A Visit From St. Got Nicked – 4

They were just about to board the helicopter when Barren’s phone started buzzing. “It’s Margie!” she said. 

“Who?” asked Attila.

“My bestie, Margarine Trailer Greed, I have to take this, boys.” She put the phone on speaker and said, “Hey girlfriend, what’s cooking?”

A voice responded, “Uh, you mean that girlfriend thing in a totally non-sexual way, right?”

“Oh totally,” answered Barren. “We don’t allow no lezbos in my district.”

“I thought as much,” said Margarine. “Whew, I’m beat. I needed to take a break. So what are you up to?”

“Me and the boys are on the trail of some mutant elks and an old fat guy all dressed in red.”

“Hmm, sounds like a commie to me.”

“That’s really a possibility, he was trespassing in our compound. Those commies have no respect for personal property. Want us to swing by and pick you up, you could join in the fun.”

“No, no, I’m up to my ears in work here, I just needed to take a break and fix myself a snack of beer and nacho chips with peanut butter.”

“Ooh, sounds delicious! So what going on with work?”

“Oh, same old, same old—baiting libs on Twitter, spreading rumors on Facebook, all in between biting the heads off baby ducks.” She sighed, “I’m getting absolutely no response from those useless dems though and I still have three dozen ducklings to go. Gotta stay sharp.”

“What a drag, I’m sorry your day is so frustrating.”

“So how are you going after this commie with the elk?”

“We’re using the Blackhawk and the boys have their new 50cal sniper rifles.”

“Wow, that ought to do the trick!”

“Yeah, Donald picked off one of them this morning but he only winged the second one when they took off.”

“Took off?”

“Yeah, these mutant elks can fly!”

“Holy Benghazi, they are mutants!”

“Yeah, they’re heading north by the blood trail, but I’m sure we can catch ‘em with the chopper.”

“Then what?”

“Well, finish off the wounded one, then we’ll see what’s up with the fat little commie. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turns out to be Chinese.”

“Sounds like fun, I wish I could join you. Can you record it on your phone and send me the feed?”

“Consider it done, girlfriend!”

“Um,” Margarine said. “Maybe you could find a different nickname for me. That one makes me feel funny.”

“How about ‘bee-otch’?”

“Nope, too ethnic.”

“Sister?”

“Uh-uh, sounds too labor friendly.”

“Fellow ‘trumpette’?”

“There you go!” Margarine laughed, “Glad we got the sorted out. You guys have fun, OK?”

“Count on it!” Barren punched her phone. 

“Mom,” asked Donald, “why does she bite the heads off baby ducks?”

“To keep her incisive, ’no mercy’ wit sharp while she’s constructing her media posts.”

“Oh, makes sense, I guess.”

“You bet it does, Margarine is a heartless beast! Let’s mount up boys, we need to catch those mutants!”

To be continued?

A Visit From St. Got Nicked – 3

The chopper was sliding through the chill frosty air when Barren, riding shotgun, said, “Hey, what’s that?” She pointed down below them at the perimeter fence surrounding their compound. 

From his place next to her, deftly handling the controls, Attila said, “Better take a look.” He brought the helicopter down to a soft landing beside the fence.

As they exited, Donald looked up near the top of the double strands or razor-wire and excitedly said, “Hey, that’s the leg I shot off that mutant elk.”

They saw the limb dangling within the grasp gf the barbed wire. “How are we going to get that down? asked Attila. 

“No worries,” said Barren, “I’ve got this.” She took out her cell phone and punched a number. “Estevan? Yeah, it’s me. We’ve got a problem out here I need you to handle. ¡Un problema, si! Get your butt out here, pronto, ¿sabe? ¡Si! Out to the fence. What? No, not that fence, the fence around our property. ¡Si! We’re out by the noreste gate. ¡Si! Oh, and bring a ladder, what? A ladder, ‘El thingo climbo’ yeah, that. And tell Pedro to turn off the juice. What? No, the juice, the electricity, ‘el powero de fence-o’. Yeah!”

She put her phone away and said, “I wish he’d learn better American.”

“Wow, Mom. I didn’t know you were bilingual,” said Attila.

