Category Archives: fiction

COLUMN: An Interview With Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II, Ph.D.

01 Wednesday Mar 2023

Posted by in fiction, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on COLUMN: An Interview With Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II, Ph.D.

Tags

, ,

An Interview With Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II, Ph.D.

 

*Author-Interviewer’s Note: For an exciting change this week, I drove up to North Carolina for a sit down with America’s foremost authority on geostrategic issues and Roman comparative analysis. In scenic Cherokee, over a late breakfast at Peter’s Pancakes and Waffles, I piqued the mind of the man who has seen and done it all.

Thomas Ironsides, “Tom” as he’s known to friends, is a classics professor at Saint Thomas of Aquino College in Blowing Rock, NC. There, he is also Head of the American Classical Education Center (aka, the “Ironsides Center”), a trivium homeschool supportive research initiative. Fluent in five languages, and moderately proficient in several others, he holds a Ph.D. in classics from Harvard and three Master’s degrees in classics, philosophy, and international affairs (the University of Virginia and Georgetown University). Over the past decade, he has held teaching or lecturing positions at Harvard, the American University of Paris, Matej Bel University in Slovakia, and one low-end, suburban US public “school” system. Before his academic career, he retired from a joint career, “sheep-dipped”, as he calls it, in the USMC, where he rose to the rank of Colonel, and the CIA, where he served as a Paramilitary Operations Officer and, ultimately, Acting Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service, Special Activities Division, primarily in charge of the Special Operations Group. He resides in Blowing Rock with his wife, semi-retired television actress Carmyn Larke. He reminds one and all he scored that game-winning touchdown for UVA, nigh on forty years ago.

~~~

Perrin Lovett: Tom, it’s good to see you again. How have you been?

Tom Ironsides: Great. Exactly how I wanted to spend a work morning. And aren’t you forgetting to plug the book?

PL: Um— I’ll get to that at the end.

Tom Ironsides: Fair enough. What are we discussing today?

PL: In honor of your career, or careers, I thought we might begin with world affairs, and then work our way towards education. Some analysts, myself included, consider the third world war already in progress. Is that your characterization? And, if so, please give my audience your brief thoughts on the current front or fronts, along with any fronts you expect to open in the reasonably near future.

Tom Ironsides: Yes, absolutely, this is World War Three. Even the intelligent players and close observers, intelligent meaning those outside the United States, openly admit the global nature of the ongoing conflict. And it has been in progress for some time. This did not start last year in Ukraine. As for the exact nature of the overall hostility and its starting point in time, that is something for future historians to call. But, overall, it’s a fight between the ruling, foreign elites of the West, as represented by Washington, NATO, and little Zelensky, and the rest of the people of the planet, as popularly championed at this moment, by Russia and China. The preconditions for war have been in place for decades, and it’s very difficult to say, pointless almost when things started to get hot. The real war in Ukraine started no later than 2014 with a US-orchestrated coup. That was the continuation or exacerbation of conditions in effect several years earlier. 

Russian counter-preparations earnestly began in, say, 2007 or 2008, though the Kremlin understood the scope and parameters of the challenges even earlier. The Chinese adopted a strategy they call Unrestricted Warfare possibly as early as 1999. That strategy was largely a growth-allowing, defensive blueprint. Today, as exemplified by the recent Chinese peace proposal for Ukraine, and their evolving dealings with the US and Japan in the Pacific, their artifice is shifting towards, if not an offensive posture, then, at least, towards a more aggressive form of defense. And – this is very important – almost all of the Sino-Russian measures were and are in response to the deception, lies, and murder unleashed by the faux Western neo-Trotskyites in the early 1990s. To say it’s all complicated is an understatement. I caution against paying too much attention to anyone, from any side, who offers a simple or simplistic explanation of these matters. Rather, one might as well view it as a contest between the darkest evil – which, unfortunately, the people of the West are trapped under and suffering because of – and a coalition of Christians, noble pagans or good non-Christians, and others who may as well be defined as anything except evil.

The big, bright theater is, of course, in Ukraine, though it has already widened beyond those, let’s be honest, artificial borders. NATO, to the best of my knowledge, is scheming to engulf Transnistria and possibly Moldova, if they can do so with relative ease and a measure of plausible deniability. They just, a few days ago, openly attacked Belarus. NATO has even attacked its own members – and this is the height of insanity – in Germany and Turkey. The ripples are spreading and intensifying. All of the Western moves, which are as much economic as military, are backfiring in real-time. It’s like whatever forces control Biden and company are playing drunken checkers to Vladimir Putin’s stone-sober chess. Things were bad, and dysfunctional when I was in. Now they keep spiraling further and faster than anything I could have imagined.

At some point, China will formally enter the fray, with, I think, military action, and certainly, by ramping up existing policies, without it. The checker players are watching Taiwan – which will remain or rejoin as part of China, regardless of what the neocons want – though I think there’s a much greater possibility out there. Probably several greater or, at least, concurrent possibilities. North Korea, I believe, has a harder part to play. As does Iran and a few other nations. The crazy thing and the determinative thing is that the nations of the Global South are quietly already realigned with the Russians and Chinese. Sixty-seven percent of the world’s population now lives in territory opposed to the West. That territory produces the bulk of food, fuel, munitions, technology, and, critically, real economic activity. That’s the formula for winning a modern war. 

That was a ramble, off-the-cuff, but I hope it helps.

PL: It does indeed. Thank you. Germany, Turkey, and Belarus. You’re referring to the Nord Stream bombing, the CIA terror attack in Turkey and/or the earthquake, and the new drone attack on the Russian AWACs facility. Is that right? And do you know any names?

Tom Ironsides: Right, all counts, except maybe the earthquake. Yes, I still know several people who literally have fingers on triggers. And, no, the names stay with me. But, the officials, the known-to-the-world actors – they’re all but bragging about Nord Stream. That was a calculated move against Berlin and, really, against the whole Western block of the EU. They get to immediately start shipping in costly LNG while siphoning Continental industrial capacity to North America. I think and I even hope that this will fan the existing flames in Germany, France, etc., and that it hastens the end of NATO and the EU. It’s cold madness and a sign of utter desperation. The big rat caught in the trap is snapping angrily at the mice around her. 

It’s the same thing in Turkey, but quieter. They need to coerce Ankara into staying on the plantation as long as possible for a number of reasons. Trust me that all intel agencies and the goons they report to understand who was behind the terror cell. The earthquake, I’m not so sure about. You’ve probably seen Mr. Weatherman’s video, which I can say is real. It’s real but not 100% proof positive for me. The HAARPers and DARPA nuts have been working on directed radar weapons for decades. They have them. They are operational. I’m just not sure – because I just don’t know – if they’re that capable. If they are, then nothing would surprise me. Neither would weather balloons, fake aliens, weaponized railroads in Ohio, wastewater in Texas, chemtrails, artificially-induced polar fronts, and the rest of it. 

PL: All this from the people who brought us the one-two of Covid and the not-vaccine.

Tom Ironsides: Exactly. That was another example, possibly the worst in recorded history, of the wicked degenerates carefully targeting certain populations while simultaneously attacking the entire human race. Any rumor one ever hears about the depths of depravity in DC or London is probably true and probably only half the picture. I spent twenty-eight years helping them with one underhanded scheme after another. For that, I’ll be in Purgatory until the Sun burns out. Nothing is beyond these people. Nothing. Unspeakably evil. 

You mentioned the A-50 outside of Minsk. They keep stupidly throwing out the two words “game changer,” but that incident might be the real deal. They can’t keep their plots and nexus straight. I saw one blurb on a Greek military site, and then nothing substantial as of this morning. They may have some concocted nonsense cover about Belarusian dissents or some other lie. It’s like the bridge bombing, the drone strikes, blowing up that sweet girl – it’s all terrorism. That’s the fake West’s main weapon now, and they’re wildly thrashing about, slinging terror tactics without even aiming. It boils down to tactical minutiae that don’t even matter. Minsk? Aside from the angles, whatever they really are, between Kiev, Poland, and Belarus, that attack offers two new possibilities for conflict growth. One, third-party bases, say in Poland, Germany, or even in the US, are now fair targets. Two, NATO is running constant AWAC and drone flights for Zelensky. All of those planes are now possible targets. As is the entire US-NATO satellite ISR complex. Every bit of it is within the range and capability of about six different Russian platforms. In addition to being evil, these are some of the dumbest people alive. To top it off, they live and breathe in a perpetual state of arrogance. Damn them!

PL: Is this all evidence of a failure at NATO’s strategic planning level?

