(Is that the correct way to say "use the software product offered under the name 'Skype,' that which permits video calls to others partaking of the same product?" I'm so unhip, it's astonishing that my ass just doesn't fall off.)
I'm interested in this program and being able to make video calls to friends and relatives, but have no idea how much it costs or what would be involved, vis-a-vis legal obligations. Oh, I know how to download the software and set it up and, yes, I do know that they have a website that (allegedly) answers all these questions ... but have you actually been there and tried to make heads or tails out of their explanations? (Dear God, and I thought understanding Ikea instructions was hard! They got nothing on these guys!)
So could somebody who's already a member of this (hopefully, someone who has already identified most of the booby traps) please let me in on the basics. I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.
Why now? Well, I have awesome dental insurance now, between my retired military and federal insurance, and can get everything I need for only like a hundred bucks out-of-pocket, which was a big part of the decision. Also, I've gotten tired of chewing everything on the right side. Plus, there's the entire cosmetic thing, y'know? Now that I'm getting older, it's kinda uncool to be missing ... obviously missing, that is ... teeth.
However, I ran into a small snag. The same event that cost me the teeth on that side, also left me with a little odd damage elsewhere in my mouth. Specifically, I developed a sort of bony growth a couple of centimeters lower than the teeth. A sort of projection, like a small sidewise hillock, that projected three or four centimeters into my mouth.
Right where, as it turned out, the partial denture was going to sit.
My dentist told me that I needed a little oral surgery to rid myself of my oral abutment before he could make the partial. Oh, he could make it without it being removed, he explained, but the partial would rub the silly thing raw within a day or two and make wearing it bloody torment.
So I located an oral surgeon who excepted both of my dental insurance plans and made two appointments, the first was so he could look over the situation and make sure that he could do what I needed done, and the second one so he could whip out the old Dremel and grind the silly thing flat.
Which was exactly what he said he would do. He said he would cut a flap of skin away, so he could uncover the bone wart, and then he'd simply grind it down flat and stitch the flap back into place. Easy, peasy.
So I showed up on time, got numbed up, and he broke out the scalpel. He slice the flap open, pulled it down (sort of flaying the tissue off of the bone as he went), and gave out a surprised gasp.
Then he traded his dremel for a pair of surgical pilers, grabbed hold of the bony protrusion, and pulled it out. It was bone, but not mine. Or, if it was mine, it was from somewhere other than where he pulled it out of. He then packed the resulting divot with something and sewed the flap down. Afterward, mumbling around the numbness, I tried to explain how I lost the teeth (butt of a gun; the blow landed, but the following bullet missed because I'd stuck my pistol up under his chin while he was pistol-whipping me and pulled the trigger a hair before he did), but neither of us could figure where the shard came from.
At any rate, now I'm sitting here with stitches in my gum tissue, doing my level best to keep my tongue from playing with them because doing so makes them ache something fierce! In a couple of weeks, my dentist will start the entire "making molds" bit and I should be walking around with plastic choppers by summer.
Provided I don't yank my damn gums out before then, that is.
I indulged in roasted garlic this week, much to my dearest wife’s dismay. As some of you might remember, roasted garlic affects me much the same way that helium affects balloons, with the degusting end result being my end gusting in a most de-style.
In-between trips out to the porch (giving the wife and cats a break), an odd memory sprang to mind, one of a seaman named William Franklyn and how he earned the nickname “Steamboat Billy.”
Y’see, eggs affected him as roasted garlic does me, except that – in his case – it was rather like something had crawled up his ass and died … while eating a rotting skunk … several years ago. Yes, one hardboiled egg with dinner was enough to send everyone scrambling for air by taps.
Of course, sailors being sailors, this meant that the rest of us were forever sneaking eggs into his meals on nights he had the helm. With below zero temps and wind chill that dropped it into ridiculous levels of mercury freezing cold, conditions which meant that it was all but suicidal to open a hatch or crack a porthole on the bridge, we rolled with laughter as toxic gases slowly crept down the ladders from the bridge, along with the sound of gasping, coughing, and occasional retching. As a result, the skipper made it known that, although he couldn’t post it as an official order, anyone caught slipping Franklyn any sort of egg while we were underway would be put in chains and tossed into number 2 hold … with Franklyn.
It was enough of a threat to keep all but the most determined (and sneaky) at bay. However, when Franklyn transferred from deck crew to engine room, all bets were off. Not that it did any good, sadly … it turned out that it was almost impossible to disgust a snipe.
