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PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Tag Archives: fiction

COLUMN: When The Clandestine World Collides With American Education (THE SUBSTITUTE)

08 Wednesday Mar 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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fiction, novel, The Substitute

When The Clandestine World Collides With American Education

 

The Ukrainian rout and the fall of Artyomovsk (Bakhmut) are clear evidence of Vladimir Putin’s demise, yessir! Chinese bats balloons cranes are spying on us! This is totally different from, totally worse than the FBI, DHS, CIA, NSA, DIA, etc. spying on us. Who knew Mexico was dangerous for Gringos? The SPLC has rebranded itself as the “SDTC”, the Southern Domestic Terrorism Center. Harry Markle hits the magic ‘shrooms. Republicrats are going to “help” us by, say, banning speech, books, blogs, and thinking, and by carting us off to the gulags. 

A lot is going on. So let’s forget about all of it and concentrate on something serious.

Did you see Shotwell Publishing’s press release last week? There was a blurb at the end. This blurb:

Speaking of fiction (this just came to me and I cannot stop myself), we have a new fiction book coming out in a week or two. It’s an action/adventure novel by a new-to-Shotwell author that takes place in the public schools in South Carolina. Action? Adventure? You bet! That’s all we’re going to give you for now, but believe me, it’s a good’un (and timely too)!

My well-informed suspicion is that the novel is the revised second edition of THE SUBSTITUTE, wherein Tom Ironsides brings plenty of action, and much more. Following last week’s interview with Dr. Ironsides, a social mediate remarked, upon learning the ultimate fictional nature of the affair: “I took it for a real interview! Seems like a great cross between Jack Ryan and James Bond, will definitely read more.” This author certainly hopes so. And the comparison to those two great heroes of page and film couldn’t be more appropriate. Tom is an alpha male’s alpha to break the category.

The book has multiple themes. One of them concerns Tom’s return to post-modern American society and his attempt to reconcile both his personal life and his place and role in a society gone utterly mad. To complicate matters, his previous clandestine existence follows him home, doggedly and sometimes violently. As such, the story is pushed along by kinetic energy. However, as the man builds a new life, he finds new love. What’s action without romance anyway?

Most interestingly, the world of international espionage and martial adventure he thought he’d successfully retired from, winds up being interwoven with his new exploratory career in the collapsing theater of public education. Tom explores that latter spectacle from end to end in an attempt to understand if any part of it can be saved. Can it? And is he the man for the job? Who, among many challengers, wants him dead? How many crimes can a bureaucracy commit? Who are Dandy and the Bass Slayers? The intrepid reader has much to investigate.