Tom Ironsides: No. Far from it. It’s proof of its success. We – and I hate to lump you and me into we – don’t have any national or global strategic plans. We haven’t since 1945. And, really, outside of naval operations, the US has never had the best comprehensive continental abilities or understanding. Russia and China have centuries of experience with combined arms, full Clausewitzian warfare. China, for the last seventy years, hasn’t had the operational experience in modern conflict, but Russia has. It’s their specialty, and they usually win. Both countries have been planning their moves all century. We’re just now starting to see the beginnings of implementation. Chess, as played by grandmasters.

Our side plays, again, drunken checkers. My former employers loosely devised a permanent tactical or expeditionary approach to war which was primarily designed to suppress insurgencies among essentially unarmed populations. And generate chaos among them. Kill people, stir up hatred, generate refugees, and make money for bankers. We have never, in living memory, at least, faced a peer or peer-plus adversary in a real war. That’s why NATO is getting its ass kicked over Ukraine even without officially participating. And our non-strategy didn’t even work against the poor and the helpless. Go ask the Taliban! Hide and wait and the big idiots will tire out and leave. It is my theory that winning was never the objective. I think the rulers wanted to use America and NATO as a hammer to strike as much chaos into as many places as possible, all while burning out America and Western countries. As the dumbass chimp once said, “Mission accomplished.”

PL: Well, they are interesting times. We can move along a bit. Who wins this thing before we shift gears?

Tom Ironsides: The other side. The free world. It’s a mathematical certainty. Western countries would have a world of self-inflicted problems even if Russia and China didn’t exist. As-is, in America, the new global war is coinciding with the ongoing and permanent collapse of the economy and a civil conflict that should finish off whatever’s left of the old USA.

PL: Speaking of ‘Murica! Do you have any ideas about the 2024 presidential election? And, at this point, is there anything or anyone that could save some vestige of the good, old United States?

Tom Ironsides: No, and no. I’m not even sure there’s going to be an election. And if there is, who cares? We know it will be rigged. And regardless of how it turns out, or even if it does or doesn’t, nothing will or can change. The deep state, the elites, don’t need a president anymore. They don’t need any of the politicians or any open facade of government. All we have is the deep, dark state now. It itself is crumbling. Instead of caring one wit about any D or R, Americans should just get on with their lives. And try to position themselves so they can emerge from the fires and rebuild. 

As for a savior, we simply don’t have one. If we did, then his time would have already come and gone. For whatever reason, lately, I’ve been thinking about Majorian. I’ve been trying to play-pretend him into life as a would-be final-stage US leader.

PL: Emperor Majorian? Of the Roman Empire?

Tom Ironsides: Right. Iulius Valerius Maiorianus, the last real chance the Western Empire had, around 460 AD. The last real emperor. In my estimation, the US, or even a rump state part of it, cries out for just such a leader. Like most plausibly effective reformers or rebels, he was of the aristocracy – though certainly not necessarily synchronized with their self-centered thinking. As you or your readers may know, he and his friend, Ricimer, forced Majorian’s way into power. Then, he did the almost unthinkable. Despite all odds, he started reuniting the previously lost territories. He quickly returned the competing ethnic groups, tribes, and kingdoms to their previous orders and places. At the point of spatha first, with magnanimity thereafter. He gave the people of Italy, Gaul, et cetera, pride in Rome again. Ricimer and the like aside, Majorian started to revive the ancient practice of enforcing Roman policies with actual Roman soldiers. At the same time, he started to positively stamp out corruption and rebuild the economy. He freed up literal tons of gold and silver. And – one can guess his fatal mistake – he started abolishing debt and usury. 

Those later points were a step too far, too fast for the trash inhabiting the Senate and the lending houses. In their short-sighted, self-serving idiocy, they had Ricimer murder the only man capable of extending their prosperity. Barely a generation later, the fools lost it all. Shit. We are Rome! We just didn’t get the Majorian. The best we could do was a braggadocious real estate street barker who didn’t even try to cross the Rubicon when required. I know of no man willing or able to do what would have to be done. My hope is that we have a few of them in the making and that they’ll step in after the Balkanization starts. 

We had a few candidates over the years. My former employer killed JFK for a couple of reasons, including monetary reform. History has seen more than a few good leaders whacked by bad bankers. Lord.

PL: You’re not excited about voting for Nikki Haley, some other foreign woman, or maybe just Ron DeSantis? Come on!

Tom Ironsides: Nimarata needs to be deported. Little Ronny is a war criminal. And both of them solidly if stupidly serve foreign masters. The dupes can believe whatever they want. Me? The last time I voted, I think I had to write in Pat Buchanan. Half a lifetime ago. Pointless.

PL: Any chance you’d ever step in, big guy? … Let the record reflect Dr. Ironsides is pointing at me with his middle fingers. Well. Anyway, let’s see. We’ll try to rapidly advance through a few more topics. You stepped into Parris Island a long time ago. Have you heard about the FBI down at your old stomping grounds?

Tom Ironsides: Forty years ago this summer. I wonder if the mosquitos would still remember me. Ha! But, yes, sadly I have read some reports and I’ve talked to a few people. What a disgrace!

PL: The rumors are true, then?

Tom Ironsides: True and then some. It’s all part of the insane desperation and the desire to set everything on fire. They’re at war with legitimate Catholics, and they’re looking for informants and agitators to serve, what did they call it? To serve “Team America”. Exact same thing with the Corps. Brandon’s blathering aside, they can’t find any real White terrorists, so they’re out to make a few. The hilarious thing is that once the genuine pushback starts, they’ll have no idea what to do about it. Pitiful. I am proud of that kid for telling them to shove it. He’s better out now anyway, regardless of whatever lies they typed on his 214. Part of me, formerly, would have counseled him to sue and demand they explain exactly what fraud he committed when enlisting. They can’t, of course, unless they describe all the crimes they commit, and that they won’t. It doesn’t matter. We should have stripped down all federal LEO and purged everyone above O6 back in the early 1990s. The whole bureaucracy should have been axed. But it’s too late now. Now, it will just fall apart. C’est la vie.

PL: You’ve had a few regrets about the time you spent helping the empire, no?

Tom Ironsides: More than a few. Without becoming a full-time vigilante, I have tried to make some private amends. I had a good multi-hour Confession. And I’ve rededicated my life to help young Americans and young families avoid our past mistakes and rekindle some sense of Christian civilization.

PL: That would get us to education and culture. I had wanted to conclude with education, maybe with that video from the Florida high school. But we’ve run a little long. I had the CDC report. Did you read about the Shigellosis outbreak?

Tom Ironsides: Monkeypox 2.0, yes. Never-ending degeneracy. I am impressed they operate so openly, trusting the blind, stupid people will never catch on. Queers are raping children, and the damned government is concerned about the well-being of the rapists. Let’s move along, please.

PL: Okay. Due to time and word constraints, wanna skip education for now?

Tom Ironsides: Sure. In a word, homeschool.

PL: That’s the word. Okay, how about we just wrap this up with a final question about something you mentioned today? About deception. Is there any reason for any American to trust anything the mainstream media says about the war, or about pretty much anything else?

Tom Ironsides: No. It’s as simple as that. If it’s corporate media or it’s on television, then it’s almost certainly a lie. There are far better sources out there, but most people refuse to utilize them. CNN or Fox is all they know. And I’d say Fox is the absolute worst. Right now they, and everyone else, are repeating this stupid nonsense about the so-called C-19 lab leak. The bug came from several labs – that’s true – but it did not leak. It was intentionally released by the US government. The retarded spin serves two purposes. First, it serves as a non-apology for the whole hoax, charade, and crime of aggression. Just move along, sheep. Second, the liars at Fox, and the other liars, are using it to pivot the gullible public into supporting a war with China. The people, who simply cannot think properly, and who can’t be bothered to ask real questions or do real research, would be much better off simply avoiding the news entirely. 

PL: As Jack said, “They can’t handle the truth?”

Tom Ironsides: That, and many of them hate the truth.

PL: One last semi-related thing? You mentioned rebuilding and rump states. You now live in Dixie. Do you see any signs that Southerners, specifically, are ready to embrace the future?

Tom Ironsides: Yes and no. I’ve always been impressed with the sense of tradition and history found in the OCSA. My dear father-in-law embodies it. Right now, and for an age, they’ve been under attack. They know it. But many don’t appear to understand that the greater world or the condition of the American nation has changed around them. When the O of occupation is finally removed – soon, I think – I’m not sure people are ready to move on. The younger ones, some of them, perhaps. All of them will have to find a way to fit in or separate from the herd. That’s the challenge everyone in North America will be facing in a decade or so. Maybe sooner. There will be a tremendous amount of labor involved in the re-ordering, and people should start planning, loosely, for that right now. While retaining the grand sense of honor and tradition, it’s time to get practical. When the time comes, I have high hopes that all of us will act accordingly. We will have a rare chance to build a new civilization.

PL: That’s as inspiring as it is challenging. Thanks so much for answering my questions today, Tom. As always, it’s been a pleasure.

Tom Ironsides: You’re welcome, and thank you for asking. Now, please get back to work finishing AURELIUS. Make me look good.