But I digress. I was telling you about how he won his nickname, one that followed him through the rest of his career.
Y’see, the rear admiral was coming for an inspection and his very rank inspired us. The skipper, of course, took precautions and, for the inspection cruise, stationed Franklyn on the fantail, with strict orders not to move from his assigned position. Which we expected and dismissed, since our plans had nothing to do with trapping the admiral in a confined space with Franklyn. We had a better target in mind.
So, after we came back to dock and have lunch, finely chopped eggs, at least three, were mixed into the chicken salad by a bribable cook. Franklyn had two sandwiches and the snare was set.
An hour and a half later found us lined up for dress inspection on the dock. After a quick whip through by the brass for forms sake, the admiral addressed us on coming changes to the service and our roll in the upcoming “new” Coast Guard. The eggs kicked in about five minutes into his address … I could tell by the way Franklyn suddenly clenched his fists and butt cheeks.
A moment later, a huge fart ripped through the air, like the Green Giant blowing a raspberry during the admiral speech. The admiral paused and everyone in ranks started to shake. Those upwind of Franklyn from trying not to laugh, while those downwind shook with the effort of not gagging.
After a second, the admiral started back up … but was interrupted again by a juicy blast. Now sniggers and coughing could be heard in the ranks, but the best was yet to come.
Franklyn practically vibrated with the effort of keeping his anus and ass cheeks clamped tightly shut. From my vantage point, I could see his red face in profile, his jaw muscles bulging. The admiral, frowning now, started back up.
One minute passed … two minutes … three minutes; sweat was dripping off the crimson brow of Franklyn as he fought pressures that the rest of us could only guess at. Then it happened! Something that I’d never heard of before or since.
His butt whistled!
Not like a happy little bird singing or a nonchalant man piping a happy tune, oh no. More like a steam whistle calling a halt to the work day! Three long seconds of a powerful whistle shrilly splitting the air, followed by a huge fart as he relaxed his muscles in surprise.
Everyone, despite still being at attention, turned and stared at Franklyn in amazement. Our chief boatswains mate dropped smartly out of formation, briskly marched to Franklyn, and – without cracking a grin – ordered him back onboard the ship.
Franklyn fell out, did a passable right face, and marched up the gangplank, his military exit marred by the farts that sounded with each step. He stepped through the main hatch onto the mess deck and into history, forever to be known as Steamboat Billy from then on.
The inspection pretty much ground to a halt at that point as well, with the admiral unable to continue due to a massive case of the giggles.
Sorry I haven’t been writing, but life has become … interesting. (And that’s “interesting” by Sailor Jim standards, too.)
My diet has been radically changed in an attempt to better control my diabetes and I’m now living on around 1500 calories a day … 1500 pretty screwed up calories a day. The only meal that hasn’t been overhauled is breakfast, but it still hasn’t passed untouched. I have an English muffin, a tablespoon of low fat cream cheese, an egg, and a cup of coffee. (Basically the same breakers I’ve been eating for years, but with an English muffin in place of a bagel.)
Lunch and dinner both start with four cups of spinach salad, with either all the oil and vinegar dressing I’d like or it’s tossed with three ounces of hummus that has been thinned with olive oil, lemon juice and a little water. Then there’s four ounces of either chicken or fish and a slice of bread.
I have a snack of three cheese and crackers in the morning and afternoon, and a treat of two squares of dark chocolate in the evening.
No more fast food of any kind, no more sausages of any kind, no more anything high in carbs or sugars, and no more Diet Coke (except at work). I have water at home. I’m allowed to mix in Crystal Light, for flavor, and required to mix in powdered fiber, just in case I was in danger of enjoying myself.
For the first couple of weeks, I feared that I would never have a normal bowel movement again. Thankfully, that passed (no pun intended).
Now it’s solid again … and green.
Okay, granted I’m losing weight and my blood serum numbers are the best they’ve been in quite a while, but Mussolini made the trains run on time, right? Is the cure worth the medicine? I don’t know, but – late at night, while my stomach is trying to divorce me for lack of support – I do question it.
This is the first of the many interesting changes to my life. I’ll write about the rest as I can. In the meantime, think of me when you’re munching a muffin or dunking a donut. (I’ll certainly be thinking of all of you doing so.)
Okay, I know that my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I do have pretty good memories of snow storms. I lived in Los Alamos, NM, as a teen (where three feet of snow in a night wasn’t uncommon during the winter) and was stationed in Charlevoix, MI, during my career (where three feet of snow in a night wasn’t uncommon during the summer).
