80% of divorces, initiated by wives? Can't help but to suspect, that certain website

could be a plant.  Won't name names, because i don't have proof, just the willies from the self-satisfied posts.  Yeah honey, am really glad your husband provides and protects you.  Reality is: that's less than common.  Girl, ya shoulda heard, (yet another) the conversation that went on yesterday, few seats behind me.  Yep, the topic directly relates to a meeting presentation we had at work, over the net.  Subject was: why the labor shortage - that is, the type of jobs which actually pay enough to make the rent, transportation and put food on the table (fancy that). 

Wow, was all ears.  Why are construction, plumbing, electrical, transport...employers having difficulty finding reliable (young)  people?  Sure, you don't make much starting out in life, welcome to early adulthood.  Anyway, basically knew the reason for the shortage, but was a bit shocked upon hearing the speaker's number one reason.  Opioid (drug) crisis.  And yeah, that stuff is easy to get, and very easy to get hooked on.

But which half of the population becomes addicted?  That was telling!  You'd think getting hooked on pain meds would be the habit of flakey 40-something women.  Ya know, the "weaker vessel," the half which is waay more prone to (just flat out pathetic and stupid) emotional issues than the more rational half of the population.  Oh look around!  Nearly EVERYTHING a woman can do, a Man can do waay better.  Fact of life...deal with it.

And here, per the meeting, it's not the wimpy, over-weight, neurotic, middle-aged (divorced) women who are calling off work, in favor of sitting around all day to "get high and watch the tube" (Steve Miller Band).  Per the meeting, the druggie problem was phrased in  of course, more socio-politically correct terms.  But it was clear enough:  folks ditching work, because it's all about instant gratification.

As for yesterday's conversation:  some dude, preferring crack/coke, brings that monkey to work.  Sounded like he was about to be fired, and it sounded like he was less than worried - his wife "makes the bread." 

80%?  And what's the percent of wives, who are fed up with years of "making the bread" then coming home to a too small kitchen, where making bread is, at best, a logistical nightmare. 

Somehow i knew where this was going to go :/

Dede, a lady at church had recommended a book written by, basically a woman preacher - eek!   Anyway, didn't comment - that about the last thing i want to read...  She had gone on to say that the writer's son had recently come out of the closet.   Can't say i was overly surprised.  The writer wasn't the first female preacher-type, whose son jumped the fence - and apparently, she had blathered on about "acceptance."  

Needful to say, Dede commented that, yeah, a mom will love and accept her child.  But, she - in no uncertain terms - does not approve of that li[F]estyle.  Dede has a relative who is of that bend.  She loves the relative, but he is not welcome to bring over his same-sex toy - that ain't happening.

While i think it wise to keep words few - especially over the internet, sometimes things need to be plain communicated.  Nuf said - for now :)

New i phones came out recently - 12 or 13, just a year ago,

it was either the 11 or 12.  Oh, i don't know, all's i know is that my co-worker had to order them for the field-team.  And, of courssse, last year's cases don't fit this year's phones.  "Embracing change?"  Uhm, no, sometimes change needs to be taken back behind the woodshed.  Needful to say, last year's stuff will shortly end up in a landfill - more rape of mother gaia ... where's the outcry?  

Other office news:  the shredder is jammed again - bigtime!  Yep, someone brought another handful of (plastic-coated) junk-mail pii from home.  Same person, per the last time?  Don't know.  But i know this:  shredders jam, that's what they do.  You'd think the designers would take that fact into consideration...yeah, they evidently do ;/  Heaven forbid, that - after paying out the ying-yang - that a person could actually be able to keep it clear, without a lot of drama.  But i get it: a mix of plain old greed, and liability issues (greed).  All's i know is, peewee needs to buy his (or her) own shredder for personal junk-mail.  

Real short post - just caught wind of a conversation, about someone who scored(?) a promising career path.

Can't help but to wonder, how many (young) candidates, who possessed better qualifications, were passed over, in favor of political correctness.  No big secret, this happens.  

