BOOK REVIEW: Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, Episode I: Bad Boy by Chris Orcutt

26 Friday Dec 2025

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1980s, America, Bad Boy, Bodaciously True and Totally Awesome, book review, Chris Orcutt, fiction, literature, novels

Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, Episode I: Bad Boy by Chris Orcutt

Review by Perrin Lovett

As this review concerns a novel about America during the 1980s, allow me to open with a poignant quote by the great philosopher Meat Loaf: “It was long ago, and it was far away, and it was so much better than it is today.”

I will admit upfront that this review was a splendid challenge to write. The subject book is so wonderfully rich that it is, for a reviewer, a bit of a paradox. It is rich; there is a complexity to it. And yet, it is simultaneously a transcendental simplicity, a force that kindly but commandingly pulls one in and reveals a comprehensive dream reality. The reader has no choice but to understand and enjoy the experience. The book, to a member of America’s Generation X, isn’t a fanciful memory recalled through good storytelling about the 1980s; it IS the 1980s. And the reader is literally there once again. The book is Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, Episode I: Bad Boy.

(Cover design by Victoria Heath Silk with image by Guiliano Del Meretto.)

*Orcutt, Chris, Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, Episode I: Bad Boy, New York: Have Pen, Will Travel, 2026.

In July 2025, based on my study of his blog, and upon reading One Hundred Miles from Manhattan and Perpetuating Trouble, I described New York-based American novelist Chris Orcutt as “an artist as dedicated to the craft as may be found anywhere.” Now, only a few months later, that vignette feels like a foolish understatement. Orcutt is a remarkable craftsman, one who inspires awe from even those of us familiar with the laborious process of writing. He pays great and continuous homage to the legends of literature. But there is something distinctively different about Orcutt’s habits, writing, and wisdom. This is an extremely rare case of a literary heir apparent who, in many ways, joins the ranks of the greats. And, even more astonishingly, in other ways, Chris Orcutt leaves them behind. If literature is like a tall tree, with each author a branch, then the greats reach up from the very top in search of sun and air—a high limb for Homer, Ovid, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Pushkin, Gogol, Murakami, et al. As with those rare boughs, Orcutt’s branch has forced its way outward towards the light.

A long-time resident of New York’s Hudson River Valley and a writer for more than three decades, Orcutt has been called “The American Tolstoy.” And now, he is poised to (re)prove or even surpass that lofty moniker via the release of his magnum opus, the American teen epic, Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome. The novel, with over one million thrilling words, will be released in nine segments. Orcutt says: “[A]ll 9 books will be published between January 2026 and November 2027—about one book every twelve weeks. This means that, unlike with series including Bridgerton, Harry Potter, or Game of Thrones, you and other readers won’t have to wait years for the next installment!”

Based on my good fortune of reading the first portion in advance, I suggest readers won’t want to wait a single day between releases. However, be schedules what they may, here is a brief look at the first installment of Bodaciously…, Bad Boy. Per the challenge I mentioned—as wonderful a difficulty as any reader or reviewer could imagine—because there is literally a whole world packed into 386 pages, this review will barely scratch the surface. I also wrote this review before conducting my Interview with Chris Orcutt (please read it), and I have left this examination largely as originally drafted to maintain a fresh initial perspective. With those caveats, here goes!

Bad Boy flows like a roller coaster. A good one. A really, really good one. Let one find a memory of such a ride from the ‘80s, from childhood—The Mindbender, The Cyclone, Space Mountain, [your choice]—and that’s the way this book moves. High speed, ups and downs, hard turns, feelings of both negative and super-positive gravity, uncertainty, and fun, fun, fun until the end. Once it’s over, one will invariably want to ride, or, rather, read it a second time.

If the story itself is akin to a coaster’s track, the necessary component that gets a reader from the beginning to the end, then Orcutt’s very unique writing style is the force that propels the experience. Few people have the mental clarity and technical precision to become good writers. And even good writers sometimes fail to reach beyond proper but mechanical language and solicit the reader’s authentic participation. Orcutt reaches the heart and mind in a way so natural that the reading experience comes off as a genuine extension of one’s self, like seeing one’s own original thoughts in print. The effect is so rare, it is a marvel. Also, Bad Boy is miraculously empowered by a spirit or theory, a palpable presence unexpounded by forced expression.

Suspecting that any individual’s exact retrospective, introspective interpretation might differ from mine, or even Orcutt’s, I leave the discovery of that thoughtful phenomenon to the reader. I will say, however, that throughout so many of the scenes, references, and conjured memories in Bad Boy, I found a deep, reflective philosophy that magnified the whole experience. The young characters feel or sense it too, though, like most teenagers, they don’t know precisely what they’re encountering. In my estimation, they handle it all very well because Orcutt allows them the freedom to do so—yet another interesting facet.

The youthful protagonist, Avery “Ace” Craig, is a James Bond fan. And his adventures kick off with an action sequence to make Ian Fleming proud. More action follows, along with drama, romance, humor, intrigue, more romance, turmoil, thrills, even more romance, and so much more. And it is all bound together in a simply mesmerizing fashion. It’s part hero’s journey. Avery is a hero, one who saves several days. He effortlessly makes friends with and impresses powerful and famous characters. He beats down or outwits adversaries. He’s eccentric, and he can afford it. He’s brilliant, especially when it comes to verbal skills and multiphase operational-tactical thinking. He has the athleticism to put his plans into hard action, and it pays off for him. He’s loyal almost to a fault. And he gets the girl. And the other girl. And a few more girls. And, uh … he’s one of the best ladies’ men in modern literary history! At the end, readers are left with several concurrent cliffhangers, adventurous and potentially dangerous, action-oriented and frantically passionate. All of it will leave the reader predicting, picking sides, hoping, fearing, laughing, and holding on tight. A word of warning: the wait for Episode II: True Blue, as short as it might be, will probably be a little agonizing.

Bad Boy is riddled with numerous references to the better elements of our generational past. Orcutt does something remarkable with those elements, a matter of living incorporation. One such instance happens off the bat in chapter one. I’m not going to give away the sequence, although I really want to! But what Orcutt does is take a cultural reference from the ‘80s and define it by using it as a comparative example that both illustratively describes the reference (Heck! It’s Princess Leia from The Empire Strikes Back!) and seamlessly furthers the life and depth of Avery’s world. I keep going back to the scene and a few like it and wondering. Looking around literature, I tried to remember another writer who does something similar. Think of, if one will, Bram Stoker’s inclusion of then-cutting-edge technology references—all of them true to the 1890s, by the way—in Dracula, and that’s kind of it. Or not really. Stoker’s examples, nifty as they are, feel a little mechanical by comparison. Orcutt’s technique is uncanny.

Orcutt makes another series of references in a way rather unusual for most fiction; he uses footnotes. These roll right along with the text, and readers will naturally follow and enjoy them as they occur. They serve a few purposes, namely acting as deeper reminders for those of us sporting some gray hairs, and as novel descriptions of some things perhaps previously unknown to younger readers. They work brilliantly! They capture the cool factor of Tolkien’s use of footnotes in The Lord of the Rings—and that is saying something!

Among the many shining lights in Bad Boy, one that clearly illuminates characters and weaves them tightly together, is Orcutt’s keen command of and fluent usage of multiple layers of human psychology, especially in the case of the resident teenage characters, the dimensions of the sociosexual hierarchy. The novel is a deep journey into the world of the young adult, with many stops at all of the accompanying nuances, those revolving around young men and women in particular. Mine, of course, was a male perusal and reminiscence. However, as I read, I sensed a repeated lure that would capture a woman’s interest. It is a coming-of-age story, far better, far grander, and more true than any of the very best of the genre movies from the period. (I know of exactly zero books concerning the same or, rather, zero worth considering by way of analogy.) Avery is, as he acknowledges, as readers will surmise, as famous older dominant characters accept and appreciate, and, most importantly, as girls recognize, an “alpha.” Yet he is just stepping into this role, absorbing the thrills, chills, punches, successes, and problems, all while doing his best to understand who he is and what’s happening to him. He is very resourceful and takes the reins more naturally, openly, and excitedly than do the other young characters, certainly any of the other young men. Yet he has correlation limitations and few sources of direct assistance or peer mentoring. So it is extremely refreshing that, when least expected, he reaches out for a little Supreme guidance. It is not stated, but the boy knows, per 1 Corinthians 13:11: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But, when I became a man, I put away the things of a child.” In Bad Boy, and he can be one, Avery is just getting started in his transition from boy to man. But he does a darned good job of getting off the line!

Such an incredible and meaningful depth is felt on every page that one may come to a slight and occasional rational explanatory impasse, temporarily reading more with the heart than with the brain. As an example, I became increasingly invested in a certain matter, an affair of the heart, throughout chapter fourteen. A short series of little review notations indicates my rapt attention to the theme, bread crumbs across the pages. A little clarity or relief happened on the first page of chapter fifteen, taking the form of a simple two-word sentence. I circled those words and left a smiley face beside them. (And I do not normally mark or notate fiction!) I strongly suggest that readers will experience this kind of reaction repeatedly. It is a genuinely encompassing and immersive emprise, one that will have the mind (and heart) buzzing for some time once the reading stops.

One of my many buzzing reflections, one I thought of during and after reading Bad Boy, is what I’ve termed “poly-temporal thought and emotion,” an astounding contemplative outlook. I was there in the ‘80s. I remember bits of what Orcutt recreates perfectly. And I had the luxury of reliving it again thanks to his efforts. How do I sum this up? There were parts of the story where I essentially thought, “I did that, some of it. Maybe I shouldn’t have done as much as I did … but I wish I’d done a little more.” Avery’s story is a masterful exploration of what was and what sometimes is, all odds or cautions or inputs aside. While reading, I was at once a sixteen-year-old me again, deeply enjoying the ride as young men do, AND I was the older, “wiser” me of today, smiling while thinking the way a father does. I suspect others, from many generations, may have a similar experience: seeing what life was like for us, then, while also reflecting either upon their own youthful lives or on their present perspectives. I struggle to convey the staggering impact of this notion. But I suspect it will cement Orcutt’s book in the echelons of timeless literature, not just as historical fiction, not merely as an epic, but as a large kernel of universal truth and appeal.

Another thing that blew me away once I realized what Orcutt was doing—and this is another element I can’t recall anyone else using, or using so well—is his multiplicitous use of music in Bad Boy. Recall that the pop music of the 1980s helped define the era. As such, and as another component in the tactic of references as world-building and enlivening devices, Orcutt places song titles throughout the book, little mentions that move along and enrich narration and dialogue. But he does something else! It took reading a few of them for me to get it, but somehow, by some genius, he uses song titles, set off properly, in both quotation marks and little music notes, as a striking form of punctuation! Scene settings or boundaries, if one will. This has the most intense effect of bringing the song to mind while highlighting or augmenting whatever situation is at hand. It might have been the song-as-punctuation accompanying those two words I noted that elicited the smiley face. 🎵“Take Good Care of My Heart”🎵 =)

I could go on and on, without ever quoting anything specific, and all I would do is internally trigger more material I’d love to cover. I cannot accurately estimate the instances where Bad Boy personally spoke to me in ways large and small. I trust gentle readers of all adult American generations (and many of our friends from afar) will find the novel a similar mental adventure and heartfelt escapade. In short, whether via personal memory or hiraeth, the reader will “be there,” be a part of the story, and want more!

Now, with any book, what matters the most is all the stuff, all the ideas expressed with ink on paper, between the covers. But those covers matter too. Accordingly, I offer a word of praise about the physical construction of Bad Boy. My 6X9-inch paperback is a stern and noble thing of beauty. The cover is sturdy and smooth, the margins are ideally trimmed, the spine is solid, firm but flexible, and rugged enough to endure many openings. The typesetting is attractive, perfectly-spaced and formatted, and easy on even fifty-year-old eyes. The cover design looks like something that would have rested comfortably on the front shelves of a B. Dalton or Borders store back in 1986. The entire package is of an ultra-high quality, coupled with a dashing, becoming appearance. I also happen to have a new hardcover—a magnificent luxury item! The Kindle version, no doubt, promises excellence and electronic ease.

