Mrs. Alfred Packer does the dog days of summer

[franksolich]

note: "Mrs. Alfred Packer does the dog days of summer" is a work in progress; given the weather, and the mood of the nation today, it may take a bit to finish the story, although it's likely to be shorter than the other stories in the Packer saga.  So I'll just unleash it as it gets written, open to commentary on how it's evolving.

"Mrs. Alfred Packer does the dog days of summer" is respectfully dedicated to a good friend of hers, with the hopes that Vinnie enjoys reading it as much as franksolich enjoys writing it.

* * * * *

Mrs. Alfred Packer does the dog days of summer.  “Well, we’ll stay here for the night,” Wild Bill said, as he pulled the hippymobile to a stop alongside the banks of the Elkhorn River in northeastern Nebraska.  “This looks as good a place as any.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer scanned the landscape.  They had driven from the highway onto a dirt road, and then off the road onto the dirt itself.  The river was still over its banks, but not overly so, and hippyhubby Wild Bill had parked reasonably away from its shores.

The hippycouple were in a clearing, surrounded by an infestation of low-branched trees, and although neat and clean, it was apparent others had used this spot for camping before.  But Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed a big old white farmhouse, about the length of a football field away, to the east.

“Maybe we should ask first,” she said; “this might be private property.”

Wild Bill eyed the domicile in the distance; “Doesn’t look like anybody’s home, and besides, they’re all fundies up here.  **** ‘em.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished Wild Bill wasn’t so negative about people.

The Packers had not been up here since the 4th of July, hippyhubby’s bad back keeping him home down in northeastern Oklahoma.  Mrs. Alfred Packer had hoped this meant the pursuit of franksolich had ground to a halt, and that they would stay home for a while, but Wild Bill was obsessed.

“Look, woman,” he said again, as he’d said just about every week since last spring, “we’ve got to get franksolich.  We just got to. 

“Not only has he been around our place, peeking in the windows, learning all the intimate details of our lives, but remember--he killed Andy.

“If that wasn’t bad enough, he set up Will to be embarrassed by the non-indictment of Karl Rove, foreclosed Beth on her real-estate, made problems with the IRS for Redstone, got Atman yelled at by his boss, put a kabosh on grasswire’s plans for a pie-and-jam shoppe.

“There’s talk franksolich was the one who originally set up Old Elm Tree, so as to steal members from Skins’s island.

“He also got undergroundpanther convinced she was going into the insane asylum for just a short stay, but once she showed up there, it ended up permanent, and no internet access for her.

“And recently he’s been turning in the names and addresses of all those on Skins’s island collecting social security disability, for review of their cases.

“And even more recently, franksolich got cali fired from her job.

“franksolich is the Great Satan, and he needs exorcised.

“And besides, I’m tired of dining on Chinese and Native American; some Nebraska corn-fed steaks would be a nice change in the cuisine.

“franksolich is the Great Satan, and he needs gotten rid of, so you can hang around the cooking and baking forum again.”

to be continued

[GOBUCKS]

Wild Bill forgot that franksolich got Raven fired from her plush Planning Director gig, and victimized the namesake of wallduding. I also think he's the one who alerted the parents of those pubescent Boston schoolgirls.

[vesta111]

Wild Bill forgot that franksolich got Raven fired from her plush Planning Director gig, and victimized the namesake of wallduding. I also think he's the one who alerted the parents of those pubescent Boston schoolgirls.

So this is why Frank is seriously thinking about getting a few dogs.    Forget the Velcro dogs, a couple of pit bull rescue dogs , just throw a leg of lamb out the door to them from time to time.

Darn looks like poor Frank is being hunted down.

What if Wild Bill thinks his wife has a mad crush on Frank, she could you know Frank is prime marriage material, he cooks and cleans and is everything Wild Bill is not.

Oh Boy this could end up X rated------we hope.

[DumbAss Tanker]

You say that cat franksolich is a baaaad mutha'...?

Shut yo' mouth!

 

[GOBUCKS]

You say that cat franksolich is a baaaad mutha'...?

Shut yo' mouth!

Oh, yeah. He bad, he bad.

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed again; there was no use trying to change Wild Bill’s mind once he made it up.

While the hippycouple were spreading out the canvas floor for a tent, Mrs. Alfred Packer looked up, seeing a man on a tractor, riding towards the house.  He too saw them, and waved, friendly-like.  Mrs. Alfred Packer recognized him as the man with a family she’d seen during the 4th of July, a friend of the ephemeral stranger.

