Mrs. Alfred Packer does the 4th of July

[franksolich]

Preface.  This is another in the series of the-primitives-stalking-franksolich parodies, inspired by the pervasive paranoia of the primitives, in which they really believe that decent and civilized people are stalking them in real life.  Which of course is utter nonsense.

As with the last story, this story had two contributing writers, who know franksolich in real life, who wish to remain anonymous; they are the ones who provided the descriptions of franksolich--no way would I dream this stuff up, much less write it--and I grudgingly agreed to use their descriptions, although against my better judgement, as it provides too many clues for primitives stalking franksolich.

"Mrs. Alfred Packer does the 4th of July" is the first time, ever, I've posted the second draft of a story on conservativecave; all the others have been hastily-written first drafts with no changes or amendments.

But as the haunting voice, from another time and place, of the affectionately-remembered late Tangerine LaBamba reminds me, "You have something there, kid, but a second draft would be even better."

And it is with Great Remorse and Much Lamentation that this story cannot possibly be dedicated to the sparkling husband primitive, the usual dedicatee, or to the hippywife primitive, Mrs. Alfred Packer, despite her being the literary muse of franksolich.

No; because this is a polished and refined story, that honor belongs to the late Tangerine LaBamba.

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer does the 4th of July.  “Well, here we are, woman,” hippyhubby Wild Bill said as they pulled up to a campground on the Niobrara River on the roof of Nebraska after a night-long drive from the south.  “And this weekend, for sure, we’re going to get franksolich, and marinate him.”

The hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.

She wished Wild Bill would give up on his pursuit, which had brought them all the way up here from northeastern Oklahoma every weekend since Easter.  It was true the Sandhills of Nebraska were beautiful, but they’d seen it all so many times, and besides, she’d like to have a weekend at home.

And they were never going to find franksolich anyway, so what was the point?

“Look, woman,” Wild Bill ranted at her; “franksolich’s not a nice guy, and he insulted you by telling details of our personal life on the internet, making us look bad.  He invaded our privacy, going down to our home, peeking into the windows, tapping our telephone and internet, bugging the house, interviewing the neighbors, hiring a helicopter to hover overhead, and made a long-term contract with the Pinkerton Detective Agency to keep tabs on us.

“His stories about us have been so true, so accurate, so correct in all details, that he’s had to have done this; there’s no other way he’d know so much about us.

“He insulted you, woman, and I mean to make franksolich pay.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed again.  She was really tired of this.  And besides, how could they find franksolich if they didn’t even know what he looked like?

“Well, we found that picture of franksolich on the internet; true, it’s only a back view, but it’s something.  We just have to look around for the best-looking ass out here, and that’s him.

“You like looking at men’s asses, woman; I still remember how you drooled over the Federal Express deliveryman—I hope you still remember what happened to him. 

“You’ll know franksolich when you see him.”

Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed yet again.  There was no changing Wild Bill, once he got obsessed.

The Packers set up camp, and then drove to the county fairgrounds.

[franksolich]

When Mrs. Alfred Packer and hippyhubby Wild Bill arrived at the fairgrounds, Mrs. Alfred Packer immediately noticed the mysterious stranger standing near the gate.

She had seen him once before, at the gasoline station on Memorial Day.  It was raining that afternoon, and he'd been pumping gasoline at a faraway pump underneath a giant canopy.  There had occurred an odd phenomenon, and it bothered Mrs. Alfred Packer since then; after pumping his gasoline and walking towards the station, the storm clouds above him parted and the sun shone down upon him, and a dove had alit upon his shoulder.

How he had managed to do that, she wondered.  And it seemed as if he himself wasn’t even aware of it.

The mysterious stranger was dressed in ordinary clothes this time, light grey pants, a light blue cotton shirt, and a floppy tan fishing hat.  He looked as if he were waiting for someone at the gate.

Although he looked much younger than he probably really was, the mysterious stranger was probably older than he looked; Mrs. Alfred Packer secretly hoped he was reasonably near her own age.  He was tall, thin, strong, with healthy dark brown hair and grey eyes, and features which she assumed were Welsh in derivation.