“Yes, honey. That’s something you’ll learn when you grow up and take over as representative for this district after I retire. It’s important to speak the language of the little people.”

“You sure about that Ma? I mean what if I don’t win the election?”

“Oh honey”, she laughed, “that’s hilarious. We’ve got this district so rigged up a Democrat doesn’t stand a chance of winning, no matter how many live here.” She chuckled.

“Is Esteban coming?” asked Donald.

“It’s always hard to be sure with old Esteban but I think so.” She looked up at the leg, “Boy that 50 cal really took it off nearly didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it packs a wallop,” Donald said. My shoulder still hurts.”

“You’ll get used to it, darling.”

They turned as they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. “Ah,” said Barren, “here he comes.”

A pale green truck drove up and stopped just a few feet away from the fence. Dropping from the cab to the snowy ground was a short, slightly stooped elderly man wearing a quilted vest over his worn plaid shirt. He glanced up at the leg hanging in the razor wire. “¿Cómo pasó eso?” he asked.

“Speak American, Esteban!”

“Lo siento,” said Esteban. “Um,” he pointed, “how it get there?”

“That’s not important, you just need to get it down, it looks terrible,” Barren said. 

“Si, si, señora,” Esteban dragged the ladder out of the back of the truck and extended it up its full length. “Un momento, por favor.” He set the ladder against the fence, “I get it.”

Scrambling up the ladder with surprising agility for his age, Esteban took a hold of the leg and tugged this way, then the other. Finally extracting it from the grasp of the razor-wire he put it over his shoulder and climbed down using only one hand on the ladder. 

Reaching the bottom, he set the leg on the snow in front of Barren and her boys. “What you want me to do with it?” he asked.

“Do?” Said Barren. “Why just take it home, consider it as your Christmas bonus.” She held up her hands, “No, no, don’t thank me, thank Donald, he shot it off.” She looked at the leg laying on the snow. “It’s probably already cooked after being on the electrified fence. Merry Christmas, Esteban or as you people say, “¡Feliz Navi-dude!”

“Ma, you’re amazing!” said Attila.

“Yeah, ain’t I, though?”

A Visit From St. Got Nicked -2

As they were walking out to the hangar where the Loebutt family kept their helicopters, Barren noticed that Adolf, her middle child was hanging back. 

“Adolf, sweetie, you’re not getting cold feet are you? You know this is a perfect opportunity to practice with your new sniper rifle and make sure it’s sighted in right.”

“It’s not that Ma,” said the nine-year old. “It’s just that Uncle Pall has something special that he invited me to do today.”

“Uncle Pall? Do you mean Mr. Grosser?”

“Yeah Ma, he said to call him Uncle Pall.”

“Well that’s nice, what has he got set up for you two?”

“He said he had got a bunch of mannikins and dressed ‘em up like people he knew. He told me we could have some fun blasting them.”

“What people he knows?”

“I don’t  ‘member zactly but he called one of them Nancy, another was Joe, then there was Chuck, oh, and one was just initials, A.O.K. or something like that.” Adolf took out his phone, “I guess I could text him that I can’t make it.”

“Text him?” Said his mother quickly. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you remember that important lesson that our dear Führer taught us? Never put anything in writing! Even his signatures on all those bills weren’t really his actual name. If you analyze his Sharpie’s letters closely he actually wrote: ‘DOESN’T JUST ADD UP’.”

“I’m sorry Ma,” the youngster said, putting his phone away.

“Besides,” added his mother, “we don’t want to disappoint Mr. Grosser. It will be hard enough on him when he returns to Arizona for the holidays and can’t see his family.”

“But why can’t he see them, Ma?” asked Attila. “It it because of Covid?”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

“Is it because they live too far away?” asked Donald.

“Uh-uh,” said his mom. 

“Then what is it?” asked Attila. “Why can’t he see his folks?”

“They all took out restraining orders against him. He can’t come within five hundred feet of anyone in his family.”

Attila patted his sniper rifle, “Five hundred, huh? That’s plenty close enough with one of these.”

His mother and brothers laughed. “That’s what I love about you Attila! You have such a wonderful sense of humor.” She patted him on the head, “You go ahead and join Mr. Grosser. I’m sure your brothers and I can handle the mutant elk.”