To help get the inspection going here follows a portion of Chapter Twelve. Enjoy.

~~~

THE SUBSTITUTE

By Perrin Lovett

Chapter Twelve 

A Date and a Plot 

Driving away from Hammond that Tuesday afternoon, Tom shook his head, as he thought: A popcorn riot! Kids will be kids. They do unruly things. But, with all that had happened at Eisenhower, every time he’d been there, he decided that was one school he would delete off his list of prospects. He did that as soon as he was home, the first alteration he’d made to his availability in A.S.S.’s system. It wouldn’t be the last. Later, he ate at Lyon’s and tried a new holiday porter as recommended by two prettier members of the staff. He ended up drinking several of them. Once home again, he thought about testing out his new fire pit but decided against it due to his travel schedule the next day. But he did have one last round of festive brew before bed. 

The following morning, while he sipped coffee and almost regretted the last round, he noticed something out the window. The dreary November clouds parted at just the right moment, opening a vast swath of earth and water below the American Airlines flight as it cruised north towards New England. He looked down and beheld lower Manhattan, a good stretch of the whole Island, and parts of the surrounding Boroughs. As he stared at One Freedom Tower, his mind returned to another day, years before. 

McLean, Virginia, September 11, 2001, 8:35 AM… 

‘I hope there’s a cute turtle in here!’ Vicky exclaimed while clutching a little box of animal crackers to her chest. She loved both the snack and the slower armored reptile. And, she really loved her Daddy. ‘Will YOU AND mommy come get me before you get Treeeey?? I wanna be first!’ she requested somewhat insistently. 

Still down on one knee, Tom tried to look concerned. ‘We’re supposed to pick up both of you? I thought we just picked one and the other spent the night here.’ The turtle-loving first grader wasn’t buying it that morning, instead giving Tom a squinty-eyed pouty face. ‘Alright!’ he said, relenting. ‘We’ll BOTH come get one of you and then the other. Maybe we can eat out tonight. Somewhere fun. Speaking of fun, looks like you need to get back in there, bunny.’ 

Dangling the turtles and other animals by the little string handle, she gave him a big parting hug. ‘Love you, Dabby!’ 

‘Ruv you too, baby doll.’ 

Tom rose and watched her skip away to a table where gathered some other little girls proudly wearing the uniforms of the Academy of Saint Mary. He bid Ms. Flaxon a good morning and made his way to the front doors, waving and nodding to a few nuns on the way out. Down the steps and across the front lawn, he almost bounded towards the parking lot. He’d just returned the night before from another overseas junket that, as usual, lasted a little longer than planned. Tonight would be fun family time; today was a chance to spend precious time with his bride. Or, it would have been. 

About the time he reached his aging, ailing Rover Defender, his belt and side began to vibrate as if his work pager vehemently objected to any and all of his plans. He stopped mid-entry, with one foot still on the ground, and checked. Despite his line of work, there was no expecting what he saw scrolling over the little screen: 

!!! CD BLK ATTACK WAR !!! 

… 

!!! HUNTRESS SCRAM F15 NYC !!! 

… 

!!! GIANTKILLER RELAY ADS !!! 

… 

!!! NCS RPT LANGLEY !!! 

As he raced towards CIA Headquarters, he tried a talk radio station. Some newsman was laughing about the time a World War Two-era bomber accidentally flew into the Empire State Building. This wasn’t an accident! You guys will know soon, he hastily thought. Just as he switched off the dial, his phone started ringing. He let it ring; he had traffic laws to break. 

Ten minutes later he ran into a situation room, already crowded with officers, analysts, assistant directors, and several men in military uniforms, mostly Army. They were whispering if they dared to talk at all. All eyes were on the largest of screens in that room which, from the looks of it, could have launched the Space Shuttle. He joined them in time to see the second plane strike. Reports buzzed about the Pentagon. The FAA ceded aerial control to NORAD. Another screen, live from a satellite, computer-highlighted fighters as they assumed Combat Air Patrol over America’s East Coast. The President was moving. The Capitol was evacuating. South Tower collapsed. North Tower followed. A shocked world watched equally stunned media figures stumble through the reports. 

His shock gave way to anger. He recalled, vividly, his meeting, little more than a month earlier, at the White House – his first with President Bush. He’d read aloud the footnotes to his April report on Serbia. He was one of the bold who warned of an imminent attack on the nation. He had stared in disbelief as, first one and then another, idiot neocon rebuffed his advice. Who were those people? Bin Laden was not bluffing to cover for Saddam. There was no need to bomb Iraq again. Shit, the targets were THERE, in the US, at that time! He’d lost it on two of the loudest chickenhawks. And, he almost lost his job as a result. He would have but for a certain respect from the Deputy Director and that, for his faults, Bush seemed to know the value of at least one dissenter. They let him stick around but they didn’t take his advice. Now, this! 

Many voices spoke to or at him simultaneously. The Director had found him and was instructing him to ready a direct-action team for deployment, probably to Afghanistan, and probably that night.  

Does that mean, ‘you were right?’ he thought coldly. ‘Roger that. I need to get the—’ 

‘They’re saying Tower Seven is going to fall too!’ The Director’s assistant of something had found her boss, and Tom, and broke in. She seemed terrified. 

Tom looked at both of them with a grim, set face. ‘Who are they? And, how do they know?’ he replied. Then, as a horrible thought entered his head, he uttered a single word: ‘Northwoods.’ 

That afternoon, Elizabeth picked up the kids by herself. Tom went not to the Middle East (not yet) but to Tampa so he could escort a band of Saudis out of the country. Their flight happened at a time when no-one else could fly. Almost no-one. His rival teams were busy shuttling Israelis and others back to their homes, some of them being hastily released from custody for the trip. The rest remained muddled, forgotten, and covered-up history. 

Derry, New Hampshire, Thanksgiving Eve, late… 

Tom, Larry, Darla, Trey, and Romona sat around Larry’s kitchen table, enjoying drinks and conversation. Everyone had been anxious to probe into Tom’s progress with the schools. His answers, while entertaining, didn’t necessarily inspire confidence, at least not in his own self-critical mind. 

Trey kept the process in motion: ‘Sounds like you’re learning a lot, Dad. Do you think you like teaching at that, at those levels?’ 

Tom had been thinking the same thing lately. He was learning, though not everything he learned made him happy. Things were bad, terminally-bad even, but he still wanted to help. The question was, did anyone else want help? He had a strange feeling that, just as his predictions and assessments were ignored before 9/11, so now they would be dismissed by the academy. ‘The Curse of Cassandra,’ he said. 

‘The curse of who, now?’ Romona inquired. 

Tom explained, ‘Cassandra was the Priestess of Apollo at Troy. A foresight was on her but she was cursed. No matter how many times she was right about things, no one ever took her seriously. It ended up costing Troy the war. That’s how I feel sometimes in this new profession.’ 

‘Is that the soldier in you? Do you see it as a war?’ Larry wanted to know, though he suspected he already knew the answer. 

He did, Tom confirmed: ‘It’s the Marine and the scientist and the moralist in me, yes. And, this most certainly is a war. Not just for the minds of the children, but for the soul of the Nation, of the West itself. We’re losing.’ 

… [Continued in print]

~~~

The rest of the story will be available very soon from Shotwell, Amazon, and wherever better novels are sold.

© Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing / Perrin Lovett

 

Tactical Column Considerations

28 Saturday Jan 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns, News and Notes

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blog, fiction, Saker, War, WW3

The Saker wrote about the potential future of his excellent site in light of the growing prospects of full-blown global war. Read it. He has his reasons.