January 2026 rapidly approaches, so kindly keep an eye on both Orcutt’s Upcoming Works Page and his Amazon Author Page. Bad Boy is available for pre-order from Amazon right now, and the wise reader will want to buy a copy and start enjoying the ride. I don’t just recommend this book, I’m mandating it. This outstanding novel is about to prove that, even now, as Night Ranger once reminded us, “You can still rock in America!”

CHRISTMAS FICTION: You, Yourself

19 Friday Dec 2025

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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2025 Christmas, Christmas fiction, fiction, Paxton and Tricia

You, Yourself

~The 2025 Christmas Story~

Perrin Lovett

Long drives and long years may well augment faith, friendship, and love—memories to join the past with the present. ‘Twas three days before Christmas, and all down the road—

Near Bristol, Virginia, Friday, December 22, 1989, mid morning…

Though the snow, grime, and road salt of seven states had left their marks, all eight cylinders sang merrily as the old 1979 F-100 Ranger once again picked up a little speed down at the far southern end of Virginia’s Interstate 81. Paxton hit the wipers, clearing a few scattered snowflakes from the windshield, the remnants of what he hoped was the final dusting of his trip. And, Lord, there had been a few near-blizzard episodes over the past twenty-four hours! He took a moment to look around, now that the sun was shining brightly, scanning one side of the highway and then the other. The Shenandoah, the Blue Ridge, all of it, really, truly was God’s country. And if the fine weather held, and he hoped it did, then he’d be at the cabin in about another four hours. The very young man tapped the foot end of his Muriel Magnum into the ashtray. His eyes rolled across the speedometer—sixty-ish and holding nicely. The thirty-three-gallon tank was still three-quarters full. With one finger, he dropped his Ray-Ban Aviators into place and smiled. He took another sip of coffee, carefully replacing the styrofoam cup more by feel than by sight. He took another puff of his second cigar that morning (because, why not?) and smiled even wider. He’d been alternating between the radio, ever looking for Christmas music, and a Statler Brothers tape. At the moment, he was riding in blissful silence, the whooshing hiss from the cracked, smoke-releasing window notwithstanding. Then, right in the middle of his contentment, that lingering concern came once more upon his mind. He was, just then, reminded of what he kept forgetting.

He’d been busy for months, of course, the past two weeks especially so. The day before had been a six-hundred-fifty-mile semi-hell of dodging snowstorms and trucks from the Boston metro down to Roanoke. He considered that if not for the slower conditions, he might have made Blairsville in one (very long) drive. Still, at ten-thirty the night before, worn down by the road and still feeling the happy effects of Tricia and the Caldwells’ party, it was all he could do to top off the tank and grab a waffle before settling in at his motel near the airport. And it had been the Caldwells, practically a third set of grandparents, who had stopped just short of demanding he shelter overnight. ‘You’re tired, even now,’ John Caldwell had said around eight o’clock, Thursday morning, as Paxton was preparing to get on the road. ‘There’s bound to be snow and traffic along the way. If it were me, I’d try to get into Virginia, at least. But don’t push it. And, hey, here’s a hundred dollars for a room and so forth.’

‘Sir, thank you, but I still have some leftover money.’

‘Here’s one hundred dollars!’ Caldwell said again.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘John, he might need more,’ Margaret Caldwell said as she eased up to hug Paxton.

‘Yes, Mags! Here’s another hundred,’ John said. ‘And don’t forget to ask for a student discount preemptively. Show ‘em the Harvard student ID, and that’ll cut out any age questions. Won’t even look at your license.’

The student angle was a stroke of genius. Virginia motel clerks probably didn’t see many seventeen-year-olds on the road with Mississippi driver’s licenses. Of course, not many Mississippi seventeen-year-olds, more prone to being high school seniors, were freshmen at Harvard. Not that the cash would have been sneered at, but the plan to wow them with the Ivy card and, accordingly, hopefully, add a little responsibility to an otherwise youthful face, had worked perfectly. Of course, the Caldwells’ plans usually worked out for the better; they were God-sent, the couple. Old friends of his father, they provided the necessary oversight or minding a very young man might need when fifteen hundred miles from home. And their home in West Cambridge provided the perfect place for storing an otherwise cumbersome pickup truck, an item the dorms frowned upon for some reason. Rather wealthy, in a you’d-never-know-it way, they fussed without making a fuss. For instance, the few mechanical problems the truck had when it arrived, Mr. Caldwell enjoyed making a quick hobby of fixing. He’d even sprung for two new tires and a wax job, all unasked for and most unexpected, an early Christmas gift revealed just that week after the end of final exams. His box of Muriels was also Mr. Caldwell’s suggestion: ‘Premium for luxury breaks, and Edie Adams’s favorites for the road!’

The family was just a bunch of good, fun people, the right kind of Yankees. Their party, on Wednesday night, was essentially for him and his first completed semester. For him and for Tricia, too. Trish! ‘And meet our granddaughter, Patricia,’ Margaret had told him back in late August, no sooner than Paxton had walked into their large house. ‘She’s a junior at BC. Pretty, isn’t she?!’ She was extremely pretty. And what started as a ‘Nice to meet you,’ soon became a fast friendship, and now, a romantic relationship. If he was honest and speaking in a somewhat selfish manner, then he considered that she was the best thing he’d discovered about the Caldwell clan. Like everyone in her family, plus some kisses and cuddles the others didn’t impart, she’d been a great help adjusting to his new environment. And over the past few weeks, she’d acted as his personal shopping guide, dragging, er, taking him all over Copley and the Back Bay area, Faneuil Hall, and other exciting sales venues. Based on copious questioning, talking to his mother, and her mother, and to her grandmother, she’d been the one to (almost) unilaterally pick out Paxton’s mother’s presents.

‘They’re on sale, so get the whole place setting, Pax,’ she’d said one afternoon in a little shop. ‘Get all four of them for the full table.’

‘Aren’t these like the ones they sold on TV not so long ago?’ he asked.

‘Only by the name. Namesake, rather. Those were cheap knockoffs; these are the real thing. His house is right next-door! They’re as authentic as it gets. She’ll love ‘em. Wicked smaht!’

She was correct and wicked smart, so, in short order, Paxton purchased four pieces of Paul Revere-esque pewter from the shop right beside and in the very shadow of the man’s old ramshackle house. Tricia even wrapped them for her new boyfriend, something she was rather good at (and at which he was not…). The next Saturday, she, having just turned twenty-one, came in extra helpful for buying his old man’s gifts.

‘No, this is brand new. It’s probably not even available outside Bah-sten!’ she said over on Germania Street at the Sam Adams brewery store. ‘He’ll get a kick out of the newness, all for da Win-tah season. See? New for nineteen-eighty-nine, Sam Winter Lager. Win-tah Lah-gah!’

‘Okay, cool, Trish,’ he replied. ‘A six pack?’

‘No, Rebel. Get a case and two sixes to go with it. And a six for us!’ It was a done deal, and, later, they wrapped his father’s gift while enjoying their own bottles. And once he rounded out his parents’ gifts with a few trinkets and pieces of (mostly Harvard-themed) apparel, she also helped him neatly wrap and bow-crown those. His gift to her, however, or his gifts, required someone else’s help.

‘This place looks expensive,’ he said, somewhat suspiciously, as they stood inside a swanky little jewelry store off Newbury Street.

‘It is!’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘But I know the owners. And a trick or two. They have an unadvertised side selection that’s always half off, at least. And with the favor they owe Uncle John, well, it’ll probably be half that again!’ They browsed for only a few minutes before Mag’s eagle eyes found exactly what she wanted (or, what Paxton wanted, that is). ‘This set, right here.’

‘Earrings and a bracelet?’

‘Yes. Set with sweet pink tourmalines, her birthstone.’

‘I thought that was opal?’

‘Different stones, same color, same meaning. Trust me, these are a perfect match for the necklace her parents gave her for her birthday. It’ll all look splendid!’ And, eventually, it all did look magnificent on Tricia. The store wrapped the little gift boxes. But Paxton wanted something a little extra for his girl, something with the Rebel touch. And he found it one evening at Filene’s, deep down in the basement—a bright neon pink fashion sweater, complete with big shoulder pads and a huge, fuzzy collar that screamed 1980s. He also picked up a larger stuffed bear to complete his zany plan.

His scheme came together on the evening of the big end-of-semester party. After checking what grades had already been posted, he’d hit the “T,” burdened under his luggage and assorted gift bags. And he arrived at the Caldwell’s manor halfway through the afternoon. The couple was out, and would be, he soon discovered, for a few hours. A small staff was busy setting up. And Tricia was waiting on him. ‘Party before the party?!’ she suggested.

‘Oh, yeah, I have a few things for you, Christmas gifts. Would you like them now?’

‘Well, let’s look at them after a bit. Right now, I want to give you your present!’

‘Wow! What is it?’ he asked while gazing dreamily into her sparkling eyes. Then her intentions hit him. ‘Ooooooooh—’

And just a few hours later, during a regular party break, she delighted in her bear, which was wearing the sweater and holding jewelry boxes in both paws. The rest of the evening, that night, and the short good-byes of the following morning went swimmingly. But now, already barreling down the mess of the highway in North Carolina, he reflected once again on the other gifts, the ones he’d kept forgetting about despite all else. He’d thought about them, and he’d discussed the matter with Tricia, John, Mags, and even his roommate. A little later, the issue flared again in his head as he talked on a payphone at the convenience store off the road where he’d just scarfed down a cheap standing lunch. ‘…I’ll be leaving Asheville in a second. So I should be there in about two hours or so, if the traffic and weather hold off.’

‘Take your time, Buckshot. Just get here in one piece,’ came the orders from Blairsville. Such good and kindly words—how does anyone ever say no to a grandparent? And what did one give grandparents for Christmas?! He knew he’d faced that question in previous years. Now, supposedly being all responsible and so forth, the issue troubled him. After he hung up, he hastily glanced through the store’s window. “Asheville” t-shirts and hats felt tacky—and he already had two shirts for them, which still felt rather paltry. Air fresheners felt extra tacky. They had magazines, and they didn’t read comic books. Little packs of Hostess donuts? No! He only had about two hours to make a decision. So, determined to think of something, he put in a Johnny Cash tape, dialed it down to a lower volume, and set out for the final two-hour leg of his journey. He wondered why he hadn’t consulted anyone about the matter, say, Tricia. Then, he remembered that he had … but that he’d still let it all slip.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ she’d asked him late one afternoon over coffee somewhere midway between Cambridge and Chestnut Hill.

‘I’ll just read it, again, read my notes, again, and then take the test. Nothing to it,’ he said somewhat stupidly.

‘No, Rebel! The plan for driving home? Sounds hectic.’

‘Oh, that. Well, I suppose I’ll leave here the morning after our party. Not sure if I can make it all the way in one shot, but in no less than two drives, I’ll be in Blairsville.’

‘The cabin sounds lovely.’

‘It really is. They’ve had it for about seven years now, since Pa retired. I’ll spend the night with them, and then, the next morning, we’re going to caravan or convoy to Starkville. Then after New Year’s, I’ll do it again in reverse order.’

‘Sounds like a lot of driving.’

‘It is, but it’s not too bad. My first trip up was about fifteen hundred miles in total. I’ll be tired when I get all the way down there, but I’ll be happy to see everyone.’