“Thanks Ma!” and the boy started off. 

“Wait, are you going to use your 50cal.?”

Attila stopped, “No, I’m going to drop it off and pick up my AK.”

“Good choice, it’s much more efficient for multiple targets.” She turned back to her other boys. 

“Ma, are we going to take the Huey?” asked Donald.

“No, I think the Black Hawk is better. That way if we have to take out the whole shebang we’ve got the necessary weapons.”

“You think it might come to that?” asked Attila.

“Best to be prepared,” said his mother.

To be continued?

A Visit From St. Got Nicked

Barren Loebutt and her three sons were posing for their annual Christmas photograph. Each held their most prized possession, a 50cal. scoped, sniper rifle. Barren had received hers years before, almost too late to really enjoy it, when she was already nearly fourteen years old. That was the reason she had seen to it that her boys, aged 11, 9 and just 6, had their long-range killing weapons with plenty of time to still play with them, as real boys are wont to do.

“Hey Mom,” said her eldest, named Attila, “I know these were really expensive, where’d you get the cash to buy them for us?”

“Oh you’re only young once, my dear, I say spare no expense for my boys!” Then she lowered her voice, “Besides,” she added, “Uncle En-Ar-Ay has been very good to us this year.” She winked at him knowingly. “Now smile for the camera, boys!”

They all assumed broad smiles, gently cradling their precious weapons while being photographed arrayed before the family’s Xmas tree. Set above the tree, in the background, a banner was suspended from their beamed ceiling. It read: “Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards Men–and pass the ammunition!”

The scene having been preserved for posterity, the boys had just started scattering off to enjoy their presents when Barren detected a pungent aroma in the air. “Wait!” she commanded. Instantly, the three boys froze, knowing that to move might have dire consequences for their futures.

Slowly, Barren strode over to Attila, her oldest son, and sniffed at the end of his rifle barrel. Then she went to her middle son, Adolf, and repeated the gesture. Finally, she looked speculatively at her youngest, Donald. The boy trembled slightly under her determined glare.

Walking slowly up to the boy, she brought the muzzle of his 50cal up and inhaled at the end. “My darling Donald,” she said, “this weapon has been recently fired.” She paused, leaving the full import of her statement to be considered by the youngster. Then, leaning in and fixing him with her steely gaze, Barren said, “Did you open your present early and take it out to practice?”

Hanging his head in shame, the little boy mumbled “Yes, ma.”

Barren laughed, “I can’t stay mad a you my darling boy. After all you are named after my favorite man in the world.”

Adolf said, “But Ma, dad’s name isn’t Donald.”

“So?” She turned back to her youngest, “Where did you go to try out your gift?”

“I walked about a mile or so out near the neighbor’s house so you wouldn’t hear the noise.”

“That’s very thoughtful, darling. And what did you shoot at?”

“Well I was going to pick off that yappy little dog of theirs . . .”

“Good choice, I hate that mutt.”

“ . . . but then this herd of funny-looking elk came running along.”

“Funny-looking? How?”

“Well, they were a little smaller than elk and their horns were bent back.”

“Hmm, sounds like mutants,” said Barren. “Did you get one?”

“Yeah—but it got away.”

“What! How did that happen? Did you just wing it?”

“No, Ma, not the first one, I hit him square, and then the strangest thing happened.”

“What do you mean?”Little Donald looked down at his shoes, “They took off, Ma.”

“You mean they ran away?”He shook his head and looked at her, “Uh-uh, they flew away.”

“Now Donald, haven’t I told you never to lie unless the fate of the Republican Party was involved?”

“I’m not lying, Ma, ya see they were in two lines, four in each line, and when they took off, the one I hit just stayed with ‘em, like it was attached to the others somehow.”

“How weird!”

“It gets weirder,” Donald said. “There was this fat guy, dressed all in red, sitting in some kind of wagon, and he was right behind ‘em and when they took off, he went along like they were pulling him or something.”

“You said, ‘the first one’ before, did you shoot another one?”

“Yeah, I had already chambered another round so just as they started to take off I shot at another one but I was surprised when they went airborne and jerked my shot. I just shot his leg off. Then they were gone.”