He’d had his hair cut since the last time she’d seen him, but it was still somewhat too long, covering both sides of his head down almost to the neck.  It was a most singular way for a man to wear his hair, and Mrs. Alfred Packer wondered what was up with that.

But at any rate, with that face and that body and possible attributes undiscovered, Mrs. Alfred Packer would’ve discarded all her clothes and rushed into his embrace, if such were possible.  This was a man, a vigorous virile specimen of masculinity, and undoubtedly was good in bed.

But still, there was that other side of him, and it was jarring, even repulsive.

Everyone has two sides, but in the case of the mysterious stranger, the contradiction was too strong, much too strong.  While the mysterious stranger radiated vigor and vitality, at the same time he had a childlike dependence upon others, and it showed.  There just seemed something wrong with the way others surrounded and hovered over him, because he needed them to.

He seemed ill at ease with this need, as if he'd preferred to be far away, thousands of miles away, from everybody and anybody watching over him, suffocating him with their care and concern.

Mrs. Alfred Packer sensed there was a frailty, an infirmity, involved, but couldn’t imagine what it was.

Mrs. Alfred Packer remembered the lessons of her childhood in the Roman Catholic church, the story of guardian angels.  She had  long ago discarded the comfort, the confidence, God gives one, after Wild Bill had told her that he loathed all that is good and decent, and she’d better follow his lead.  “I won’t have a fundie for a wife,” he insisted; “the things I don’t like, you’d better not like too, woman, if you know what’s good for you.”

She knew the idea of  “guardian angels” was theologically unsound, instead being merely a simple story for simple little children until they grew to an age where they could better understand God.  But such surely seemed the case with the mysterious stranger, who had not one guardian angel, but hordes of them.

He didn’t like it, but seemed resigned to it, a cross he was compelled to bear.

[franksolich]

Two Roman Catholic nuns in their black habits brushed by Mrs. Alfred Packer.

“Fundies,” Wild Bill hissed; “this place is full of fundies.”

At that moment, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed the mysterious stranger lightening up, and smiling.  Not a forced smile made because of good manners and courtesy, but an authentic smile.

Through the gate entered a man, a woman pushing an infant in a baby-carriage, and three little children.

The adults seemed to be in their mid-30s.  He caught Mrs. Alfred Packer’s eyes instantly, being tall with brown hair, and the physique of a man who worked out every day; not in a gymnasium, but as a matter of daily living.  Probably a farmer, Mrs. Alfred Packer guessed, the strong silent type, and with a handsome rear end.  If he were in fact a farmer, she thought, he really belonged in some better, upwardly-mobile profession, a physician or attorney or something.  Or perhaps even a model.

The children were two girls, twins obviously, about six years old; there was a boy about four, and in the baby-carriage, probably a boy because all was powder-blue, and probably about three months old.

The woman, though, unnerved Mrs. Alfred Packer, especially the way she and the mysterious stranger embraced each other so warmly, so enthusiastically.  She like her husband was tall and thin, but with dark red hair and an effervescent, bubbly manner.  While most women around were dressed in slacks or shorts, she had a white dress with purple edging, and a big floppy hat.

She looked very much as if out of a painting by Renoir, or from a Victorian English country garden.

All she needed was a basket in which to carry flowers.

The woman kissed the man, and he walked away, the three older children with him, towards the carnival rides at the other end of the fairgrounds.

The mysterious stranger wrapped his arm around her tiny waist, and they walked the opposite direction, he pushing the infant in the baby-carriage with his other hand, she laughing merrily as they shared private jokes.

Mrs. Alfred Packer looked at the pair longingly, but then Wild Bill interrupted.

[franksolich]

“I dunno why,” he said, “but they’re not having much of a fireworks display here tonight; all little kid stuff, no boom-and-blast like we got down in Oklahoma.  We’re going to have to get some of our own, and shoot them off down at the river.”

Driving down the highway about twenty miles, they came across a roadside fireworks stand.

Wild Bill examined the inventory.

“What is this,” he asked the proprietor; “you’ve got nothing but little kid stuff here; even the lady-fingers can't do much more than snap, crackle, and pop like Rice Krispies.  Is there any place we can find real firecrackers, real fireworks, like we got down south?”