So there is a bit of a blizzard coming through right now … and it has lightening and thunder tossed in.
I don’t remember any snow fall in my entire life with lightening and thunder!
Do any of you?
Okay, so we’re facing a blizzard and my supervisor comes around to pass the word about coming in the next morning. It was at this point that I discovered that I’ve become a true government worker.
What he said was, “If you do not hear from me by seven, don’t bother coming in.”
What I heard was, “If you turn your phone off before going to bed, you have tomorrow off.”
And that’s only after six months of employment, shipmates. Imagine how your average six term Congressman filters what is said to him!
First off, I’m fine and so is Brainless. So don’t worry about either of us.
So, I didn’t have enough time for lunch today and had to buy something, instead of going home. I decided to hit a fish and chips sort of place near work. I bought a two piece lunch and a Diet Pepsi.
Come 1500, I was sick to my stomach and trying hard not to barf. (As a long time Diet Coke drinker, I’d like to blame the Pepsi, but fear that would be unreasonable.) I told my supervisor that I needed to go home sick and headed to the garage, where I expressed an opinion of the fish and chips sort of place prior to getting into my little truck.
I repeated that statement for emphasis on my way home. On a blue Kia.
I made it home with no additional statement issued and quickly adjourned to my own bathroom to work on a formal release.
Brainless is the name of our orange tom. You might remember him from previous missives. We adopted him in Flatland under the name Sherbet, which we quickly changed to Sherman, then we tried out Junior on him, but – after having him for a few months – we quickly came to the realization that his name was Brainless.
You’ll see why.
As I was bent over the toilet, gripping the edges of the bowl with both hands and preparing to turn completely inside out, Brainless walked into the room, saw me, and – at the absolute worse moment – stood up on his hind legs, and peered into the bowl to see what I was looking at.
Dian caught him after he’d made a few laps around the house. It took us the better part of an hour to clean … mostly because I had to keep stopping to barf.
And how had y’all’s day been?
Okay, so I’m going home for lunch …
I suppose I should mention first, if only out of a desire to mitigate how this particular story makes me look, that I have an hour for lunch, but live around ten minutes away from my office. So, with driving back and forth, I only end up with around 30 minutes to eat and enjoy being around my beautiful Dian. Granted, that might not be the best justification, but combined with the fact that I am who I am … well, keep an open mind.
So I’m driving home for lunch and I end up behind a gray sedan driving well under the limit and weaving a bit. As I get closer, I can see that the driver’s attention is less on the road and more on whatever he or she was doing on the right seat. You’ve all seen the type; glance occasionally at the road and drive on automatic.
The light turns red and the gray sedan stops well behind the crosswalk.
Now all of his (let’s simplify matters and say it’s a guy), all of his attention and both of his hands are busy with whatever he has on the passenger seat. So busy that the light changes and we simply sit there.
After a ten count, I tapped my horn.
He didn’t even bother to look up, just hit the gas and glanced at the road after he’d started moving.
We ended up stopped at the next light, too. When it changed, I sat there for a five count and then hit my horn again. He moved into the intersection before looking up once again.
This continued for the next three lights. I couldn’t pass him due to road work, so I’m stuck behind this idiot for about halfway home. Worse, because of the way he drives, we keep hitting reds! At each light, the same thing: He stops well short and goes to work until I tap my horn, and then he starts off again.
Finally, the construction zone ended and the road widened. I leapt into the right hand lane, intending to whiz past the dolt and salvage at least a little of my lunch break, but the light at the next intersection starts to change before I could do anything more than change lanes.
In the meantime, I notice that a car has pulled in front of the gray sedan. We come to a stop at the light, me two cars back, before I notice that it’s not just a car … it’s a police car!
I smiled to myself and hoped the officer would notice the driving style of the sedan behind him … then I did a double-take, an evil grin slowly spread across my lips, and I tapped the horn.
Sure enough, Pavlov’s sedan jumped forward, right into the back bumper of the police car three feet in front of him.
(Please understand that I’m not a particularly bad man. For the most part, I am one of the rare good guys left in the universe. However, there was no sum of money large enough to stop me from tapping my horn. You could have held a gun to my head and I still would have tapped the horn,)
Well, the officer slowly got out of his car and put on his hat, all the time staring at the sedan. Then he walked back and surveyed the damage to his back bumper, occasionally giving the sedan “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” looks. The driver of the sedan simply sat there, astonished at what happened, and occasionally looking around as if trying to figure out how he got there.
