Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day: Prelude

[franksolich]

note: this parody of the paranoia of the primitives is dedicated to the hippywife's good friend, our pal Vinnie

Mrs. Alfred Packer's Wild Bill has it all figured out.  â€œOkay now,” Wild Bill announced to the family crowded in the kitchen of the home down in the woods of northeastern Oklahoma; “everybody get ready to go on a trip the Labor Day weekend, as we’ve found franksolich.

“All of us are going to have to go, though, because this is a big deal, and we can’t have any screw-ups.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer went around opening up all the windows, as the unbathed were despoiling the ambiance of her kitchen.

Wild Bill looked at one of his brothers, the one with both eyes on the same side of the nose.  â€œCan you get your truck into running order, so it’ll make it up there, to the roof of Nebraska?”

“Well, I dunno,” this brother responded; “you know it’s got only two cylinders working, the transmission’s shot, and it burns a quart of oil every twelve miles.  You’re talking, what, a few hundred miles up there and back—it might be quite a chore for the ’37 Ford, going that distance.”

“Well, you’ll have to get it in running order,” hippyhubby Wild Bill said, “as we need it for hauling all my butchery gear.

“And you,” Will Bill said, looking at the chinless brother, the one whose lower jaw melted into his neck, “can you get your van into running order, so it’ll make it up there too?”

“That’s asking a lot, Wild Bill,” the chinless brother replied; “after all, it’s an old Econoline van—the roof leaks, the windshield’s cracked, and the tires aren’t very good.”

“Well, you’ll have to get it in running order, Wild Bill said, “as we need it for hauling all the camping gear.

“The last time the woman and I were up there, we found the perfect camping spot, out in an isolated area where nobody’d see us—there’s one or two people around once in a while, but at a distance, and so they won’t be any trouble for us.  It’s on the banks of a river, trees all around, and the house, where nobody’s usually at home, is a half-mile or something away.  And the nearest neighbor’s six miles away.

“No dogs around; only harmless little cats.”

Wild Bill looked at his brother with no forehead.  â€œCan you get your sedan in working order, so it can make it up there too, carrying most of our personnel?”

“Oh no,” the foreheadless brother whined; “you know damned well, Wild Bill, my car won’t make ten miles without something breaking down in it.  After all, it’s forty-three years old, that car.”

“Well, get it fixed,” hippyhubby growled, “because we’re going to need it.

“I’ll drive the lead vehicle of this caravan, the hippymobile,” Wild Bill said; “and you”—pointing to his brother-in-law, the one with a goiter the size of a cantaloupe bulging from his neck—“are you done disguising that Fed Ex delivery van, making it look like a funeral hearse?”

“Almost there,” the goitered brother-in-law said; “the only thing I have left to do is finish removing the blood from the driver’s seat, and it’s set to go.”

“Good, good,” Wild Bill said; “at least somebody besides me’s on the ball here.

“This is important; we’ve got to get franksolich, put him out of commission, so that everybody on Skins’s island can romp and play at will, without his tripping them up, making fun of them, stalking them so they lose their jobs or their government freebies.

“Or in the case of the late red round one, his life.

“He’s a dangerous man, franksolich.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer interrupted.  â€œBut we haven’t yet determined which of the two is franksolich,” hippywife reminded the crowd.

Wild Bill described what he and hippywife had seen; the two men in the booth of the restaurant, sitting right next to them, the cashier mentioning one of them as being franksolich.

“It’s the cowboy, woman; no way is it the retard.

“The retard’s the one who’d try using a Phillips-head screwdriver for a straight-slotted screw.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer described the two men; both of them tall and thin, one of them with dark blond hair, the other with dark brown hair.  She offered that she considered them both rather handsome, although there was something most peculiar about the second one.  Not only did he wear his hair a little bit longer than men usually wear their hair, but he also never seemed to be paying attention when anybody was talking to him.

She wondered why that was, and hadn’t yet figured it out.  