“Not in Nebraska,” the proprietor said; “Nebraska’s the nanniest of all the red states, nannier than even some blue states.  Nebraska’s never allowed good fireworks, never.

“It’s part of the way we are,” he further explained; “ever since we’ve been a state, nobody’s paid any attention to us, so we’ve always had to take care of ourselves, protecting our own.”

Wild Bill arched his eyebrows.  “But Nebraska’s got some of the loosest gun laws in the country.”

“That’s part of our nannyism,” the proprietor explained; “an armed society is a safe society.  We’re protecting our own.  Firearms are different from firecrackers.”

Wild Bill looked at the inventory once again, hoping to find something that was at least mild in explosive and auditory powers, but found none.

“Well, what do people in this fundie-driven state do, for real firecrackers?” he finally asked.

“Missouri has the best firecrackers around,” the proprietor said, “but Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, and South Dakota firecrackers aren’t too far behind.  Everybody just goes over the nearest state border and gets firecrackers, real firecrackers.  In fact, there’s lots of stands in those states, near the border, catering to the Nebraska trade.

“It looks like you’ll have to go to South Dakota to get some real firepower.” 

[franksolich]

Wild Bill and Mrs. Alfred Packer returned to the fairgrounds, as it was still morning, and there was plenty of time; after all, South Dakota was only half an hour’s drive away.

When inside a pavilion, Mrs. Alfred Packer saw the mysterious stranger again, standing at an anvil next to a tray of red-hot charcoal.  The woman in white and her infant were near the door, back of the crowd.

There was some sort of blacksmithery contest going on, six men standing at their anvils.

The contestants were charged with selecting a random piece of scrap iron and making it into something.

The mysterious stranger selected the blade of an old sword-like machete, which he beat into a ploughshare, to the appreciation and applause of the crowd.

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer followed the couple after the contest, as they strolled the grounds.

They stopped to inspect some lambs in a pen.

Suddenly there arose a great outcry.  There had been an Italianate organ-grinder churning out tunes, who had been using a lion cub, rather than a monkey, as a draw, and lion cub had gotten loose of its leash, running under a table near the mysterious stranger.

The mysterious stranger got down on his hands and knees and coaxed the frightened lion cub towards him; after the miniature lion decided he was trustworthy, the mysterious stranger held him for a bit, petting him as if a cat, and then put the lion down to lay alongside the lamb.

[franksolich]

It was getting closer to dinnertime, and Mrs. Alfred Packer watched as families gathered at the picnic tables.  Some had brought their own food in linen-covered picnic-baskets, others carried food from concession stands nearby, and yet others ordered from take-out places in town, having the food delivered to their tables.

She saw the handsome farmer, the woman in white, and their children sitting at a particular table, and the mysterious stranger walking towards them, holding a pizza-box and a basket of six garlic bread-sticks, which he placed into the center of the table, and then sat down.  The paterfamilias got up and left, coming back in a few minutes with drinks for all.

Surely that was not it, Mrs. Alfred Packer thought; one pizza and half a dozen bread-sticks wasn’t enough for the group.  She watched as they ate, the children first.

They ate and ate, the adults three large slices of pizza and three bread-sticks each, in addition to what the three older children were putting down. 

Mrs. Alfred Packer stared in wonderment as passers-by stopped to chat, themselves taking some pizza and bread-sticks for themselves.  It was singularly odd; surely the mysterious stranger, the entire family, and all the passers-by had consumed two dozen pizzas and six dozen bread-sticks by now, but still the single box and single basket remained, constantly being fished into by more passers-by.

The multitudes were being fed by one pizza and six bread-sticks.

[franksolich]

“Come on, woman,” Wild Bill ordered after dinner; “we’ve got to get up to South Dakota, to get some real fireworks, firecrackers that’ll bust the pants off all these fundies.”

They were in South Dakota in half an hour, and found a fireworks stand, CORNHUSKER FIREWORKS, with the “Go Big Red” logo.  There were hundreds of cars and trucks parked there, and Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed all of them bore Nebraska license-plates.   She wondered what a license-plate from South Dakota looked like.

Wild Bill was like a child with a $100-bill in a candy store.  

“Now, this is more like it,” he gloated; “some real fire-power here, plenty of enough fire-power to blow the fundies clear up to their Heaven.”