If the satanic states government that currently occupies my nation declares formal war on Russia and/or China, then I will probably be forced to make a similar decision. In that event, I will most likely cease writing about the war entirely (Russia, know I’m with ya!). Instead, I’ll bring you periodic short stories from a new fictional world I’ll create on the fly. What I envision is a dying empire populated by retarded dupes and ruled over by little satanic trolls. The evil trolls declare war on the good (and powerful) nations of the world. It’ll kind of be a week-by-week of how the good nations destroy the evil trolls. The cliffhanger is whether the retards ever wake up and oust the demons in order to renew their freedom. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Z!

Happy Birthday, Tom Ironsides!

02 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction

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birthday, fiction, Tom Ironsides, Xers

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

 

The Elder Statesman

~A Tom Ironsides Micro Story by Perrin Lovett~

~~January 2023~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OFFICIAL NOTICE

Recipient Preferred Pronouns Unknown

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

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

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

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

   He then began reading aloud again:

THOMAS HUBERT IRONSIDES, 2ND (pronouns unknown):

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘I really can’t, madame.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: More on Moore

24 Wednesday Aug 2022

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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fiction, Tom Moore

More on Moore

 

Greetings, friends. This one, given the circumstances, will be a little shorter than usual.

Saturday, August 27th, marks a full year since Thomas G. Moore left us holding the bag of post-modern doom and gloom. One can’t blame him for getting while the getting was good, though I’m still a little upset about it. So much has happened during the past twelve months that would have benefited from his observations. But while he was here, he certainly did his part.

His Amazon author’s page says much: “Thomas Moore writes historical fiction, recognizing that certain events from the past impart dramatic power to his fictional scenarios set in the present. He seeks to entertain as well as illuminate, to engage the heart as well as the mind.” That last bit says it all and is bolstered by a great Faulkner quote: “The best fiction is far more true than any journalism.”

So it is. Tom recognized the fact. He liked to say that good fiction allowed for a better imparting of genuine ideas, better than the best dialectical diatribe because it engaged the reader’s heart and emotion instead of simply the mind. It grants a degree of participation.

Sometimes a novel will plant a little seed that doesn’t sprout for some time. Tom and I had a few mutually favorite books. One of them, which I need not name at this time, brought an idea to my mind recently, something that I witnessed and was able to confirm, even though the connection came years after the fact. It had to do with a certain cinq ans period. I could not convince most readers of the truism therein even as many or most of them have lived through the exact experience. C’est la vie.

At any rate, there is plenty of illumination and heart in Tom’s published works.

I’ve declared that A Fatal Mercy (2019) is one of the best Civil War fictional stories ever written. Had it been published in 1959, it would have probably sold ten million copies. It’s one of the best books your not reading – the shame is yours.

The Hunt for Confederate Gold (2014) ain’t bad either. Tom declared it a little amateurish, but I liked it nonetheless. I think rather than being a dilettante work, it merely pushes hard, timely concepts at a faster pace than perhaps the author intended. However, it does so within an excellent storyline.

To my shame, I have not yet read No Villains No Heroes (2012). Tom spoke highly and exuberantly about it, so it must be with the effort!

He also wrote the non-fiction School for Genius (2006, N. Am.) about the ETH in Zurich, a book that answers one question of what Einstein and von Braun had in common. For the gifted young American student, here’s an independent tidbit to illuminate some things and enrage, er, engage the heart: one can get a comparable education at MIT for only … 35 TIMES the annual tuition cost. USA! Usa. U ass eh?

And, there was more. So much Moore.

Requiescant in pace, Frater.

COLUMN: Fiction for Factions

05 Tuesday Jul 2022

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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fiction, The Substitute, Tom Ironsides

Fiction for Factions

 

*A day early! And this almost ran yesterday. 

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

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

***

“Southbound and Down”

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘It is.’

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

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

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

   ‘Will do,’ answered Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘I’ll be happy to follow…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

   …

***

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

(Weak Christmas Fiction) COLUMN: Buddy’s Christmas Tree

23 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction, Other Columns

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Buddy, Christmas fiction, fiction, Jr, weakly column

Buddy’s Christmas Tree

*Hello and Season’s Greetings, Friends! This is what may have to pass for the annual Christmas (micro) fiction. This, of course, is the weakly weekly column, geared to those in the PPN audience. Please enjoy!

 

A studio in a converted garden shed, one December evening…

Perrin babbled away, again: ‘…now, ladies and gentlemen, we’re joined by the most wonderful actress and woman in the world, the lovely and gracious Gal Gadot! Hey, Gal! How’s the high life in Hollywood? Boy, oh boy, did I enjoy Red Notice! Thank you for coming on again so soon…’ The conversation would go on for several hours.

From high on his little FRC box perch, Buddy, Jr. looked on with pity. What a shame, he thought; the big guy should get out more, maybe bite the bullet and date that pretty secret agent woman. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Well, now, I’m running out for a bit. Kind of like you should. Uh. Okay, you just talk to yourself, again, for a while. Bye now.’ Perrin continued to gibber happily – to no one – about movies, and Goodles, and other things he knew nothing about. 