~~~

Tom Ironsides is the hero of THE SUBSTITUTE, a novel soon to be re-published by Shotwell. Later this year, he’ll be back in the all-action novella, AURELIUS. 

© Shotwell / Perrin Lovett.

UPDATE: Dr. Ironsides emailed and advised there is a suggestion of fake news regarding the A-50 AWACs plane. https://ria.ru/20230301/vzryvy-1855237809.html. At this point, who knows?

Not A Moment Too Soon

28 Tuesday Feb 2023

Posted by in fiction, News and Notes

≈ Comments Off on Not A Moment Too Soon

Tags

, ,

I’m expecting proof copies of the revised edition of THE SUBSTITUTE tomorrow. It appears Tom Ironsides is needed now more than ever as James Bond is being neutered by the usual suspects.

The James Bond novels by acclaimed author Ian Fleming have been censored after Ian Fleming Publications Ltd hired sensitivity readers to review the material and make suggestions to language, especially around racial descriptions of characters.

The Telegraph reports, “The changes to Fleming’s books result in some depictions of black people being reworked or removed” and several instances of Fleming referring to black characters as “n*gger” have been expunged.

At some point, I have to consider some protective mechanism to protect the integrity of my meager literary estate. All authors need to look into that or else we will be written out of history.

Ironsides Around The Corner

08 Wednesday Feb 2023

Posted by in fiction

≈ Comments Off on Ironsides Around The Corner

Tags

I have unpublished the original THE SUBSTITUTE. At Amazon, it shows as “unavailable” as to new copies. Used copies may be floated at some point by someone. Anyway, I have only to review a proof, and the revised edition will be out ASAP! We’ll be making a big deal about that here. P

Happy Birthday, Tom Ironsides!

02 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by in fiction

≈ Comments Off on Happy Birthday, Tom Ironsides!

Tags

, , ,

*Dr. Ironsides gets several interesting gifts on this his 58th birthday.

 

The Elder Statesman

~A Tom Ironsides Micro Story by Perrin Lovett~

~~January 2023~~

Ironsides Residence, Blowing Rock, NC, January 2, 2023, early morning…

Strengthening sunlight channeled through the whiffs of steam as they rose continuously from a coffee mug. The vessel, a plate of lately reheated bacon, and a banana sat atop a shorter stack of papers on an otherwise tidy desk. On a large monitor, as if on cue, the feed scroll from gazeta.ru reverted from English to Russian. A thumping sound from the bookcases and an “Aha!” indicated Tom had found whatever he was looking for. Book in hand, he returned to his escritoire about the same time that Carmyn bopped in the office door.

   ‘You’ve received another gift, birthday boy,’ she said as Tom took his seat. ‘Just arrived in the mail.’

   ‘The mail ran today? I thought this was an extended holiday – in my honor, of course,’ he said as he reached for the steaming coffee.

   ‘We forgot to check it Saturday or Friday, darling,’ she said. ‘I just walked out and this is all there was. Nice, big envelope to you from the government.’

   ‘Well!’ he said, his nose amidst the vapors. ‘Maybe the Commandant has an answer for my blue steam about all the new faggotry in the Corps. I’ve been waiting on that before I decide my next move!’

    ‘Ah, no,’ she said. ‘You’d better talk to Birch or Freddy again before you think about that kind of move. And this happens to be from the Census Bureau.’

   ‘I knew it,’ he said slowly as he set the cup down. ‘They’re on us. All these relatives come to visit, and now they think we’re running a flop house! Lemme see that.’

   She handed him the brown envelope and he dissected it with his knife. He poked around the contents before fishing out a little piece of pink paper, which he cautiously read aloud:

OFFICIAL NOTICE

Recipient Preferred Pronouns Unknown

All references to the recipient herein are generic and nominal so as to avoid mis- or dys-gendering said Person and/or Xerson.

Should MXR/MX/YNM Recipient wish to correct any future risk of possible aggression, an updated pronoun addendum is available at www-census—

   ‘Yep. It’s from the government,’ he said before tossing the notice in the trash. It was joined by a little booklet and a smaller return envelope. Soon he only held two pieces of paper, evidently the guts of the missive. He quickly scanned the first page and then asked Carmyn, ‘any idea who Rhonda Witzotsky of Davenport, Iowa is? Or was?’

   ‘No,’ she answered. ‘What’s it say about her? And you?’

   He then began reading aloud again:

THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND (pronouns unknown):

Based on our records, THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND was born between 05:01 and 05:21 ES/DST on Saturday, January 2, 1965. We timely congratulate THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND on THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND’s 1,558th birthday. [‘genuine government issue, this,’ he huffed].

We are saddened to inform THOMAS HUBEpro unkwn IR2nDOnSIDES, 558 [‘dear God…’] of the recent death of RHONDA M. WITZOTSKY (pronouns unknown : t9639rr) of Davenport, Iowa, 1965 Diffusion Zone 6734, on or about November 1, 2022. We understand that THOMAS hubert IRONSIDES, DN2 may be upset by these passings, as is we. Council grief or refer to Canadian physician. Our condolences extend to all family units of RHONDA M. WITZOTSKY, W, F, 58, Boost-to-date. 

Pursuant to the departure of RHONDA M. WITZOTSKY, and pursuant to our records, and by operation of CFR 15.100, et seq., we hereby inform THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND that THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND is now the oldest living member of the United States Baby-Buster Generation “X.”  Please find herewith a certificate to honor the achievement of THOMAS HU—

   He paused a moment before throwing both pieces of paper away. Then he looked at the snickering Carmyn, and said, ‘young lady, you are never to approach that mailbox again. In a few minutes, I’m going to go burn it.’

   She quickly reached into the trash can and retrieved the letter and certificate. ‘Oh, no, baby,’ she said mischievously. ‘No, you’re the one getting burned. This is the best birthday present ever. This is gold! Can you imagine the fun?!’

   ‘I really can’t, madame.’

   ‘This is like, it’s like, I don’t know what it’s like,’ she said, beginning to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘You’re the new Boomer! The kids are gonna have a field day. Okay, Xer! No, no, no. Okay, Buster! Baby buster! Tell us more about your cool music, and your cars, and your g-g-generation! How many guitars DO you have?! You’re the elder statesman of the new Boomer generation. I’m telling all the kids, showing them this impressive certificate. Tell us about grit, old man! Show us your bootstraps! This is too great!