But still, while Wild Bill seemed pleased, he seemed he’d rather be even more pleased.

“You got anything with more fire-power here, something that makes a big BANG-BOOM, something that would blow away the fundies?”

The proprietor rubbed his chin.

“Well, the only thing with more fire-power than these is dynamite, but dynamite isn’t fireworks.”

“It can be,” Wild Bill insisted; “and besides, down in Oklahoma, I work with dynamite all the time, blowing up competitor’s moonshine stills and meth labs.

“Do you have any?”

The proprietor looked Wild Bill over one more time, and dubiously nodded his head.

“I guess I can sell you a couple of sticks,” he finally said.  â€œThat would make a big BOOM-BOOM.”

“Give me two dozen,” Wild Bill said.

[franksolich]

The Packers returned to the fairgrounds.

Mrs. Alfred Packer saw the mysterious stranger again, sitting at a picnic table talking with another man.  The other one seemed serious and concentrated, while he remained laid-back and nonchalant as they bantered back-and-forth, a pile of cigarette-butts between them.

The other man was about his same height and size, in his mid-30s she supposed, blond-haired and blue-eyed, and had a cellular telephone with the blue star of an emergency medical technician on it; in his shirt pocket was a plastic pocket-protector, KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS, holding a thermometer and other miniature medical implementery.

Fundie, Mrs. Alfred Packer hissed to herself.

The other one, Mrs. Alfred Packer thought dreamily handsome, and she would float into his arms in a second despite his being a fundie, but still, she preferred the enigmatic stranger, whose features were gentler, not so blunt, and who carried with him an aura of serenity, while the other seemed, well, just too grave.

Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that phenomenon again, that there seemed to be no “personal space” between the mysterious stranger and certain other people.  There were many people he kept at arm’s length, but there also seemed to be a few others where they seemed indecently close; the laughing woman in the white dress and floppy hat, her husband the silent one, the short heavy-set woman in a convenience-store shirt, the old grouch who looked poor but was probably rich, the tall thin angular woman whom Mrs. Alfred Packer had overheard was a soil scientist, the drunken cowboy, the bug-eyed bald little man the handyman type, a certain elderly couple, &c., &c., &c.

The two men apparently agreed upon something, and got up, walking away.

As they passed her, Mrs. Alfred Packer wished they’d been wearing tighter pants.

Then Wild Bill came up to her, announcing, “Well, woman, I just left a big dump in the men’s room, clogging the pipe for the fundies to unclog, and I feel pretty good.  Let's walk around to look at more things."

[franksolich]

Mrs. Alfred Packer lost track of the mysterious stranger for some hours, as she and Wild Bill canvassed the sights, Wild Bill emitting a sausage-and-beans-inspired big one every time he spied a fundie.

She did however catch a momentary glimpse of him sitting at a picnic table, a small retarded child on his lap.  He was blowing bubbles, much to the delight of the child.  Some of the bubbles, he purposely blew so the laughing child could catch them, others he blew away.

And then Mrs. Alfred Packer saw him no more until the evening, at the dance.

[franksolich]

It was during the dance that Mrs. Alfred Packer saw her.

“Brazen hussy, gold-digger, trollop, wanton woman,” she hissed inside herself as she examined the other woman, probably about 40 years old, but so well-kept she looked barely 30, if that.  Perhaps a couple of inches short of six feet, thin, she was a flaxen blonde, perfectly proportioned in every single way.  Nothing was out of whack on this woman; all was exactly the size it needed to be for the most pleasing effect.

Well, her nose may perhaps been a little too long and too narrow, but taste is relative.

The two of them were standing on the side, locked in a warm embrace, smiling and laughing and kissing as they watched the dance.  They were both happy with each other, enjoying each other, but Mrs. Alfred Packer couldn’t understand why; he surely deserved something better than this star-struck Babylonite.

Then the mysterious stranger walked up to the band, and made a request.

Obviously the band, and the crowd, had expected such, as if what was to come had been done before.

Everyone else left the floor, leaving it to the mysterious stranger and his painted whore.