“He’s just a retard,” Wild Bill said; “if he’s got an IQ bigger than six, I’m a Chinaman.

“No cretin can wreak havoc on Skins’s island; it takes somebody smart, to mess with the smartest people on the intern—er, in the world.”

“Wait a second, brother,” interrupted Wild Bill’s brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose, “how do you know the second one’s a retard?  It doesn’t seem right to me, to eliminate him as being franksolich without looking at everything, considering everything.”

Wild Bill spat into the sink.  â€œYou should’ve heard the retard talk,” he said.

“Gawd, it was an abomination, his voice.  Slow and flat and broad, as if he were reading aloud from a book or something.  No heart, no soul, no vigor, no emotion, in that talk, as if it was a machine talking.

“The guy’s a retard—he’s no franksolich.”

“Well, maybe there’s a reason he talks that way, Wild Bill,” said the foreheadless brother; “did you notice anything else about him?”

Mrs. Alfred Packer spoke up; “No, he otherwise looks normal, nothing wrong with him at all.  It’s just the voice.  Every word’s crystal-clear and distinct, no hesitation, no sputtering, no slurring—but it’s just, well, so…..slow….and…..flat…..and…..b—r—a--w--d.

“In fact, it’s rather maddening, hearing that coming from such a fine-looking man where there’s nothing else wrong with him.”

“It’s a really stupid voice,” Wild Bill added, “the voice of a retard who probably wouldn’t know how to log onto a computer even if his life depended on it.

“But why are we wasting our time talking about the retard anyway?  Let’s talk about the cowboy who was with him, who’s got to be franksolich.  The retard doesn’t count.”

[Ballygrl]

frank, all I can say right now after reading that is !

[DumbAss Tanker]

In the words of a great American and one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet, "Oh my!"

 

[franksolich]

In the words of a great American and one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet, "Oh my!"

 

Actually, it's based upon real life, sir.

I've always considered the voice a bigger "handicap" than the deafness.  Deafness is invisible, and one can hide traces of it (such as what I do), but there isn't a damned thing one can do about one's voice.

The minute I open my mouth, I'm doomed.

Among decent and civilized people--Republicans, conservatives, "fundies," medical professionals, blue-collars, farmers, ranchers, little old ladies, military guys current and former, those for whom English is a second language (or no language at all), rich people, poor folks, the church-going hordes, outsiders, rebels against the (hippie) Establishment, southern rednecks and NASCAR fans, appreciators of fine culture and the arts, Tea Party patriots, steelworkers, truck drivers, cleaning ladies, those of Italianate derivation with one significant exception, small town folks, &c., &c., &c.--there's a second or two of confusion upon first hearing the voice, but then they almost as quickly grasp that there's a, uh, problem, and adapt to it.

It's only ever been among Democrats, liberals, and the primitive-like, where the voice has been linked to a lack of intelligence.

I need to repeat that; it's only--in my whole entire life--ever been among Democrats, liberals, and the primitive-like, where the voice is linked to a lack of intelligence.

As God is my witness, that has been my experience all my life.

[DumbAss Tanker]

It's only ever been among Democrats, liberals, and the primitive-like, where the voice has been linked to a lack of intelligence.

They behave the same way when they hear a Southern or Midwestern accent, or a words from anyone with a speech impediment such as the minor one that G. W. Bush appeared to suffer from (Largely masked by a regional accent as it was).  I too find Conservatives and Libertarians to be much more willing to listen for content, rather than glib delivery.

[BlueStateSaint]

They behave the same way when they hear a Southern or Midwestern accent, or a words from anyone with a speech impediment such as the minor one that G. W. Bush appeared to suffer from (Largely masked by a regional accent as it was).  I too find Conservatives and Libertarians to be much more willing to listen for content, rather than glib delivery.

Style over substance--that's the Democrat way!