Perhaps they lived there, she thought; but then not, as the man parked the tractor near the garage, and got into a car, driving away.  He’d probably just been dropping something off.

Beyond the house, and then a large mound proliferating with vegetative life, across a road, there was a cowboy riding a horse, checking on cattle fenced in there. 

“For a place where there’s nobody around, there sure seems a lot people hanging out here,” Wild Bill groused.

Near suppertime, Mrs. Alfred Packer built a fire, and began roasting sheslak.

“We’re never going to get to the bottom of these Ozark steaks,” Will Bill groused again; “but maybe this time we’ll get a freezerload of Nebraska corn-fed steaks, with the ‘franksolich’ brand on them.”

Just then, a strange apparition popped its head up above the nearby bushes.

It was a short, wizened, scrawny, balding little guy with a bug-eye.  And drunk too.

Mrs. Alfred Packer gasped.  Wild Bill reached for his cadaver cleaver.

But this apparition walked over, greeting them, and the hippypair relaxed.

He said he was the caretaker for the property, and had been cutting wood when he spotted them. 

Mrs. Alfred Packer, still a little bit nervous, inquired if they were inadvertently camping on private property.

The wizened one said yes, they were, but no problem.

“The boss, who lives there,” he said, pointing to the house, “doesn’t mind; people camp here all the time.  The only thing the boss cares about is that they don’t mess with the cats, that they leave the cats alone.”

That was mighty nice of his boss, Mrs. Alfred Packer offered.

“Well, the boss is a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,” the bug-eyed one said; “he’d give the shirt off his back—and has—even if it’s the only shirt he had.  I wish you could meet him--no greater pleasure than that, meeting the boss--but he's out west somewhere right now.

“It’s rare, if not impossible, that one can run across a nicer guy than the boss.”

to be continued

[vesta111]

Oh, yeah. He bad, he bad.

Poor Frank, a sex starved woman madly in love with him and her insane husband hunting him down---Now can we get to the X-rated stuff.

Nice guys finish last but some nice guys like Frank know when to hold the line, if that crazy Wild Bill decides to make target practice out the cats, good by nice guy.      Where is the X-rated stuff?????

[catsmtrods]

Oh man Coach that is some funny shit! I have to wipe my eyes!

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer said indeed he seemed like a nice guy.

Wild Bill however asked if there’d ever been any trouble.

“No, once about five years ago there might’ve been something, but nothing came of it,” the wizened one said.

“He’d just moved out here, and was away, when a ranch-hand working across the road noticed someone climbing out of the water of the river, a baseball bat in hand.

“He said the guy, who was wearing eyeglasses, must’ve been about 400 pounds, and because it was so hot that day, he wasn’t even wearing a shirt.

“He looked as if he was headed towards the house, but before he got past all the trees, one of the cats jumped down on his shoulders, apparently burying its claws in his back.

“He didn’t know what it was, and giving out a terrified yelp, took off running, knee-deep in the water.

“The ranch-hand said it was one of the funniest sights one could see, his big belly hanging down in front of him as if an apron, flip-flapping as he ran away.

“Well, he thought it might be a good idea, checking out this wet behemoth, and contacted the sheriff.

“The sheriff came out and they tried tracing the guy’s tracks.  He’d dropped the baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, in the water.  In the mud on the bank was a pair of eyeglasses; this guy was really near-sighted. 

“And then a little further on, they found a bandana with a picture of Che Guevera on it.

“Finally, they came to where he’d parked his car—the car was gone by then, of course—and it looked as if he’d beforehand taken the opportunity to clean it out, dumping a lot of trash on the ground there. 

“There were bags of empty fast-food containers, and some dirty magazines.

“The sheriff checked the receipts stapled to the bags—the guy probably stopped at every drive-in fast food franchise between Elgin, Illinois and here—anyway, Elgin was the earliest date on any of the receipts on the bags.  And because of the magazines, it was obvious he’d hit every naughty store between Elgin and here, too.

“Nothing ever happened after that, though,” the bug-eyed one said; “probably with the cats, el fatso isn’t coming back here, ever, for whatever reason he came here in the first place.”

As Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill finished up dining, the wizened one proposed, “Hey, you look like the sort who’d appreciate some fresh tomatoes, and there’s plenty of tomatoes over there, bushels of them, truckloads of them, waiting to be plucked, some of the finest tomatoes one can ever hope to eat.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer said that was very nice of him, but wouldn’t his boss object?

