the back seat of her car.  I felt bliss and contentment after the three minute episode.  I doubt she felt much of anything before the wet spot.  But, the deed was done and I was hooked in like the new fish I was.  And I didn’t even care.  All I could think of was taking a nap and wondering when we could do it again.


And thus my entrapment was complete.  I don’t understand why it was that she even zeroed in on me.  And I could care less.  I would do anything to once again ravage my new found love.  Gail lost little time setting up a schedule on her convenience where she could woo me with just enough physical pleasure so I had thoughts of no one else her yet at the same time leave her with the maximum amount of free time so she could plot my downfall.  Not that I realized that at the time you understand.  Only far too late that this dawned on me.  Well, Gail had the best of both worlds it turns out.  She was married at the time.  She had security and comfort.  I provided excitement and a chance to practice her feminine deviousness.  Well, perhaps I’m being a bit unfair.  I shouldn’t lump the whole gender together.  We’ll just say that she gave the rest of them a bad reputation.


I was to learn of her marital status some time later.  As fate would have it I was getting ready to ship out with my unit and the boys coming back were being greeted by sweethearts and family.  I could swear the officers allowed us to witness that spectacle to add to our discomfort and unease.  So, who do I see trying to swallow the tongue of a lucky gent while rubbing  her herself all over him?  You guessed it.  My first thought was that I was horny.  My second thought was, hold on a second I know that chick.  My third thought was, crap, she looks a bit chunkier than I remember while drunk.  That was all I had time for as we headed out.  I brooded over the next few weeks and came to the conclusion that I was being two timed and resolved to become Gail free immediately.  My resolve was bolstered by mostly sleepless nights and the lack of any time to think happy thoughts.  The Army was doing its dandiest to try to kill us off in the field.  We had nothing but MRE’s for two weeks straight and the resulting constipation factor was making me gloomier than ever.


Upon our return I of course started drinking again.  Thinking I was too smart for that slut, I drank in the barracks to hide from her.  She might still be in the Air Force and stationed next door, but I had my doubts and assumed she was lurking nearby in the housing section.  But of course I eventually had to go out to provision my dwindling beer supply and she caught me at the package store.  Bitch!  Did she stalk me or was it just some bizarre Fem Radar?  She seemed to be able to smell a fart in a horse stable.  She had on the Daisy Duke short and tied off shirt outfit and I easily fell under her charm.  I said she seemed a bit over sized, but keep in mind that each beer I consumed shrunk her clothing size by at least one.  It was my curse to see her 90% of the time through 2 AM goggles.  You know what I’m talking about.  You stay in the bar until 2 AM and all the remaining broads start looking mighty good.  If you had the foresight to bring along a sober “designated coyote bait detector”  you wouldn’t wake up the next morning and promptly swallow your vomit after seeing what ugly sow you had bedded a few hours ago.


I might pretend that I avoided her lure, but I would be lying.  Another romp in her back seat and while I wasn’t back to worshipping her memory, I wasn’t thinking such dark thought either.  And that was the moment that sealed my fate.  The orgasm heard around my world.  Three weeks later I was in front of the First Sergeant having an unpleasant riot act being read to me.  I was a stupid shit, according to her reckoning.  Yeh, a female Top.  How does one get so lucky?  Damn gender equality.  Furthermore, she had yet to find a stupider shit than I.  How could I be so fucking idiotic to knock up another soldiers wife?  Knocked up, Prego, bun in the oven, with child.  I almost made the supreme error and started to ask about proof, but was spared by her waving around papers that looked like they originated from official medical and legal sources.  Who wanted proof when the affidavit was on hand?  I took it like, well, not exactly a man but at least like a well trained bitch.  Even through the shock, I knew I was screwed.  And to my shame, I didn’t even care overly much.  Was getting married so bad?  Was I getting married?  Top was still looking pretty mean and spewing her poison.  Come on woman.  Spare me any further suspense and deliver the punch line.  