I managed to keep a straight face through the intersection, but laughed like a fiend all the rest of the way home.
I call this “Bobby the Pick” and it isn’t finished yet, but I wanted a little input on it. (Never fear, those of you who called for it, I am working on extending the story of Lynn and Morgan … I’ll post what I have later, see if anyone likes it.
The ground under my cheek was still damp from last night’s thunderstorm. It smelled brown; thick, rich, and sticky. I heard sirens in the distance and hoped they were for me … I didn’t have a lot left.
Running footsteps through the bramble centered my attention. “Freddy? Damn it, man, where the hell are you?!”Carl Moroni hissed as loudly as he dared.
I grinned into the mud. That was Carl Moroni, trying to find his brother, Fred. Fred, however, was laying not five feet away from me with a broken neck.
He stumbled off to the right, missing us by a few feet in the dark. Fine by me; I just wanted to rest for a bit. The sirens got closer, but were heading for the house. It would be hours before anyone thought to search the forest. Did I have hours?
I started flexing muscles and twitching limbs, starting with my feet. The pain, only a dull ache while I was lying still, flared into a raging bonfire of agony. To the good side, it washed away the exhaustion; to the bad, it fucking hurt!!
Left ankle was either sprained or twisted. Left knee was still sore from where Hugo had landed a kick on it. (But Hugo’s body was floating in my pool, swimming his way to his last reward, so let’s call it even.) Hips and legs were strained and tired, but unbroken. The blade of Freddy’s pocket knife was still embedded in my back, but it didn’t seem to have done any serious damage. I was still breathing and my heartbeat was steady, but I’d have to get it out before trying anything athletic. My left hand and wrist was still a mess from Carl working them over with a hammer, but my right arm was still fairly functional.
I took a deep breath. Okay, time to deal with the blade.
I moved slowly, not wanting to do any further damage, and reached as far as I could with my right. The hilt was out of reach. I tried reaching over my left shoulder and still couldn’t reach the damn thing.
Aw, damn it.
I moved my left arm and, after an eternity of pain, managed a two finger grip on the hilt. I still had two knuckles that weren’t broken and could use the base of those fingers. Of course, that meant having to move all the broken bones to do so, but you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few Jack Nicolson’s, right?
I slid the blade out and went back to breathing, waiting for the explosions of light to stop.
“Damn it … Freddy! We got to kill that asshole and get the hell out of here! Where are you?!” Carl sounded like he was a couple of dozen yards away to my right. Pure city boy; all of them were … well, had been, actually, since Fred and Hugo were now permanently part of the country.
Not that intelligent, either. None of them had ever considered me a threat. Not even after I left them for the cops, taking the haul from the Morris job and disappearing. Funny … most cons I knew managed to get a bit of an education after a stretch in the can, but not the Moroni brothers. Of course, they did manage to track me down, so I suppose they’d learned something inside. But then they decided to torture me until I told them where I hid the goods.
The tied me up in the ballroom of my fifteen room mansion, on my fifty acre estate, using a silk bell pull cord to do so … and they still didn’t know what had happened to the gold? The suit I was wearing when they jumped me just inside the marble floored foyer was worth more than any of them had seen in a good year of theft, but did they notice?
I rolled onto my right side and glanced down myself. Well, so much for the suit, eh?
“Freddy!!” Carl was heading deeper into the woods and further away from me. On the one hand, every foot between the two of us was good. On the other hand, if he got away, he’d be back as soon as he had a new gang. I had to hunt him down and make sure that didn’t happen. Problem is that he might still have a gun. I had his kid brother’s knife, but – although it was a proven weapon – knife versus gun was never good for the guy with the blade.
Go get the cops? I looked back towards the house, which was now lit up with the reflections from flashing lights. It looked like the entire New Chance sheriff’s department was there. I grinned sheepishly and remembered that I was now Robert Mayford III, not Bobby the Pick from the old neighborhood. Of course they’d all turn out for a solid citizen, especially one with deep pockets.
They’d flood the forest if I pointed them in this direction. But I wanted Carl gone, not jugged and babbling secrets. Maybe I could have come to an understanding with the Sheriff, but not his entire force. Too many good boys in those starched uniforms.
“God Damn It, FREDDY!” Right, then … up to me. Get Carl, take him out, and live to get back to the house with a death defying story of kidnappers getting what they deserved. Then a year or so in a private room of the local hospital and everything would be good as new.