No way, the wizened one insisted; “In fact, the boss insists that people who come by, partake, as he isn’t in to this sort of stuff.  The boss buys his tomatoes at the grocery store in town.

“The place is promiscuous with vegetables and flowers, but the boss doesn’t care about them.  He says he grew up with nature, and that he’s tired of nature, and so he leaves nature alone to do its own thing while nature leaves him alone to do his own thing.

“Because the folks who lived here before the boss did were big on gardening, and because the boss doesn’t bother with it, every year all grows new here, naturally, without having been planted or cultivated.

“There’s one woman, who spent a summer here studying the soil, who now lives way over on the other side of the state, but she still comes back once every three weeks or a month, to pick the broccoli.  She’s originally from Maryland, and so doesn’t know broccoli from turnips, but she insists it’s the best broccoli one can ever hope to eat.

“And so the boss doesn’t let anybody but her take the broccoli.

“But everything else, well, they’re free to take it, as there’s so much of it.”

It took some nudging Wild Bill to persuade him, but Mrs. Alfred Packer agreed she’d like to try the tomatoes.

to be continued

[franksolich]

As they walked through the grove of walnut trees towards the house, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that while from a distance, the house appeared white, but closer up, it was obvious parts of it had been added on from time to time, and it wasn’t all white.

The bug-eyed one explained the farm had first been settled in the spring of 1875, although the original part of the house dated from the 1890s, the settling family having lived in a couple of sod-houses until prosperity from raising pigs had enabled them to put up a wooden frame house.

“They had the best barn in the county by the end of that first year here, deluxe accommodations for pigs, state-of-the-art five-star quarters, better even than most hotels of the time, but until they were sure they were going to do okay raising pigs, they hesitated at putting up a real house.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer looked at him, puzzled.

“Well,” the wizened one explained, “you see, their lives depended on the pigs, and the pigs’ lives depended on having decent shelter, and so the pigs had to be taken care of first.  They could’ve put up a fine house first, and then a barn later, but the pigs wouldn’t have done so well, and as their survival depended upon the pigs, they wouldn’t have made a go of it if they hadn’t taken care of the pigs first.

“As it was, they raised pigs here from 1875 until June 1950, the same day the Reds invaded free Korea, when the barn burned down—no pigs were lost, but the finest barn in the county went—and so they went into the cattle business after that, cattle needing no barns.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer decided that made sense, taking care of the pigs first, but really, she’d just as soon have a fine house first, letting the livestock fend for itself.

As they walked past the house, by the picnic tables underneath other trees, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that there seemed to be a cat looking out each window—and the house had lots of windows—on the alert, watching, as if standing sentinel.  None of the cats moved; silhouetted against the black of the inside, they merely sat there motionless as Mrs. Alfred Packer, Wild Bill, and the bug-eyed one passed by.

“There they are,” the wizened one announced, pointing to a miniature Jungfrau-like mound about a city block, a city block and a half, away from the front door of the house.  “The finest tomatoes one can ever hope to find.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill gasped.

Big red tomatoes, in both bushes and vines, ran rampant on the mound, probably tons of tomatoes.

Mrs. Alfred Packer had supposed they’d take six or half a dozen tomatoes, but suddenly she wanted more, and the more of them, the better.  The bug-eyed one, sensing her need, went over to his truck and pulled out eight old-fashioned wooden two-and-a-half-bushel baskets, giving them to her.

“Pick away,” he said; “otherwise what isn’t taken, the boss is going to let rot back into the ground again, to rise up next spring…..just as they’ve been doing the past 135 years.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill filled the baskets, heaping full, while the wizened one stacked firewood to take to town.  He explained this was a load for the convenience store in town, as he wrapped bundles of wood in something resembling Saran Wrap.  The convenience store sold the bundles for five bucks apiece, of which he got three bucks—not a bad deal, considering his only cost was his labor in cutting it.

It was now getting dark, and the three of them sat at a picnic table under one of the trees, Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill sampling the tomatoes.  Mrs. Alfred Packer dined on hers daintily, and was discouraged to watch Wild Bill wolf them down, red tomato juice dribbling down his chin.

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished hippyhubby had better manners.