‘So, what are you giving your grandparents? Mom’s parents, right?’ she asked. (She HAD asked, and still…)

‘Right, Mom’s. Granny and Pa, as we all call them. And I’m not sure. Maybe a— No, really not sure. It’s always hard with them—the people who have everything they want. I got them each a Harvard shirt, a long-sleeve for her, and a polo for him. Everyone gets some kind of Harvard-wear. Many thanks for the bookstore sale I stumbled into. But I want to, need to get them something else. And I can’t think of what it should be. No idea, really. You?’

‘They probably just want to see you,’ she said sweetly. ‘You, yourself. You’re a gift enough for anyone!’

‘True! And thanks. But I’d still like to get them a little something.’

‘You’ll figure it out, Pax. And don’t forget—and I know you won’t—but Christmas is about Christ, first and foremost. We, all of us, got the Greatest Gift. Anything we give each other, all of it trivial in comparison, is just a reminder of our shared debt, faith, and, of course, our love and friendship.’

‘You’re the most beautiful and learned Christian philosopher I know.’

‘Right, Pax, right. Just something Father O’Mally said at a recent Mass. But you, heart in the right place, will figure this out!’

She’d been so kindly confident in him. And still, even as he remembered her words, he was ambling towards the Georgia line without even the littlest something. He had the two shirts, but … what else? He turned off Cash, took a sip of Coke, and racked his brain. Not quite two hours later, he was still searching vainly for an idea when he saw the gas station off of U.S. 76 at the edge of town. ‘Might as well top off,’ he said aloud as he pulled in. Just before he got out, he said a prayer about the matter, something he’d done a time or two over the past week or so. He knew God had a plan; he just wanted to make sure he did his part in fulfilling it. And immediately thereafter, while he was pumping unleaded, his nose caught a delicious, telltale, mountain aroma. At the edge of the parking lot, towards the back, someone was boiling peanuts over an open fire, a rather common but still delightful sight and smell.

‘I’ll take a big bag, sir,’ he said to the man.

While the good gentleman was scooping in fresh, steaming nuts, a woman, his wife, no less, approached Paxton and said, ‘Youngster, we also gots some mighty fine pecans here! Already cracked. You want a big bag of them too?!’

‘Why, yes, ma’am!’ he said rather happily.

‘Comin’ right up. And I’ll make it extra big as you seem so nice and it’s Christmas time.’

‘Thank you, both, and a very merry Christmas!’ he called over his shoulder as he walked back to his truck carrying the bags. Once seated inside, he sampled a little from each. And for whatever reason, his quandary of the day left his mind, and he drove on towards the cabin without delay.

Granny and Pa lived in the first cabin in a little row of three off a very quiet gravel road on the side of a smaller mountain just south of town. As he made the turn and then rounded the farm down in a little valley, years of memories started to trickle back. When he crossed over the little creek, now up a little higher, the trickle became a flood. The clean, clear water flowed beside the road, and it ran behind the three cabins. Pa had built a retaining dam, and, thus, a small fishing pond, about one hundred feet east of their cabin; the couple in the third, far cabin had done something similar. And all of a sudden, there was Pa’s pond. And then, his little woodworking shed. And, at last, their quaint little rustic cabin, a convenient abode that might as well have been a thousand miles from anywhere and any troubles. It was their house, but he’d always felt right at home there. This visit was no exception.

He had just parked under the pine trees and was rummaging through his bags in the oversized toolbox when Pa came walking up. From the shed, he’d seen Paxton and made right for him. ‘Took your sweet time, Buckshot,’ Pa said as they hugged.

‘Yessir, someone recommended that,’ Paxton said.

Just then, Pa looked inside the open cab door, saw something, sniffed, and asked, ‘Muriels? For me?!’

‘Yes!’ Paxton said. ‘An early Christmas gift. I forgot to wrap them. And there might be a few missing. Four maybe.’

‘I can smell it. You smoking cigars now?’

‘Yessir. A few, at times. Like on the road.’

‘Good! Let’s have a couple out back tonight with a little whiskey. After the Old Bat goes to sleep or settles in with the phone and TV.’

‘Deal! Now, speaking of, where’s Granny?!’ With that, they took the Muriels, the nuts, and one of Paxton’s bags and made for the front porch. Inside, back in the kitchen, they found Granny placing pots and various ingredients into a large paper grocery sack.

‘Look who I found,’ Pa said as they entered. ‘And guess who brought me a mostly full box of cigars?!’

‘Hey, baby!’ Granny said as she rounded the island to hug Paxton. ‘Been waiting. And did you grow an inch on us? Gimme some sugar!’

After getting kissed and thoroughly fussed over by his grandmother, Paxton looked at her grocery sack and asked, ‘So, Granny, whatcha got here? Confections on the road?’

‘You know me, baby. Your mama can cook, but my sweets are my sweets. Never heard any complaints about them, and I have to make ‘em. Date balls, fudge, and my special nutty treats. Of course, only now did I realize I’m out of nuts. Not the first pecan. I suppose we’ll have to stop at the store when we’re out for dinner. That or round them up over in your neck of the woods.’

‘Wait! Pecans?’ Paxton said. ‘I happen to have a big, heapin’ bag of them right here.’ He opened the bag and showed her. ‘I thought they’d be nice and appropriate. Now I know they’ll go to really good use.’

‘Do I smell boiled peanuts?’ Pa asked.

‘You sure do. I got a big, fresh bag of them just a few minutes before I drove up. Nice couple at the gas station out on the highway.’

‘That’d be Frank and Carla,’ Granny said, more to Pa.

‘So why’re you being so stingy with your peanuts, Mister Paxton?’ Pa asked in his hurt Pa tone. ‘All real Southerners and most elephants love peanuts. Spare any for the common folks?’

‘Of course. But Granny first,’ Paxton said slyly. They promptly sat down with the nuts and some coffee in the comfy chairs by the sliding doors leading to the back deck. After chewing the fat—and some still-warm mountain goobers, he thought to ask, ‘Did you mention going out for supper? No roast or chicken, or— I was looking forward to special home cooking.’

‘Well, look forward to some special pizza,’ Pa said officiously.

‘We happen to have the best new pizza joint here in town,’ Granny said. ‘It impressed us, and we’re not even pizza people.’

‘But we’re knee with the younger generations,’ Pa said.

‘Hip,’ Granny corrected.

‘Well, both hurt,’ Pa explained.

Later, after that special pizza, which was something to write home about, they took a little Christmas light-seeing tour around town. They continued their discussion about various subjects, though most of them centered around college, exams, the Dean’s List, that scholarship, and general pride in a grandson. For a little change of pace, Pa was saying something about his favorite fishing lure and tackle store when Paxton noticed something different. ‘Is this a new van? Feels new. Smells it.’

‘Just got it, baby,’ Granny said. ‘New Plymouth Grand Voyager to replace the tired, old eighty-six Caravan.’

‘The Plymouth is a super Dodge,’ Pa said. ‘More expensive too. Might as well flash the cash to impress the minivan appreciation set.’

‘Not too shabby,’ Paxton said. ‘Probably great for a road trip too.’

‘We’re about to find out tomorrow,’ Pa said.

‘Why don’t you ride with us and leave your truck here?’ Granny asked.

Pa answered for him: ‘Cause a man has to have his truck, woman. He’ll probably need it to load up with cheerleaders and other broads when he’s home. What I’d do. And he might bypass us on the way back to Lincoln’s land and the eggheads.’

They discussed the convoy options and benefits for a few minutes, all eventually yielding to Pa’s wisdom. And then, Paxton remembered something. ‘Broads! That reminds me that I need to make a quick phone call when we get back. Long distance, but in a hurry.’

‘You can take your time, kind of, when calling a lady. What’s her name?’

‘Is it Miss Tricia?’ Granny asked. ‘The one you mentioned—once(!), and that your parents have tried to fill me in about?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Paxton said sheepishly. ‘She’s my official girlfriend! Gorgeous. Older too.’ As he filled them in, he was once again reminded about his gift dilemma. As they walked back into the cabin, he tried to broach the subject to gauge what might still be done, if anything. ‘So… I have, as I said, a few little things. Maybe things y’all can wear. But is there anything else you’re just dying to have?’

‘Well, never ask old people what we’re dying to do about anything. We’re all dying to make it a few more years,’ Pa said, again with his faux humble inflection.

‘Hush!’ Granny told him. To Paxton, she said, ‘All we wanted was to see you again.’

‘That’s it!’ Pa said, evidently recovered from his dying fit. ‘What else could we want? New van. Nice cabin. Social Security. And I happen to have a new box of cigars!’

‘And you saved the day with those pecans,’ Granny added. ‘But the main thing was just you being here! And let’s not forget, Jesus is the reason for the Season. We’re just loving accessories.’

So it was just as Tricia had predicted. Paxton told her as much an hour or so later, as he talked on the phone while leaning over the bar counter with a Coke. ‘Just like you said! And again, I’m sorry I waited until late to call. Eating out and catching up was important.’

‘Of course, it was important, Pax,’ she said on the other end. ‘And it’s not late. We’re young. But I really do miss you. Really, really miss you, if you know what I mean. It’s cold here. Hint, hint.’

‘Oh, wow, I know EXACTLY what you mean, Trishy. Is Mister Bear doing a good enough job standing in for me?’

‘Bear-ly,’ she said. They talked for a few more minutes, said a few sweet ‘I love yous,’ and hung up. Pa was waiting with a grin on his face.

‘I looove you, Paxy-Poo!’ he laughed out loud. Paxton laughed as well. Then he heard the allusive sounds of Granny in the living room, watching her “programs.” Pa tapped the Muriel box on the counter and then poured a few fingers of Southern Comfort into Paxton’s Coke. ‘Not so cold tonight,’ he said, motioning towards the deck. ‘Shall we, my good sir?’

‘Sir,’ Paxton said. ‘We shall!’

And for another hour or two, they chatted and relaxed the evening away. Pa had to pry Granny away from the “set” around midnight for a few hours of sleep. The next morning, they all meandered their way over to Starkville and another quiet, joyous family Christmas. Mom and Dad returned to their ordinary lives after the festivities ended. Granny and Pa resumed their retired life. And Paxton battled more snow and trucks as he inched his way back northward to Harvard, Tricia, and his future.

(Picture by the author with assistance of MagicStudio AI Art.)

Tuesday, December 23, 2025, rather late…

Nearby, a now very old, though lovingly cared for, 1979 F-100 Ranger rested beneath the pine trees. A box of finest drug store cigars sat semi-unattended on the arm of a wooden Adirondack chair. Paxton poured a few fingers of Southern Comfort into Tricia’s glass as they stood looking out over the deck railing into the quiet darkness of the night. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in very close. After smooching on her like he was seventeen again, he said, ‘Not so cold tonight, is it?’

’No,’ she said, snuggling into his embrace. ‘And I still, after all these years, so love you. And this place!’

‘I’m so glad I, or we, rather, kept it all these years.’

‘Granny and Pa would be proud the tradition continues,’ she said as she glanced up at the stars. ‘Just a few more years, a few more Christmases, and this might very well become our retirement cabin.’

‘But, hopefully, not so many more Christmases alone,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I miss the kids this year. Terribly.’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘They have those young, exciting lives now. And if we can stand the wait, then a majority of them will be here on Saturday. And! Think about it! Next Christmas, we’ll have all of them, here or wherever, with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR grandchildren! How about that?!’

‘Now, that I can look forward to,’ he said. He leaned his head against hers and asked, ‘But, really, this year, was there anything special that you wanted? Some special gift?’

‘Yes, there was,’ she said, squeezing him tightly. ‘And I got it! I got me a big old heapin’ helpin’ of you, yourself. What more could any girl ask for?!’

‘I’m just glad to be your loving accessory,’ he said as he eyed her tourmaline earring.

‘I’m satisfied to pay my debt, to receive The Gift, with your love and friendship to bolster and warm my faith,’ she said.