I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position and waited for my head to stop spinning. Maybe that should be a year in the big hospital up-state, huh? I made it to my feet by using a nearby tree as a brace and stood there, swaying, until I could catch my breath.
“Easy living catching up with you, Bobby,” I muttered to myself. In the old days, I could have run through these woods without even getting out of breath. Now all it took was an hour or so of torture, beating two men to death, and running for my life with a bad ankle and arm, and I was ready for the knackers.
“Make a mental note, Bobby … Time to look into hiring a personal trainer. “ I pushed off the tree and started moving toward where Carl was still calling for his brother.
It took a few minutes to get to where I could see moving between the patches of moonlight. I’d get to a tree and hold myself up against it while waiting for a sound, then stagger to the next tree in the right direction and do it all over again. I was about ready to upgrade my left ankle from sprained to broken when I finally caught sight of Carl.
He was peering into the darkness, calling out for his brother, and … damn. Yeah, he was carrying a pistol. If it was the same piece he had been waving about in the house, it was a .44 automatic. One hit from something that big and I’d be heading to the dead millionaire hereafter. And me with just a glorified switch blade.
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my left hand, and then spent several horrible seconds trying not to scream. Stupid, stupid, stupid … when my eyes focused again, Carl was staring at the bushes to the left of me and quietly calling, “Freddy? Is that you, boy?”
I must have gasped or something. I faded back behind my handy tree and edged towards the other side, listening to Carl slowly move forward. “Freddy?”
Without thinking, I let out a quiet moan and shifted my weight to my good foot.
“Is that … Freddy? Are you okay?” Carl, pistol held at the ready, cautiously moved closer to the bush from which he’d decided the noises were coming. I wasn’t in the best shape for an ambush, but it was my best chance. I braced myself …
A rustle moved the branches of the bush and it wasn’t me!
“Don’t move, boy! I’m here, Freddy … just hold on a bit longer. Is that bastard still around? Can you speak?” He pushed his face into the leaves of the bush and then jumped back with a muffled shriek and started beating himself on the face.
I moved back to the other side of the tree and watched him slam his pistol into his beard over and over again … no, not his beard. Carl always wore a full soup strainer, but this was something else. Before I could make out what was attached to his face, Carl did the most astonishing thing.
He shot it!
He buried the barrel of his automatic in whatever it was and shot it. From the front, of course, meaning that he also shot himself in the head!
He fell back into a patch of moonlight and the wounded creature fell to the side of his shattered head. I limped over and looked. It looked for all the world like some sort of beaver or maybe a cat of some sort. I guess I was still a bit of a city boy still, myself. Shouts came from the direction of the house. I started limping back that way, occasionally using a friendly tree to prop myself up.
When I finally fell, I never felt the ground.
I woke up in the back of the ambulance when one of the medics started wrapping my left hand. The high pitched keening alerted them to my being awake and one of them called for the Sheriff. Sheriff Bradley “Andy” Taylor was around two hundred and fifty pounds of teak, roughly carved into the figure of a human. His usually impeccable uniform was stained with various fluids and rumpled.
“You look like hell, Andy,” I muttered, strained. The medic was still trying to wrap up my hand.
“You should speak, Robert,” he replied in that oddly smooth voice of his. “What the hell happened out here tonight?!”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,” I lied, lying back so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes. “These three maniacs broke into my home, demanded money, convinced that I had tons of the stuff hidden in the place. When I offered my wallet, they beat the crap out of me. When I told them the simple truth, that I never kept large sums of money in the house, they tied me to a chair and pounded on my left hand with a small sledge hammer. I thought they were going to kill me.” I paused to let out a heart-felt moan.
“What happened next,” Sherriff Taylor demanded, leaning forward. Even the medic had stopped his sadistic treatment to listen to my tale.
“GET OFF MY ANKLE, YOU IDIOT!” I screamed in honest agony. The sheriff jerked back and raised both hands.
“Sorry, Robert, sorry … I didn’t … crap. Okay, what happened? How did they end up dead?”
After the fireworks died down behind my eyes, I answered, “I don’t know! Well, I do know how the last one died, but the other two … they all left the room, arguing, and when nobody came back, I managed to wiggle out of the chair and take off running. I sprained my ankle or something jumping off the retaining wall and I limped into the forest to hide until dawn. The biggest of the three, the guy with a beard, was out there, so I hid behind a tree. Then, for no reason, he screamed and shot himself in the head. Swear to God, I heard a gunshot and someone falling, and when I looked, there he was.”