Ignored, as usual, the tiny lizard made his way down the cheap cardboard-like paneling. As he crossed the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, he passed the very spot where Buddy Senior’s tenure had abruptly ended. He crossed himself. Then, he carefully darted here and there through a maze of cigar boxes, empty coffee bags, and other rubbish. Next, he climbed over and past various boxes and crates bearing such odd labels as “RDX” and “Titanium Diboride.” By the door, he stopped and put on his extremely small coat, hat, and mittens. 

A gust of cold wind blew in the crack under the door where the weather stripping had broken away. Buddy was just about to exit when the Old Drunken Spider wobbled in, carrying with him a cricket (that we all know was just sleeping). ‘The big fool talking to himself again?’ the old creepy-crawler asked with a hiccup.

‘No!’ Buddy said emphatically. ‘This time it’s for real. He’s got Wonder Woman on Zoom!’ After a quiet moment, they both fell out laughing.

‘Almost had me there, Greenie!’ the spider chuckled as he staggered sideways a bit. ‘Well, if he’s having another … interview, I’ll just go to the other end and entertain my guest here.’ He patted the cricket – who was still sleeping. ‘You take care out there; it’s starting to snow if you’ll believe it.’

After staring at the mouth-watering sleeping cricket for a second, Buddy said ‘thanks and good evening,’ tipped his tiny hat, and ducked under the poorly-fitted door. Walking under the rusting, dented hulk of what had once been an SUV, he remembered his long years spent forgotten in the glove compartment. Those metal wires sticking out of the tires must be for extra traction, he thought as he emerged into the wide-open space behind the driveway. With little white flakes falling all around, he made his way through the yard and down the lane.

Over on the corner, under the soft rays of an old street lamp, Buddy found the Tiny Postman busy gathering letters from the tiny, special Santa Mail mailbox. 

‘Good evening, Tiny Postman!’ Buddy said. ‘All those gonna make it in time?’

‘Evening, Buddy,’ said Tiny Postman. And, yes, these are just in time. Say, you live in the shed. Any idea if this sad story will feature any other FP characters? Or a real plot?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Buddy said with a shrug. ‘It’s just self-deprecating nonsense, a sleeping cricket, me, and my quest to find the perfect you-know-what.’

‘Ah, well. Maybe next Christmas. Anyway, are you off to the little magic place in the woods?’

‘That’s the place!’ Buddy exclaimed. ‘I’d better hurry. I hear they’re having a party tonight.’

The diminutive friends parted ways and Buddy hurried on. As a surprisingly healthy snow began to fall in earnest, he crossed the vacant lot and entered the woods. As he made his way into the trees, he passed several more friends. With each step, he grew more excited. Finally, he rounded a corner and stood beneath the most magical, special tree in the glade – the Northern Operations Tree of the Prepper Elves! Buddy clasped his little mittened hands together and smiled. He knew that inside that tree was a very special little tree all for him. But then, with genuine shock, he read the sign on the door: CLOSED. GONE TO CHRISTMAS PARTY AT FPHQ. BACK IN JANUARY.

Crushed, Buddy made his way back through the woods. He lamented Perrin’s cheapness and general aversion to travel. They themselves could have been at that party. Should have been. Maybe there, Buddy could have gotten his special little tree. But, as it sometimes happens, some things just aren’t meant to be. Back in the vacant lot, he ran into the Angry Cat. That encounter is the stuff of a story for another day. Needless to say, Buddy survived. He walked slowly through the snow with his head down until he again moved under the wreck of the Old Bug-Out Vehicle and Mobile Prepper Studio.™ Suddenly, he noticed something – something near the shed door that had not been there when he’d left.

Down on the ground by the crack under the door was a very small box with a bow on top. There was also a tiny card with his name on it. He carefully read the tiny card:

Dearest Buddy, Jr,

Here’s a present for the cutest little plastic lizard in the prepping world.

Merry Christmas, from your biggest fan.

Love,

GG ♡

Before he went inside to hang up his tiny coat and hat and mittens, Buddy opened the box. And, what do you suppose he found inside?!

The End

(Not very good, but at least it’s over! Merry Christmas!)

Really Good Shows

19 Sunday Dec 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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fiction, PPN

Something tells me that the beginning of the week, at least, will see better than average PPN episodes. Songs and cartoons really good. I may be biased. Check in the AM and see.

Also, a new column may come along. It may be a short fiction piece about a Christmas tree. Or, it may be something else, rerun-ish. ??? We’ll know by mid-week.

FICTION: Night of the Living Vaxxed!

31 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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2021, fiction, Halloween, NIGHT OF THE LIVING VAXXED!

*Tonight, friends, thrill and shiver to a tale of the macabre from that ever-popular genre of Vaxxploitation…

Night of the Living Vaxxed!

The 2021 [TPC] Halloween Spooktacular

by Perrin “Maskless” Lovett

*Brought to you by Diet LIME CHIP! Soda – Now in Grape!!!*

 

The Old Covington Cemetery, Halloween…

As the weary sun fell behind a line of ragged pine trees, somewhere a cat yowled ominously. Two somber figures moved among the tombstones of the beloved, the dearly departed, and old what’s his name.