The band broke out in what Mrs. Alfred Packer recognized as an Elizabethan galliard, perhaps by William Byrd; the appreciative audience stood by silently in fascination as they as they watched this ephemeral Hampton-Court-in-the-Sandhills.

After the galliard, then a pavana by Byrd, a fantasia by Giles Farnaby, another pavana by Orlando  Gibbons, three almans by Robert Johnson, and finally “The Fall of the Leafe” by Martin Peerson, as the crowd looked entranced—but not unfamiliar—with the Tudorean display before them.

He was the lord, she the lady, but Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that she was actually leading him, he following her cues; she was listening to the music, and he was looking at her.

Mrs. Alfred Packer had to grudgingly admit there was a certain grace, a certain elegance, to their movements; neither of them could have possibly been so on their own, or with someone else, but these two together as a team, they were natural and at ease, as if they’d been born to do what they were doing.

The couple took their bows, and as they walked past Mrs. Alfred Packer, she hissed under her breath, “brazen two-bit cheap fundie hussy.”

Then Wild Bill came up behind her, “Come on, woman—the fireworks aren’t going to be any good here, so we might as well go back to the campground and do our own.”

[franksolich]

It was dark when Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill got back to the river.

From a distance, one could see other campers blowing off fireworks, but Wild Bill scorned any notion of joining them.

"Fundies, all fundies, all of them," he swore.

"Well, I'm going to give the fundies a show, a really big show, that'll blast them."

Wild Bill took the twenty-four sticks of dynamite, all bound together, and laid them in a hole near a tree.

He bent down to light a 1/4" fuse, and that done, turned to get out of the way.

But just as he turned, he stepped into an unseen prairie-dog hole, tripping.






As the newspapers in six surrounding counties reported the morning of July 5, the largest piece of Wild Bill recovered was his left leg, dangling from a tree as if a Christmas stocking hanging on a fireplace mantel.

[Schadenfreude]

That was well written franksolich.  Surely any similarities to real people are purely coincidental I am sure.

Hi 5.

[Chris_]

Was the brazen hussy gold-digger also a soil scientist?  Inquiring minds...

This one was very good.  Never underestimate a second draft.  I've found my own writing improves after two or three reviews.  (I don't do that here.  This place is strictly seat of the pants stuff.)

[Boudicca]

Frank, excellent as always!

[franksolich]

Surely any similarities to real people are purely coincidental I am sure.

Real people, including Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill, but exaggerated events, naturally.

[franksolich]

Was the brazen hussy gold-digger also a soil scientist?  Inquiring minds...

Nope; she got married three years ago and stayed in Nebraska, but in the western-south-central part of the state, the land of buttes, which is different from the Sandhills, where she works for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, analyzing dirt.

She and her husband have no intention of ever moving back to Maryland (in her case) or New York (in his case).

The "brazen hussy" is someone else from real life, who lives in the big city and runs a dance studio.

Never underestimate a second draft.  I've found my own writing improves after two or three reviews.  (I don't do that here.  This place is strictly seat of the pants stuff.)

The first draft of this was something totally different, and had an all-star cast of primitives.  The story was immeasurably, ahem, improved by the suggestions of the two other authors, who thought franksolich should appear more godlike, so as to mock the paranoia of the primitives who credit franksolich with powers he doesn't have, such as the ability to stalk them in real life.

[Ballygrl]

Then Wild Bill came up to her, announcing, “Well, woman, I just left a big dump in the men’s room, clogging the pipe for the fundies to unclog, and I feel pretty good.  Let's walk around to look at more things."

Ewwwww, I can see a regessive doing this though.

And is she really Roman Catholic? and is Bill really that angry towards Christians? and people in Red States? and if they're so angry with people in Red States why not move to a Blue State?

[franksolich]

Ewwwww, I can see a regessive doing this though.

Un huh, especially someone like Wild Bill.

And is she really Roman Catholic?

Mrs. Alfred Packer, the hippywife primitive, in the past has alleged to be a daughter of the Church, and being of Italian derivation from working-class urban Ohio, it's probably credible.

I dunno what ticked her off about an institution that preserved and nourished and sustained her ancestors for hundreds of years, though--and one who rejects the people and the past from which one has sprung is never happy, never fulfilled, always angry and bitter and sad.

and is Bill really that angry towards Christians?