“I can confirm that last,” Doc Scratton, the unofficial town coroner, chimed in. He was drying his hands on a grubby towel as he walked up. “Big fella definitely shot himself, but it was more of an accident than anything else.”
“How’s that, Doc?”
“Silly sod somehow managed to get a badger on his face.” He tossed the towel onto the ambulance floor and fished out a well worn briar.
“Badger, Andy. Mean little bastards, but I have no idea how it got to his face. Anyway, like any sensible man with gun and a badger biting him on the nose and clawing his cheeks, he shot it without thinking about what the bullet would do to his own face. Found the badger nearby, dead with powder burns around the wound.”
“Jesus,” the medic muttered, jaw slack.
“The other two fellas, the one in the pool and the younger one in the woods, had their necks broken. No badger involved.” He finished packing his pipe and lit up with a satisfied sigh. “Looks like the same fella broke both their necks from the looks of it, but I need to study them on a slab to be sure.”
Sheriff Taylor stood there for a moment, frowning and scratching an itch. “Well, isn’t this the stupidest thing … three men break into Robert’s house, torture him for money that isn’t there, then – apparently – get into some sort of fight among themselves. The biggest breaks the neck of one of his partners and tosses him in the pool, chases down and breaks the next of the other partner, and then – trying to track down Robert – ends up shooting himself in the face trying to escape a God damned badger!”
Doc spread his hands helplessly and, despite himself, grinned as he replied, “Well, that does seem to account for all the pertinent facts, Andy.”
The sheriff stood there for a moment and then gestured curtly at the medic. “Charlie? Go get a smoke or something, okay? I need to say a few things to these two that you really don’t want to hear.”
“I dunno, sheriff … I’m not done getting Mr. Mayport ready for transport and …”
“Relax, Charlie,” Doc interrupted, stepping into the ambulance. “I’ll take over. Hell, I’m the fellow you’re suppose to transport poor Robert to, anyway, so it should be okay.”
“Well, if you’ll cover for me if dispatch gets shirty about it, Doc, I guess I could use a smoke.” The medic clambered out of the back of the ambulance, Sheriff Taylor giving him room to do so. “Just gimme a high sign when it’s okay to take him away, right?”
“No problem, Charlie,” Doc assured him, settling in and puffing away.
Sheriff Taylor let the medic get a good distance away before he climbed in and shut the doors. As soon as he had, he turned and demanded, “Friggin’ hell, Pick … those are the Moroni brothers!”
“Were,” Doc corrected.
“Shut the fuck up, Patchwork,” Andy shot back. He turned his attention back on me. “No way Carl Moroni killed Hugo and Fred,” he stated.
“Nope,” I agreed.
“So you did for them and what actually happened to Carl?”
“Badger to the face, like I told you, Andy,” Doc replied. “I wasn’t making any of that up. Carl the Moron died like he lived, stupidly.”
“What the fuck were the Moroni brothers doing here, anyway, Pick? You weren’t thinking of bringing them in, were you?”
“Are you kidding, Andy? Can you imagine the Moroni boys in New Chance? It would have been like when those grifters came through last year; pure greed with no moral compass. They would have done their best to ride this place into the ground.” I blinked hard. Reality had wavered for a minute. “No, they tracked me down for a little pay back and – hopefully – to get their hands on whatever was left of the Morris fortune.”
“How the hell did they track you down, then?” Doc demanded. “I thought we were all safe here.”
“They didn’t say and I have no idea. Maybe something got past us when that reporter came through? The gal that did the story about ‘the best retirement towns in America?’”
That’s where I am, currently. I’m still deciding where this will lead, but I’m thinking that this town was settled by people who wanted to lose their past and start anew. I’ll post more as it develops.
Well, I certainly hope nobody was hurt by THE BULLET I JUST FRIGGIN’ DUCKED!!
NO SURGERY FOR THE SAILOR!!
The surgeon checked me out and decided that surgery would be useless. She (yup, had to be a she, didn’t it?) explained that in a week or so my butt would just naturally fall off.
No, she said that my body was absorbing the clot nicely and that surgery, at this point, wouldn’t really help. She prescribed a couple of tubes of some sort of numbing salve, suggested we keep one hidden away for any possible repeat, and sent us on our way.
We and us because Dian insisted on accompanying me. Not so she could make sure that I was going to be okay, but because she found it all fascinating. Girl scares me sometimes.
Anyway, I have a couple of weeks of gradually diminishing pain ahead, but no slicing, dicing, or stitches.
I call that a win!