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer’s Wild Bill lays out his plans.  Wild Bill went to see the brother-in-law, the one with the goiter the size of a cantaloupe on his neck, to check out how conversion of the Federal Express van into a funeral hearse, was going.

“It’s important that we get as much vehicular transportation as possible,” hippyhubby told the brother-in-law; “we’ve got some others who are joining us for the kill.  They want to be in on getting franksolich too, getting their own licks in.

“warpy’s driving over from New Mexico, to ride with us.  She doesn’t think her own car can make it up to the roof of Nebraska.  grasswire’s riding Amtrak from Oregon down here, to go with us.  And then there’s Horse with no Name, who wants to hitch along.

“It’s going to be a real hippie get-together, and it’s going to be good for hippywife to have some womenfolk for women company.

“We might have to jam some into your van.

“MineralMan and Odin2005 from Minnesota are planning to be there, but they’ll meet us there, at the camp-site along the river.

“I’m hoping it’s a good conversion job you’re doing, because remember, the van’s hot, and law-enforcement’s been looking for it ever since that Fed Ex deliveryman became supp—er, disappeared.  It can’t look like anything it looked before.”

Wild Bill and the brother-in-law went out to the garage to inspect the van.

Wild Bill whistled in approval at the sight of the van, now painted white (top half) and black (bottom half), with a thin pink stripe separating the colors.

On both sides was painted in arched lettering forming a half-circle, WILD BILL & BROS., INC.

And then underneath that, WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS, and then QUANTITY DISCOUNTS.

“A triple-decker,” the brother-in-law said; “for three caskets, stacked on top of each other.

“However, I still can’t get the blood off the front seat.”

Wild Bill looked.  â€œOh, just spray-paint the seat black; that’ll cover it up.”

“What are the plans, Wild Bill?” the brother-in-law asked.  â€œI’m still not so sure the cowboy’s franksolich; it might be the other one.”

“The cowboy’s franksolich,” hippyhubby growled.

“I dunno, Wild Bill,” the brother-in-law protested; “you know, sometimes you do jump to conclusions.”

“Look here,” Wild Bill snarled, choking the brother-in-law; “ever since Pa died, I’ve been the head of the family, and like Pa, the conclusions I come to are the right conclusions.

“You never saw them—the woman and I did—and the other one’s dumber than a rock.  No way could he be franksolich, killing Andy, causing Raven and cali to lose their jobs, and Atman almost, and causing reviews of their disability cases for Systematic Chaos and Odin2005, among other mischief.

“It takes brains to do that, and the other one doesn’t have a brain; he’s stupid, stupid, stupid.”

The brother-in-law still protested, rubbing his neck.  â€œWell, maybe there’s something else about the other one.  Maybe he’s not stupid, maybe there’s something else wrong with him.

“You know how it is, Wild Bill; when somebody’s stupid, there’s other things wrong too.  Maybe the eyes are strange, or there’s a bum leg, or one has the shakes, being a spastic.

“You didn’t notice anything else wrong with the other one, just his voice?”

Wild Bill contemptuously spat at a cat walking by.  â€œNah, he’s just like the cowboy, one of those all-American fundie trash, well-physiqued, well-groomed, probably voted ‘best looking’ in high school, prom king, kicker on the football team.

“But his voice—it’ll drive you nuts, hearing that voice.  He’s just really stupid, too stupid to be franksolich.  So the cowboy’s franksolich, no doubt about it.”

“What do you suppose their relationship is,” the brother-in-law wondered.

“I dunno for sure,” hippyhubby admitted; “and nobody else from Skins’s island can figure it out either.  At first, we turned on our gaydars, but those two are straight arrows, nothing queer about them at all.

“I’m thinking they’re either brothers, or maybe cousins, and that the cowboy franksolich is the retard’s legal guardian, given that he does all of his talking-and-listening for him.

“But the retard has his uses for us; we don’t know hardly anything about the cowboy, but because they hang out together so much, we’re going to use the retard to lead us to the cowboy, franksolich.”