Barren Loebutt assumed a thoughtful expression, staying silent for almost a full minute. When she spoke, her voice was very soft, “I’m terribly disappointed in you Donald. Do you know what you have done?”

The little boy hung his head.

“You did an awful thing,” she continued, “you wounded an animal and let it get away. You didn’t finish the kill!”

“I’m sorry, Ma.”

“Well boys, we’ll just have to fix this.”

“But how, Ma?” Donald asked. “I told ya, they flew off.”

“In that case, we’ll just have to take the chopper, won’t we?”

Her sons cheered!

“Com’on boys,” Barren Loebert said, “lock and load, we have a job to finish!”

to be continued . . .

Seversonia #8 Economic Growth In Neighboring States

While visiting in our neighbor state of Arid-zone this intrepid reporter decided to investigate a new claim by its governator: Drug Doozy.

Mr. Doozy has come up with what he believes is a fool-proof scheme to ramp up his state’s sagging economic growth. 

“It was there staring at me all this time,” said Doozy. “I just had to open my ears, reach out, and smell the coffee.”

Mixed metaphors notwithstanding, Doozy’s plan, in a nutshell, is this: he proposes harvesting burned Arizona pine tree trunks left standing after rampant wildfires; not caused by climate change, he hastens to add; and saw them into boards. Since the trees are dead but there is still some barely useable wood to be harvested from them, Doozy wants to see that he utilizes this untapped resource.

These boards will be used to create Arizona Dead Pine Coffins, the specific name he has given to his brainchild (term used advisedly). 

Doozy says there an unusual, and to him, baffling, spike in demand for coffins all across our country. Doozy notes that this demand represents a significant opportunity for the state.

“It’s a boom for our great state!” Doozy gushed. 

“Don’t you mean ‘boon’?” asked the reporter for the Elfrida Daily Peach.

“Huh?” said Doozy.

The official site for the new state business, Arizona Dead Pine Coffins, is yet to be announced, but this reporter has heard that several available locations are under consideration. High on the list is the State of Arizona capitol building since the current occupants of that structure aren’t using it for any important business.

In order that consumers can be assured as to the authenticity of the coffins, Doozy has decreed that his image, giving a familiar gesture of success, will be engraved upon the side of each coffin. He will be joined by his favorite companion, a donkey that was rescued from high in the mountains during last year’s fires. 

Because the donkey was found at a very high altitude, Doozy has named him, Up. While Up was large but quite skinny when found, Doozy has seen that he is very well-fed, resulting in a considerable weight gain.

So when you go to buy your official Arizona Dead Pine Coffin, look for Drug Doozy, his thumbs upright, and Up, his big fat ass.

To be continued?

Seversonia #7 More of the Fifth Estate

I caught up with Joe Void in the front room of Shorty’s Bar and Grill. He was playing pool and talking to a man wearing sunglasses who was seated at a nearby table.

“Mr. Void can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure,” he answered, “we’re almost done here.”

“We? It looks like you’re playing alone.”

“I’m playing him,” he jerked a thumb back at the man at the table.

Looking at the man again I noticed that in addition to wearing dark sunglasses indoors, he had a white cane leaning against the table.

“Mr. Void,”I said, “he appears to be blind. How is he able to play pool?”

“Well obviously I have to make his shots for him. I describe where the balls are on the table and Charlie tells me what shot to take.”

“How’s that working?”

He leaned towards me and whispered conspiratorially, “Well, to be honest, Charlie’s not very good. I’ve beat him four out of five games today already.”

I nodded. ”I see, can I ask you about the recount?”

“The what?”

“The recount of votes in MeaCulpa county.”

“Oh that,” he said, “we’re done.”

“Great! So when’s your report coming out?”

He set down his pool cue. “Not so fast there, bucko. We still have a lot to do.”

“Like what?”

“Wellll—to start with we’ve discovered how they did it.”

“How who did what?”

“Those inscrutable orientals. We now know exactly how they loaded thousands of illegal ballots into the ballot boxes in MeaCulpa county.”

“Really? How’d they do that?”