During their conversation, Wild Bill mentioned it was too bad the weekend was nearly over, as he and hippywife had to return to Oklahoma the next day.  Deciding it not wise to reveal their business up on the roof of Nebraska, the pursuit of the Great Satan franksolich, he told the bug-eyed one they’d been up here before, and liked it, and so were still looking around, perhaps for a place to buy.

Then Mrs. Alfred Packer supposed the wizened one wouldn’t know what sort of tomatoes these were?

No, he replied; all he knew was that they were some sort of “heirloom” tomatoes, whatever those were, identified thusly by the broccoli-loving visitor from Maryland, who’d spent that summer here studying the soil and its components.

“You see,” the bug-eyed one explained, “the folks who lived here at the beginning fed the pigs tomatoes, some of whose seeds during the course of digestion never got digested, just passing through the stomach, the intestines, and the anal channel.

“And right in front of you,” he went on further, pointing, “is something the boss named for some New York Times best-selling author--is the biggest pile of antique pig shit between Massachusetts and California, 470 cubic yards of it, pure unadulterated decayed swine excrement, from which the finest tomatoes one can ever hope to see, spring.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer choked.

to be continued

[franksolich]

That's all for tonight, folks; it's hot and miserable out here on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska, and I'll pick up the story again in the morning.

By the way, I'm describing events of last week here--I'm saying that just so readers won't be stunned by the ending, as it all took place last week and is copacetic now.

[DumbAss Tanker]

Well, you're still around to write it, so at least we know you didn't end up as Sandhill Steaks!

 

[BattleHymn]

Is there a picture of the William Rivers Pitt floating around the CC corner of the interwebs that I've missed?  I know it's just a big pile of pig shit, but I am having a hard time imagining it.  

[captrandom]

“And even more recently, franksolich got cali fired from her job.

 


Mr. Solich, I wish to express my appreciation of your entertaining writing style.  It's Steinbeck-esque with description without being wrist slashingly>sp< boring..   

[franksolich]

Is there a picture of the William Rivers Pitt floating around the CC corner of the interwebs that I've missed?  I know it's just a big pile of pig shit, but I am having a hard time imagining it.  

No, there isn't, because all the photographs of the William Rivers Pitt--there's surely at least half a dozen of them--have real people in them.

I've always promised to get around to taking a picture of the William Rivers Pitt sans people, but that involves going out of my way to get a disposable camera, snapping the photographs, and then sending them away for the film to be developed.  I'll get around to it, but it's not on the priority list.

(As most here know, franksolich doesn't care for photographs as he has too many of them, surely more than 100,000 of them, from the family archives, and he does NOT want to add to the collection.  In fact, franksolich has an active, vigorous animosity and hostility about taking new pictures.....one has to see the sheer enormity of the archives to understand it.)

Anyway, to the unknowing eye, the William Rivers Pitt, roughly in the form of a miniature Jungfrau, looks like just another natural mound in the Sandhills.  Natives of the Sandhills would recognize it as a man-made, not a natural, mound, but pass it by without bothering to think about it.  Those educated in soils, upon close examination, are able to discern what it really is.

The William Rivers Pitt was last augmented the spring of 1950, which is a very long time ago now.  It lost its stench sometime when Ike and Mamie were in the White House, and by the time Jack and Jackie took over, it had lost any superficial resemblance of anything other than Sandhills dirt.

It just looks like a pile of dirt, but because of the "heat" of its composition, it's the last place around here where the foliage dies for the winter (usually about the beginning of December), and the first place where new green arises every spring (usually about the middle of February).

[franksolich]

There shouldn't be any doubt the primitives are blaming me for that, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive losing her job--they've blamed franksolich for damned near every single misfortune that's ever happened to them.

Sigh.  Such is the "downside" of being an internet personality.

And really, I'm a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet.

I'm so sensitive about being accused of doing things I never did, that the last time some moles on Skins's island wanted to play a prank on the primitives, I withheld my own involvement, despite that it was a damned good prank, and had the hoped-for results.

The saga of the Packer clan (featuring the "hippywife" primitive) from northeastern Oklahoma is actually just a parody of the paranoia of the primitives.

Wild Bill, the "hippywife" primitive's husband, after the first installments appeared, became convinced that franksolich was actually down there, peering in their windows, opening their mail, tapping their telephone and internet service, watching them from down the road, hiding underneath their bed as they hopped around in it, questioning the neighbors about them, and hiring a helicopter to hover over their place.

