Friday, June 23, 2017

Under the Starry Western Sky(a story) pt 1

Jimbard swept the saloon floor while Moley and Coulton took the liquor bottles off the shelves and put them under the bar, out of sight, and neatly, politely out of mind.  Don't judge them too harshly for having church service in the saloon: it was a big room, it was already there, and it had a working piano that was mostly tuned.  Jimbard was like an encyclopedia of music.  He moved from songs about lovers and yellow roses, seemlessly into hymns on Sunday morning.  He had the gift of music, but thank goodness he did not sing alongside his playing.

A wagon came along outside, which was a bit of a rarity.  A lot of people stopped what they were doing and looked at the new thing.  It had "Rocky Top Gazette" stenciled on the side in the color of fresh blood.  Soon it was stopped at the old newspaper office, the Side of the Hill Democrat office, which had been closed-up now for about twelve years.  Marshall Kimball and Braithwaite's old dried-up aunt were down there with the wagon, watching two hulking plains boys take the desks and the printing press from the building.

Ralph Dunham awakened late to the bright mid-morning sky and singing birds.  He had a trace of a sore throat from his snoring, pulling in the night air.  He stumbled to his feet, already fully-dressed, with even his boots on, and he went to the cabin to find some breakfast.  Inside, he discovered his possessions had been rifled during the night.  He made a note to buy a lock in town later.

Back in town, came another wagon, and on the Lord's day.  This one was a big covered wagon with a bum wheel.  The wheel lolled crazily, and on the front of the big wagon.  The smithy and hostler was in the same shop with a big sign out front.  That's where this one stopped.  A hog that had been following along behind stopped, too, and began to sniff at the ground.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

a mcfattigus! a mcfattigus! my kingdom for a mcfattigus!


I bathed, making the waters grey water.  But then on the trek up the mountain, a thirst overcame me and I drank the grey water and its froth.  It gave me stomach cramps, and I wanted not to live.

The whole while I still wanted a good friendly Mcfattigus to get into.


I consulted the oracle atop the mountain.  It wasn't her "time of the month"(no visitors scheduled, in other words), so it was nothing doing.  As her servants rushed me out of the room, I was chanting "Mcfattigus, Mcfattigus!", and she was screaming, "no, no, no!"


In times of emotional distress, like me with the horns growing on my head, we see brief visions of the future, but these are hard to interpret: we know not the when and the where of our visions, but accept with a kind of pagan faith that all will elapse as foretold.

But there is so much unseen, and other strong wills that shape the future.



I had three hundred pounds of stones on the wheelbarrow, walking along gingerly, trying to keep the weight balanced, so the whole works did not topple.  Such is not easy.  My fat shook in my jelly arms.  I'm built to lead not to do the menial labor, yet here I was, a menial laboring along like a common proletariat.


I was distracting myself from getting into a willing Mcfattigus.

It was coming down to the wire, with a building pitch, that want, that most epic need, blinding my senses such that I was becoming, not a rational man, but a beast only to be sated by one thing.  Quite irrational, then, and not to be trifled with, not the kind to read the morning post, but the kind to beat the brakes off anybody that looked at me sideways.

On edge.


It gave me a dark turn of thought, like maybe hurting myself.  I have unwittingly hurt myself so much in the past.  I should really consider myself my own worst enemy.  Literally, if I had a wide open Mcfattigus in front of me, I would probably snap an ankle walking up to it.

Like this is not your fate, padawan.



But I can have hope for the future, that the stars will align and the demon will spawn, that the lineage will continue.  I don't want one offspring.  I want four.  Two boys, and two girls.  Got the names picked out already, in fact.

I'll be a good father, too, I think, rising to the challenge.

You know no different.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

more on Ikkemotubbe's grandson BMF.

Ikkemotubbe and the progeny: Little Beaver's Name Game

Little Beaver was growing his reputation, growing it goodly like some Tijuana cannabis.  He was out on a stolen horse one morning and rode square up on a U.S. Cavalry Major eating his breakfast.  In fact, as Little Beaver put two arrows in his flank, the Major was still holding his metal coffee cup.

So he had juice in his camp.

Little Beaver took the eager Something Humping over the hill to the swamp.  They gathered leaves, straw and some mud, and fashioned that into a newborn babe.  When they returned, everyone celebrated the new babe, but in the midst of the joyful doings, everyone stopped, asking, "what is the new lad's name?"