Void looked around and then leaned in toward me again and whispered, “Water buffalo.”

“Water buffalo?” I repeated.

“Yep, Asian Water Buffalo. They strapped zip-lock bags onto their backs and swam the buffalo across the Pacific Ocean, up the Gulf of California, marched them across the desert to MeaCulpa county and dumped those ballots in with the legal ones.”

“How did you come up with this unique explanation?”

“We used all the resources available to Crybaby Nimrods. We did remote sensing, LIDAR, ultra-violet aerial photography, we studied stationary traffic camera records, we left no stone unturned.”

“And that resulted in you discovering the use of water buffalo?”

“Nope, none of those methods worked, they showed us nothing.”

“Then how—?”

“In the middle of our efforts we were lucky enough to secure the assistance of a very valuable volunteer. He is an expert on Asian Water Buffalo and their uses.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yep, he found buffalo hairs on the ballots and also recognized the distinctive smell of Asian Water Buffalo saliva on them.”

“Who is this remarkable expert?”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder indicating the man at the table again, “Charlie.”

“He’s your volunteer expert?”

“Yep, all we had to give him was food and board, keep him supplied with beer and slip him a hundred dollars a day for incidentals.”

“Some volunteer,” I said. “He’s blind, how did he find the buffalo hairs on the ballots?”

“By touch.”

“And he says he can detect the scent of water buffalo saliva?” I asked.

“He’s an expert, I told you,” said Void. “Just ‘cause he can’t see doesn’t mean he can’t smell.”

“Well something certainly smells in all this, that’s certain.”

“Glad to have you onboard,” Joe said.

To be continued?

Seversonia #6 The Fifth Estate

Here in Seversonia we are anxiously awaiting the results of the recount being done by Slimy Nunchucks. We’re eager because we already know that whatever they find changes nothing. We just want to get on with things.

Slimy Nunchucks estimate that they will have completed the recount of the four ballots by September 31st. When we pointed out that September has only thirty days they replied, “Never mind.”

They did try to renegotiate the payment amount due to them to $4 even. “That’s only one dollar a ballot,” their representative argued. When we pointed out that one of the ballots had been peed on by a dog, they agreed to settle for $3.85.

Meanwhile we have been closely watching a similar activity in our nearest neighboring state, Arid-zona.

There is a recount in MeaCulpa county that has raised quite a stir. The State of Seversonia sent our state’s crack investigative reporter, me, to discover what is what.

I interviewed the two men who are running the recount. Bob Null and Joe Void are executives in the company hired to do the job, Crybaby Nimrods. I visited them in their offices on the site of the ongoing political activity, the back room of Shorty’s Bar and Grill on West Stonewall Jackson Road.

Sixty-seven people were sitting around on pillows looking at ballots in by peering into uniformly red View Masters and recording their observations on Etch-A-Sketches, also red. “We like that the two tools we are using are red in color,” said Bob Null from behind his student sized desk, one that had been removed from a local elementary school for his express use.

He offered me a pillow to sit on, “We don’t have any chairs, but we have lots of pillows.”

“So how’s the recount coming?” I asked.

“The what?” he asked.

“The recount of ballots in MeaCulpa county.”

“Oh that” he said, “I don’t know. Jim handles that.”

“You mean Joe?”

“Yeah, him.”

“So what do you do?”

“I make sure everyone has a pillow. You can keep yours if you like, we have thousands of them.”

“No thanks,” I answered as I walked out to find Joe Void.

To be continued?

Seversonia #5 Taxation.

Taking a cue from our nearest neighboring state, Arizona, we, the leaders of Seversonia have decided to go them one better. Rather than merely offering lowered taxes for the wealthy Seversonia is decreeing ‘No Taxes!’ for the wealthy.

That’s right, zero, zilch, nada, absolutely no taxes for the rich.

Because of limited space availability, our neighbors who are simply rolling in dough don’t even to actually reside in Seversonia.

Taking a cue from a recent national figure known for his creative (read ‘illegal’) economics, the wealthy need only claim residency in Seversonia to reap the benefits of zero taxation. Once they have asserted their presence in absentia (is that Latin again?) they can sit back and relax, confident that their millions are safe from the odious notion of ‘paying their fair share’.