Max, Part 9 - Couldn't even enter the bank lobby, without having an eye-full of that rubbish. Max grimaced at the public service poster

poster, covering the wall before him.  Overkill, at the very least - six by six, the thing hogged up.  Of course, the subject dealt with home equity loans, but the real agenda of it, wasn't about the low 6% interest rate - that is, of course, if your score qualified.  In the background, was a tropical scene - out at sea, was a yacht.  The "couple" was sitting at a small beachside table, gazing at each other, while enjoying (equally) fruity drinks.  At the bottom, written  in not so small letters, was a brief message concerning STD precautions - yeah, the term HIV wasn't used much, if at all, these days, because it ... was no longer socio-politically correct.

And why anyone would risk their home on a vaca they couldn't afford ... silly question:/  Anyway, max made his way over to a small counter, and grimaced again.  There were no deposit slips; he'd have to use one of his own - each book of 20 (not 25) checks contained one, maybe two, deposit slips.  Choosing another bank?  No point there - paper checks were about looked down upon ... merely tolerated as the stuff of oolllld people (who really need to get th ... off the planet).  Needless to say, the teller - in his or her pierced baubled glory - only managed to not sneer ... well, not too much at having to touch two slips of paper, handed to him or her.  The teller then, immediately after the transaction, gobbled hani-sani.  

And why would anyone be so germaphobe over a slip of paper, when a certain piercing proclaimed ... certain practices which weren't sanitary?  Silly question;/  Max, of course, was then treated to the usual loan pitch.  He, of course, politely declined the offer - he already had a credit card, and didn't need another.  And he certainly didn't need any "introductory rate," which could take off for mars, real quick.  

Max, Part 8 - Good touted as evil, and vice versa. Max didn't know the exact quote. Of course, he had read the New Testament, a few times, throughout his 20-some years.

Max had read alot of good non-fiction books.  He also enjoyed quality fiction as well, including classics.   That's how he and his sister were raised; when they were kids, their parents didn't have much extra money, for things, like movies and theme park tickets - or even premium tv channels - but every month, both he and sis could order a book or two from the scholastic book club.  One of the things the family did on their weekly family night was a visit to BookPlanet - where the family would shop for volumes and enjoy starting their selections over beverages and treats in the store's coffee shop.  On other family nights, they'd do other things.  Sometimes a meal at a nice restaurant; other times, various local attractions.  In short, both max and sis were blessed, and they knew it, to have been born to parents who actually enjoyed being a family.  Btw, both kids could give you, Dear Reader, an earfull of why their family situation was, sadly, not real common - both kids went to school, where classmates ... yeah.

Of course, BookPlanet had closed it's doors several years ago - couldn't compete with the on-line movie channels.  Yep, Dear Readers, while 500 years ago, the printing press made reading available to atleast the upper-middle class (in a time, where even kings were semi-literate, and so hired scribes), the 2030s was sort of the opposite.  

Max turned off his tablet.  For the last hour he had been searching e-Read for a good spy novel.  A good one, not the typical bare-chested-metro rubbish.  That sort of genre was everywhere.  Max figured it started way back, before his great grand parents' days - but he remembered when it began taking off.  As a boy, Max was into superheros - Superman, Spiderman, Captain Marvel (his folks had to replace the sofa, various tables and lamps) but their heroics became downplayed, in favor of ... weirdness.

But at least Max knew, it was okay - that he wasn't weird for not caring to purchase any of the selections he had spent the last hour browsing through.  "...good for evil...bitter for sweet..."  He'd been in the city last Tuesday; nearby, a street preacher had spoken those words.  Not that max paid the man any mind (so he thought, evidently) ; max's mind was focused on a ventilation issue.  Yep, funny how you hear something, and it seems to go in one ear, and out the other.  But not all of it - some stays.  And connects with things - things that should have been obvious, years ago.

You see, Dear Reader, our hvac hero had been experiencing some serious personal issues - the sort which this 4th rate blogger is attempting to articulate.  In short, Max is a man in his 20s - so, how does an old woman even begin to describe what a man, young or old, would think?  So, will ask the Lord to help me on this one.