‘Isn’t it a little strange these Halloween stories are always set on Halloween?’ Ann asked as MB kicked ants and confetti off of a low headstone. ‘I mean, it’s not even a little original.’

‘This marker epitaph is original enough: At least he was vaccinated!’ MB said with a grunt. ‘And he was. Good thing. He died of the Detrick-Harvard Variant just last week. Like with Colin Powell, if he hadn’t been fully vaccinated something really bad might have happened.’

‘Alldead?’ Ann asked, arching her eyebrows. ‘What kind of name is that?’

 ‘Paul Alldead. Just got the stone on for him. Another happy customer who will never complain or bounce a check or leave a bad review or ever bother me again,’ MB said while admiring a chip in the granite above a misspelling. ‘Really nice fellow. Hey! There he is now! Let’s say hello.’

Ann looked and saw a stiff, partially-decayed shell of a man limping and shuffling towards them. ‘Why is he out of the grave?!’ she asked with plausibly understandable alarm.

‘Paul!’ MB unwisely called out. ‘Good to see you up and— OH. MY. GOD! He’s a zombie!’

‘Yeah, duh,’ Ann mocked.

‘RUN!!’ they both yelled. And away they did run, just as fast as their feet would take them, or as fast as one needs to run to outrun a zombie that can barely limp and shuffle. Okay, it was more of a jog. It was… C’mon, man. You know the thing.

‘Wait,’ the corpse-like character mumbled after them. ‘Sorry to bother. I’m Ned Halfdead. Paul’s cousin. I came to apologize for the bounced check. Aaand, you’re gone. Oh, my, yummy ants!’

Ned was just bending down to dine like an apologetic, half-dead aardvark when he noticed a shadow. Looking up, he saw a tattered, pale, all-dead-looking man staggering forward out of the gloom. Half in fear, half delighted, Halfdead, and half Formicidae famished, he called out: ‘Paul! I thought you were de—’

*****

In the car, as MB drove madly if nonchalantly towards town, trying to dodge all of the raccoons, missing most of them, Ann scanned the radio. Pausing on NPR, she heard a voice of calm, reason, reassurance, and constant hair-flipping. They both listened to Jen Psaki’s hasty press conference, already in progress:

… all a little concerned. But, no. The president certainly is real, he’s really the president, and he really is not a dead robot. I mean, just because he short-circuited and caught on fire while the greenscreen program crashed… It, uh, it. We’ll circle back to that.

As for the national emergency, there is nothing to be concerned about. Not much. Much at all. Maybe a little. Okay, shit, look! All the recently deceased fully vaccinated thralls are reanimating as brain-eating zombies. They say it is the ultimate ADE or VEI effect, Case Nightmare Zombie, or something. Just, um, just trust science. Maybe the sixteenth booster and those hourly pills can do something? 

Yes. I mean, no. The military is not on it – all service members themselves being lately-deceased fully vaccinated zombies who now eat brains. 

Now, I’d like to point to the success of the recent evacuation. Thanks to Empress Harr-, er, Joe Biden’s very real and legitimate and totally not fake administration, several dozen American refugees were just today airlifted into Afghanistan with the help of our Taliban partners. You, hey you! Non-binary thing from CNN! Why are you drooling like that?! My what? My brain?! Eeeeeeeeeeek!!!

As a faraway production engineer cried, ‘Oh, God,’ or possibly, ‘Mo’ sod(?),’ the signal abruptly ended. Ann turned off the radio and bowed her head. ‘Greenscreen has fallen,’ she whispered sorrowfully. 

‘Best fake president we ever had,’ MB hacked, gagging on a Tic-Tac.

*****

Around the old downtown square, a line of double-masked, plastic-wrapped, CRT-indoctrinated, futureless children stumped along. One to another, they sang cautiously, ‘One, two, Fauci’s coming for you. Three, four, lock the bathhouse door…’

Once again this year, they missed him, as he hid in the dark, fingering his sledgehammer. ‘Imma get that statue tonight,’ the Chairman growled to himself.

Kayla looked down from the balcony of TPC Headquarters, perplexed. ‘What a sad fool,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he know they already changed the statue? What’s he gonna do? Knock down the new Bankroll Fresh Memorial?’

‘Shhhh, woman,’ Da shushed. ‘Was that another ambulance?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’d love a gurney full of some Halloween candy! It’s a shame MB lost the petty cash box,’ Kayla mused.

‘I mean, what is there to stop these white militias from getting nuclear weapons?’ Da asked the evening air.

‘Sir, any given day, it’s about twelve Marines and a chain-link fence,’ said a pleasant if unknown voice. Da didn’t notice.

‘Who the hell are you?!’ Kayla asked in candy-starved fright.

‘Hello, ma’am,’ the pleasant, unknown young man said. ‘I’m Abner Snickdowl. The filler character that Mr. Lovett added. You know, with Bess and Ryan and Fred being a little scarce these days.’