[DumbAss Tanker]

I sense a series of large and small disappointments in Wild Bill's future...

 

[Karin]

WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS with QUANTITY DISCOUNTS

 

[franksolich]

I sense a series of large and small disappointments in Wild Bill's future...

 

Many use the analogy of Charlie Brown, Lucy, and the football, when describing the behavior of the primitives.

A good analogy, too, but not always the right one.

In some cases, I prefer the analogy of the Road Runner and WilyECoyote, in which the latter sets a trap, but gets trapped himself.

[DumbAss Tanker]

Hmmm, sounds like some USDA "Utility -" may be on the Packer menu, as opposed to the planned "Choice +" cuts!

 

[franksolich]

Hmmm, sounds like some USDA "Utility -" may be on the Packer menu, as opposed to the planned "Choice +" cuts!

 

Oh my.

You know, sir, I'm writing "Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" in bits and pieces, releasing a chapter every third day or so, building up to the climax on Labor Day itself.

I'm trying to see if this releasing a chapter at a time is better than releasing a whole long story.

Anyway.

I'm about done with it, and much to my startlement and shock, what has evolved has the elements of an "R" rating, rather than the usual "G" rating.  There's sex in it.  I have no idea how sex managed to work its way into it, but that's what evolved.  I'm sure hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer, the defrocked warped primitive, and Ms. Ed the unappellated eohippus are going to be embarrassed, but that's the way the tale wove itself.

[DumbAss Tanker]

Sex is like that.  Consequence of the basic life force asserting itself to have its way, despite our conscious thoughts, I suppose.

[GOBUCKS]

Well, I just hope that if there's any hopping around, it doesn't include Mrs. Packer.
That sister-in-law, the one with both eyes on the same side of her nose, is kind of hot.

[franksolich]

WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS with QUANTITY DISCOUNTS

 

I've been writing this in a stream-of-consciousness manner, and the story's getting pretty long.  I'm hoping to have the Packer clan on the road to the roof of Nebraska on Thursday evening, September 1st, and to give a play-by-play account during the course of that holiday weekend.

A tiny preview:

After hippywife had confided with the other hippywomen that she’d seen the stranger and described his attributes, warpy decided she too wanted to see.

Mrs. Alfred Packer hadn’t told hippyhubby what she’d seen, for fear he’d get all bent out of shape.

“Well,” grasswire pointed out, “he probably just sleeps in the nude, like lots of other people.  From what I’ve heard of him, he’s probably not a naturkind, running around naked all the time.

“The times I saw him, he struck me as the modest, retiring sort, the one who wants to be a wallflower.”

“True, not up here in fundieland,” warpy contributed, “where everybody’s uptight, and bathe with their clothes on—but I need to check this out, to see what it really is.”

“But it’s private property,” grasswire insisted; “it’s his property, and he’s entitled to do whatever he wants, on his property, without being bothered by other people.  He’s been nice enough to let all of us camp here, and I think he should be left alone, no matter how otherwise interesting he might be.”

“Well, I need to check this out,” warpy repeated.

After which the defrocked warped primitive finds herself in a, uh, rather unusual position.

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer’s Wild Bill refines his plans.  hippyhubby Wild Bill went to see the brother with no chin, the one whose lower jaw melted into the neck, to see how work was going on the 1974 two-door Chevrolet Impala, the size of a Sherman tank.

“Well, the floor in the back’s rusted through, so nobody can sit back there, and it looks as if I can take only one person with me, Wild Bill,” the chinless brother said.

“No way,” Wild Bill said; “we don’t have enough vehicles as it is, to take everybody up to nab franksolich; just about everybody and his uncle wants to be in on the action.

“The way I have it planned, you’re taking most of the womenfolk, it being a sedan you’ve got; one can’t shove women into vans and a funeral hearse, as they won’t be comfortable.  They got to be in regular car.