Gives new meaning to "connecting the dots."

Max had to have been 12 or 13.  It had been a Saturday afternoon, when he was cutting the grass, while dad was either weed whacking, or some other sort of yard work.  Anyway, the mower quit.  Dad came over, looked at the mower, then cocked his head toward the truck.  Father and son headed over to YardWorld.  Anyway, with a new mower in back, they stopped at a mini-mart.  A car pulled up beside them, inside were three teenagers jamming to what is called music.  One got out and ran inside.  A musky smell was telling as to what the occupants had been doing.  Never mind, they looked kind of scrungy.  Anyway, to make a long story short, as dad pulled out and headed down the road, he turned to his son, and spoke a brief sentence.  

Max could not recall his Father's exact words, but suffice to say, dad said something along the lines that hanging out with "grunge heads leads nowhere."  Max could, recall, to this day, that afternoon, turning on to the highway, a turning point in his early adolescent life - Max wanted to keep on earning good grades, do things that mattered, on his journey ahead, going somewhere.

Another bad example, simpering churchian platitudes ... no wonder people head for buddism, or whatever :(

The woman giving the shirley-temple advice wasn't the one who had, whatever small amount of, money stolen - by a fffaaammily member, nor does ms.dogooder have to make do in a tiny welfare borg-unit...  ya know, walls in drab-white, tiny windows that overlook a parking lot, and no room for much of anything.

Nope, ms.mega-church do-gooder enjoys a lovely 3,000 square foot home, and of course a few grand isn't such a big deal - she and her husband had just been talking about their recent month-long trip abroad.  Which, by the way, hadn't been their first trip to another continent.  Oh, just give it another year, and there's bound to be another brag-fest.  Maybe Rome, or Paris.

Still upset about the conversation, because the lady who lives in the welfare borg was told by ms.worldtraveler to pray and not be angry...what the eff??  Sorry (NOT!!! at all sorry) but god-talk is even cheaper than new agey bs.   

Still steamed, because the whole dialog was very invalidating - oh, and not the first time my ears were treated to such.  Knew something had been very much bothering borg-lady for several months.  Borg has every right and reason to be angry, and to express outrage at having been taken advantage off - not by a stranger, but by fa-fa-ffaaamily (ugh!)  

Goes like this, if you are denied the time to be dag-bern mad, you are also denied the right, a voice, to be honest with yourself, and most importantly, denied the right, the time, to process the anger, and in a healthy (i.e., Biblical) way to get beyond it, and get to a place where you are able to forgive - and politely cut that low-down thief completely out of your life...don't call, don't send cards, just go away, and stay away.

But i get the impression that, in church, forgiveness to those who rip us off bigtime, ain't enough, we're supposed to act like the abuse never happened, and allow the mangey-wolf to just trot in and out of our lives - oh, and if another grand disappears...just pray.

Never mind, the Bible tells us - again and again, to have no fellowship with wicked people, to separate ourselves from them.

Bad example. Yesterday, while at the bank, was looking over the finance lit they had, and was thinking

if i was young, and just getting started in life...  Posted to the wall was a rack of about seven varieties of finance products.  All, but one described either loans or credit cards (loans with super interest).   There was one pamphlet which dealt with "wealth management" ... yeah, like a regular jane or joe has money to gamble in the stock market.  Not a one of those papers had anything to say about opening up a savings account or a cert of deposit - not a one.  And yeah, i get it, this is not 1985, where cd interest runs at around 5%.

Last time i saw a savings ad from a bank, was six or seven years ago; it was for a cd of 1k that paid .01 in interest - a dollar a year.  So yeah, not much incentive for the customers.  Anyway, the bank makes lots of money on loans.   So i guess they don't want to encourage joe and jane to put away even a thousand or so, here and there.  