   ‘And what are your pronouns? Are you a MXR? A Mixer? Mixer Xer Buster the 2nd? I’ll tell you dumb youngins’! Back in my time, we didn’t need any pronouns. We worked our way through nouns. Verbs too! Oh! And, how do you identify? We don’t want to aggress you or anything. Trans-vegan pineapple-American? Forget the blue steam and threats to renounce the oath. You could re-up and get promoted! General(!) Mixer Boomer Buster Ironsides, number two!’

   ‘You’re part of the same generation, Adrestia, dear,’ he said even as he began to see a little humor in the situation. ‘Just a few years behind General Boomer here.’

   ‘Sweetie, no’ she said through her tears and gasps. ‘This is all about you. Your birthday and all. And I’m younger X. On the Pinewood visit, last summer, GG, her agent, and that director all told me I could easily pass for thirty. But you know that, don’t you? You Boom, er, Boomers(!), you Busters know it all, right?’

   For longer than he liked, Tom endured joke upon joke, deployed from a deft wit by a savage tongue. His view of the humor rose and fell again. Finally, he did what he usually had to do in such circumstances: he simply picked the cackling, glowing faux Millennial up, pressed her against the wall, and drowned her gleeful taunts in a torrent of passionate kisses and a lusty embrace. 

   As they began to relax, she released his lower lip from her teeth and stared at him breathlessly. As one fit quelled within her, another arose. Easing out of his arms, she took his hand. ‘Come on! I got ya another present in the bedroom.’ She was already pulling him towards the door.

   ‘I think I’m gonna like this one!’ he exclaimed, beaming boyishly.

   ‘Oh, you’re so gonna like it,’ she said, already halfway down the hall. ‘Xer, it’s time to go. I got you a new pillow!’

FICTION: A Christmas Fire To Make The Good Victorious

22 Thursday Dec 2022

Posted by in fiction, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on FICTION: A Christmas Fire To Make The Good Victorious

Tags

, ,

A Christmas Fire To Make The Good Victorious

~a Tom Ironsides tale by Perrin Lovett~

~~Christmas 2022~~

Saint Thomas of Aquino College, Blowing Rock, North Carolina, December 22, 2022…

As the low December sun dipped behind the mountains, their afternoon dance complete, the slow-drifting refracted beams of stained glass light faded from the chapel wall. Several of the older congregants and more than a few of the youngsters noted the departure, with at least one mind wishing the ephemeral decorations good evening and goodbye. The tall, commanding speaker, standing in the middle of the steps before the altar, wearing a dark suit, an unusual tie, and a genuinely delighted look, took the shadowy spectacle as the signal to conclude his presentation.

   ‘And so,’ he said, ‘in summation, it has been, all the news of the outside world notwithstanding, a wonderful year both at the collegiate level and, especially, at our nascent little school. By the way, my earlier remarks, just to be clear, about quote-unquote wisely investing the center funds in something called FTX, that was a joke. I didn’t think enough of you laughed at the time, not in here, and it was difficult to gauge the online mood.

   ‘Speaking of that, what a testament! There may, in fact, be great things ahead for our concept of internet-assisted homeschooling. A note was passed to me some minutes ago, and it seems we have just over two-hundred families, benefactors, and friends joining us via the video call function. From as far away as the Helvetic Confederation and Slovakia, I might add. I regret to inform those of the digital set that they, unfortunately, will not be able to directly partake of the sandwiches, punch, and cookies which we’ll enjoy momentarily.’ Here, a peal of general laughter erupted.

   ‘My apologies,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Perhaps that’s the next grand step in technology. But again and again, thank you all for coming this evening, all of you watching nationwide, worldwide, and everyone within these walls. I’d like to especially thank our tech department friends for making the wider conference possible. And I owe a debt of gratitude to all of my classics students and the other young academicians who stayed several days after finals to help. The younger kids love all of you, they look up to you, and your assistance has been beyond important. Critical, if you will. And if I’ve missed anyone, then I offer a great, all-encompassing thank you!

   ‘Just before we wrap this show up and commence our Christmas partying, a final word about those unpleasant secular and spiritual matters, the ones that have dogged us particularly hard of late. In an optimistic spirit of defiance, I offer you this inspirational challenge: There is no cure for this evil, but by the giving of greater force to the good hand. The righteous cause must be strengthened with might to resist the wicked, to defend the helpless, to punish all cruelty and unfairness, to uphold the right everywhere, and to enforce justice with unconquerable arms. Oh, that the host of Heaven might be called, arrayed, and sent to mingle in the wars of men, to make the good victorious, to destroy all evil, and to make the will of the King prevail! So wrote Henry van Dyke in his story of the Christmas Angel in 1905. In his young century, and in ours. Fear not! Our side is just too strong; they can’t win. Merry Christmas, everyone!’

   The gathering then removed to the adjacent events center for further merry festivities. Tom inched to the back doors of the chapel and greeted everyone again as they disembarked in search of food and drink.

   ‘What a wonderful message, all of it,’ someone said. ‘I always loved van Dyke, and you did his words great justice.’

   ‘Thank you. It’s easy in a beautiful setting filled with gracious people.’

   ‘The virtual crowd enjoyed the show,’ a techie told him. ‘You had them overload the chat box! I emailed you all eight hundred messages for later, just like you asked.’

   ‘Thank you! Couldn’t have made it work without your help.’

   ‘You’ve made quite the start in only three years, Colonel,’ a woman said.

   ‘Time flies when you’re making progress and having fun!’

   ‘Public speaking might be your thing, sir. You should teach or something,’ one of his classics students said.

   ‘Yeah, I need to look into that.’

   ‘I knew you were trouble when we hired you,’ a Regent said. ‘My kinda trouble.’

   ‘All I’ve ever really been good at.’

   ‘What did you do to those state DOE people from Raleigh?’ another professor asked.

  ‘Get with me after the break about that.’

   ‘I like your tie, Doctor I,’ a little girl from the day school said. Her mother stood behind her, alternately smiling and biting her lower lip, and conspicuously batting her eyes at Tom.

   ‘It’s daffy just like us,’ he replied while ignoring the maternal flirtation and looking down at the Santa hat-sporting Duck himself.

   He entered the hall last, walking and chatting with Oak Moreland. ‘I have to meet this woman, Chief,’ he said in response to some new information. ‘I suppose she’s behind these subtle changes in your ways. Have you noticed?’

   ‘No,’ Oak said. ‘Well, okay, I do notice her, shall we say, positive influences. I have also noticed a few things about you lately, boss. Are you aware that you, just now and three times, called this place the center? Didn’t I tell you? The Ironsides Center has a ring to it!’

   ‘Huh? Maybe,’ Tom said. ‘I’m more interested in seeing if a ring pops up in your life. Then you two can get on with the, you know, adding more kids to our programs.’ 

   ‘One step at a time, man! But, kids— Did you ever think, back in the old days, about your recent reason for being? I could always have seen it coming, but literally seeing it now, meeting her and all, is something different.’

   ‘Honestly,’ Tom said with light reflection, ‘back then, I didn’t even count on making it to retirement. Now that I’m here, I gotta admit this is the best part of life! Babysitting is the funnest job I’ve ever had, and kind of a reward for the trials of parenting – that first great go-round. Maybe a reward for any of the good work we might have ever done over all those mean years. You’ll find out before too long, one day, my friend.’

   ‘When will mommy and daddy be back?’ Oak asked.

   ‘Tomorrow, straight up from Charlotte,’ Tom said. ‘They took Jessica with them, her and her new positive, hopefully-speaking, influence, what’s-his-bubba. Bringing a college shuttle bus full of relatives, in-laws, and out-laws back with them. Thankfully it won’t be quite as many as last Christmas or the overkill year before. Got some folks scattered about this year. Oh, and I’d best remember to top that thing off before we return it. Wash it. Details.’

   ‘Can Todd drive it okay?’