“And so you’re taking Ma, grasswire, warpy, and Ms. Ed.

“Ma, grasswire, and Ms. Ed can sit in the back.”

The chinless brother hesitated.  â€œBut that’ll put warpy in the front seat, and I don’t want her that close to me, her being the way she is and all that.  I’d just as soon have Ma or grasswire up front with me.”

“You forget warpy’s built like a football tackle,” Wild Bill reminded him; “put her in the back seat, and there’ll be room for only one more there, and you’d have to jam three in the front.

“And besides, warpy’d have trouble getting in the back seat, it being only two doors.

“And besides further, what if something happens to your car, it breaks down or quits moving or something?

“warpy’s got the horsepower of a tow-truck; she can easily jump out and push, no problem.”

“Well, what about the floor in the back, then?”

“Cut out a piece of plywood to bridge it,” hippyhubby said.

The chinless brother, having lost the argument, tried to think of one he could win.

“You know, Wild Bill, I’m still a little queasy about which one of the two’s franksolich, the cowboy or the other one.  You say it’s the cowboy, but I’m still wondering if it might not be the other one.”

“No way,” Wild Bill said, angry that his judgement was being questioned; “the other one’s a retard; there’s no way he’d have the know-how to wreak so much havoc on Skins’s island, everybody losing their jobs and somesuch, because of franksolich.

“It’s the cowboy.  The cowboy’s franksolich.  And the retard’s going to lead us to the cowboy.”

“Well,” the chinless one persisted, “there is one way we can resolve the matter here, by finding that picture of franksolich that’s spinning around on the internet."

“We’ll never find that picture,” hippyhubby said; “it’s franksolich, and it’s been verified by franksolich himself as being franksolich, but it was never tagged so that others’d know who it is.

“For months, other members of Skins’s island have been scouring the internet porn sites, looking for that picture, coming up dry.  Skins himself a few months ago complained that traffic was down by more than half, because near everybody there was researching porn sites instead of hanging around Skins’s island, looking for that picture of franksolich.”

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer asks for a day off.  Mrs. Alfred Packer was nervous as she sat on a chair outside the office of the payroll manager of the nursing home.  She was going in to request Friday, September 2, the Friday before Labor Day, off, so that she and the Packer clan could go up to Nebraska, to finally nab franksolich.

hippywife fretted as she waited, for two reasons.

The first was because she’d been asking for Fridays off ever since last March, when hippyhubby Wild Bill had started the near-weekly trips up to Nebraska to find franksolich.  There’d been cases of four, five, or six Fridays in a row, that she’d taken off.

Given her seniority at the nursing home, she’d gotten them, but it now added up to a lot of Fridays, and there’d been complaints from other employees less favored.

But she had to have Friday September 2 off; they’d finally nailed franksolich and were closing in for the kill.  They were so close they couldn’t possibly not succeed.

The other reason Mrs. Alfred Packer was nervous was that she’d heard rumors of a “write-up,” the nature of her alleged offenses not being known; only that a “write-up” was imminent, and such a mark on her record would delay, or even make impossible, pay-raises and promotions.

Finally, the payroll manager called her inside.  On the desk in front of her was hippywife’s employment file.  The last time Mrs. Alfred Packer had seen it, it had been such a slender little folder, but now it seemed six inches thick.

The payroll manager, her face behind a pair of jeweled half-spectacles, gazed at hippywife.

“I don’t mean to be unkind, dear, but there’s been a problem; allegations that you’re selling home-made earrings to patients in exchange for giving those patients services they’ve already paid for.

“The latest one’s been that the 89-year-old Mr. Grossenthode insists you won’t insert his false teeth for him unless he buys a pair of earrings.  What he’s supposed to do with earrings, he has no idea, and he’s lost six pounds already from not being able to eat.