I was soon to learn.  Our young innocent victim was already in the process of a divorce since she had caught her current husband in an affair.  Our poor young traumatized woman had been brutalized by first one unfaithful brute and then another lecherous one ( I assumed I was the second category of swine ).  It seems our princess had been forced into my arms through a rage induced need for revenge, her thoughts momentarily muddled.  In no way could she possibly be blamed.  That seemed to be my job.  So, what did I intend to do, soldier?  I had seduced an innocent, I had produced a child which even as we spoke was growing in the womb of a women so young she was practically a child herself, blah de fucking blah blah.  The short of it was that I was not only to help with the costs of the divorce to Gail’s first husband, I was to marry the bitch as soon as possible.  As in, the very next day it was legally allowed after the divorce.  In the meantime, Top, her magnanimous spirit surprising even herself, would pull a few strings so as to get our paperwork started immediately for on base family housing.  That was all, don’t let me see you again for any reason, you male pig, blah blah. 


What can I say?  It was all down hill from there.  Oh, I loved that kid.  Even if he didn’t look a lick like me I never acted any different than if he was my own.  Hey, he very well could be.  But my life, outside the joy our son brought me, was a steaming pile of turds.  Gail quickly became frigid.  The night of our wedding night as a matter of fact.  You know how they say that the average married couple has sex once a week?  That is the average.  Some lucky puke gets it every second or third night, some poor bastard only gets it once a month and the average turns into once a week.  Averages sound good in theory.  Like, the average house cost in the city of L.A. is a half million.  You either pay a cool mil for one in a decent neighborhood, or a quarter mil for a shit hole in the ghetto.  If I had been unfortunate enough to also live in LaLa land as well as being married to Gail, I would have gotten laid once a month while living in the part of town were being white was frowned at and drive bys were the entertainment you could afford. 


I became one of the walking suburban zombies.  Shuffle to work in a car bought on credit, sleepwalk through a day shuffling papers, come back to the house owned by the bank with a thirty year note.  Watch TV while eating microwave shit, go to bed and hope to sleep.  Okay, again, it wasn’t quite so bad.  I had Todd to play with, to help with his homework.  But kids grow up fast.  Before they are even teenagers they morph weekend sleep overs into full time hanging out with their buddies.  They outgrow you and have too little time for you.  It was almost as if my hobby of raising a kid was obsolete and I couldn’t do it anymore.  Not that I let that stop me.  I wasn’t going to spend much time hanging around my lovely wife, even if I had to collect fossilized rat turds and paint then Day-Glo to keep myself occupied.  As it was, I let my hormones talk me into finally doing something intelligent.  I took up exercise.  It wasn’t like cold showers worked to kill the sex drive.  They killed an erection until you got to work and saw Betty the Bovine bend over, ass cheeks spreading wider than the desk and cellulite stretching, your thoughts irrational and all muddled.  When Betty started looking good you knew you had problems.  Oh, Betty would have been more than willing.  My best educated guess was that the last time anyone laid any pipe anywhere near her she had been a few tons slimmer and a few decades younger.  Betty would have ripped off her bra before God and everyone and smothered you with her pendulous bosom if you had so much as smiled at her wrong.  But even if I stretched the truth slightly wider than Betty’s cellulite, seeing as how after popping out only one child Gail had ballooned up to an almost Betty like weight and I still drooled at the thought of ravishing her, the sad truth was that even if I had been so inclined to perform a public service on Betty, my equipment more than likely would have failed.  I feared Gail Force.


It only takes a few newspaper articles to put the fear of God into you.  At the time I read and trembled.  Only later did I start to question the whole scare tactic, wondering how much propaganda was spread out of writers and editors whole heartedly embracing feminist ideology and  how much was an unconscious desire to appease their own testicle crushing spouses.  But for now, now I felt my own testis shrink in retreat and confusion, the dramatic tales of divorce judges delivering bone crushing rewards to the wife filling me with caution.  Hell, no matter how much you make, 90% of your wages in alimony or child support doesn’t leave you much to live on.  I was afraid of having an affair and getting a divorce and living out of my car.  My life was middle class shit, but I at least had a place to come home to every night.  With hindsight, they seems a very weak excuse.  But I defy you to go visit a trailer park and look at all the vacant stares hidden behind half empty bottles of alcohol or a mouth full of dental work wrecked by cheap recreational drugs and tell me you would feel any different.  I didn’t want to be pushed into the lower economic cesspit.  I already pretty much had taken a vow of celibacy and I had no desire to take one of poverty.  And as a broke and single guy approaching middle age, I would have both.  I don’t pretend to come close to understanding women, but I can reasonably guess that without money I couldn’t hope to attract another one.  So why jump from the pan into the fire?