Kenseyian(?) economics at work...i understand that guys worldview was: have a blast, there's no accountability after this life, and eff the next generation - he was a real weirdo...surprised :/

This recent anti-abortion drama ... wait, why hasn't this been resolved? It's been almost 50 years. Why suddenly now?

Yeah i get it, abortion is choosing murder.  And guess what else!  Yep, i never had to make that choice, so can only imagine what it's like to be pregnant and unmarried.  There you are, young and starting out in life, working and making enough to support yourself, but not much else.  Having a baby means time off work, medical bills, and no paycheck coming in.  You'll need clothing and other stuff for the baby, including day care - big cha-ching.  

And then, down the road, will be more time taken off from work.  In day care, even before covid, if yer kid sneezed, you'd get a call at work (probably on payroll tuesday) to come get your child.  Then there's things like doctor and dentist appointments, car repairs and such.  Needless to say, when you have a job, and want to keep it, your boss expects you to be there.

So, these are things which pregnant single women are up against.  And these things are why the US has domestic relations offices in about every county - where the staff works hard to find da-duh and make him pay.  Still, alot of mental drama ... for single mom who is trying to focus on her job, so she can keep getting her paycheck, and keep a roof over her and her child.

And now, there's talk about limiting abortion.  Why now?  Seems all of a sudden...where has been this moral-majority, over the last almost half a century?  Frankly, i cannot help but to smell an agenda - one that is directly covid related.  

"My body, my right!"  Guess that's got to go.

Oh, the boomer FANGS keepacommin out ... wow!

Seriously, some past-tense casino-lovin' codger is glad that (suppsedly) unvaxxed people are dying from covid.  Frankly, don't trust the news, too much of an agenda about it.  But the point is: wishing death on people - for no better reason, than their refusing to have questionable (if not plain creepy) stuff pumped into their bodies ... well, that's plain not nice.  He used the term "Trumpaholics."  Yep, we know where this is coming from - if ya voted for Donald Trump, and will vote for him again, if he runs ... then DIE m-effer!

It's these same sort who believe in darwinian/spencerian evolution...that is, as long as it's some other poor sucker whom "nature" deems as less fit.  Yep, the germaphobe has-beens have long hijacked, and pretzled up, (darwin's) natural evolution - ya know, what we learned in the public school...where healthy critters are the ones who find mates, and do the wow-thing...for one specific purpose: to make little critters.  The spencerian social evolution is waay more useful to the seedy-senior set, (who btw, rubbed out alot of their babies) whose money enables them to live far longer than (fallen) nature would allow.

Wanna talk godLess evolution?  Well, alrighty then!  The difference between darwinian and spencerian is: the former is natural, while the latter is man-made - i.e. FAKE...yeah, like most, sad to say, people my age, and older.

And yeah, i get it, being mid-60s, per darwinian evolution, it's time i get off the planet.  But the difference is: i believe the Bible, and trust that - when that time comes - the Lord Jesus will get me home safe.

What i'd better get, is the afternoon mail.  Bye :)

Covid is a nasty flu-bug, sorta sounds like the one

 that was making the rounds back around '01 - yep, breathing hurt.  So, did the sensible thing, called off work and stayed in bed - for about three days.  My (late) husband, who was about 11 years older than i, barely had a sniffle.  Btw, a few years later - in the spring - he got hold of something that put him down, and down hard, for an entire week, but i was fine.  Strange how colds and flu are...after all, being married, we ate at the same small kitchen table and slept right in the same bed.

Nobody masked back then, nobody was screamie-meemie-ing for mandatory vaxxes.  Back then, during the height of flu season, your 85 year old uncle albert was allowed to leave his nursing home unit to go out to lunch with a friend or family member.  

Btw, back then - atleast where my husband and i worked - our employers had a policy, that if you were out sick for 3 or more days, they wanted to see a doctor's slip.  Personally, that policy made alot of sense - after all, being sick for three days?  Uhm, yeah, after three days, and still feeling like crap, you bet i wanted to see a doctor.