Those recently created scions of private prisons and charter schools all across the state of Arizona will sleep the just sleep of the just rich.

Recognizing that the demand for this benefit will be high among the numerous, degraded former GOP legislators who form the Grand Canyon’s state’s nouveau riche we are offering this opportunity at a ridiculously low handling fee.

You long-suffering affluent individuals a can become tax-exempt residents of Seversonia for merely one quarter of your current personal worth, delivered in cash, in plain brown paper bags containing unmarked bills of denominations not greater than $50. All deliveries are accepted at night only (Thanks for the ideas, DJT!)

This minuscule surcharge will repeat annually. So hurry on out and prepare to reap the benefits of absolutely zero state taxes. Bring your affidavits of residence and the bags of cash to our newly created facility on the grounds of an underground receptacle, hand-excavated, that was formerly used to store feminine sanitary products, the aptly named Dug Douchey.

To be continued?

Seversonia #4 Ballot Recount

Update on ballot recount in Seversonia.

Because of accusations of irregularities, the State Senate of Seversonia, that is, me and my daughter, hired a special firm to investigate. The company hired is out of Florida, way WAY out of Florida, and it is named Slimy Nunchucks.

The main reason they were selected was that their bid was the lowest: $3.78 in cash and a daily delivery of ten Taco Bell tacos.

The four ballots cast were delivered to Slimy Nunchucks in an undisclosed location four days ago, one day after the election ballots were created and six days after the election itself.

A word of note, despite the fact that there are currently only three people living in Seversonia, there are four ballots because Pebbles, my daughter’s dog, was given one. She voted by placing a muddy paw on hers. That is actually part of the subject of the complaint. Pebbles’ paw landed on the name, Pall Grosnark, a known member of the Insane Clown wing of the Republican Party. Additionally, he is ineligible since he is not a resident Seversonia but is, at the moment, largely a homeless derelict. The official press representative of Slimy Nunchucks, I. C. A. Buck, suggested that perhaps Pebbles didn’t understand what was expected of her so they put another ballot down on the floor in front of her. This time she squatted on the paper and urinated on the name, Murk Burnawitch, a member of the Far, Far, Far Righteous wing of the Republican Party. His name, of course, should also not have been on the ballot as he is a permanent resident of the Arizona State hospital in Phoenix. Because of these grievous irregularities, Slimy Nunchucks will continue their investigations unless my wife the governor, decides to put a stop to it.

In an exclusive interview with the Seversonia Daily Smear, the Governor said she thought the taco budget was becoming excessive.

To be continued?

Seversonia #3 Emigration

We here in Seversonia have been receiving a lot of interest from various individuals who want to emigrate to our fair state.

While we do maintain an open border, especially for Democrat and Independent refugees seeking asylum from our nearest neighboring state, Arizona, our government wants to make it abundantly clear: space is limited.

There are two bedrooms and a bonus room more-or-less available but all of them are repositories for the extensive and multi-varied historical inventory of Seversonia. Currently our official state run landfill, aka the back bedroom, is full almost to bursting. Were some of the former residents of Seversonia to return and reclaim their historic paraphernalia, some space would be freed up in that region, but even in the event of that unlikely occurrence, I doubt that it would accommodate more than a single individual—and they might be forced to sleep upright in a sitting position.

The state museum, also known as the middle bedroom, offers a better chance for those married individuals who insist on sleeping in the same room. If you bring your own climbing gear, including the expertise and equipment needed for free-climbing and possibly rapelling, industrious individuals should be able to avail themselves of the more-or-less available queen-size bed therein.

The bonus room, formerly known as Susan’s Serenity Room, or the ‘Leave Mom Alone for Just a Damn Minute’ room, is available for those who don’t mind sharing it with our dryer and all the toys that we have for the grandkids— and we have a lot of toys for the grandkids. They would also probably insist that any new resident be willing to share the space with them when they want to play, which is frequently.

Realizing that competition is running exceedingly high, you may want to purchase your tickets for the future raffling-off of these prime locations asap! The preceeding has been a public service announcement sponsored by the state government of Seversonia. You’re welcome.

To be continued?