So as a partial escape I started up an abridged version of my old military exercise.  I wasn’t going to be able to go running five miles or pump out a few dozen push ups like I used to be able to do as a teenager or a young buck in my early twenties.  Hell, I could do that while drinking my liver into an early failure.  Now I started a lot slower and a lot less punishing of a regimen.  And it started to feel good after awhile, so I built it up to a reasonable approaching middle age level.  I started losing my gut.  Couldn’t seem to get the butt back, it had turned into a Hank Hill ass.  You know, the frogs ass.  Didn’t look like you had anything to sit on with a pair of pants on ( frogs don’t have an ass- get it? ).  And I imagine this all was a threat to Gail.  Especially once I went back to a military crew cut to mitigate the receding hair line.  I had already decided the danger of an affair wasn’t worth the risk, but you start trying to slow down the aging process and I guess the spouse wonders if you are trying to score some points with an office hottie.  It doesn’t do any good to try to explain about the reality of Betty.  I was only doing it for my own satisfaction, but when do women listen to reason?  So, once again I fell into the Gail trap.  I thought the extra sex she started throwing my way was a result of my looking less like a pear and more like my decade or so younger body.  I was a fool, because she got pregnant again!  Todd was getting closer to graduation so I guess she felt she had to trap me again.  At her age, I didn’t even think it was possible.  Well, okay, mid thirties isn’t exactly too old to pop a kid.  I guess I fooled myself or felt a lot older or something.


As you might image, this happy event did nothing to decrease our level of bickering.  We didn’t have enough stress in our lives with our precarious finances, we had to add a baby to the mix.  The mortgage alone was over half our take home pay.  Throw in a car payment, the repairs on the one paid off, the regular shopping and credit cards and we never had enough money to get us through to the next payday.  We were a couple of gerbils running faster and faster on our exercise wheel and getting no where fast.  When she lost the fetus a few months later I was simply relieved.  I guess I showed a suitable lack of remorse and our relationship really went into the toilet.  And I of course had to throw a few gallons of gas on that fire and get a vasectomy.  I suppose it was my way of dealing with the lose, not wanting to repeat it.  Gail looked on it as a betrayal.  She might not have looked on it as thwarting her control, at least not consciously, but I’m sure somewhere in there it figured into the equation.  Now she knew she only had a few more years of control.  Todd turned into an adult, how was she going to keep me around?


Not that she wanted me.  She wanted to win, to control.  Or at least that was how I looked at it.  I have no idea how she really felt, our lack of communication was that bad.  Mind you, I was past the point of caring too much.  I was resigned to my fate but I also knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel.  If I wanted to, I could leave pretty soon.  And starting over didn’t look too bad if I didn’t have to part with any of my paycheck.  Giving up the house didn’t concern me.  I’d trade an apartment rent for a mortgage.  It wasn’t like we had bought the house first thing.  We had saved for years as we rented.  I had shit for equity, even as house prices went up.  Thank goodness for one less trap.  I had traded my few hopes as far as a career was concerned.  You’re a kid, you go into the military, you had no idea what you really wanted to do with your life.  Becoming a claims adjuster at an insurance company wasn’t the end of the world.  It was a decent compromise.  But it was still a trap.  You knew if you went anywhere else you would take a haircut on salary.  And that even before the economy went south and pay started decreasing.  Gail and the kid were a trap.  All my debt, even excluding the house, was a trap.  But getting rid of one out of three wasn’t bad.  It was something.  What else could I do?


I had an acquaintance at work, he hung a picture of a place in the country in his cubicle.  When the boss asked him what it was, he said the place he grew up.  That was believable,  the place looked old enough to have a covered wagon parked in front of it.  He told me it was the place he was buying and that he planned on moving to as soon as it was paid off.  Said he got the idea from a how-to book on escaping the Rat Race.  Solidify your dream.  Hearing him tell about it over a beer one evening, he would move out to Bum Fuck without any running water or electricity, write a book or magazine articles, enjoy the peace and quiet.  It didn’t sound like any kind of paradise to me.  No electricity.  Cooking on a wood stove.  Using an outhouse.  That should be pretty fun in winter when it was zero degrees.  Your ass would freeze to the seat if your turd didn’t freeze to your ass first.  I told him I’d had enough camping out in the military.  He started talking about the benefits of no mortgage or debt as the economy got worse, the whole back to nature idea.  I wasn’t buying any of it.  Glorified camping.