Healthy people have been known to get real sick, and even die, from the flu-bug.  Back then people knew that - people knew that life ... well, it can suddenly, without warning, come to an end, but we carried on, kept the businesses open, the economy going.

While people are worried SICK about losing their jobs, ever waiting for the other covid jack boot to drop, boomers are gushing

over their latest vaca, patio-parrtah, fancy dinner, in some pricey joint - one that only seats some 60% capacity ... while the waitstaff can barely afford to feed their families hamburg-helper...ugh!  Math tip: the less tables ya serve, the less money ya make.  One of these old broads ... no wait, there were a few others...going on about hassling the meter reader or the (run ragged) HVAC person, concerning vaccines.   Why is it always women doing the grilling?  Uhm, how bout shut the heck up, and go bake some cookies!  Surely, it's not want for time?... isn't it amazing how retIred people, seem to get their cookies off in reminding, again and again, how they don't have to punch a time-clock...ya know, like the rest of you (younger) luzers.

Yeah, it's a facade alright.  Grill the 30-something waitress - because her mask looks like it's fixing to slip - while she's carrying an oversized tray.  Ya think, it might have something to do with 30-something still has a figure - while the two old biddies, sitting at the table, couldn't get a date to save their wrinkly hides?  Uhm, it's not unknown for old women to resent - big time - younger women, especially younger women who turn men's heads.  

Yes, the year is 2021, and we've our modern gear (puters and such) but we're still human, and have been so throughout our 6,000-some year history.  

Max, Part 7 - Max stared into the mug before him. He could take or leave the stuff. Seated next to him

was one of the guys in his crew.  Across the bar, the other guy, Birthday Boy, was trying to make time with some woman who didn't appear interested.   The place was run down, and probably, unintentionally  had the decor of the mid to late 1990s - including a pre-plasma video screen, that took up almost the entire corner of the bar; of course, where the quarter slot had been, was updated to accept credit.  Max glanced over at birthday boy; he didn't have a clue, obviously - the girl was looking alright, but not for a fella to buy her a drink, shoot the breeze, do a two-step to a country song, and maybe down the road...this wasn't the 1990s.

A few seats away, an old veteran - probably from the VietNam war, he looked ancient - was peeling a small game of chance ticket.  Several other slips of paper lay nearby his whiskey glass, from which he took a drink.  He declined wanting to buy any more.  Several minutes passed, he finished his drink, left some bills on the bar and opened the door to the darkening sky.  A moment or so later, as another group entered the vintage bar, from outside came the sound of a truck pulling out, on its last legs.  Max didn't know the old guy, but had seen him here and there, in that old pickup.

Birthday Boy was now seated, and drinking - like many of the other younger patrons - some sort of eerie green potion sort of thing...ugh, didn't even look drinkable, and certainly not 90s.  The person seated beside birthday, and trying to strike up a - what passes for - conversation... a he? a she?  One could only guess.

One thing for sure, Max wasn't interested in making time with anyone - period.  Besides not having the time - business was real good, he had no desire to waste any of it on people who either didn't know who they were, nor cared to find out.  In short, so much weirdness - everywhere.  And getting weirder.   As for that old latimore temperance woman - who had been quietly passing out literature during the previous farmers' fair - evidently she didn't get to town much.  But she, in her somber gray dress and ugly-shoes, knew who she was.  

Max, Part 6 - More snippets. He pulled into a speed-bar. The food was, well considering, halfway decent. And a person could sit atleast sit inside

and atleast partially digest ones food.  He had never been much for eating on the run - hadn't been raised that way.  Over the past ten, fifteen years, the whole restaurant scene had changed.  When he was a kid, any middle-income parent had a choice of where to take the family out for a good, sensibly priced supper - one served with a smile, and upon real plates, and eaten with real utensils.   While there remained a few diners out in the sticks, most sit-and-enjoy-a-meal places catered to ... well, not tradespeople, who drove utility vans, and came home sooty or wet, or both.  