   ‘Yeah. I mean, he was man enough to marry Vicky, so a box truck with seats shouldn’t be too bad. Who knows? Maybe she’ll drive. But not me! Cause I got something, somebody a whole lot more important right here!’ The men stopped and looked down at the gala’s smallest and youngest participant.

   There, surrounded by college kids and swinging from Carmyn’s arm, was Tom’s pride and joy, his newest, funnest reason for being. She was named after Tom’s late mother, she was almost eighteen months old, and she was possessed of a constant bubbly precociousness. Her big brown eyes gleamed happily up at her grandfather before rapidly drifting over to Oak’s large, smiling face. She started hopping up and down and calling: ‘Bear! Bear!’

   ‘Hey, baby girl!’ Oak exclaimed as he bent down to her level. ‘Grrrrrr.’

   ‘You do look like a big, old grizzly,’ Tom said. ‘Especially with the beard.’

   While the hulking man happily allowed many a tug on his beard, Carmyn proudly said to Tom, ‘not a peep from Meredith the whole time! She’s the perfect child. I’m not even sure she knows how to cry or fuss.’

   ‘She also failed to laugh at any of my jokes,’ Tom said with faux ruefulness. ‘Nor did she show any interest in my new Greek rhetorical powers.’

   ‘Gee, babe, that was all Greek to me too.’

   Along with his usual Latin quips and French aphorisms, Tom babbled on in Greek a little more, or tried to, in between visits here and there around the room. He and Carmyn decided, along with an ample contingent, to simply make a dinner of the various finger foods, scrapping their earlier plans to dine in Boone. And so, perhaps an hour and a half passed pleasantly in the company of many good, intelligent, and interesting people. 

   Outside, as Carmyn snapped the happy toddler into her car seat, Tom made a suggestion. ‘What say we cruise downtown and look at the lights?! The park and Main and all?’ he asked. And, the three of them being in agreement, that is just what they did. Carmyn sat in the back with Meredith, whom she kept whispering to.

   ‘So, guess what, gramps!’ Carmyn said to the driver.

   ‘What’s that?’

   ‘Vicky told me I could tell you this if I wanted to,’ she said. ‘You’re you, so you wouldn’t have noticed anything. And she’s not sure herself. I’m not. Mehr-Mehr, here, isn’t either, but we all suspect something!’

   ‘Is this leading to a riddle or a conspiracy?’ he asked.

   ‘It might, if it happens to be right, lead to another grandbaby,’ she said with a little gleeful squeal in her voice.

   ‘Woo-hoo!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘More babies! Number two of six, eight, or ten, I hope. I want all the kids to have kids. Lots of grandkids! Hear that, Meredith? You’re gonna be a big sister! And I’ll end up being the old man who lived in a shoe.’ He looked in the mirror at Meredith, and added in a silly voice, ‘he had so many children, he didn’t know what to do!’

   For her part, the little girl was most excited about the prospects, as best she understood them. And she tried to follow the grownup conversation. Of course, at her age, she found the eventual turn in their words inexplicably mystifying.

   ‘Speaking of shoes, old man,’ Carmyn said while playing with the bow in Meredith’s dark brown hair. ‘Some of the kids and faculty were talking with me about all that sick stuff with the Balenciaga ads. Can you believe they tried that?!’

   ‘Baby, I can believe anything after all I’ve seen and done. And with all the news the past few years. But, yeah, it’s everywhere. BAAL-enciagas. Sadly fitting for our day and times.’

   ‘Lydia and I had a talk about that crap – oops, sorry Mehr – about that stuff, a few weeks ago,’ Carmyn added. ‘We never worked for the house outright, but we’ve both worn their, uh, stuff, at shows or functions. Makes me a little sick. Your big sis too. Yuck.’ The old Rover was silent for a moment. Then she changed the subject: ‘How about some music? A song?’

   ‘Oh, I got a song for our devil-worshiping friends,’ Tom said before clearing his throat. ‘Sing along if you— It’s cadence; just refrain after me if you know the words.’

   ‘Oh, Tom, is this—’

   ‘Down in the night, with the falling rain! Come on, echo me!’

   ‘Tom is this age—’

   ‘Down in the night, with the falling rain!

   ‘HALO jumper gonna bring the pain!’

   ‘Tom?’

   ‘Ka-Bar, Ka-Bar, sharp and dry!’

    ‘Tom!’

    ‘Hit the ground, find the pedos, and MAKE THEM DIE!’

   ‘TOM!’

   ‘What? She likes it. Look!’

   ‘She likes everything, darling. Just, uh, keep it nursery-friendly.’ Meredith was, in fact, bouncing and clapping in her seat. ‘Well,’ Carmyn said. ‘She— That was pretty clever. You know, little miss, your grandpa here used to take it to the bad people of the world pretty hard and heavy.’

   ‘Used to?’ Tom asked. ‘Used to. Well, someone has to guard the nursery.’

   ‘Okay, then do that, and stop guarding the radio. Find some Christmas music for our tour.’

   Tom dialed up a Joyeux Noel compilation concert by Michel Corrette and Pierre Dandrieu, and the trio hummed and sang along while they light-hopped the small mountain Gotham. Tom had just eased by the town hall, slowing considerably to allow full viewing of the park decorations, when Carmyn’s phone rang.

   ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Hey! How was the drive down?’

   ‘Good. A little traffic near the airport, but no problems,’ Vicky said from the other end. ‘The hotel is fine. We’re settled in. Before we— Oh, a couple of quick updates! Ari and Maddie landed a few hours ago in New York. That gang’s off to Gstaad in the morning. Domestically, Trey and Romana caught an early flight, so Jess and her bubba – hey, yeah, I think I’m starting to like him! – are down in the lobby waiting on them. I’ll tell her you said hello. We’re about to go down so we can all relax in the little bar when they arrive. Adult time! I can almost remember what it was like now. Speaking of, how’s our little baby?!’

   ‘Darling, you’ll be so proud!’ Carmyn said. ‘He’s driving us around, talking a little, only mentioning killing pedos once, he hasn’t spilled anything lately, and he’s almost minding his manners!’ The girls shared a healthy laugh. 

   ‘Honey bunny, funny bunny?’ Tom innocently asked the mirror, his eyebrows arched.

   ‘No, the other baby,’ Carmyn continued; ‘She’s perfect! The hit of the party. We’re driving around now, light-seeing. She keeps cooing and singing. So sweet! So tiny and cute. And, she— Oh! She just mimicked me, tiny and cute, in that voice. She’s so perfect that we want to keep her. She and Mox really warm up the house. They make me feel alive and make your dad act like an overgrown kid. You guys can just stay put until New Year’s, maybe later. Or if you want, Mox and I can keep Mehr-Mehr, and y’all can take over with grumps. No? But I bet you wanna talk to her, don’t cha? My girlfriend’s right here.’ Carmyn leaned over with the phone to Meredith, saying, ‘put down the sippy. Mama’s on the phone! Talk to mama and daddy!’

   ‘Grumps?’ Tom mumbled to the vacant front passenger seat.

   ‘Mama!’ Meredith chirped. 

   Mother and daughter had a quick, blissful conversation, with Meredith even recounting her recent exciting encounter with a bear. Carmyn and Vicky had a quick, blissful discussion about Meredith’s big sister potential. Tom blissfully looped around from Main to Ransom and back again. After a minute, Vicky and Todd joined the sightseeing via a video call. Together, they all toured the small business district and the houses down 221 towards Tom and Carmyn’s home in the hills. As it happened, they were all so carried away singing Dominick the Donkey, they drove right past the driveway. But in short order, Tom carried the lightly sleeping Meredith into the house. He was whispering to her about why the old Babushka still searches every Christmas for a certain Child and why she leaves a single tear on each pillow as she looks. Meredith, of course, was otherwise occupied with the broad, firm pillow of Tom’s shoulder. She was awakened by and they were all met with a terrific woofing from Moxie, Vicky and Todd’s huge Tatra Shepherd, whom Tom and Carmyn were also babysitting for the night. Meredith began excitedly reaching down and calling, ‘Mos! Mos! Mos!’