‘Wicked smaht,’ he slurred as he commenced a nibble attack on her ear.

THE END

Merry Christmas to All!

And, please, pass the Muriels*

*A few of the great (or trivial) ancillary matters attendant to this little story: Granny made the best sweets, bar none. And Pa forever loved Muriels, which, alas, are a little harder to come by these days than back in his day.

Bad Boys (and Girls) of the 1980s

26 Tuesday Aug 2025

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, News and Notes

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1980s, Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, BTTA, Chris Orcutt, fiction, Gen X

Gen X, please mark the calendars. January 20, 2026 is going down in history as a very important day, our day.* That’s when Bad Boy, the first episode of Chris Orcutt’s EPIC ’80s novel, Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, hits the shelves. My short little pre-review:

For such an incredibly rich literary experience, Bodaciously True & Totally Awesome, Episode I: Bad Boy, reads easily and beautifully. The book isn’t just a glimpse of the 1980s; it IS the 1980s. Readers from all adult generations (Gen X, especially!) will love every word, scene, and thought.

There is something (well, many things) distinctive and remarkable about Chris Orcutt’s magnum opus. He reaches the heart and mind in a way so natural that the reading process comes off like seeing one’s own original thoughts and emotions in print—this is very rare territory. He does things with Bad Boy that I cannot recall any other author doing, or doing nearly so well. Many of the 1980s period references are presented in novel ways that both explain the referenced elements and add ultra-realistic life to the story. Orcutt’s use of music is mind-blowing. All of his techniques, and his utter mastery of imaginative writing, add a relatability and “cannot put it down” fondness to his already fantastic plot and theme.

The plot, an introduction to the life and times of young hero Avery “Ace” Craig, flows like a roller coaster with action, drama, romance, humor, suspense, thrills, and more. It is all bound together in a simply mesmerizing fashion. There is a deep philosophy at work, magnified by a grounded psychology, an understanding of how men and women relate to each other, and a resonating dose of faith. In the end, readers are left with several concurrent cliffhangers: adventurous, potentially dangerous, and frantically passionate. All of it will leave readers predicting, picking sides, hoping, fearing, laughing, and holding on tight. Hurry up, Episode II!

Bad Boy is a genuinely encompassing and immersive adventure, one that will have the mind and heart buzzing, on multiple levels, and for some time once the reading stops. The book is fun, engaging, and staggeringly impactful. I suspect it will cement Orcutt’s place in the echelons of timeless literature. I cannot recommend this book strongly enough.

My much more detailed review is coming along at the right time. And more! Just wait. In the meantime, kindly check out Goodreads and Orcutt’s Site (and Media Page) for more information.

Got that? 1/20/26. We’re going back to 1986!

(Cover image appropriated from Orcutt.net.)

*All other adult generations will be welcome too. (Yes, even “good” Boomers.)

A New Novel

15 Wednesday Jan 2025

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction

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book, fiction, novel

So, where have I been?

Why I’ve been right here in the swamp cranking out words. It’s just that those words, about 94,500 of them, have displaced most other things and none of them have yet been made public.

Going into last fall, I had a novella and a short novel essentially ready to go. Then they, and much else, took a backseat for something different. They’re both still coming – in time.

What I’ll have first is a complete first for me, a Christian romance novel. It is utterly unlike anything I’ve written before and quite a bit different from the postmodern ordinary in the genre. I’m already calling it my favorite writing ever.

No information until she’s about to debut, which I hope will be before too long. I think or hope all will like it as much as I do. In parting, all I’ll leave is a quote, a pre-review from a literary heavyweight who is only part of the way into the manuscript: “…a beautiful portrayal of the relation of man and woman at the highest level.”

You’ll see it when you see it.

We Shall See

08 Friday Nov 2024

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns

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fiction, GAE, romance novels, Trumo

Many people I greatly respect are holding onto various degrees of hope regarding the (s)elction of Orange Man 2.0. That’s good in and of itself. These are generally men in the 3-4+ SD IQ range, so theirs’ are not random, stupid opinions. If Trump is allowed to take office – not a small if, methinks – then, during his first week back in office we should have a good idea of what he will or won’t do. We have no choice but to wait anyway. Other than that, I have little else to say about the matter, or about the GAE, generally.

There will be no column again this week. No, I haven’t quit, though I will probably be cutting back some. What I’s a been doin'(!) is ritin’ me a new romance novel. This will be unlike any of my ordinary madness. And the whole thing came to me like a hurricane. In less than 3 weeks, I’ve pounded out nearly 50K words of what I think will be a 75-80Kish book. It isn’t writing itself, but it’s pretty close. I may be having more fun with this one than any of the others. More on that later, and, please, go ahead and ready the credit card$. (Может быть, и в России тоже!)

COLUMN/FICTION REDUX: Once Again, It’s Tweetsie Time

30 Friday Aug 2024

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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fiction, Tweetsie Christmas

Once Again, It’s Tweetsie Time

Autumn is coming, and once again, it’s my favorite time to praise the great North Carolina treasure, Tweetsie Railroad. My first visit to America’s greatest amusement park was during the 1970s. I cannot recount how many times I’ve been back, but I hold steadfast that Tweetsie is the one place that never seems to change. It’s always, always, always exactly the way one remembers it from childhood. Before I forget, let me also recommend this place, another delightful getaway just around the corner from Tweetsie, and founded by the same good family. And while I’m doing free promos, eating at the Peddler is mandatory when visiting the area.

Rather than recite every single virtue of Tweetsie or even a fraction of them, I decided to republish a Tweetsie-themed short story from a few years ago. Please enjoy!

Et Pisces Cultro

Perrin Lovett, 2020

‘One of you will finally catch him one of these days,’ Will said, not quite to himself, as he sat on the rear cargo deck of his SUV, looking down at something. ‘And, maybe they’ll promote you guys to a full eight cents.’ He laughed softly as he started digging around in a large bag with one hand. His other hand held a pocket knife. Rather, it held his pocket knife, a marvelous little folding device without, in his mind, rival or equal. He considered it the finest knife in the world, a tool of elegant, simplistic utility with a manly, if subdued, artfulness. It was unique.

It was a smaller design: slim, light, and made for unobtrusively resting in pants of any caliber – rugged denim or stylish wool. The construction was solid steel, with a simple hinge, and a locking release nestled at the end of the handle. Compared to other two-and-a-half inch knives, it was as functional, practical, and reliable as any. The handle set Will’s apart. For embedded under clear resin were three green-tinted postage stamps, set fringe to fringe in a row. Each bore the image of a brown trout leaping from the water in pursuit of an elusive dragonfly. Each boasted the nominal price of 7 ½ cents, as marked years earlier in the distant nation of New Zealand. In a way, he had always credited the fish (and the knife) for his long-ago visit to that far southerly land, his own On The Beach moment while en route to temporary employment somewhere colder. The knife had accompanied him even then. Now, it was ready again for lacerative work.

From the bag, Will, at last fished what he was looking for. That very evening, less than two hours hence, he and his lovely Wendy would take their little daughters, Willow and Wynter, for a night of spooky fun, courtesy of the Ghost Train and Tweetsie Railroad. With Halloween closing in and a chill in the air, warmer clothes were in order. That afternoon, following a day of ordinary, daytime mountain railway excitement, he’d purchased a little pink “No. 12” fleece pullover for Wynter. He’d only to remove the tags and triumphantly present it to her up in the room. He clicked open the knife and could not overlook, momentarily, the significance of the act.

Like the garment, his perfect pocket knife had also come from magical Tweetsie, though not from any gift shop. Many years before, when he was a boy, he’d been wandering around the Country Fair area, Dippin’ Dots in hand. Then, he had noticed a man with a rake, laboriously cleaning years of dust, dirt, and debris from beneath a ride. On the ground were a pile of grime, leaves, bubble gum wrappers, and other dingy trash, awaiting deposit into a rubber waste can. In the pile, little Will caught the gleam of shiny metal, something to naturally attract the attention of a ten-year-old boy. Oblivious of the encompassing filth, he’d simply reached down and lifted the object for inspection. Seeing no one else around, and adhering to the ancient law of Finders, Keepers, he dusted it off on his jeans and, after admiring it, placed it in his pocket. Later, at home, he’d polished the knife and oiled its mechanisms. Despite lying buried for who knows how long, it was sharp when he found it. He kept it finely honed to a razor’s perfection, a feat he’d always found remarkably easy. It was as if this little blade wanted to remain keen of its own silent accord. As such, now he knew it would make short work of his project.

Retailers relish labelings. He pulled back a sticker, then another. He deftly sliced through two plastic tabs. The final challenge was a long nylon stem binding the price tag to a sleeve. With the fleece garment on his knee, he stretched the tag taut with his left hand, two fingers wound around the top of the stem. He placed the sharp blade and prepared to cut. Just then, a passing truck blew its raspy horn. He jerked. The stem snapped clean. But he felt the passing of cold steel across his curled digits.

‘Oh, wow,’ he exclaimed as that hot ripple down the spine that we all feel in such tenuous moments caused him to lurch again. He examined his fingers cautiously, surprised to find only the faintest, superficial lines of indentation that, even as he watched, receded to nothing. He tucked the sweater under his arm and closed the knife. ‘Woo! That was close.’

‘But we never harm our owner!’ said a small voice, the speaking of which caused Will to drop both coat and knife on the deck.

‘Who said that?!’ he asked with a start.

‘We did,’ answered the little voice. ‘And please don’t discard us so roughly.’

Will’s hand slowly, almost unconsciously inched towards the knife. He picked it up gingerly and, turning it in his hand, gazed at the three diminutive trout. ‘Was that you?’ he asked in disbelief.

His eyes went wide and his head reeled as the report came in: the first little fish turned its attention and its head away from the fly and straight to Will, and spoke! ‘Of course, it was us,’ said the fish.

‘You can talk?!’

‘The same as you, if more selectively,’ replied the second trout. ‘Well, except for him.’ He nodded to the third fish. ‘He stays quiet. Missing his tail, you know.’ Will observed, for the first time he could remember, that the last trout in the line was creased-over the end of the hilt pommel with its tail obscured or deleted. He had never in all those years noticed. And he had never, in all his life, expected a conversation with at least two fish on a knife. (Honestly, he had never envisioned discourse with any fish, bladed or otherwise).

‘How do you— How do you two fish speak? Is it possible?’ he stammered.

‘Not possible. Probable,’ said the first fish.

‘Not probable,’ said the second, ‘definitive.’

‘Oh,’ said the first, ‘and we are not two, but one. I am the knife of two voices though of one mind.’

‘You just called each other us,’ Will correctly noted.

‘There is no explanation for that. Is this better?’ they both answered at once.

‘That is— This is just a little odd,’ Will admitted.

‘We always expected mild confusion,’ the first fish said.

‘Why haven’t you spoken before?’

‘We have never spoken before,’ said the second fish, ‘except to each other. Long discussions we had beneath the Tilt-a-Whirl, our home for an age of fish.’

‘Ha!’ Will exclaimed. ‘So you remember when I found you? When we first met?’

‘We do,’ said the first, ‘and many thanks for your rescue and kind treatment.’

‘How long were you down there?’ Will asked. ‘Or, better, start from the beginning. What’s behind a talking knife?’

‘The long or the short of it?’ asked the second. ‘Better to finish faster, eh?’

‘Indeed, time is wasting,’ said the first. ‘I’ll explain a little: Will, you yourself have noted, more than once, that we are marked Japan, rather than China or USA like so many common blades. We are the work of an old katana master, sold through a trading company to a certain menswear shop.