Oh, less debt wasn’t a bad idea.  Not bad at all.  Fresh air and exercise was a great idea.  But I could get that in town.  Didn’t have to worry about my ass sticking to an outhouse toilet seat, either.  Central heat and air.  Light at the flick of a switch.  And the last I heard, no Hippy commune in the country ever lasted very long.  Couldn’t grow enough of their own food and went on public assistance.  So throw in potential starvation when your article on luring a potential date into your country dungeon far from where neighbors couldn’t hear the screams you wrote for Esquire didn’t sell as fast as you’d hoped.  No thanks, again.  Just the thing to attract any female not already discouraged by your poverty, a shack far from indoor plumbing or a 110 volt electrical outlet.  With the ass freezing toilet seat. 


That was right before the economy took a crap.  After Lehman Brothers failed in a bloody and spectacular fashion.  After AIG got a $150 billion bailout and still continued hemorrhaging money.  Things started going down hill fast, and I started to worry about my job.  I still had no waking nightmares involving moving out to a Unabomber Shack in the sticks, but I sure bought my newest buddy a lot more beers as I picked his brain on financial matters.  And started following up that research on the Internet to get a lot more details.  Then I really started getting scared.  If ten percent of what I was reading was true, we were in serious trouble.  I mean, you had to take a lot of information with a grain of salt.  The author was trying to sell you gold bullion or convince you that the Illuminati was planning a world currency with concentration camps that saw over flights of chemical trail dropping jet aircraft.  The whole Black Helicopter fantasy land crap.  The Post Office couldn’t make a profit raising the price of a stamp yearly, and Wal-Mart delivered food and water after Katrina before FEMA did, and we couldn’t kill a bunch of rag heads with road side bombs,  and we were supposed to believe that the FedGov could control the populace with a few deputized security guards from Homeland Security. 


But all urban legends have a scrap of truth as their kernel.  Take the ten percent as the core and even if they were only ten percent as serious as portrayed and we were in big trouble.  Even if Peak Oil ( another huge scare tactic, but it was based on the truth of a non-renewable resource ) turned out to be a tenth as serious as they said, you could figure grid down, economic crash, wild crime scenarios.  My drinking buddy sure could add to the depressant nature of alcohol.  So I did what every true blooded American male would do and started to plan on panicking and shopping.  Of course the fly in that ointment was our little buddy Gail.  I had to get this plan to get a stamp of approval from the wife who controlled my purse strings.  Great.


Chapter Two.

Gail didn’t see the need to put aside any food.  If I became unemployed, I had a check coming in from the state.  If we had a hurricane, the government would send supplies.  She even threw it in my face that I already had two cases of MRE’s.  Older than Todd, from the military.  And how long would they last even if edible?  But, since we never needed them, there was proof we didn’t need any more.  If the bank got into trouble, the government would give us our money back.  If gas got too expensive I could ride my bicycle more often.  If work laid me off, I could go work for the city ( “and it would provide us with real security” regardless of the fact that all levels of government were firing or freezing hiring ).  No amount of bad financial news convinced her we were in anything other than another recession and we would bounce back again.  President Obamma said so, and even if he was colored, she didn’t think he was a bad sort, and certainly wouldn’t lie to us.  Christ, I didn’t think Midwestern girls even used the term colored. 


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  1. Among the authors of fiction is common knowledge that their stories are their secret wishes.

    later loyal minions and psychos.

    Dr. Shitfinger

    1. Hmmm. Why, yes, I do enjoy being humped by females-and not in a good way

  2. Ok, that was... Good. not great (like your hair is) but good. Cuts off a little suddenly there. I am hoping the protaganist has the brains god gave a gerbil and has convinced his 'wife' that he needs a little 'hobby money' and used that to start prepping. Obviously the 'hobby' should be a lie not the real preps. Maybe nascar memorabilia collecting, or butterfly taxidermy or whatever BS you can think of that that harpy would buy and allow him to have.