   ‘Here you go, the two of you,’ Tom said as he lightly placed her on the dog’s back as if he were a small pony and her a tiny jockey. A short ride turned into a snuggle fest on the living room rug by the Christmas tree. ‘This place’ll be packed this time tomorrow,’ Tom said, waving around.

   While he plugged in the lights and cranked up the little train, Carmyn asked him, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s in that huge, empty-feeling package in the corner? Behind the big, long, heavy one?’

   ‘Oh, that’s just a safe tube,’ Tom said, as he concentrated on re-centering a small engine on its tracks, honestly enjoying the smokey ozone smell that rose from the small shower of rail contact-generated sparks. ‘Plastic pipe’s all it is. It’s for burying what’s in the heavy present, or at least one of them. Seal it down, purge it, and good to go!’

   ‘One of them? What, pray tell, is in the heavy box?’

   ‘Mehr-bear’s Kalashnikovs! Matching set.’

   ‘Her what now?’

   ‘Latest version of the venerable AK-47! Two of ‘em, and boy, are they tricked out! I got her folding stocks, those slide-aside holo-sights Birch made, bayonet lugs, and—’

   ‘You got a baby assault rifles?!’

   ‘Battlefield rifles, my dear lady.’

   ‘She’s not even two! How’s she supposed—’

   ‘Well, not now, obviously. She’s not even as tall as they are long. The big drum mags probably weigh as much as her. But that’ll change, and when it does, I’ll be ready. Better to have them now than wait around.’

   ‘What’s Vicky gonna think?!’

   ‘I tell you, she’s going to be a little jealous, as these are much nicer than the one I gave her when she was this age. And there are two of these! Bury one, one by the nightstand.’ By this time, Tom was standing near the packages in the corner, rubbing his hands happily, expectantly.

   ‘Only you, Tom,’ Carmyn said. ‘Are they, what do you guys call it? Full-auto?’

   ‘No, no, baby,’ he said soothingly. ‘They’re on safe. Gotta flip the selector around all the way to go full. Safe, one, three, rock n’ roll.’

   ‘Only you— ‘

   ‘Oh,’ Tom said down to Meredith, ‘and yours I dipped in girly-girl pink. Pink princess guns! Next, Imma get ya matching pistols and 12-gauge autoloaders. We also need to talk about blades. One day, we’ll even discuss applied creative chemistry.’ Meredith was too busy gumming Moxie’s ear to notice the revelations. Moxie, upside down on his back with his paws folded, appeared to enjoy the munching. 

   ‘Um, you’re a character, you know,’ Carmyn said while smirking and leaning on the large stone fireplace’s mantle. ‘You’re not trying to raise Hit-Girl, are you?’

   ‘Hit who now?’

   ‘Comic book heroine, darling,’ Carmyn explained. ‘Well, there’s not much meekness in you. There’s something to be said for that, I suppose.’

   ‘Meekness? Of course, I’m meek! And I want all my kids and grandbabies and all my people to be meek,’ Tom said in a semi-professorial tone. ‘Our English word, meek, as translated into Matthew, is derived from the – here it comes, again – from the Greek word práos, which means— It’s based on a military horse training term. It means a war horse disciplined to fearlessly stand in the face of battle, to respond to the just authority of the rider with controlled power. It has nothing to do with all this neutered, latter-day, Enlightenment nonsense about passively accepting everything. It means resolute, therefore strong service with neither timidity nor recklessness. We meek lil’ folks are battle horses in the great spiritual war!’ He looked down at the happily frolicking Meredith and added, ‘baby love, the war horses shall inherit the earth.’

   ‘I knew it,’ Carmyn said through a near-mocking smile. ‘When I first found you loitering on the street in Highlands, I knew you’d be interesting. Dangerous, but interesting. You’re a wonderworker, Tom.’

   He answered her while still speaking more to Meredith (and Moxie): ‘We’re not alone, babydoll! Jolly old Saint Nicholas once said, or wrote in a Troparion, the truth of things hath revealed thee to thy flock as a rule of faith, an icon of meekness(!), and a teacher of temperance. He’s also roundly known as a wonder worker! We’re all war horses, my valiant little filly. By the way, he’s the big dude who follows hot on the little Babushka’s heels, Christmas night. That is if one believes in that sort of thing. And, maybe if one doesn’t mind mixing up cultural appropriations.

   ‘Speaking of! You probably don’t know this— And, yeah, I guess Mox’s ears and snout are clean enough— But, did you know that Saint Nick even made his way into Irving’s Sleepy Hollow?! It was, if I remember correctly, by way of a mention of the old sailors’ habit of calling on the protection of—’

   ‘Okay, um. Mehr, you’ll figure out that the, that the, er, curiosity and learning never stops around here,’ Carmyn stammered for a second. ‘Unlike the little train on Miner’s Mountain, with this one, the ride never ends. And hey, Professor, what did you end up getting Stanley? Some anti-tank rockets?’

   ‘Seven dozen of them, as it turned out. All thanks to Brandon.’

   ‘You’re wearing you’re I’m-not-kidding face—’

   ‘Just kidding, baby. No, I also got him a complete set of The Papers of John C. Calhoun and a copy of the new book about Calhoun in the twenty-first century. All autographed by Doctor Clyde Wilson, the author. He’s a friend of a friend.’

   ‘Wow! He’ll love those,’ Carmyn said. ‘Also…’

   ‘Yes, he will! He’s got a little room on a shelf behind the table with his Civil War chess set. Perfect place. He and the old statesman can sit there and strategize things working out the right way as he puts it somewhat wistfully.’

   ‘Is his book coming out through that publisher?’ she asked. ‘Wellshot or whatever?’

   ‘I think so, if he can ever decide on the title,’ Tom said. ‘Right now, he’s working with Red On Grey: A Physician’s Review of Procedures and Conditions in Confederate Field Hospital Triage in the War for Southern Independence, by Doctor Millionaire Hillbilly, MD. Mouthful and a half, but it’s a take on a battle and, you know, blood on grey uniforms and all. Might need a tad of PR work.’

   ‘Well, he will enjoy the gift books, at any rate. To think, he used to call you, that Yankee,’ she said.

   ‘That G-D Yankee, if I was on good behavior!’ he added.

   ‘Well, I won’t say anything before he opens them,’ she said with a smile. ‘What time do you think he and Dot will arrive?’

   ‘Not sure,’ Tom said as he picked up Meredith, pausing to tweak Moxie’s large, wet nose (because not even the CIA’s all-time best could resist). ‘Probably late morning or early afternoon. I expect the entire gang to converge around midday. I also expect someone might need a little changing. Ahem.’

   ‘Ahem,’ she repeated. ‘Why don’t we all change, and – this one’s wide awake and we have all the time – why don’t we have a fire out back? It’s fall-like weather. Too nice not to.’

   ‘A wonderful idea!’ Tom said. ‘You two take your time, then grab some drinks and snacks, and meet me and Moxie outside. We’ll be out there preparing. I already have the fireplace loaded, and I have a couple of surprises!’

   ‘Oooo!’ Carmyn said.

   ‘Suh-pies!’ Meredith said.

   ‘Ruff!’ Moxie barked.

   Tom led Moxie away, singing, ‘…you marched in the battle of the grey and the red. When the cannon smoke cleared, took days to count the dead. ‘Cause, you fought all the way, Stanley Reb, Stanley Reb, you fought all…’

    A short while later, the girls trundled out onto the flagstone patio, both dressed warmly in matching Tweetsie Railroad fleece, ready for evening comforts. Carmyn bore a large thermos full of hot cocoa and a s’more-making kit. Moxie ran in circles around Meredith as she toddled forth, a short stack of insulated cups in her little be-mittened hands. The little courtyard was lit both by the ambient light from inside the house and by the warm lambency emanating from the hearthstone. The air was noticeably cooler than it had been earlier, but it still possessed a wholesome, welcoming aura. An agreeable breeze was wafting the sweet scent of evergreens up the hill. Carmyn took a deep breath of it and sighed contentedly. Meredith thought she might have seen her own exhalation, and though she was not completely sure, she was nonetheless pleased with the simple, entertaining notion. They found Tom tossing the cap of a Bolivar Belicoso Fino into a fire that was already heartily crackling with life, approaching the roaring state. Radiant embers rose from the chimney to join an amber glow that all melted into a clear, dark, and star-filled sky. Tom had surrendered his suit in favor of tactical pants and a field jacket. A large brown paper grocery sack rested curiously upon the corner of the stone hearth. The former television goddess set up her snack bar on the table between two love seats, Meredith and Moxie rollicked, and Tom crudely lit his cigar on the glowing, smoldering edge of a log.