‘What was it? Thirty years gone by? We were acquired by a man who treated us well enough. He visited your favorite amusement park more than once. It happened that, upon a time, he and his daughter ventured onto the Tilt. We were, if we can remember it, already dangling close to the edge of the pocket, so to speak. Sir Newton was right about motion. Once we started moving, started flying, we didn’t stop until we rolled, slid, and came to rest on the metal decking near the outside rail of the amusement. He could have found us, we suppose, if not for the vibrations. When the machine slowed down, the motor shuttered, the floor shook and we fell through the cracks – and not as a matter of mere saying. Lonely and forgotten—’

‘He never forgot us,’ added the second trout.

‘No, but he was most late in thinking of us when he finally did. And too slow to finally act,’ said the first. ‘For about a year we lay amid the crud and smut until you came along. And, thank our maker, that you did.’

‘You said it was an age,’ countered Will.

‘Yes, for us,’ said the second; ‘time passes differently for trout on a dagger.’

‘Oh,’ remarked the first, ‘and time is running away here and now. We can explain a little more at the park tonight. Does not someone need a certain pink cloak?’

‘Wow. Yeah. Thanks,’ Will said, then venturing to inquire: ‘What are your, er, what’s your name?’

‘Piscis Gladius, at your service as always,’ the knife answered as one.

Enlightened, and still amazed, Will stowed his new friend and former tool in his pocket, handled the pullover, and made off for room 414 at the Holiday Inn, Boone.

Wynter, aged three, was enthralled with her new outerwear. Donning it she became a fashionable sight to match her older sister. Clad against the night airs and the threat of fog or drizzle, the happy family soon meandered down US 321 towards Blowing Rock.

On the short drive, as the girls chattered away in their car seats, Will asked Wendy, ‘Did you ever read The Children of Hurin?’

‘What’s that?’ Wendy remarked. ‘Is that a kid’s book?’

‘No, it’s Tolkien. One of his posthumous books, a tragedy.’ Will said.

‘No, I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Is there anything Halloween spooky in it?’

‘Kind of. It’s about Hurin’s son, mostly. He, among many adventures, found a talking sword.’ Will let the words fall out slowly, his mind somewhere else and his eyes on the road.

‘Well, no tragedy tonight. We’re out for spooky fun with the Ghost Train, right girls?’ Wendy said and asked, more to the back seat than to Will. Then she turned to the radio. ‘Let’s see if there’s some macabre music on!’

There was not, as it turned out, though the girls (and Wendy) had fun with a kid’s sing-a-long CD about a black cat and a jack-o’-lantern. Will kept thinking about his new fishy acquaintances. Fifteen minutes later, he did the honorable thing and, seeing a chance, dropped the ladies off nearer to the main entrance, himself resolved to seek out a parking space alone. For some reason, he parked as far away as he could, or as far as the attendants would allow. On his slow walk up the hill to the ticket office and gates, he checked to make sure no one was close or watching and he pulled out the knife.

‘Okay, now. What’s the real story behind a talking pocket knife, my postal friends?’ he asked.

‘Ah, yes,’ said the first trout. ‘We, as we said, were crafted by a great master in Seki. His skill, and perhaps something greater, lives on in us. We always knew we were smart – uh, smarter than your average knife – but we could never bring ourselves to speak out loud. That is, to anyone else or even to ourselves.’

‘We kind of thought together, if that makes sense,’ added the second fish.

‘Indeed, indeed,’ rejoined the first.

‘You never spoke to the first owner? The man with the loose pocket?’ Will inquired.

‘No, sadly,’ said the first. ‘He was a good enough fellow, and he took us on all sorts of adventures.’

‘We went to the World Trade Center, and to some, well, mysterious meetings in Washington, along with many other exciting places!’ the second said happily.

‘And, then you graciously took us to the home of our philatelic ancestors. And the frigid extremes of the Pole,’ said the first. ‘Exhilarating, if cold enough to freeze the fish off a steel blade.’

‘We’ve a mind to see our true home of origin, where the stamps met the metal, in Japan, someday. If it can be arranged. Perhaps this visit to Tweetsie can help us along,’ said the second, whimsical.

‘The Tweetsie magic, yes!’ said the first. ‘It’s probably not magic, per se, more of Divine Providence. But it was here, in this blessed little realm, under the Tilt-a-Whirl, that we first spoke. To ourselves, of course. And it might just be proximity, tonight, that prompted our speech to you, dear William.’

‘You guys think there’s more of that magic ahead?’ Will asked.

‘We do, now that we see more clearly,’ said the second.

‘You talked about traveling. And you want to get back to Japan. You think there’s any chance I could help with that tonight?’ Will asked.

‘Possibly, if not probably or definitely,’ replied the second.

‘What can I do, if or when the time is right?’ Will wanted to know.

‘Cast me away,’ said the first trout, flatly.

‘Where? Like into a lake or something?’ Will asked with mild trepidation.

‘Oh, no! Nothing like that, Will,’ soothed the first fish. ‘Let’s just say, if and when the time is right, you will know him when you see him.’

‘I’ll just know him when— Oh, hey, people and the ticket office, guys! Back in the pocket, we go,’ Will said with a wink.

In a jiffy, he passed through the turnstile and into the legitimately happiest place in the world. He was as awed as ever as he walked past the stroller rentals and the ironically-juxtaposed jail and began scouting for his family on Main Street. It was always the same at Tweetsie, regardless of the year, the season, or the time. The little park was (or is) the one place that is always exactly the same as one remembers it from childhood.

Will noticed a sign near the Cowboy Cantina. In a few days, the final day of the season, a concert was to be held at the Hacienda. Will reckoned they would have to miss that fun, even though he knew the band and wanted to sing along.

‘Dandy and the Bass Slayers! Boy!’ he said out loud.

‘Vee herb dap!’ came a watery call from his pocket.

‘Sorry guys. But it’s bass, not trout,’ Will explained. ‘They’re a rockabilly band from… Hello, baby girls!’ He had found his loved ones.

‘Daddy!’ Wynter practically screamed as she jumped up into his arms.

‘It’s me!’ he said before pecking her on the forehead.

‘Daddy! We should have worn our Halloween costumes!’ said Willow, excitedly if somewhat ruefully.

‘Well, now, let’s see,’ said Will; ‘I think we’re costumed enough. You two and mommy are obviously princesses.’ It was a kindly remark, true in a familial sense, pleasing to young daughters, and it generated a smile from an appreciative wife.

‘So, daddy?’ began Wendy; ‘Just what are you? Our prince?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘I’m just a greens manager enjoying a long weekend.’

‘That’s not a costume!’ Willow sang while pulling back and forth on Will’s hand.

‘Everyone else is making up for it! Look at all these characters around us! Now, what are we going to do?’ He placated.

They did just about everything, and some things more than once. The Ghost Train waited while the family had dinner in the Cantina. Then, there was a small matter of more shopping at the very same stores that they’d visited earlier that day. Some pictures were taken. Then! Then, they rode the Train, with frights, thrills, and chills aplenty. They found themselves in a delightfully dark haunted wonderland. There was so much to take in! Ghouls, ghosts, goblins, and more lurked around every laughing corner. The family found out that they call it a Freaky Forest for a reason. And, who knew candy corn worked so well in a funnel cake?! After seeing a spooktacular show at the Palace, they ventured up to Miner’s Mountain for more shows, more rides, more pictures, and more fun. For added measure, just to be safe, they even had some additional fun. On the way back down, via the chair lifts, Will had to ride by himself, a car behind the ladies. He listened to them sing and shout and yell Hello, spiders! to the giant, illuminated spiders down on the hillside. After a moment, he pulled the knife out once again.

‘Hey, guys. I’ve been looking for whomever this is supposed to be, and I haven’t really seen him yet,’ he said.

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said the second trout; ‘not yet.’

‘You’ll know him when you see him, not before,’ said the first.

‘So, he wasn’t that tall, intelligent but dangerous-looking man with the very attractive woman at his side?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘It’s not the last owner, is it?’

‘No. We’re going forward, not backward.’

‘Is he anything like me?’

‘Like you, perhaps, as you were.’

The conversation ended at the lower lift station. The knife was again concealed and, roundabout, Wendy, Will, and the girls ran, skipped, and frolicked their way over to the Country Fair. There, the falls were free, the tornado was gusty, the turnpike was cruising, and the arcade was refreshing. Will and Willow even braved a car on the Tilt, while Wendy and Wynter dared to occupy another. Will almost assumed that the knife would once again fly off, literally, on a further escapade. But in the end, when he checked, it was still in his pocket. At last, as the evening drew towards its closing, the ladies wanted one final thrill. Space limits dictated that only they could ride the ferris wheel, so Will contented himself to sit and watch.

He had taken to a bench near the Tilt and was watching (and listening) as the women of his life circled high above. He knew that after the very next revolution, they would exit and this particular Tweetsie visit would come to an end. He didn’t know that he had inadvertently taken out the knife, nor that he was gently turning it in his hand. He had just realized what he was doing and was again examining the stamps as they turned upwards to his face, kindled by the carnival lights all around him. Suddenly, a voice spoke – and it was not aquatically-accented: ‘That’s a nice knife you have, mister.’ Will looked up and observed a boy of about ten, who was keenly looking at the little folder. Without thinking any more about it, Will stood up and held out the knife to the lad insistently. After a second of hesitation, the boy took it.

‘That’s a nice knife you have,’ Will said with a smile.

‘Gee. Thank you, sir,’ said the boy.

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Will, ‘thank the fish.’ With that, he simply walked away, almost immediately running into the giggling womenfolk.

‘Will Ferrum, did I just see you give your favorite knife to that little boy?!’ Wendy asked perplexedly.

‘You did,’ Will said. ‘Somebody has to get them to Japan.’

While both the gift and the remark potentially begged a few questions, she asked him no more about it, and he explained it no further. Instead, they all four wound their way back, past the Spice Ghouls, past the prize pumpkins, and past spills and chills galore, to the exit on Main. As they were departing, and maybe they didn’t even hear it, thus began the melody of “Pet Sematary” by the Ramones. And a pale, strange man in a cape and a top hat, seated across the cowcatcher of Old Number 12, began to laugh.

Consider steel, as cold as night,

Allocution of the angled;

Find the sword a cordial sight,

So keeper be embrangled.

~The End~

Furthermore,

Deo vindice. Deus est etiam iustitia.

CHRISTMAS FICTION 2023: The Inn Occupied, The Manger Reduced To Rubble, But A Fire Nonetheless Lit

23 Saturday Dec 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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Christmas, fiction, Ironsides

The Inn Occupied, The Manger Reduced To Rubble, But A Fire Nonetheless Lit

~A Tom Ironsides tale by Perrin Lovett~

~~Christmas 2023~~

Vrubel Hall, the Hotel Metropol, Moscow, a late afternoon in December…

Tom glanced around the wide room for a moment as he thought. ‘It is,’ be began again, ‘in a sad and ironic way, an inverted or worsened retelling of part of the original Christmas Story. We have some similar players and oddly reminiscent circumstances. My evil, dying US empire stands in for Rome. He, damn him, the worst leader in their malicious history, is doing a fine job portraying Herod. But instead of just killing the baby boys, he’s murdering all the children. And everybody else. Two thousand years ago, Augustus was rumored to have said, Melior est porcus quam princeps. That is, kind of, it is safer to be a Herodian pig than a son of the tyrant. Of course, our stand-in emperor is a pathetic, half-dead moron who can’t even walk and lick ice cream at the same time. But maybe this explains why the new client king’s own worthless son is hiding out in Miami. Who knows? At the risk of causing an international row, I will say that I would simply love to hack the despot’s head off with a dull axe.’

The gathered fans of multipolarity had quickly grown accustomed to Tom’s blunt and seemingly angered speech that night, punctuated with odd side discussions with and to himself. Most of them chuckled heartily at the notion of bitted justice even as they considered the painful truth behind the historical comparison.