He was convinced of this because other than an unfortunate misdescription of the skyline of downtown Tulsa, every detail was so true, so accurate, so reflective of real life, that I had to be right there, watching them, stalking them.

The truth is, I've never been closer to northeastern Oklahoma than a few hours in Norton, Kansas; the saga of the Packer clan has always been based solely upon the "hippywife" primitive's comments in the cooking and baking forum of Skins's island.....and nothing more than that.

But try telling Wild Bill that.

Needless to say, hippyhubby Wild Bill then forbade Mrs. Alfred Packer from hanging around the cooking and baking forum on Skins's island.  The cooking and baking forum used to be the most active "little" forum on Skins's island--even the scammers used it during the Scamdal (2005)--providing the DUmpster with much good material for comic relief.

Mrs. Alfred Packer had been the heart, the soul, the spirit, that enlivened the cooking and baking forum, but ever since she left, it's become congested with cobwebs.

I think it's rather silly, this paranoia of the primitives.

[captrandom]

^^^^          Ahh too funny...     You should think about writing.. You damn near have me in tears sometimes...


FWIW, I hadn't even heard of this site when I started the Cali-takedown.      I only learned about it after reading the results on CU...       
Its a shame too, cause I have missed out on years of fun..

[franksolich]

“Wake up your fat ass, woman,” Wild Bill said early in the morning; “we got to get going, back home to Oklahoma, and time’s a-wasting.  We haven’t found franksolich yet, but we’re closing in on him—he’s so close one can see him, touch him, smell him.

“We still haven’t seen him, but we’re getting there.

“I’m sure it’s going to take just one more trip up here, to nab him—and then your Wild Bill’s going to be a bigger hero on Skins’s island than the late red round one was.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished hippyhubby would be more gentle in arousing her.

As they packed away the tent and cooking implements inside the hippymobile, Wild Bill thought of something.  “Maybe we better stop at the Wal-Mart in the big city on our way back; there’s some things I’ve got to get, and better to get them up here, than at home, where everybody’s eyeballing me, suspicious about what I’m up to.”

Inside the store, Mrs. Alfred Packer watched as Wild Bill loaded up the cart with meat-hooks, lengths of heavy-duty chain, hundreds of feet of rope, and some leather straps.

When they approached the check-out line, Mrs. Alfred Packer started.

Right in front of them was that dark-red-headed woman she’d seen at the county fairgrounds on the 4th of July; the one with all the children.  The children were with her this time too, a set of 6-year-old twin girls, a 4-year-old boy, and an infant boy.  This was the wife of the man on the tractor she’d seen the day before, driving up to the house.

Mrs. Alfred Packer examined the woman with more than a touch of envy; she’d borne all these children, and yet remained thin as a reed.

And the children were so clean, so well-behaved.

When the cashier made a mistake, the woman laughed and patted her on the shoulder, saying it was no big deal, don’t worry about, your job’s not easy and so I understand.  Her merry laugh had the quality of tinkling glass or chimes, which Mrs. Alfred Packer had first noticed when she and the infant were with the ephemeral stranger.

The 4-year-old heir stared at Wild Bill and his grey pony-tail, and then at the contents of the cart.

“Fundie trash,” Wild Bill hissed.

The boy, frightened, shielded himself behind his mother, trying to swallow his knuckles.

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished Wild Bill would be nicer to people.

The cashier rang up Wild Bill’s purchases.  He reached into his wallet, intending to take out some worn $20 bills, but then stopped.  The cashier wasn’t using that special marking pen for detecting counterfeit bills, and so he put the $20 bills back inside his wallet, instead drawing out some crisp new $10 bills.

The hippycouple walked out to the hippymobile, and after the goods were loaded, Wild Bill began pulling out of the parking slot.

C-R-U-N-C-H.

Wild Bill hadn’t been looking behind him, and had bumped into another motor vehicle.

The two of them hopped out of the hippymobile to inspect the damage, and a woman emerged from the other vehicle.  She was tall, dark-blonde-haired, thin as a reed, probably about 40 years old although she seemed younger than that.

Mrs. Alfred Packer immediately recognized her.  The brazen hussy, the gold-digger, who’d put on that show some weeks ago, dancing all those Elizabethan dances with the ephemeral stranger.  The painted whore was way below his quality, she had decided, a cheap two-timing wanton.

Actually, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed the woman wasn’t wearing any make-up or jewelry, as she, really, needed nothing to embellish her aestheticity.