    I can easily identify with the protaganist. I am far more fortunate in some thing (My spouse - though physically impared - is mentally acute and emotionally honest, and even willing to crap in a bucket for a "reasonable time period" or even longer if it is called a "composting humanure toilette") My funds are largely under my control (for now - the debtors are trying to get into them though). My location is among the most rural in the contentental USA while I have a high tech low labour job. Of course my health will never be as good as his, I never had a chance of having a good young adult baseline to work from such as army basic training, and physical conditioning is a severe chore for me - I would rather sit on my duff near my spouse and enjoy her company ( she is a true help mate and support in most of my endevors including prepping, though she hates the doom and gloom, she thinks 6 momths food is 'barely sufficent, when can we get more?') .

    But yeah, seeing the signs of the collapse coming and being trapped by circumstances (debt) and the people around you (societal convention) to prevent you from preparing for it as well as you could - what can you do?

    You squeeze every penny sometimes to get the bullets to fend off the zombies, and then in a spat of hopelessness you decide to buy cable TV to enjoy the luxuries you can before they all go away. Sigh. (internet is also a luxury but at least it allows some interactive education and independent monitoring of the events that could grow to effect your situation).

    Debts aquired in your youth will haunt you until you die (student loans)- and you have nothing to show for them.

    Todd is the best reason for the protagonist to prep. Preserving him and preparing him for the coming hardships should be foremost in the protaganists mind.
    Those 'friends' Todd hangs with should be carefully monitored and even more carefully changed out for friends who will actually aid his long term survival. It is what a good father does. Most men dont think subtlely enough to do it though- so the best our protaganist can likely do is pull Todd into situations where he encounters such usefull people in a positive way, and hope.

    I hope you are going to continue this fiction. Chp 2 should be how the situation devolved into the appocalypse as the protaganist prepped and tried to set up his son for success in spite of the spouse and society. Chp 3 should be where lawlessness takes over and the situation is set up to allow for the final (hopefully clever not direct) removal of the noose is conducted. (maybe sending her off to a drug store for femine hygenie products while a band of rioters/looters attackst it).
    After all a child (even grown up) shouldnt have to suffer one parent killing the other directly. But thats just my $1.50 after inflation.
    Good luck and please continue a LITTLE while longer on this. It is a good start to a good -short- story. Leave out details where you can to keep it short. emotions thoughts and a sketch of circumstances are all that is really necessary.


    1. Thanks for the very good reply. "cutting off suddenly" was just lack of interest to continue. A short coming in most of my fiction efforts. Raring to go, then I see a shiny object elsewhere and move on. Luckily for you all, I'm getting bored with non-fiction and so am more prone to explore fiction a bit better now. I think the main thing in this effort was I began to channel more of my military experiance than I usually remember/think on. I don't know if it will ever go farther.

  3. Lord Bison of the Great Basin;

    Your recent exercise in apocalyptic fiction, almost sounds like my biography, with the exceptions that I'm the guy that Gail left in the first place (after having three kids), to marry the protagonist. Of course being the other guy, I know that things don't end well with Gail and this should be a lesson to all young male military personnel to focus their creative energies to more positive outcomes as opposed to becoming a middle-aged insurance adjuster. Our protagonist might want to look into joining a shooting club or permaculture group, before the apocalypse begins in earnest? Thanks for the memories of pain, rage and helplessness, before I wised up and became a loyal minion of Team Bison.
    Keep keeping it real James!

    1. memories of dumbassness I can do, being mostly still fresh

  4. Pretty good and a nice surprise for the day after Christmas. Is there an ending? How did she bite it?

    Idaho Homesteader

    1. I never touched it again after the first week. I have no idea where I was even going with it.

  5. Well........
    I can't say that it is good, but at least it's not as horrible as that other story.
    Pick up the pace a little, add some dialogue, throw in a few mysteries.

    You Know Who

  6. Ok - but your character should have name (a good name. you know, like Billy B Damned.).

    Have your ever read Hunter Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Elko"?

    There's a copy of it at this website:

    You can print it out at work and read it at home. It's a fictional encounter between Thompson and supreme court justice Clarence Thompson. They somehow meet in the Elko area, at least in this work of fiction.

    You can ignore Thompson's politics. I think of him as man who just wanted to live on his land in rural Colorado, drink, do a few illegal drugs, shoot his guns, ride his motorcycle, and have the government leave him to his own devices.

    1. I'm almost sure I read it at one time- he descibes the big white polar bear in front of the Commercial Casino.

  7. A fortnight, huh?

    Geez... what took so long?