Tom continued: ‘So that is that. And thank you, Pericles, for asking. Now, before I forget, I was told to tell you, sir, on orders of Dr. LeFleur, who declined to make this trip in person, there is virtually no will to act or interest in your plan or plans. He said, and I almost agree with him if not entirely, that the cause is not dead, but the spirit is, with the people soon to follow, and that you should simply proceed independently here. I take it that the last part would be the concurring advice of the beautiful woman, surely your Aspasia, next to you.’ He tipped an imaginary hat and continued wrapping up his comments.

‘See,’ Pericles said quietly to Julia. ‘You’re my Aspasia. Any man with a classical background can see it.’

‘And this classical man,’ she noted, ‘he has, his good looks and obvious wit aside, murder in those cold steel eyes.’

‘To quickly readdress your inquiry, young lady, from, is it Moscow Twenty-Four? While the US is still dangerous as any large mortally-wounded predator can be, its days of genuinely asserting its will to dominate the planet are thankfully coming to an end. Even in my time, there was nothing in the way of coherent operational planning and strategy. Just a never-ending series of ill-defined tactical actions, none of which ever accomplished anything lasting. I’m sure you report daily or weekly their deteriorating stupidity. All they have are jaded word spells long devoid of any power. Forget a strong national military foe. They can’t even, directly or by proxy, compete with Hamas, the Houthis, or Los Zetas. The only people still in fear of the American monster are the gelded, bedrugged, illiterate American people themselves. And so it goes.’

Tom waved politely to the reporter and a few other people, and then the homicidal vision suddenly took over as he locked eyes with a man standing by the doors at the back of the hall. The man was older, gruff-looking, and wearing a cashmere overcoat atop a brown suit. The two men stared at each other for what began to feel like an eternity. As the crowd alternately observed them and a rumor of disquiet started to sweep the room, Tom raised an outstretched finger toward his opponent. ‘Is the music still good?’ he asked unflinchingly.

‘We are all good people,’ the man replied in husky Russian-accented English.

An open-mouthed smile of sheer joy took Tom. ‘Give me one second,’ he said in a cross between a shout and a whisper. Then he directed his final words to the audience. ‘That concludes my bumbling presentation, my friends. Now, as Michael Hudson was unavailable, it is my honor to turn the podium over to my friend, Dr. Todd Vispoli, who will speak of matters monetary and economic. To all, I extend my warmest thanks for the invitation and the most gracious reception imaginable in this most marvelous city. Thank you, Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year, one and all!’

After shaking Todd’s hand and patting his back, Tom merrily hopped off the short platform and veritably bounded towards the man by the door, ignoring a smattering of outstretched hands and well wishes en route. The men looked at each other intently for a moment, then, foregoing a handshake, embraced about the shoulders. There followed a hushed private conversation. The other man, likely twenty years Tom’s senior, a kind of healthy, vibrant elderly to look at, was stocky and a little short in comparison to Tom’s looming presence. Still, as Tom kept his head lowered, the two continued speaking eye-to-eye. Soon, Tom led his apparent friend back to the table, where Larry had just pulled up an extra chair.

‘More wine, please, spasibo,’ Tom said to an attentive waiter as he and the man took their seats. He then pointed around the table, making hasty introductions. ‘This is my Carmyn. And my baby brother, Larry, and his much better-looking better half, Darla.’ As a light chorus of “hellos” and “privets” echoed about, Tom said to the man, ‘and you. I have never known your name!’

‘Leonid Zhirinovsky,’ the man said with a smile. ‘Forever to my family, Papa or Uncle El-Zee. To my friends, Leo.’

‘Leo!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘So many years later, now I know.’

The table looked on expectantly and Tom renewed the introduction. ‘Leo, here, was part of my KGB escort on my very first visit to Moscow so many years ago. When was it? Eighty-eight?’

‘I think Eighty-seven, perhaps,’ Leo said.

‘Eighty-seven, then.’

‘Way back then,’ Leo explained, ‘we knew a contingent from the US State Department had come to the American embassy with a following of military officers. We were unexpectedly tipped off, that fateful afternoon, that one young Marine officer was about to be dispatched on foot into the city. We did not know his purposes or much else about him. Tall and young was about all they told us.’

‘It was the end of the first do-nothing day,’ Tom added. ‘And they just told me to go out on the town and enjoy myself. So, never having been here and wanting to see all I could, I did.’

‘He wore his uniform right out the door, out the gate, and onto our streets!’

‘I didn’t want to waste a second changing, so I just hit the pavement in my service greens!’

‘He cut quite the impressionable swath that way. And made our identification so much easier. Some of our girls and women were intrigued. A few men were dismissive. Most bystanders didn’t know what to think of him, roaming about and looking into every shop and cafe with all that silly, cheerful American banter.’ The two roared with laughter at the memory.

‘I had gone a few blocks when, I think the car—that older black car—kind of alerted me. Like, oh, boy, they’re on you! You and your partner were walking, following me on the other side of the street. And you both hung in there as if to subtly announce that was what you were doing—following with a purpose.’

‘He waved to us and jibbered in happy English.’

‘All I could think of,’ Tom said. ‘I do recall you merely nodded in acknowledgement. Your friend never did or said anything.’

‘He was a partner, not a friend.’

‘Oh.’

‘He died during the dark Nineties.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Stone cold, you guys,’ Tom said with a cough. ‘At least my night didn’t end up like the Mama Anarchy lyrics treatment!’

‘So, you did investigate the songs?!’ Leo asked with a hint of surprise.

‘Of course,’ Tom said. ‘How could I not?’

Leo, his face softened considerably, looked around at the perplexed faces. He sipped cabernet and then said, ‘so your husband and brother, here, he kept snooping for some time. Kept us walking. Roundabout, he lurked into one of our monitored back alley rock clubs. It’s not terribly far from where we sit. A food order delivery service company now, I think. Anyway, we all had the pleasure of seeing the end of a KINO concert thanks to our intrepid Jarhead.’

‘The music did lure me in,’ Tom said. ‘Sounded really good even as I couldn’t understand a word. The doorman sized me up and just waved me into the club. I think you two might have scared him.’

‘Is that when you met Viktor Tsoi?’ Larry asked.

‘It was,’ Tom said. ‘One of the best endings of a concert I ever heard. He must have seen the uniform and was curious. We exchanged pleasantries. Nice guy. All of them appeared nice. Such a loss a few years later.’

‘At the end, we moved outside and waited,’ Leo said. ‘Young Lieutenant Ironsides came out and I asked him, is the music good?’

‘And for whatever reason, I just nodded and said, and we’re all good people,’ Tom added.

‘So that explains the tense words,’ Carmyn interjected.

‘Yes, lovely Misses Larke-Ironsides,’ Leo said. ‘And I have been meaning to ask you. Around the turn of the century, an American television show about ancient Greek gods and goddesses became popular in Russia. I remember this one lovely goddess, a vicious warrioress, who entered battle with a startling ululating cry…’

Todd was just making his way to the table when Adrestia’s war call shook the room. As more than a few people panicked, he staggered up to find Tom’s gaggle in stitches. Leo was pounding the table. ‘Nice, Carmyn,’ Todd said. ‘We’re all awake now. And thank you, Dr. Tom, for paying such close attention.’

‘Huh?’

‘Yeah, so I used you and this morning’s bank exchange trip as an example. Five times I called out for your opinion, but all I got was some murmurs about a uniform and a band or something. I was like, hell with him, but it does still work thanks to the BOR. I then briefly discussed Anton Siluanov’s recent mission in Beijing and what it might portend for any real Americans who want to survive and thrive and so forth. I tried to think of your father-in-law’s full name but couldn’t remember, and I couldn’t get your attention. Think he’d be interested?’

‘Don’t know. Stanley’s a little pessimistic these days, uncharacteristically so,’ Tom said. ‘To think, for once I’m the pro-Southern nationalist firebrand of the two of us. I’m sure the situation will reverse again. I’m a Cottonmouth! But, now, meet my old pal, Leo!’

‘I think they say, Diamondback,’ Todd said.

‘They say, Copperhead,’ Leo corrected.

Todd was brought up to speed on Tom’s prior semi-licite wanderings about Moscow. Then, as the conference ended, the small group made their exit from the hall. Todd issued a vague promise about dinner and headed for his room while already dialing his family back in Ohio. Carmyn and Darla were intent on shopping and winter wonderlanding, and departed for a quick powdering of noses, grabbing of coats, and assorted girl talk. Larry joined the two cold warriors for a happy parting drink at the Chaliapin bar. Thirty minutes or so later, as he joined the women, receiving his and Tom’s overcoats, he didn’t hear the old friends’ final quiet words.

‘It was sheer luck I remembered your name,’ Leo said. ‘And that I heard it concerning your talk today. I listened, happily, mostly from just outside the door. With all the talk—and I see the matters weigh heavy upon you, old man—I wonder. In fact, I have a hypothesis. Do you plan to use your unique skills in the great battle for the soul of the failing West? Beyond noble classical education, of course, I say. Do you mean to perhaps violently start righting some of the wrongs?’

‘Start?’ Tom asked. ‘No. I mean to continue.’

With a knowing look, a boisterous laugh, and a firm handshake, they parted ways. Tom joined his family in the lobby by the doors adjacent to the snow-covered Fontan Vitali.

‘You have that Tom’s-up-to-something look,’ Darla said.

‘I’m up to spending quality time with loved ones in Red Square!’ he answered in a voice merrier than it had sounded in a day or three. ‘Anybody up for GUM, the market, and maybe some skating? Maybe some dandy iPhone Christmas tunes?’

As they made their way outside, Larry said,’ I’m ready for it all. Including a preview of this effigy-burning tradition. Is it the good doctor again this year?’

‘Him and a female friend!’ Carmyn said. ‘Tom made a second doll like a witch wearing a South Carolina flag.’

‘The political trash!’ Darla said. ‘Everyone hates that wicked neocon Jezebel.’

‘Howya gonna do it this year, babe?’ Carmyn asked. ‘The fireplace again?’

‘Oh, no,’ Tom said. ‘Too pedestrian. And let’s cross the street now. No, this year, I have a new toy for the job.’

‘What kind of toy?’ Larry asked as they skipped along the snowy street.

‘My ninety-two dollar homemade cardboard kamikaze drone!’ Tom said with more than a little pride. ‘Down at the shooting lane, Mehr-Bear will love flying it into those two straw wretches!’

‘Less than a hundred bucks, Bubba? And you made it?’ Larr asked.

‘Yep. Old boxes. Tape. Little motor and some throwaway phone parts. A delta-wing pusher. That’s the inert price, of course. We’ll be using as a warhead a little bottle of poor man’s napalm for the ceremony this time. Otherwise, for roughly twice the price—no need to pay ten thousand dollars to some two-bit Aussies—they’ll be armed with, say, TAT—’

‘Tom, Tom, Tom,’ Carmyn said with a laugh. ‘Only you. And, we noticed it went from it to they. How many have you built?’

‘No enough,’ Tom said. ‘But enough of that. Let’s walk and shop and maybe throw snowballs at each other. Enjoy the good mood. I’ve never seen anyone do decorations like the Ruskies here.’

‘It is lovely,’ Darla said. ‘A shame the whole world can’t look and live like this. I’m fixating on your Christmas Story analogy. Sad.’

‘It is,’ Tom admitted. ‘But there’s always hope. The original version kicked off with a good news message from the Archangel Gabriel. Maybe soon we’ll get a martial follow-up word from Saint Michael.’ He paused a minute while they walked, evidently trying to remember something. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘That thought and something Leo said reminded me of the missing Republican Senator.’

‘He certainly puts the sin in Senator, that homo,’ Larry said. ‘No one misses him, I’ll warrant.’

‘Why did you remember him?’ Carmyn asked cautiously, almost perceptively.

‘The liars at FOX and News Max haven’t told the tards,’ Tom said, ‘but just before he disappeared, the Russians issued an arrest warrant for him for war crimes related to the SMO.’