Wild Bill glared at her.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, “but you should’ve been looking.”

They all examined her vehicle—no damage there—and then the hippy vehicle, which had no damage other than two bumper-stickers had been scratched, one of them advertising OKLAHOMA SOONERS, the other HOPE AND CHANGE ’08.

“I’m sorry about the bumper-stickers—well, at least one of them—because I know how you people feel about your football team, but fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be anything major.”

But just for form, the two parties exchanged names, addresses, telephone numbers, and insurance policy information.  She wrote down Wild Bill’s data, but as he didn’t seem to be literate, she offered him her business card, advertising that she was a theatrical arts-dance instructor.

“Never mind that,” she said; “it’s good advertising anyway, getting one’s name spread around.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Driving away, once out of sight, hippyhubby contemptuously tossed the business-card out the window.

“Okay now, woman, we’re going to find a place for eats, and then hit the road for home.”

Miles down the highway, Wild Bill pulled up to a roadside restaurant, one of those newer steel-and-glass establishments.  Once inside, they were seated at a booth overlooking the parking lot outside; the window reached from the ceiling down to the top of their table.

As they were ordering, a car with automotive-dealership license-plates pulled up in the parking lot, directly opposite Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill inside; perhaps only about twelve feet away from them, although of course on the other side of the window.

Mrs. Alfred Packer gasped when the two occupants emerged.

The ephemeral stranger got out of the passenger side, and the other one got out of the driver’s side.

The right side of the stranger’s head was bandaged.  Mrs. Alfred Packer, who worked in a nursing home back in Oklahoma, recognized it immediately as a post-surgical sort of wrapping, and given its size, that must’ve been a big operation.

He put on one of those floppy fisherman’s hats, and the two of them walked inside.

The hostess greeted them as if she knew them, and carried on some casual chitchat with the other one, keeping her hand on the shoulder of the stranger as she talked.  It looked as if she really meant to talk to him, but she spoke directly to the other one.

Mrs. Alfred Packer had noticed this before, and wondered why it was.  Other people usually put a hand on his shoulder or arm, but rather than talking to him, they talked with the person with him.

Odd, hippywife thought, and everybody does it.  I wonder why.

The two placed their order, and the other one went over to the booth next to the hippypair, where he slapped down a set of car-keys, indicating the table was now taken.  Then they walked outside to smoke, while they waited.

They stood across the car from each other right outside Mrs. Alfred Packer’s window, discussing something apparently important.  The other one pulled out a road-map of Iowa, laying it across the roof of the car.  Then seeing the stranger wasn’t paying him any attention, he reached inside and pulled out a yellow legal pad, on which he hurriedly wrote down things, as if making up a list.

The stranger paced back-and-forth, relentlessly smoking.

My, my, Mrs. Alfred Packer thought.  The other one, a dark bond-haired, in a white shirt and tan shorts, and incongruously a stained old cowboy hat on his head, would be a catch for any woman, but the stranger, well, well.

He was wearing gym shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, and Mrs. Alfred Packer was awed by the athletic look of his thighs and legs, so perfectly formed. 

This was a man destined for soccer, or as a kicker on a football team, she thought—but then no, given that both of them smoked like chimneys, neither would probably be very good on the field.  But on the field and in bed were two different things, Mrs. Alfred Packer pointed out to herself.

A waitress brought their order to their table, and the two came back inside, the stranger sitting in back of Wild Bill; if they’d both leaned back a few inches, their heads would’ve collided.

to be continued

[franksolich]

The other one had ordered the usual standard hamburger and french fries, and a soda, but the stranger had requested only a half-gallon jug of whole milk, and two large tumblers filled with ice cubes.

“You really need to eat something,” the other one insisted; “as far as I know, you haven’t eaten anything in four days.”

“It’s been too damned hot to eat,” the stranger replied; “I’m fine.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer started at the voice; she’d never heard the stranger speak before, and the voice seemed inconsistent with the appearance.  It was as if he was, without emotion or stress, reading in a dry flat monotone from a written script.

She wondered why that was.

During their repast, the two of them were generally silent, the other one reading a horse-breeder’s journal, and the stranger reading an old copy of Time magazine.  Mrs. Alfred Packer had seen such at flea-markets; this one had a picture of Francisco Franco on the cover, and was obviously from the 1930s.

They were occasionally interrupted by someone passing by, who would put his or her hand on the stranger’s shoulder, and talk with the other one.