“Just before that, the 94-year-old Mrs. Appletwine died, and her heirs when checking her lockbox here at the nursing home, found it jammed full of home-made earrings.  The last time they’d looked in there, the lockbox had been jammed full of cash, to pay her funeral expenses.

“The niece of another resident here, the 79-year-old Miss Bumbles, says she was told by her aunt that you wouldn’t wipe her bottom unless she bought a pair of your earrings.  Miss Bumbles, in case you don’t know, is of one of those sects that discourages cosmetics and jewelry because beauty as created by God is better.

“And two months ago, the guardians of Mrs. Coarsewhistle, noticed that every time they visited her, she seemed to be wearing a new pair of earrings, and wondered why.”

“But,” Mrs. Alfred Packer protested, “Mrs. Coarsewhistle needs to look good, for when she goes out.”

“Mrs. Coarsewhistle is 106 years old,” the payroll manager replied; “and hasn’t been out since 1977, when she had her first stroke.

“And there’s been other reports, but never mind.  I need you to sign this, so the nursing home doesn’t have to take more vigorous steps.”

hippywife read the document; it was a statement in which she promised to not sell goods, of either a personal or other nature, to residents of the nursing home, not even Girl Scout cookies.

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She needed the money.  hippyhubby Wild Bill every week took her take-home pay of circa $200 for his own purposes, giving her in exchange an allowance of ten dollars, paid in a counterfeit $10 bill at the same time.

Not willing to endure the wrath of Wild Bill, hippywife sighed again, and signed.

After which arose the matter of Mrs. Alfred Packer taking off work Friday September 2.

The payroll manager looked at hippywife over the top of her half-spectacles.

“Not again—you know, dear, we’re going to have to do something about this, because others are complaining.  You’re never around on Fridays, and then when you come in Monday morning, you’re in no fit shape to work, being all tired out from long trips to only God knows where.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer offered to trade, working some days when perhaps others didn’t want to.

For example, she and Wild Bill didn’t do Christmas, and perhaps that could substitute for her upcoming absence?

The payroll manager hesitated; good, but not good enough.

Maybe also Christmas Eve?

And Thanksgiving too, since she and hippyhubby didn’t do Thanksgiving?  Would she be willing to work that too, so those who did do that holiday, could have it off?

hippywife said she’d ask hippyhubby Wild Bill about it.

[Chris_]

“Mrs. Coarsewhistle is 106 years old,” the payroll manager replied; “and hasn’t been out since 1977, when she had her first stroke.

I knew those earrings would spell trouble.

[franksolich]

I knew those earrings would spell trouble.

They surely did for Mrs. Alfred Packer.

Now what's she to do to earn money that hippyhubby Wild Bill doesn't know about, and take away?

[JLO]

Well, shoot!  I cannot get the beginning of the story links to work.  Good installment though that I could see.   

[franksolich]

Well, shoot!  I cannot get the beginning of the story links to work.  Good installment though that I could see.   

Ooops, I just noticed that problem.

There's one more installment of the "introduction" to "Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" coming up, and after that's posted, I plan to merge all of the early ones into one thread.

I'm experimenting here; sometimes I write whole complete stories and then post them, but once in a while I write sections of a story, and post them a section at a time.  It's just an experiment, to see what works, and what doesn't work.

"Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" will be posted in installments, and then after the final chapter, I plan to merge them all into one thread.

I resolved a problem with the story today, but still have an even bigger problem I haven't yet cured.

The story (yet unposted) was treading dangerously into the middle of the "R" zone in three of the chapters--it was becoming quite the sex story--but then I edited, moderating things a little bit, pulling it back safely into the "PG" zone.  I was shocked that I, a good Catholic boy, could actually write pornography.

And even more shocked at how easy it was for me to write it.

The unresolved problem is the character of the MineralMan primitive, who's a pretty important star in the story.  I had intended for the MineralMan primitive to be the "good" primitive (every story about the primitives has to have one "good" primitive), but as I wrote, the grasswire primitive slipped into that spot.