‘Aaaand—’ Carmyn dared.

‘And I have to turn him over to the GRU or the FSB or someone,’ he answered.

‘You know where he is?!’ Darla asked.

‘Yeah. He’s in the cargo hold. With us the whole trip,’ Tom said. ‘Forgot all about him when we met with customs yesterday. Hope he’s comfortable. No Boy’s Life magazines like he’s used to, uh, reading, but I did leave him an electric blanket and some water. Hope there was enough air in there for the trip at altitude…’ Three voices oscillated between gasps and chuckles, and Tom added, ‘and, if anyone asks, he was in his present condition when I grabb—when I found him. Right? Better yet, we’ll just say nothing and let them sort it all out. Now, for some fun!’

And as the wider world turned in its usual turbulent fashion, the happy foursome ventured to GUM, Red Square, and other central points. A decent amount of snow fell. Night settled. Relatively nearby, an unnoticed lispy voice moaned from within a handsome trijet hangared by the general aviation tarmac. Further away, children and grandchildren prepared for a reception, a ceremonial flying bonfire, and other Ironsides-esque festivities. And with Christ’s Mass, New Year’s, and the Feast of the Nativity approaching, some semblance of peace took to some of the smaller corners of the world.

THE END

Postscript: This story wasn’t the most Christmasy I could have thought of, perhaps, but it was the best I could do. Or, it was what I did—and certainly worth the reader’s good money. We came perilously close to a cancellation, things being what they are. But that wouldn’t have been right. A sigh of relief, eh? As always,

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

счастливого Рождества! С Новым Годом!

UPDATE: Also running at Reckonin‘.

This Week’s Column

20 Wednesday Dec 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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fiction

Is a Christmas fiction story. I’ve delayed it until Saturday as to more closely fit or adjust with the festive season. Preview: the Ironsides take Moscow … and a prisoner!

FICTION FOR COLUMN: Thankful Lee On Lake Teletskoye

30 Thursday Nov 2023

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fiction, Pericles In Exile, Russia, Thanksgiving

Thankful Lee On Lake Teletskoye

Above, the etiolated late-November sun peeped out between large fast-moving gray clouds with their cold bodies sunk well below the peaks of the surrounding mountains. Below, arm in arm, they inched down the serene lakeshore amidst repeated joyful wind-borne blasts of snow. With a snicker, and after blowing several icy flakes from her phone screen, she read aloud the hastily devised story:

RELEE sci-fi

…

Atlanta, Occupied Confederate States of Amerika and-or Wakanda, New Africa – [DEcide Later] – present day??,

The general rubbed his wide reddened eyes, a look of pure shock etched upon his bearded face. Loud voices called out again and again, meaningless words lost in a cacophony of chaotic thumping bass notes and gunshots. ‘Dear Lord!’ he cried. ‘It’s the apocalypse!’

‘No, no, muh man,’ a glassy-eyed character said casually. ‘Dude! It’s Freaknik. Party time! Party like it’s 1607. Maaan, you want a drag?’ He offered Lee a lit joint.

‘What is? No! No, I do not. Remove that putrid odor from my presence. What on earth have you done or allowed to happen to the Africans?!’ the general asked in horror. ‘I know these good people. Or I did. They never act like th— And why are all the Whites running around like this?!’

‘General,’ a smartly dressed if solemn man said, ‘It’s a pleasure, of course, General Lee. But you must know that we don’t ever say or think anything that might in any way be construed as defensive of worn, unenlightened European heritage. As you well know, African-Americans and Judeo-Americans played the greatest role in building the Old South. We stand for history, not reality. Multiculturalism is anything but apocalyptic. So kindly watch your words, sir. We fear being called bad names. Besides, I remind one and all that Big Brandon may be listening.’

‘Who the hell are you?!’

‘Zion McMasters of the Shabbyville Foundation,’ the man said, his hand extended.

Lee slapped the hand away and stood up indignantly. ‘You mean you have all of these, what are they? These AR Fifteens in your possession and all of the heavy military equipment just sitting around unguarded, and you tolerate all of this?! Heavens, you’re participating! Mr. Williams! I implore you! Please use your science machine and return me to my own civilized time. To the grave. Anywhere and anytime but this nightmare!’

…

‘Okay,’ she said, turning the phone off and returning it to her coat pocket. ‘That was kind of funny. But also rather sad. Is that the best you can do?’

‘It’s just a sketch,’ he said. ‘And that is probably all I can do, period.’

‘Between this and pablum, I’d pick pablum,’ she said. ‘Let this little idea sit in the hopper until the final moving along comes. Oh! And Perry, speaking of that, did you hear Perrin Lovett retired from writing about American education?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Perry said. ‘But it’s not surprising. One can only do so much before reassessing the field. The people one tries to help the most, particularly those disinterested or despiteful, either ignore one entirely or stab one in the back the hardest. I know all about that.’

‘That’s what he did, about the reassessment. Or so I think I read somewhere,’ Julia said. ‘After a book, some book chapters, podcasts, radio show appearances, and what I think turned out to be 452 articles, he declared a form of victory, perhaps pyrrhic, and moved on. He was planning to make an announcement in what would have been number 453 but instead, he turned it into some kind of polemical fiction. I suppose he is tired of what President Putin just called a quote-unquote degraded system.’

‘What was 453 supposed to be about?’

‘I think it was his commentary on a New York Times editorial admission that the fake pandemic finally revealed the total demise of Amerikan systemic education. He was also going to briefly get into the ever-so-slightly more intelligent and educated, into the multicultural sexual crime crisis at French universities. Being Perrin Lovett, he had planned to mention a stunning woman he knows who was educated at the University of Nantes—I assume he would have called her his ravissante déesse.

‘And he was going to conclude with a segue to our most educated and intelligent way of dealing with the issue of migrant children not knowing Russian when they enter our schools. He knows about the coming general immigration overhaul, the deep-sixing of the last faux Western vestiges, and he thinks well of the practice of requiring base language skills before school entrance.’

‘He should consider moving here,’ Perry said as they slowed to a halt. ‘He seems to have somewhat of a Russian heart.’

‘I know. Kind of like my Pericles. And we do need a few more rebellious Catholic Anglo-Norman Aristotelians in our midst. But now, where are we going?’

‘Back, I suppose,’ Perry said, blinking in the snow.

They turned about where the landing and a playground gave way to a little marina. On that day and under those conditions, against all odds a small lone boat was setting sail into the deeper waters even as ice began to visibly form in places on the surface. Perhaps just a little faster than before, they moved back towards the resort. As they strolled, Perry changed the subject.

‘History and economics are no longer taught in Amerikan schools. In fact, really, nothing is taught anymore. The economies of the United States and France have been destroyed by usurious financialization. Few people understand the fact because most people are stupid and because all modern and postmodern schools of economics are about as useful as a COVID so-called vaccine. As such, it is remarkable that the world’s two greatest real economists came together again to explain exactly what happened, what’s coming, and what can be done to remediate the future. Somewhere, should anyone care to partake, there’s a transcript and a video of the discussion. I wish I could link it to the good people somehow as it’s well worth the reading, watching, or listening.’

‘Is that Michael Hudson and Steve Keen talking for three hours about capitalism and multipolarity with Michael DeLay and Anastasia Bendebury?’ Julia asked. ‘I read half of it and listened to the rest.’

‘That’s it,’ Perry said thoughtfully. ‘Though I think Mr. Lovett would preface with the very attractive Anastasia Bendebury.’

‘He would, certainly,’ Julia said. ‘And not without merit. But, speaking of merit, about one-third of the way through, there was an exchange I found fascinating, hilarious, and a little alarming. Bendebury asked Keen something like, So when you say that capitalism collapses, what do you see near feudalism or you see something totally different? And he answered, Mad Max.

That would have been a total hoot coming from anyone but Steve Keen. So Anastasia sought to clarify by saying, I mean, that’s very romantic. But… And Keen cut in and said, Now it’s not romantic. But I’m looking forward to dying before it happens.

It would almost be romantic, for the average Westerner, except for the learned source. The man was, as usual, very serious.’

‘And as usual, he’ll be very ignored by most Westerners,’ Perry said. He noticed some children having a snowball fight along the treeline between two sets of cabins and smiled. ‘At least some generations will still get A Christmas Story instead of Mad Max. Those kids over there probably don’t know about any of it, not that they’ll ever need to. Safe in their greater sovereignty.’

‘I do wish those two would have left off the infrequent mention of the climate change specter,’ Julia said. ‘Of course, no one is perfect. A small matter. Then again, if the seas do rise, a lot of places full of a lot of wicked people will be swamped. London, New York, DC. That would be just fine.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘And, hearing,’ she said; ‘Do you think your time-traveling friends will appreciate the economics lesson? What year are they in again?’

‘Yes, and no. 1607 now, I think,’ he answered. ‘The ones closer to the present will understand. And those forever mired in a bygone dream will think or say they get it too. That 1607 business could serve several purposes, more than a few contexts.’

‘1607 as a reaction—always a reaction—to the communist’s 1619 program nonsense?’

‘Of course. Economically, 1607 doesn’t line up the way they think or imagine or fantasize it does. The London Company, within and without Virginia, a forerunner of today’s hedge funds and private central-commercial banking axes of evil, was developed to loot North America while ethnically cleansing the native populations. It simultaneously impoverished the ordinary people of London and England, even going as far and so low as barring the English from growing their own tobacco. It would soon after 1607 replace destitute Londoners down the employment rungs to even the indentured level with a host of what would be euphemistically called in the future teens, gentle giants, joggers, and bird watchers.

‘It was about what one would have expected from a fake corporate person chartered by a Bible-butchering heretic, Judeo-satanic Lodge loafer, and flaming sodomite. So if one of their crazed purposes is an attempt to blackwash and Talmudize Dixie, they might also consider going all the way and proudly proclaim it was essentially founded by an lgbtP activist—because it kind of was! Strange, but 400 years later, not much has changed on the English throne. Nor in Virginia, really.’

‘The Judaic foray?’ she asked; ‘From the outside to, as usual, converge and control all facets of the culture. Is that really happening? A minor lateral not-so-great leap of desperation?’

‘I conclude it is happening, though there is no warning them about it,’ Perry said with a sigh. ‘They simply won’t hear that. Or think about it, most of them. That’s another potential storm they’ll have to weather in time.’

‘I think your decision is coming along,’ she said. ‘Time to move on, leaving Lee where he belongs, so to speak?’

‘We’ll see—and, probably, yes. Sooner or later. It’s sad. All of America could have gone another way, emulating the functioning multi-nationalism here, fostered by faith, strength, and mutual respect, instead of abiding terminal multiculturalism barely held together by violence and treachery. The fate of the good natives in this small land compared to those of the Powhatan and the Catawba. The fate of the larger people. But, eh— The rest of the world is happily passing Dixie, America, France, and the rest of the Golden Billion by. Here’s me hoping a free and legitimate Western Remnant joins us, especially an updated and free Southern contingent. If not, they’d better watch out for the Nightrider.’

‘The what-rider?’

‘You never watched Mad Max?’

‘Not fully. Just like I’ve never experienced the full turkey treatment of an American Thanksgiving. Is it time, do you think?’

They stood before the main lodge office and the little path and stairs leading to the suites on the upper levels. A gust of wind dispatched a healthy quantity of snow from the evergreens all around them, though they both noticed the flakes directly from the clouds had at least momentarily abated. Unlooked for, the sun peered fully down upon the camp, adding a glow that suggested, if barely, warmth. Perry looked at his watch and said, ‘Eight kilos, four o’clock… It just might be time to start setting all the trimmings up and out.’

‘Once you give the word,’ she added, ‘Mother and I will take over. She wants to carve, just like you demonstrated with the ham. While singing about Alice in the restaurant. Small things. And that should give you and Father a little time to sip, maybe smoke, and discuss whatever men discuss when the snow slows a bit.’