Though Da still strained his ear for a siren that never called, Abner and Kayla nearly jumped out of their skin. The shrill, screaming, crying, wailing, greatly-alarmed, desperate-to-flee screaming wail of a cry from the Chairman echoed around the square: ‘Great Lawd Yemaya, SAVE US!!!!!’ They turned in time to see him bolt as if the very foul spirits of the recently be-vaxxed were after him. Down the street he fled, screaming, and never to be seen again. Until sometime later, of course. And, of course, when he did reappear, he was re-elected. His sledgehammer clattered to rest in a pothole he’d promised several times to fix but predictably never got around to.

The moans and groans then drew their attention to the other side of the square. Around the corner, came a slow-moving legion of Vaxx Zombies!™ Now and again, as they inched forward, they let forth the nearly-indecipherable cant, ‘brains.’ Or, honestly, it could have been ‘veins’ or ‘lanes.’ It was maybe just a little south of nearly indecipherable. 

‘Now I’ll never review that candy for the Corner,’ Kayla said, fighting back tears. ‘ZOMBIES!!!’

‘Trust science,’ Da mumbled as he leaned over the railing in his vain search of auditory ambulatory greeting.

‘I have a horrible feeling that I know how this ends,’ Abner muttered dejectedly.

‘Hey!’ Kayla said, completely over her zombie scare. ‘Why do your hands stick out of your shoulders like that? Not to be rude, it’s just…’

‘It’s okay, ma’am,’ Abner said sweetly, flapping his little hands, ‘Mama was a good lady. She trusted science, Thalidomide, and all. Pa trusted science too. The Vioxx got him. My uncle in England trusted science. He died trying to kill bugs with Amiton. Shucks, I trust that science myself! Who wouldn’t, with such a great track record?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t need the whole life story,’ Kayla said dismissively.

Just then, Ann and MB sped into sight. They dodged a few of the foremost zombies, hit the sledgehammer-holding pothole, careened violently, and came to a stop below the balcony. In a moment, they huffed up the stairs and out to join the oddly-paired trio.

‘Some politician needs to promise to fix that damned pothole!’ MB bellowed. 

‘Well, looks like the zombies are here!’ Ann said with surprising and rather misplaced cheer.

‘They just came out of nowhere,’ Abner said, waving one small hand from beneath his sloppily-cut sleeve.

‘Who in the blue blazes are you?’ Ann and MB asked at the same time.

‘I’m Abner Sni—’

‘He’s some dolt ringer or something,’ Kayla said. ‘DO NOT ask about his little hands.’

‘More ambulances by the day,’ Da said with a shrug.

‘What a weird night,’ MB said, holding his lighter between his teeth and poking it with a cigarette. ‘First zombies. Now, this pleasant but unknown character. And all those oversized anthropomorphic raccoons on the streets!’

‘Raccoons?’ Da asked as if coming out of a trance.

‘Yeah, big, man-sized raccoons, a lot of them wearing saggy pants and basketball jerseys,’ Ann explained. ‘All over the place, coming out of all these new apartments. Making odd gestures and signs with their hands, paws. They’re all headed west, it seems. All of them talking about how DAT Raccoon tha Kang! Or, something similar they were saying, maybe.’

‘What’s up with that? Where were all the raccoons going?’ Kayla asked, happy some other strangeness had momentarily displaced the terror of the be-jabbed dead. Everyone shrugged their shoulders. Everyone except Abner. Because, uh…

‘I know,’ he said helpfully; ‘They must be headed to Atlanta to cheer for that giant raccoon that escaped and climbed up the Georgia-Pacific Tower. Took some woman hostage. Y’all hear about that?’

Ignoring Abner – a scenario to which he was well accustomed – they all looked down to the lurching, moaning pack of zombies. The reanimated fully-vaxxed had congregated in the street beneath the balcony. Pathetically, they all extended their hands and arms upward (and one can imagine Abner’s resentment) as if to climb the air itself to dine upon the brains of our beloved TPC staff (and Abner, poor thing). Fortunately for the gang, the particular mRNA poison at issue did not grant the deceased the power of levitation or flight. Still, they were trapped. As more and more victims of the worst hoax and war crime in history stumbled and staggered into the square, the stranded group grew nervous. But then, they heard a sound. It grew louder by the second, a great roaring, grinding noise mixed with notes of modified techno-rock parody music.

And, around the corner and into the square came the racket: speeding along, crushing everything in its path, an Abrams tank roared into full view. Over the whine of the engine and the grumble of the tracks, from two speakers poorly rigged on the turret, “It’s Time To Go” by Boomer Patrol blasted away. The great weapon of war rolled over the back end of MB’s car and proceeded to crush the leading ranks of the zombies. Slowing to a crawl, it abruptly turned and did a short series of donuts in the street. Zombie heads and zombie limbs and zombie bodies and an assortment of ill-fitting clothing that sleepy next of kin had thought appropriate for burial shredded and flew about.