He set his tray on a corner table and opened up his coffee.  Checked his phone.  Yay, any messages could wait.  It was half past six, dark outside, and he was d.o.n.e, done for the day.  Unwrapping his sandwich, he took a bite, and just relaxed a moment on that plastic chair.  

Two or three tables beside him, he heard some voices.  Was the same-old small talk - someone's new car or whatever.  A moment later, where such-n-such lender is offering introductory rates - adjusted, of course.  And then, came the snippet - one that you didn't have to worry overmuch about getting a stiff fine, county time, or both.

"[Gosh darn] jews are raking in the green ... greedy bastards!"

Max rolled his eyes - and rolled his partially eaten sandwich back in its wrapper, sealed his coffee, and headed out the door.

And i'm headed back to 2021.  Good night, Dear Reader.  More tomorrow, Lord willing.

Max, Part 5 - Another service call, this time, in one of the last remaining department store's in the tri-county area. As he assessed the job before him, and what

tools he would likely need, he heard voices coming through the vent, from the restroom outside of the hfc credit office - a concession, which was why the store had, so far, been able to remain in business.

"WHAT THE F*, CARLA!"

Max dropped his phillips, the young woman's shrill had startled him.

"Sshhh."  carla, cautioned, then continued.  Something about her voice, very calm - too calm.  

Max continued on the task at hand.  The filter...any wonder the heat wasn't coming out.  He wiped his sooty hands on his trousers.

"Bull spit," the young woman's voice was some quieter, but not by much. "...they had no right, it was a private conversation, and ...."

"And, in a public place," carla interjected.

"Come on, carla..."

Max didn't catch the name, nor the situation, but he knew enough to know where this all was going.  Yeah, leaving everyone sooty, that's where.  He blew his nose.

"...hasn't a sexist bone in her body, what th.." the f-bomb went off again.

ms. calm carla continued...didn't take a psychiatrist to conclude, the older was enjoying upsetting the younger, and then chiding her for being, understandably, upset.   Max didn't know the details.  He didn't have to.  He'd heard it all before.  Snippets whispered from the next groceryaisle; murmured among two or three waiting in line over at the grab-n-go; and the random  individual half-hiding in a corner while talking on a cell.

His task was done.  Checking around to see that he didn't leave anything, he heard the distinct clack of a pair of a certain brand of high-end pumps, followed by the soft thud of the restroom door closing.  As he began to leave, from inside the restroom, he heard sniffling, and then water being run.

Old Guy, continued - Karl Marx was the antichrist...no wait, Adolph Hitler was the antichrist...no wait,

slick willie was the antichrist...no wait, Bill Gates...  Anyway, our old guy was sure glad he had listened to that (sermonaudio.com) sermon, from around 2020.  The preacher had explained that, not even the smartest Bible scholar - the devil himself - had that knowledge.  But the devil is a planner - more so than any Gates or Bezos could ever hope to be.  In short, old guy, though full of questions, was in good company - since, there had been, throughout history, more than a few solid, brilliant thinking men of God, who had questions as to whether pre-trib, mid or late - or somewhere inbetween - the Lord would come and rescue His Church from ... the melodrama.  

From what old guy had read in Revelations, it seemed that taking the Mark didn't happen until after alot of really bad quakes had happened - and forget about the one that just happened up north.  That one was really bad - a point 9-something.  But no mountains moved ... no wait, the best end of an entire side of pilk's peak now lay where a lake used to be.  Other than that ... per the news.  But that's anyone's guess.  Still, per the only trustworthy news - i.e., the B-I-B-L-E - the whole planet will be an obvious geo-MESS before the antichrist causes about everyone to take the Mark. 

So, what's with all the dot-matrix places popping up?  And all the forehead and right hand selfies all over the media, the cutsie names ... the latest, being "My Little Dragon Dropping."   Ugh!  It had been way more than enough, when that Robin had taken a dump, right in the front of old guy's Red Sox cap.

Lunch over, back to 2021.

Meanwhile, back here in 2021...yo, those meds of hers must have been totally ON!