   Turning to the crowd, he said, ‘well met! Lemme get this puffing along and then before we melt marshmallows, I have an inaugural tradition to — inaugurate. A second, please. I’ll also later need to Oban-ize my cocoa.’ He pointed to a bottle on the mantle while drawing on his Cuban.

   ‘Okay, one second! And what a nice fire, darling,’ Carmyn said. ‘It smells different. Sweet and maybe leathery. Using a new wood?’

   ‘Yes, kind of. And thank you. Now, just a moment.’

   After puffing the cigar’s bold, aromatic foot to an orange brilliance, he temporarily placed it on the mantle. ‘Okay, let’s start this party! Little lady,’ he pointed to Meredith and then to the paper bag, ‘can you fetch the contents of this bag for me?’ The tyke did so, laughing at the funny little doll she found. It was made of cloth stuffed with straw: a misshapen little man wearing a white coat and a tie. Cheap paper eyeglasses were taped on his poorly-formed face, and what might have been a dinky cardboard excuse for a syringe was affixed to one of his arms. He looked comical yet oddly familiar.

   ‘What in the world is that?’ Carmyn asked incredulously.

   ‘Our new tradition!’ Tom boomed proudly. ‘It’s time for the first ever burning of the Tony Fauci effigy!’ 

   Carmyn started to remark something but was caught in a fit of laughter.

   ‘Okay, babydoll,’ Tom said to Meredith. ‘That’s one of the baddest of the bad people. And that’s a life-sized doll too. So, this is reverse Molochism. As the youngest, cutest child present, it is your honor to throw the stupid little man into the fire!’

   ‘Tom, no,’ Carmyn began to say. ‘It’s too—’

   ‘Right, right,’ he acknowledged. ‘Not too close to the flames. Wait.’ He knelt down between the girl and the inferno. ‘Okay, you toss him to me, and I’ll chuck him in where he belongs. We’ll bring justice together! One, two … toss!’

   Soon, as three voices cheered and jeered, and while Moxie addressed a tangle in his puffy tail, the hideous little mannequin caught and was engulfed in the cleansing conflagration. ‘Say, bye, bye, little troll!’ Tom instructed Meredith.

   ‘Buh, buh, leedle twoh!’ she exclaimed while jumping and twisting.

   ‘En Français,’ Tom said. ‘Say, brûle, homme méchant!’

   ‘Bruuuuh—’

   ‘Brooo-l … Oohm … Meh-chaant.’

   ‘Bra, omma, mekat!’

   ‘Perfect!’ Tom said happily. ‘Next year, we’ll add Latin.’

   The girls curled up on one sofa, with Tom on the other, downwind and smoking away like the special new logs. Moxie rested his head on Tom’s lap for pets in between the man’s sips of Scotch chocolate. The sipping, s’moring, easy talk, star gazing, and fire-watching lasted for some time. A refreshing chilly air descended and the weather began to feel more winter-like. As Tom’s cigar was burning down towards his fingers, Carmyn said, ‘Tom. She’s asleep. Really asleep.’ He looked and saw brown hair nestled down beneath Carmyn’s fuzzy, half-open No. 12 jacket. 

   ‘This one too,’ he said, scratching the dreaming dog. ‘We’ll get them both to bed soon. What a wonderful day and night.’ He shifted his boots, re-propping them on the table. Carmyn looked at them as if momentarily in a trance.

   ‘Back to the disturbing news, for a minute,’ she said. ‘I feel bad that Vicky and I bought you those Balenciaga boots a few years ago. A shame, they looked so good on you.’

  ‘Who, exactly, bought them?’ he asked. ‘But I know, right? Saint Nicholas and Saint Michael, protect us.’

   ‘That’s not them, now, is it?’

   ‘No,’ he said. ‘I got rid of them in an appropriate fashion. It’s like the old clergyman and teacher wrote in his story. We have to do what we can, in the face of the evils, to strengthen the good hand. Small acts of defiance against the darkness. These are new Danners. Marine Expeditionaries. I had my guy dye them black and buff them smooth. Kind of like dress boots now. Close enough. What a wild story. But let’s not dwell on that anymore. Happy time.’

   ‘Yes, darling,’ she said. ‘And, as per, you do make a lovely fire.’

   ‘I sure do.’

   ‘But, what? Not to linger, but how did you get rid of the BAAL-enciagas?’ she asked.

   ‘They make a lovely fire.’

   A brief, obliging silence followed. And while neither of them mentioned the observation, they both, for a cursory instant, suspected they saw a few random snowflakes swirling somewhere out at the edge of the visible light. 

   A little deeper in the night, as fleeting sparks disappeared into the cold air, scattering the vague memory of molded forms of wickedness, both of modern pharmakeia and of the old cobbled Canaanite variety, a house quieted for decent rest. The angelic observer would have seen the strong man and his beautiful wife carefully tuck the tiny girl into her bed with kisses, a prayer, and a gentle “we love you.” A fluffy white guardian of a flock of one settled on the floor of his lassie’s room. The couple retired to their nearby chamber, she to wrap into his arms. So mingled and arrayed, the days closing steadily towards Christ’s Mass, the good, the meek and mighty, and the victorious drowsed in the prevalence of the will of the unconquerable King.

The End

A Very MERRY CHRISTMAS To One And All

Also running at Reckonin‘, TPC!, and on the FPC (for members).

2022 Christmas Fiction Is Coming!

20 Tuesday Dec 2022

Posted by in fiction, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on 2022 Christmas Fiction Is Coming!

Tags

I may or may not run a standard column this week. But I have already scheduled this year’s Christmas fiction! It will also run at Reckonin’, probably towards the end of this week. I think it’s one of the better ones and it features everyone’s favorite CIA killer turned professor. Look for it soon, though not today, our usual column day. You’re gonna like it.

The Final Spooktacular

31 Monday Oct 2022

Posted by in fiction

≈ Comments Off on The Final Spooktacular

Tags

,

*This is the last “Halloween” Spooktacular story. These have been, these past four years, fun. However, they were essentially a TPC-oriented line. Last year’s edition didn’t even run at the old paper, which was fine. If you were keeping score, then the chapters were cheap parodies of the following horror greats: Dracula (2019); Wolfman / American Werewolf [in Covington] (2020), and; Night of the Living Dead (2021). Here follows a short rip-off of I Am Legend. Enjoy, and happy All Saints’ Eve!

The Omega Spooktacular

 

A Ghost Town in a Ghost State, Halloween Night, dark…

A cool wind blew down a deserted street. Hanging by a single, rusted chain, a sign swung precariously in the breeze. Another gust, and the marquee broke its mooring and fell to the sidewalk with a clatter. No one was around to hear the crash. No one would ever again read the words on the faded sign, once announcing proudly to the passing public the headquarters of a now long-defunct newspaper.

No children stalked the streets of this dead town. All streets were empty in the dead country. There were no howls in the darkness. There were no strange characters and no sirens. All was deathly quiet aside from the wind, the creaking of branches, and the occasional collapse of some former indicia of civilization. 

For all life and society and culture had ended. Suddenly, released from government bioweapons labs, there had come a dread pandemic. More suddenly came the war and the eventual waste. All was blasted to dust. 

For all he knew, the man on the second floor of the old newspaper office was the last man alive. He gazed out the window into emptiness. And he laughed softly at the thought he would soon pass into legend, an ancient memory without the benefit of reminiscence save the mindless retention of the cold, dead air. He then uttered the concluding intelligible words of humanity. Still, time marched on.