The mechanical beast came to rest, its turbine idling. The music stopped, time paused, and the balcony brigade looked on with interest. After a few moments, the turret began to rotate from the rear-facing position. With a whir, it swung around towards the new memorial. The main gun rose. And, in a deafening flash, Bankroll Fresh’s image joined Robert E. Lee, Jesus Christ, Christopher Columbus, Sacagawea, Hiawatha, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, The Old Pioneer Woman, Abraham Lincoln, Frank Rizzo, Mahatma Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Frederick Douglass, The Bird Girl, and all the other lately-deposed “racist” Confederate Generals in the dustbin of dystopia. As chunks of obliterated statue rained down among the mindless zombies (the vaxx victims, not the voters), the top hatch opened, a fragrant column of smoke arose, and a voice sarcastically called out from inside, ‘there’s your social justice, bastards. Big guns matter.’

And then, from out the hatch, there emerged, like a knight in cigar-reeking armor, the hero!

‘Perrin, old man!’ MB called out exuberantly.

‘You’ve come to save us!’ Kayla called.

‘Could have warned us about our ears,’ Ann said.

‘Abner on duty, sir!’

‘Did you pass many ambulances?’

‘Yeah, great and whatever,’ Perrin said as he sat up straight in the commander’s perch and jimmied the machine gun. ‘Gimme a second. Ears? Yeah, most uncomfortable vehicle ever.’ 

While the balcony birds lamented not covering their ears and while more zombies shuffled over the remnants of their crushed comrades, flattened like the curve of those two weeks that never ended, Perrin checked the feed on the Ma Deuce. Then, he proceeded to sweep the street, cutting zombies into pieces while cackling like a crackpot conspiracy theorist at play in the all-too-common position of being dead right all along while spraying zombies with .50-caliber BMG rounds from a tank in one of those patented run-on sentences that really does and, yes, on a Halloween evening, as cliche as that might be, or something, etc; and I’ll just stop this one right here, and now, the end. After a hundred or so rounds, or maybe a few more, he stopped, fully climbed out, stood still, and addressed the team.

‘I’m going to enjoy a delicious, cold Diet Lime Chip® soda! It’s better because it’s now available in this great GRAPE flava, er, flavor,’ he said as if delivering a cheap advertising pitch and while unscrewing the bottle top. He paused and read, mostly to himself, the side label: ‘Grape! Purpa Drank! *Skittahz and sizzurp “sold” separately. Big Floyd’s ghost, these idiots pander harder than the cucks in the GOP.’ With that, he took a healthy swallow. And … he immediately began spitting and spewing, hacking and gasping. Throwing the bottle, which hit one of the masked, miserable kids who had hung around and who you’d probably forgotten all about, he staggered to the edge of the turret and vomited all over a zombie below. Still wheezing and spluttering, he leaned down and grabbed the towel-like turban off the head of another zombie, who in life, had been much more American than you, and wiped his mouth – all the while uttering curses too vile to print here.

‘Horrible!’ he yelled in a blind rage. ‘Almost as bad as the original!’ As he continued to rant and pant angrily, he dropped down to the gun again and blasted a few more we’re all in WHAT NOW?! together walking corpses. Finally, he once more stood up and turned to face the bewildered crowd who were still on the balcony, still stranded, and still suffering from painful ringing ears.

‘Nice night, huh?’ Perrin asked with a smirk.

‘Where did you get the tank?’ Ann asked.

‘Well, with the Army all gone and turned into ghouls, the stuff is free for the taking. Of course, it never was that difficult to appropriate their equipment anyway. Armories wide open, coast to coast. Hell, even libertarians did it,’ Perrin said with a gleam in his eye.

‘Oh, no!’ Da cried. ‘I hope nobody gets any assault rifles!!!’

At that, Perrin laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, can’t have that!’ he said while glancing down at the 65-ton main battle tank that he’d just strolled up to, cranked, and driven away in. ‘Anyway, with those dozen Marines out of the way, I’ve got my boys down at Kings Bay picking up the good stuff!’ He leaned down and casually fired off a few more rounds without bothering to aim or look or think – just like Alec Baldwin.

‘Liberty!’ MB said with pride; ‘Legalize Columbia! Democrats racist like tomatoes.’

‘Damn right,’ Da huffed. Perrin fired one last shot while cocking a mildly concerned eyebrow at the balcony.

‘Why’s that bloody rope trailing behind the tow hitch,’ Kayla asked.

‘The whu?’ Perrin mumbled as he looked at incoming Trident II launch system codes on his phone. ‘Oh, crap! That was Laughing Albert from the drug company.’

‘The CEO of—’ Marshall started to ask.

‘Former CEO. And war criminal. I wanted to interrogate him so I tied him up. Forgot about him like the family dog in the vacation movie. Ah well, one torture’s as good as another,’ Perrin said. He suddenly laughed nonstop, just the way Albert had always laughed on television whenever he was asked if he took the death jab his evil company developed in conjunction with the other luciferians. Whereas he had been able to eventually cough out a rough “no,” Perrin concluded his fit, saying, ‘hey, at least he’s in hell with his father, the devil. Good riddance! Now to hunt down the rest…’

‘Why are all the zombies still under the balcony and not gathering around you?’ Kayla inquired smartly.