"BMF" said Little Beaver, while Something Humping blushed another shade of brown.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Billion Dollar Idea Numero Uno: The Water Engine

Boy, you want you some torque?  How about some rotating force to go along with that?  How about a hydraulic engine?  That sound like something you can get behind?  That make the Mustang sh*t and git?

You bet it does, little shaver.  You bet it does.

Boy, that idea could be worth more than A BILLION DOLLARS.  Maybe so.  Boy, you should talk to a patent lawyer and get some paper on this thing.  Then make the Henry Ford heirs eat it.

Think I'll blog it instead.  So here's a little picture of an engine that can run on any liquid, even an innocuous and cheaply available liquid like ordinary tap water.  (void where prohibited by law.  excludes rebates and dealer incentives.)


a rough drawing of the entire works.  proposed 4-cylinder configuration.

As a child I had a wild imagination(and I still have that).  I had a little red Hot Wheels car that came with a race track set.  It was between an Italian supercar and a Le Mans prototype racer.  Rear engine.  All that.  I daydreamed that I had a real, life-sized version of the car.  I further dreamed all the other people in the world were gone.  And I just roamed my hometown all day in this supercar.

But I'd need gas.  With no people, there would be no electricity, and no gas pumps working.  Again, I'd need gas.  What if my car had a water engine, that was hydraulic, with no internal combustion?  That would do.  I could ride until the tires fell off.

So there it was.  An engine that runs on fluid pressure.  The bottom end is a Wankel-kind of configuration.  While the top end, as shown, would only guarantee a sustained level of revolutions, never slowing and never speeding up.  Like perpetual motion.  Until friction breaks it down in a couple of decades or so.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Challenge of the "No-Bots".

Beater One and Duder are shooting laser cannons at the human germs, trying to rid the face of the earth of that viral scum.  Flesh things.  With their mucus and leg itches.

They participate in an exhibition race to demonstrate their stellar superiority against earth machines.  It ends in shouting and hurt feelings.

You knew it would.

Meanwhile, Gator is melting down the scrapped No-Bots to harvest the precious metals from the circuitry.  I think he's making fishing weights, but he says he is dealing in precious metals.

If fishing weights were heirloom quality.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Miss Havana's 2012 and 2013 versus the Dike-buster Golem.

They were beauties, now loaded for bear, armed enough to take down a whole herd of bears.  They were ready.  Sex and violence co-mingled, like orgasming while getting punched in the nose!

Meanwhile, Michael grabbed hold of Fredo in the Palace proper.  Tracfone executives were there, and the Chek Cola people, big money, all, hoping to open up new markets in the communist burg.  But it was all falling down.  Michael pulled Fredo close: "I know it was you!" he told Fredo, then kissed him smack on the mouth, which confused the weak-minded Fredo.

Michael embracing Fredo, and Fredo's life flashing before his eyes, moments before the kiss.


But make no mistake.  Fredo was scared.  Fredo was fascinated with near-death experiences, and now his whole life was flashing before his eyes!  He knew, in his heart of hearts, this was a green light for assassins to come for him.

The dike-buster golem was tearing buildings apart down the street.



The ppl's were skeert.  Inconsolable.  Only the two women stood in the way of the Dike-Buster Golem, and those two, with tiny delicate ankles and wrists, with that much holding the balance of power.  Miss Havana 2012 stepped-up first, just like her chronology, and was promptly ripped in twain, and then the Golem put his mouth of the cleft of the mortal wound and inflated her like a balloon.  It was grisly.  Her hair turned grey instantly as her body had ripped apart.  In failure, fear had overtaken her, and she was tossed the ground, discarded and to be forgotten, like a hotdog wrapper.






Back at the palace, Fredo was running away from Michael like a scared little girl.  All his journals and research about near-death experiences had not prepared him for the blinding rush of chemicals that overtake the body; his fear had been geniune and over-powering, dominating his otherwise weak but quite practical mind.

The Cliffhanger ending?  A kiss seals the deal.  Miss Havana 2013 kissed the Golem, melting its heart completely and the ending was butterflies and kittens, and not just any kittens, but kittens that looked like both of them, those two that fought then kissed that epic day.