Fin.

[INSERT FAKE DIET SODA AD HERE]

COLUMN: Fiction for Factions

05 Tuesday Jul 2022

Posted by in fiction, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on COLUMN: Fiction for Factions

Tags

, ,

Fiction for Factions

 

*A day early! And this almost ran yesterday. 

Well, hello. Happy Independence Week to one of the least independent populations in the world! I had thought to write something else about the unfolding collapse and the coming, necessary fun. Again. For about the fifty-seventh time. What can I say? Prepare for battle? And, by that I, of course, mean prepare to vote and so forth.

Who has time for all that? Not me, not this week. Instead, I have something much better! Breathing new life into THE SUBSTITUTE, I thought to give you a glimpse of an outtake from the original 2019 cobbling. It’s the side story of how Tom bought the Dodge Demon, originally planned as either a stand-alone or as the opening of chapter three. It failed to make the cut, but it still warrants a little interest. So, here she is! Enjoy.

***

“Southbound and Down”

Charlotte, North Carolina, June 13, 2018, mid-day…

‘You don’t want to trade that Rover? We’d love to make you an offer on it, my friend! Those things sell here. Based on looking at it, we could probably do Blue Book plus.’ Another overly-friendly man wearing a tie and a wide, cheap grin had appeared at the cubicle doorway. Tom began to answer (again), ‘oh, no. I need something to tow the—’

   ‘Not a problem, my man,’ Mr. Whoever cut in; ‘I had to come ask.’ He extended his hand, the smile a little more genuine now, saying, ‘my name is David Fierce. I’m the sales manager here at Hamrick CDJR. I had to drop by and say hello. Is Ms. Francinia treating you right?’ He almost seemed like a nice guy at that point.

   ‘She’s doing a heck of a job, Mr. Fierce,’ Tom said as he, for a second, shifted into his version of cheap salesman’s mode: ‘She was just telling me about the, everything is 50% off sale, today only. I’d have never known. Really nice of you guys.’

   Fierce was a veteran of the car business, knowing a joke (and a real non-nonsense buyer) when he heard or saw one. ‘Shhh! Mr. Hamrick will fire me if he finds out.’

   Tom and Francinia laughed it off as the manager continued, ‘I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your business, sir. Mr. Ironsides, is it?’

   ‘It is.’

   ‘Thank you, again, sir. It’s not everyday we sell a Demon. That is some car, huh?!’

   ‘I’ll think she’ll do, until I can find something fast,’ Tom joked.

   ‘Hey! Dodge’s brochure literally says the thing is too damn fast!’ Fierce said. ‘Maybe you can trade it in on an F-18!’ He turned to go but looked back in, adding, ‘and, do let us know if you consider selling the Rover.’

   ‘Will do,’ answered Tom.

   Fierce stopped again. ‘Couldn’t help but notice your hat inside the windshield. Semper fi, brother!’

   ‘Oorah!’ Tom concluded Fierce was all-right and the real deal.

   He’d left New England that Monday on his trek south. This deal was something he’d actually worked out on the phone days earlier, on his other trip back from the Yukon. As he rolled down I-81, the extremely attractive Ms. Francinia Santarosa, his personal buying assistant and product specialist, had called several times to assure him about options, make sure he as coming, and to tell him that a Mr. Kreight had approved his wire transfer payment ability, but he still recommended Chrysler financing. Tom said he’d think about that last part.

   He also had to think about getting his new muscle car down to New Augusta. In Concord, he’d rented a U-Haul car carrier. Hamrick had a padded professional transport cover rushed in after he declined their offer to specially ship the car to his new home.

   When he arrived, an older salesman had rushed out to meet him, becoming slightly dejected when he asked for Francinia by name. He had gotten a slight rush when she first appeared, twenty-eightish, long dark hair, perfect Latin skin, and almost a better build than the Demon. Powerful and fun as Dodge’s supercar was, during the test drive he’d had trouble taking his focus off of her. Now, they sat together, making small talk, and waiting on Mr. Kreight, Tom’s finance manager, to finish whatever it was he was doing. 

   ‘Do you get a commission off of financing?’ Tom was direct. ‘I want you to make money off me.’

   ‘We do. Off of the back end. The finance office. Yes,’ she answered directly.

   ‘Then, I’ll think about it. He said I could pay off the loan as soon as the paperwork came in.’

   ‘Don’t worry about me, Tom,’ she said with a smile. ‘I do alright. Top sales four months in a row.’

   I can believe that! he thought. He imagined that her looks and charm (and considerable car knowledge) made a big difference. He was more direct: ‘Do you ever date customers?’

   ‘I’m open to the idea,’ she said as she batted her eyes.

   ‘Okay. Good. I’ve got a few days. Now, I don’t usually date older women, but I might make an exception for you. [The cheap line worked before…] What time do you get off today?’

   ‘I’m at double my weekly quota already. They’ll let me leave anytime I want. Let me go change and I’ll be yours at—’

   ‘You’re perfect, right now. Already too good for this old man,’ he said.

   ‘Ha! Okay. Four work? I could drop by your hotel.’

   ‘That’ll be perfect!’ Tom thought for a second. ‘Where’s a nice hotel around here?’

   ‘Come back here at four,’ she said. ‘I’ll lead you.’

   ‘I’ll be happy to follow…’

   Mr. Kreight interrupted the match-making. ‘Ookay, Mr. Ir, uh, Ironsides. I’ve got everything set up. Here’s your license back. Oh, and I made you a paper copy of what USAA emailed me. New card. If you’ll come with me. This shouldn’t take too long.’

   Kreight was actually efficient. First he rattled off the car information from a brochure or dealer sheet:

    • 2019 Challenger SRT Demon
    • Pitch Black (Tom had wanted Maximum Steel but this color was satisfactory)
    • Leather interior
    • No backseat
    • 840 HP! (running racing fuel)
    • 203 MPH top speed

   There was the matter of titling in South Carolina versus New Hampshire. Neither state, Tom learned, had a percentage sales tax on car purchases. Because he technically had an address in Derry, and as he technically did not own a home in New Augusta, just yet, they opted for the Granite State’s paperwork. As optioned and with Tom’s cover, the price came to $95,745. To this, Tom agreed. In the end, he paid cash. Not having any debts was great for him, but not so great for his credit score (that he never cared about) nor for Chrysler financing (which he really didn’t care about). To make it up to Kreight and Francinia, and to boost any future effort to offload a collector’s item, he bought a transferable protection and service plan. Kreight insisted on working in a discount on something, which rounded down the overall cost; as such, his bank transfer was for exactly $99,999, out the door. When he approved the wire, he thought: Hey! You’re first new car, ever. A hundred grand car! Holy moly!

   Francinia met him with his new car cover and an extra-large, tall Hamrick’s Racing polo shirt, compliments of the house. After she made sure he was comfortable in the new driver’s seat, and after Mr. Fierce thanked him several more times and pleaded for a good buyer’s survey, they had a surprise for him. Fierce, without knowing more details, understood that Tom was spending the night somewhere. Tom gratefully accepted the kind offer for help trailering the race car and being allowed to store the rig overnight in an enclosed, secure bay in the back of the shop. Fierce also reminded him about the Rover. Tom made him a deal of sorts: Hamrick Auto Group also sold Chevy’s. Fierce agreed to get in touch with that sales manager and to keep an eye out for the new 2019 Corvette, rumored to have 1,000 HP – and some structural issues that stalled availability. That was a trade Tom would consider.

   Back to the Rover, and the rest of the day, Francinia thought it was a nice old truck, faint cigar smoke smell and all. He’d followed her home at four. Ms. Santarosa did very well for herself, having just purchased a new house in a fashionable neighborhood off I-85, north of town. After several hours of fun there, they went out for dinner. He never did find a nice hotel that night.

   …

***

If one was really keeping score, then Francinia was at least Tom’s number three by chapter three. He, of course, has or had his ways. If you’ve not read the novel, then wait; the revised edition, so much better, is coming soon. I’ll tell you all about it when it happens. -P