‘Fantastic!’ he said. ‘We’ll probably talk about new and genuinely exciting news. About the coming tribunals and a little justice! That’s how the Department and the Center will probably close this year and open next. May some of it visit the heads of a few Amerikan neoliberals! But for our evening festivities, ahead of a long double Christmas and New Year’s, here’s to a new holiday tradition!’

‘Which didn’t start as most Amerikans tell it?’

‘No, the Massachusetts Yankee tradition, while romantic and maybe partly accurate, isn’t the whole story. Neither is the 1607ers’ 1619 reactionary reinvention. The first Thanksgiving in what is now the dying GAE homeland started in September of 1565 in Florida. Our protesting Puritan and Calvinist friends overlook the hard fact that the first Thanksgiving commenced with a real Christian Mass—in Latin too. In honor of real tradition, after your dad says an Orthodox Blessing, I may add a short Latin quip!’

‘Deo vindice!’ she said.

‘True, but I’ll probably just go with something simple and fitting like, Benedicite cibos bonos et amicos meliores.’

‘Perfectus!’ she said. ‘Ну и хорошо! And now, let’s get to it!’

With that, and a short canoodle, and the now ubiquitous kissing of noses, they made their way down the path towards the waiting feast. The wind hummed, almost singing, new snow began to fall, the sun was again veiled, and a peaceful, thankful calm held the whole of the Altai.

FICTION FOR COLUMN: Pericles in Exile

27 Friday Oct 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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Pericles in Exile

Somewhere high above in the cold, dreary sky, an airliner rumbled along, either leaving or making for Pushkin. By the revving of the engines, as he perceived the sound, he assumed it was departing. But he didn’t check, instead keeping his focus on the green steel tube on the sidewalk, readied on its bi-pod next to a display of furry, ear-covering women’s hats. She was handling one of them, a rich, dark brown one when he broached his concern.

‘Do you think I can buy this? Is this even legal? I get the feeling a newcomer like me should probably inquire of the FSB before getting such a weapon. I’m not even eligible for a smoothbore at this point, and I don’t want to get deported or anything.’

‘Heaven forfend,’ she said, still feeling the soft ear flaps. ‘We can’t have that. And, while I can’t be certain—who can—I assume anything they sell here is legal. Of course, I would not, being you or me, dare ask the FSB about that stupid thing. And you’re not getting it. How, one wonders, would they react when you carried it into the Metro?’

‘I hadn’t thought about the logistics, no,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s just so cool. And cheap for— I assume this is cheap for a, what is this? I think it’s a— Hang on, serial’s still on it. It’s an RM-38!’

‘And you’re not getting the stupid MR-whatever.’

‘Not on the train obviously. But who doesn’t want a fifty-millimeter Soviet infantry mortar?!’ He was standing there admiring the thing while wearing an excited boyish smile. He looked most optimistic.

‘I do not,’ she answered. “Why is it even here? Of all the things you could have found at Levash…’

‘I’ll see if the man will hold it. When I buy the Niva, I’ll come pick it up!’

‘Your business, renegade. Father would join your mad endearment for the sad little pipe. And are you still considering the uncomfortable, tiny mud plow?’

‘It’s your car,’ he defended. ‘And it’s classic. Even in the name.’

‘LADA sells much nicer, more comfortable, and more practical cars, my dear. And some of them are four-by-four, like all rednecks love.’

‘Hey! I’m okay with it. Just don’t talk about my people like that.’

‘Not just yours,’ she said. ‘Every culture has them. Our boys in the Urals, some not too far from here too even have y’aaaall’s saying: Эй, вы все! Смотрите на это! You know, Hey, y’all! Watch this! Usually accompanied by alcohol and firearms. Just before some localized calamity.’

‘Good to know I have the approval of the Ural boys. Think how nice this mortar would look in the back of a shiny new mud plow four-by-four. Or maybe resting out the passenger window!’

‘I think you may have had too much to drink at lunch. But—thinking— You should really think about using your full first name,’ she said with a bright, energetic smile.

‘Really? I don’t want to sound pretentious.’

‘No, it’s anything but that. It, especially to us, and given what you do and want to do, it sounds so authoritative. Regal, almost. Put that on a treatise or novel and it will command attention. Especially if you added a little Corinthian helmet icon or something. I love the short name, but we’re talking about grandeur now. My sweet Perry, Перри with the и. Spell it out with your “y” and people might think you’re a cider made from pears.’

‘Can’t have that,’ Perry said with a grin.

‘Buy me this hat,’ she said sweetly but instructively.

‘That’s a dead animal, you know?’

‘I know. Probably a mink. I like it and I want it, so you buy it. We have no crazy, blue-haired eco-nut girls here. I’m at the top of the hat chain.’

‘Poor, unwanted, little mink.’

‘I just said I want him. And, you know I hunt. Kill it, clean it, eat it. Now, wear it.’

‘I’m starting to think I want to marry you,’ Perry said.

‘Well, good boy! Also, think about using your real name,’ she said. ‘And how did your parents come up with it?’

He quickly paid the old babushka seated next to the mortar and assorted arms man. A quick inquiry was launched about holding the cannon, though it was cut short by her huffs and tugs on his arm. As they started to walk towards the exit and perhaps something to snack on for the short ride back to the city center, he explained:

‘At Dad’s old school, the archeology department had a little museum. Next to a mock-up of an Egyptian sarcophagus—I can still see the place—they had a replica bust of the general, helmet and all. The story goes that Mom and Dad were loitering around a few months before I made my first appearance. They talked about him, and me, and decided if he’s a boy. And so forth.’

‘That’s so nifty,’ she said. ‘And original. And again, it makes you sound like someone important, which of course, you are. Promise you’ll think it over.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘Now, Julia, if I do, will you be my Aspasia?’

‘No promises, specifically on the nickname,’ Julia said. ‘A name of the muddy waters maybe. And I don’t mean the jazz man.’

‘Blues.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Julia,’ he said again, slowly wrapping his arms around her. ‘I just asked you if you’d be my Aspasia. You just said you love your Perry. He’s kind of got a thing for you too. Be my girl?’

In a fair turnabout, she kissed his nose. ‘He mentioned something about getting married too. Of course! I’ll be your beloved Aspasia — just don’t sully my reputation around like so many poets and philosophers.’

‘That I can avoid,’ he whispered into her ear.

‘Ironic, no?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘She was a metic. Here and, for now, that’s you!’

‘I know, right?’ he said as they resumed their slow stroll. ‘And that means I must be careful with acquiring heavy weapons.’

‘I’m sure it’s a replica,’ she said. ‘Or properly deactivated.’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said; ‘this is Russia and all.’

‘Countries!’ she said, concurrently putting a little skip in her step. ‘Tell me about that strange idea that you’ve been whispering about on the friends and family flipper.’

‘You don’t want to rehash empire-approved IDF airstrikes on hospitals, churches, mosques, and refugees? Or the vicious demands of lunatic neoliberals named Haley and Graham?’ he asked, thinking for a split-second about the rank degeneracy of the dead country he’d left, finding a hollow embarrassment in his own words.

‘No. You and the others covered that in too great a detail the other day. No homos and harpies now.’ She slipped on her hat and tugged the flaps down tight over her ears. ‘Tell me, tell the poor mink about this rebel plan of yours.’

‘Very well, my sultry Aspasia,’ he said. At that, she rolled her eyes and lightly elbowed his ribs. But he continued: ‘It kind of started with that joint discussion the departments had about de Gaulle and his Free French government. Privately, we Americans kept up the talk and it sort of morphed into a crazy idea.’

‘Then it’s American,’ she added.

He gently returned the rib knock, followed by a mussing disarrangement of the departed mink, and kept going: ‘So, despite all that I have going on here, and despite all the problems back home, the barest suggestion was made. A vague, uncertain, and probably most untenable idea. Given that my people are utterly without representation in the GAE, and given that they’re oppressed, hated, and essentially leaderless internal exiles, and given that I’m here— Mention was made of a Confederate States government in exile. The accursed Yankees have never really abated their hostilities towards us, and we have no way of opposing them—at present—from the occupied heart of their evil empire of lies. It makes a degree of sense.’

‘And only a degree,’ she said. ‘Maybe a fraction of one degree. How, exactly, would that work?’

‘I have exactly no idea,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’d have to go through Foreign Affairs. I’m sure they would scoff at the idea with all the other headaches everywhere. Maybe once your father, the professor, and a few others with direct friendship allow me to become acquainted with the President, maybe then I’d have some sort of long-odds shot.’

‘I’m sure he would scoff at the idea too,’ Julia said.

‘I’m scoffing at the whole thing now,’ he rejoined with another chuckle. ‘The last thing I want to do is come across as needy or burdensome. Or insane. It’s really the furthest thing from what I’m here for and what I’m planning. Not sure how any of it would work, even if everyone granted us permission with open arms and hearts. The old true believers, the ones who still mentally live before 1860, would probably want to pick up precisely where our forefathers left off. That wouldn’t work. I’ve previously mentioned setting up a shadow government of sorts. Disbelief or disinterest might be the best description of the reaction to that. They suspect, probably correctly, that what the Nation of Islam is allowed to do, we would not find so easy. That brand of reluctance makes sense. Heck, they’re imprisoning our people for lighting torches at night and making memes on Twit-bird. So many issues. Too many for now. We have no means to renew hostilities on our part despite their never-ending attacks on us. And the old Constitution would need, in my mind’s eye, a major overhaul. A total purging of any and all Enlightenment baggage. Then, there are the vital issues of economics, territory, and the radically changed demographics of the old CSA. No one, myself included, has really thought through those. If we’ve even thought of them at all. If any of it ever happened, it might be safer to start from the serenity of the outside. But, again, I scoff. For now.’

‘Purge the fire out of the Enlightenment, the father of postmodern, so-called rules-based, Anglo-Zionist globalism,’ she said knowingly. ‘What are you thinking? About that overhaul? A Christian aristocratic monarchy?’

‘Do the tiny degree I am thinking, yes,’ he said. He then saw something just ahead and to the side of the walkway and gestured towards it. ‘Snack pancakes from a robot vending machine! I’ve been wanting to try those. Perfect for the ride home?’

She happily agreed, and they dialed up pancakes, which would end up being more like rolled crepes, filled with a sugary concoction of fruit and cream cheese. While they watched through a window as a buzzing tube coated and recoated batter on a heated tray, she thought of a pertinent question.

‘Will you, my Perry, be the first reigning monarch?’

‘Good grief! I had not thought about that! Not really my cup of tea.’

‘But you are here, the representative among the free,’ she said. ‘General de Gaulle was the leader of his resistance in just such circumstances. Your namesake too, kind of, in a different sort of way. And as you’ve noted, and I’ve independently observed, there is no true leadership far away and no real way for it to arise or take office or effect.’ She was wearing, if only for a moment, her very serious academic face, which delighted him even as the suggestion made him ponder their shared sanity.

‘Let’s just put this one to rest, for now,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I want to hear more about the special project revisiting the meaning of The Brothers Karamazov. That or plan out a space in the flat for my mortar!’

‘All of that,’ she said as she scooped two paper-rolled pastries from a little door. ‘Or the hilarity of KINO’s Мама анархия. Or better yet, how this flea market compares those in Dixie. Or best of all, the right wine for post-pancake revelry.’

With visions of renewed nations safely out of their minds, nibbling sweets while speaking to saccharify, soft and low, they made their way to the train station. A hallmark of their afternoon adventures, the fall sun began to set, settling them into a chilly evening. Inside a carriage, as it rolled south, having finished her pancake, she cuddled against him. Raising her face to his, and arching her eyebrows in revelation, she said, ‘You certainly have the name for your hypothetical station: Pericles in exile.’