‘Why? Because they only eat their own. I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for a specialized military operation and take poison from people who have openly stated they want everyone dead, and that the inventor said no human should ever take, and which had a 100% fatality rate in all animal trials, all because of overinflated numbers in a hoax based around weaponized perceptions of the common cold and flu designed to cover up the world economic collapse, at best, and at worst to usher in a new age of international globalist satanic slavery. I mean, really, who could be that retarded?’ Perrin said somewhat smugly, absolutely correctly, and to the chagrin of at least one member of his audience.

‘Wait. Then why do you keep shooting them?’ Ann asked.

‘I mean, why not?’ he answered. The crowd found great wisdom in his simple logic.

‘So, they’re just after us?’ Kayla sought to clarify.

 ‘Oh, yeah,’ Perrin rejoined. ‘One of you must be vaxxed. They can smell it.’

‘I knew it!’ screamed Da, suddenly coming to life. ‘It’s this Abner! He’s come to lead us all to our brain-devoured deaths!’ With that and with a surprising show of strength, Da seized the pleasant, previously unknown, armless character and hoisted him overhead.

While Abner begged for mercy and Perrin retouched the foot of his cigar, the others chanted, ‘Vaxx he azz! Vaxx he azz!’ Then, as one might expect, Da hurled Abner from the balcony. The doomed filler character landed in a heap among the zombies. 

‘My legs! I can’t feel my legs!’ Abner screamed before fading away just as he had feared, having previously read the script, unlike the others. But, interestingly, he neither reanimated nor was of any interest to the science-trusting former TV news watchers. All dead (uh, of the lively deceased, not Mr. Alldead) arms again raised and pawed towards the balcony.

‘Well, crud,’ Da said, slouching guiltily. 

‘Whadda kill my ringer fer?! Whadda kill my ringer fer?!’ Perrin yelled.

‘You mean it’s one of us?’ MB said with a shutter.

‘Looks like it, you Abner-cidal maniacs,’ Perrin said as he lowered back into the turret. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a new Christian monarchy to govern. Enjoy the mess you made. You’re on your own!’

‘Wait!’ they all called, as the zombies bobbed and belched below. ‘Save us!’

As he closed the hatch, he called, ‘Read the Constitution to them! Better yet, vote! Vote hard.’

Finally realizing the political futility of their predicament, they sobbed and cursed. But it was too late. They watched sadly as the turret returned to the transport configuration. Then the tank, now sans the Day of the Pillow(!) justice tunes, turned about and drove away down the street. They watched it as it reached an intersection. And, then… They all jumped as an enormous clawed white reptilian foot stomped down with enough force to completely crush the pavement several feet into the ground. Perrin deftly swerved aside just in time. The Piedmonteers looked on in sheer terror as he overcorrected and drove straight through the local CBD store, utterly destroying it. A grievous injury! But their collective gasps and wails were silenced, drowned in a sea of noise from the clouds. Those silly kids had thought the boom of the old 120 was loud. Now, smashing down from above, there came a rolling, undulating roar of defiance and rage. Ears split, windows shattered, and the earth itself shook. Most unexpectedly, several out-of-sequence Japanese people ran around among the zombies, screaming, ‘Ritezilla! Ritezilla!’

Over them loomed a ridiculously tall white lizard, likely a giant albino Iguana or some other very large white lizard. Except this one was beyond very large. Enormous? Gargantuan? L-A-R-G-E. And white. With another roar, the beast picked up a bus and threw it back down. Then it waded through the buildings, moving generally towards A-town.

Having forgotten the now trivial zombies below, the gang stood rooted in fear. At last, MB broke the silence: ‘I wonder if that thing is going after the giant raccoon in Atlanta? That’d be a heck of a fight. Clash of the titans, so to speak. Battle of the monsters: Kang Koo—’ His words temporarily ended when, in a final parting lash, the monster’s tail reduced TPC headquarters to rubble. As the hapless gang dug themselves to safety, far away, carrying on the wind, they thought they heard a tune…

*Now, you’re probably thinking the tune they heard was one of Perrin’s pitiful parodies, perhaps a cheap takeoff on “Godzilla” by BOC. You’d be wrong (for once in a Halloween). They might have heard THIS.

**As originally written for (and about) TPC – where they can no longer be bothered to publish such things. This is, in fact, the final edition. Deo Vindice

Halloween

31 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

≈ Comments Off on Halloween

Tags

fiction, Halloween

Has it lost anything because everyone has been in costume – as surgeons, bank robbers, or zombies – for the last 2 years?! More on that in this year’s spooky fun short story later this evening!

The Weekend Fiction!

28 Thursday Oct 2021

Posted by perrinlovett in fiction

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blog, fiction

What a week! What if we throw a blog and nobody comes?

Anyway, the big TPC Halloween story for 2021 – likely the last one – is coming on Sunday! The theme is already afoot in the popular culture as seen in this great Savage Memes panel.

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  • February 2013
  • June 2012

Prepper Post News Podcast by Freedom Prepper (sadly concluded, but still archived!)

Have a Cup!

Perrin’s Articles and Videos at FREEDOM PREPPER (*2016-2022)

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