The stranger seemed distant, distracted, during such times.  He was looking at something, but it wasn’t at the two people talking. 

“Well, it was much more serious than they thought,” the other one advised his fellow conversant; “in fact, it was pretty bad, but it’s been dealt with.  He’ll snap back.  The dude’s a trouper, although he doesn’t like to have to be one.”

Wild Bill, belching, suddenly announced he had to go leave a deposit in the men’s restroom.

A woman passing by expressed concern at the stranger’s condition.  The stranger looked at her coldly.

“He’s just out of sorts,” the other one told her, “but he’ll be back in no time.”

When Wild Bill returned from the restroom, the stranger gulped down the last of the milk and said he needed to go empty the bladder.

That singular voice again, as if he were reading from a script.

But the stranger returned quickly, a grimace on his face.  “Ga-ga-ga-ga, it stinks like somebody died in there; it’s uninhabitable.”

Wild Bill smirked at Mrs. Alfred Packer.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished Wild Bill wouldn't be like that.

The stranger then announced his bladder could hold it in until they were down the highway.

That empty, soulless, flat voice again; it was beginning to drive Mrs. Alfred Packer nuts, not least because she couldn't figure out why it was the way it was.

The hostess at the cash-register had gone somewhere, and so the two of them paid a waitress, and left.

Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill some minutes later finished their own meals, and went to the cash-register, where the hostess had returned. 

When pulling out some crisp new $10 bills, Wild Bill asked her, "Hey, lady, by any chance do you know of franksolich, where he's to be found?"

"Yes, of course, franksolich; a nice guy, franksolich.  One of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet," she replied; "in fact, he was sitting right behind you, sir, only minutes ago.....I wonder where he went, as I didn't see him leave."

the end

[Karin]

Great story, Frank, thanks a million for writing it! 

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.  She wished hippyhubby would be more gentle in arousing her.

  Vesta, that's about as close to X-rated as you're going to get.   

But, the Mrs. sure has a powerful crush on him, doesn't she? 

[franksolich]

Great story, Frank, thanks a million for writing it! 

Vesta, that's about as close to X-rated as you're going to get.   

But, the Mrs. sure has a powerful crush on him, doesn't she?

This can go all sorts of directions, madam, the saga of the Packer clan.

Please notice, for example, that Wild Bill and Mrs. Alfred Packer are aware only that one of two people pointed out to them is franksolich (the two who had sat in the booth next to them); they have franksolich narrowed down to two, not one.

Now, all things being pretty much equal, it's a difficult choice to make (as to which one is franksolich)--that is, unless one is a primitive, and thinks like a primitive, and then it's easy to make the choice.

The image and reputation of franksolich among the primitives is that of a superevilgenius who gets people killed, fired from their jobs, and messes with their real lives.  A pretty smart guy, this franksolich.

Okay, look at the two choices; as mentioned, they're pretty much equal.

Excepting that one is brightly articulate, while the other is stupidly inarticulate.

The primitives evaluate others on superficialities (decent and civilized people don't pre-judge; given their conservative natures, they tend to let something speak for itself before passing judgement).

One of these two otherwise equal choices appears to be bright, the other really dumb.

And franksolich is a pretty smart guy, remember, able to wreak all this havoc among the primitives.

I suspect that by the time Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill are up here again pursuing franksolich, they're going to be chasing the wrong person.

[GOBUCKS]

I suspect that by the time Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill are up here again pursuing franksolich, they're going to be chasing the wrong person.

They need to look for someone who shares a hair style with Lord Marblehead.
On the eastern slope of the Sandhills, that should narrow the field considerably.

[franksolich]

They need to look for someone who shares a hair style with Lord Marblehead.
On the eastern slope of the Sandhills, that should narrow the field considerably.

Yes, that could be a clue, excepting remember, even Mrs. Alfred Packer isn't aware yet that franksolich is deaf--and so she probably doesn't even know how he wears his hair.

She knows something's wrong, but can't put her finger on it.

This is because of the utterly unthorough way in which lurking primitives explore conservativecave.

Like our pal Vinnie the mole, for example, who hangs around only in the DUmpster, never venturing to other parts of conservativecave.....and thus who misses out on a Fort Knox of other sorts of information.

It's the same as if we were to explore Skins's island checking out only the "General Discussion" forum there, hence missing out on a lot of other antics of the primitives in the other forums.

The primitives know less about how to explore, than does a rock.