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. “Okay 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.â€
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. “Can you get your truck into running order, so it’ll make it up there, to the roof of Nebraska?â€
“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.â€
“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?â€
“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.â€
“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.â€
Wild Bill looked at his brother with no forehead. “Can you get your sedan in working order, so it can make it up there too, carrying most of our personnel?â€
“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.â€
“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 youâ€â€”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?â€
“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.â€
“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.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer interrupted. “But 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.â€
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.â€
“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.â€
Wild Bill spat into the sink. “You 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.â€
“Well, maybe there’s a reason he talks that way, Wild Bill,†said the foreheadless brother; “did you notice anything else about him?â€
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.â€
“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.â€