The hippyhubby Wild Bill is typical of a certain class of people, usually lower, envious of those with more character and breeding than they have.  I'm assuming that in northeastern Oklahoma--remember, I've never been there--Christians tend to be more prosperous and well-mannered, and if not that, at least happier, and so Wild Bill hates them for that.

and if they're so angry with people in Red States why not move to a Blue State?

Two reasons: they want the advantages of living in a red state with more freedom, that's cleaner and newer, and has lower taxes and other governmental interference, while retaining their smug sense of superiority that they're "better" than those around them.

And then there's the romantic notion about living how it was in the olden days, Abe and Mary in the log cabin, Joe and Sadie in the sod-house.

[Skul]

Has a big smile over the firecrackers.
Several decades ago when the family would visit grandparents in Minnesota,
my brother and I would walk to the SD border to buy...firecrackers.
The border was only about three hundred yards from gram & gramps house.
There was a guy that would park his car just on the other side, and sell them out of his trunk.
Folks for miles around, on the MN side, would show up.
Fond memories.

[franksolich]

Has a big smile over the firecrackers.

Several decades ago when the family would visit grandparents in Minnesota, my brother and I would walk to the SD border to buy...firecrackers.

The border was only about three hundred yards from gram & gramps house.

There was a guy that would park his car just on the other side, and sell them out of his trunk.

Folks for miles around, on the MN side, would show up.

Fond memories.

The older brothers used to go over down to Missouri and bring back a car-trunk-load of them.

Missouri allegedly had, and has, the best firecrackers, although as mentioned in the story, Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, and South Dakota firecrackers are nothing to sneer at.

The last week of June, and the first week of July, I'm sure that a significant portion of Nebraska cash goes into the pockets of entrepreneurs in adjoining states.

I have no opinion on the matter of firecrackers; since I can't hear them, I look at them as just rolled-up paper that blows up, nothing more.

[Skul]

I have no opinion on the matter of firecrackers; since I can't hear them, I look at them as just rolled-up paper that blows up, nothing more.

Nobody cared about the noise.
It's the other ability that was fun.
Nothing like a Zebra in the middle of a boxelder bug nest ball to PO your brother.
(Who just happened to be standing next to it.)

[franksolich]

Nobody cared about the noise.

It's the other ability that was fun.

Nothing like a Zebra in the middle of a boxelder bug nest ball to PO your brother.
(Who just happened to be standing next to it.)

Yeah, that happened to me a lot as a kid, because pranksters knew I couldn't hear.

Even my younger brother pulled that on me a few times.

I managed to take it with my usual nonchalance and "whatever"ism.

[franksolich]

Frank, excellent as always!

I needed to get a particular point across to the paranoid primitives, madam, so they'll stop being afraid to be their usual noisy uninhibited wanton selves on Skins's island, as the DUmpster needs their material.

I don't want the primitives--in this case Mrs. Alfred Packer, the "hippywife" primitive--to be afraid of franksolich; to have this preposterous notion that franksolich is any threat to them.

I want the primitives to feel utterly at ease being primitives in my presence; I'm a nice guy.

In fact, as the story amply illustrates (or at least I hope it does), franksolich is incapable of doing harm.

One of the things that's always fascinated me, again, are the similarities between franksolich and Pedro Picasso, the "Atman" primitive, on Skins's island.  We're both youngest brothers (my own younger brother doesn't count, he having left this time and place at too early of an age), never taken seriously by the elders in our families.  And not only are we not taken seriously, we're viewed as Innocents, naifs, and vulnerable in a dangerous world.  And not especially bright.

This "aura" of the youngest brother is picked up by others--perhaps it's our manner, our style--and so to everybody else, we're eternally the youngest brother.  Even to my own nephews, who adapted their perception of franksolich from their parents, are irritatingly this way.

And both Pedro Picasso and franksolich have a double whammy, that compels others to condescend to them, to protect them, to guide them, to think they're not particularly bright, to not take them seriously.

Not only are the two of us youngest brothers, but franksolich is deaf and the "Atman" primitive mentally-retarded.

A double whammy, and nothing can be done about; no one is ever going to take either of us seriously, although their compassion compels them to protect us.