Well, what to do?  The MineralMan primitive's not the type to be your usual average customary rectal aperture primitive....but the role of the "good" primitive's now taken.

Really, I could launch the whole story, every chapter, tonight, excepting that I'm muddled with the role of the MineralMan primitive.  I'm not sure how I'm going to clarify, define, his character in the story, but I'm defiantly confident I will, over the next several days.

[JLO]

Oh my.

You know, sir, I'm writing "Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" in bits and pieces, releasing a chapter every third day or so, building up to the climax on Labor Day itself.

I'm trying to see if this releasing a chapter at a time is better than releasing a whole long story.

Anyway.

I'm about done with it, and much to my startlement and shock, what has evolved has the elements of an "R" rating, rather than the usual "G" rating.  There's sex in it.  I have no idea how sex managed to work its way into it, but that's what evolved.  I'm sure hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer, the defrocked warped primitive, and Ms. Ed the unappellated eohippus are going to be embarrassed, but that's the way the tale wove itself.

This is gonna be a big hit for sure!  Please don't edit out ALL of the 'R' stuff.   

You do know that you can self-publish your absolutely hilarious stories and sell them on at Amazon, no?  You and PJComix both could make a mint of money.

 

[JakeStyle]

Sorry, meant to post on another thread

[franksolich]

This is gonna be a big hit for sure!  Please don't edit out ALL of the 'R' stuff.

I assure you that more than 90% of the story is clean, clean enough that one may comfortably read it to the children at bed-time.

In the other 10%, what appears to be the final revisions of chapters regarding the hippywife primitive and Ms. Ed, the unappellated eohippus, depending upon one's taste, appear somewhere within the bounds of "risky G" to "maybe PG."

But the chapter regarding the defrocked warped primitive, I'm having problems.

As some here might recall, franksolich used to try to get along with warpy of Skins's island, who at the time thought rather highly of her.  She was always a little bit too much of a know-it-all, but I used to really like her, and oftentimes said so on these pages.

But the nicer I was to the defrocked warped primitive, the nastier she was to franksolich.

There's the old saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," and it's not quite correct.  A woman scorned has no fury, no fury at all, like franksolich scorned.

I showed the chapter to the neighbor's wife this morning, who was awed.

She alleges it's the best thing she's seen, that I've ever written.

I'm not sure how to take that, because it is after all pornography.

There's no violence, no bloodshed, no cruelty, no sadism, no bestiality, no artifices, no toys, no leather, no chains, no whips, no unnatural acts, no inhumanities or degradations, in it.  Nobody gets hurt, nobody gets humiliated, nobody gets embarrassed.

The neighbor's wife, the exemplar of the woman's point of view and good taste, says the pure unbridled passion in it leaves her breathless.

She also said, "with writing like that, who needs to look at pictures?" but there were never going to be pictures in the story anyway.

Well, I put that chapter back on the shelf this morning, because I'm still dealing with the larger problem, the character of the MineralMan primitive, who's an important part of the story, the non-sexual part of the story, the 90% of "Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" that's utterly clean.

[JLO]

I showed the chapter to the neighbor's wife this morning, who was awed.

She alleges it's the best thing she's seen, that I've ever written.

I'm not sure how to take that, because it is after all pornography.

The neighbor's wife, the exemplar of the woman's point of view and good taste, says the pure unbridled passion in it leaves her breathless.

She also said, "with writing like that, who needs to look at pictures?" but there were never going to be pictures in the story anyway.

Well, I put that chapter back on the shelf this morning, because I'm still dealing with the larger problem, the character of the MineralMan primitive, who's an important part of the story, the non-sexual part of the story, the 90% of "Mrs. Alfred Packer does Labor Day" that's utterly clean.

Well, I'll be anxiously awaiting the whole story.  If you can rate it G or PG, it's surely not porn.

Do we have to WAIT till Labor Day?  You little stinker, you