What she was going on about ... and yeah, can't really blame her for being upset ... over a family member.  Lazy is bad enough, but lying, oh that's not good.  Anyway, this being a blog, located along the backwoods of cyber boonieville ... gives me a bit of freedom to vent.  While we get along, wouldn't trust her as far as i could pick up that shredder, and throw it across the office - it's about the size of a college-dorm frig.  

The woman's one of those who will go on and on about so-n-so, and then chatting if all up with that same person.   So, needless to say, strive to always be on guard - not always good at that.  Seems like as we, as a society, go on flipping off the Lord, the fakeyier, and fakeyier we are compelled to be.  

In the yarns have been spinning lately, one or more of the namby-pambyish terms she uses, are in the posts.  And yeah, when the yarns draw a pulitzer (hahahaha) i'll give her some of the prize money.   And no, she is no Daisy - not even close.  Daisy, as wicked jez as she is, atleast was basically above board about it.  

Old Guy shambled into his unit, he noticed the volume sitting atop the bookshelf, and paused

a moment.  He specifically remembered putting the Book back in its usual spot.  Yep, old guy had always been sort of a neat freak.  Anyway, he parked the bag of groceries he had carried in, upon the kitchen counter.  As he unpacked and put away the package of hamburg rolls, a small bag of mint candies, a quart of milk, a pound of burger, a dozen glazed donuts, and a can of coffee, he pondered some questions.  Questions for which, it was just as well the Book sat where it was.  He'd be reading from it within the hour.  

Oh, it felt good to have real heat again, old guy extended his hands toward the vent, then poured his coffee and ate a second donut.  

What was with all those dots, that people were getting on their foreheads anyway?  He had even seen, and had heard them affectionately referred to as "The Mark,"  and even, "My Beastie Button" - the latter posted all over various social-sites, even making inroads onto the few no-frills sites old guy visited.  And needless to say, nearly everybody seemed to be gushing (and a bit much) over Sir William Dorr.  How did that happen?  Billy boy wasn't even british...   He flipped on the plasma to catch the weather; hoping for word that the storm would fizzle down before approaching the southeast - Sis lived not too far from the coast, and the area had already had its fill of storm drama.

Speak of the devil, instead of real news, (as wanting as such was) Billy boy was center stage - going on about whatever usual goody-goody global fluff.  There was something familiar about billy boy - if old guy hadn't known any better, he'd of thought sir billy boy was the same creep who'd sold him that piece of crap bush hog, back in ... whenever.

Anyway, back in 2021, shift is about to befon.

Max, Part 4 - Coming back from a service call, Max stopped at a gas-n-go. He'd filled up earlier, but had forgotten to buy a jug of

windshield wash.  Sure, the price was nearly twice of what you'd pay over at the big-box, but, who knew, from one week to the next what would be out of stock.  The line was long...nothing surprising there.  What did come as a surprise was: what was playing on several of the plasmas.  It was as if you couldn't get away from those things - the horrors, that you might miss an ad for something you don't want, a preview for a show you don't want to see, or a track from a band that you don't want to hear.

But what was currently being blared, wasn't the normal skanky rubbish. It was a few-second (but long enough) trailer of a full-length (40 minute) movie, about ... well, what people in 2021 would call the imaginations of conspiracy-junkies.   Oh no, fred, the gore (and that's a polite term) was front and center - and on the side, over by the milk.  And on the other side ... over by the three or four little food-court tables.  

Atleast this place had a few tables.  Most gas-n-go type places had the food court, but no place for travelers to sit a few minutes - cool their heels - and eat their sandwich and fries, before getting back on the interstate.  No tables meant one less thing for staff to deal with, one less set of potential liability issues.  Yes, back in '26 - or was it '27?  oh well, whatever - someone had sat down, in in the process of what he/she/it/they was wearing, the edge of the plastic chair had caught hold of a length of chain, somewhere attached to the individual's "clothing."  Needless to say, a bump and maybe two stitches - if that ... Yep, Dear Reader, you guessed it - a multi million dollar lawsuit.  And yeah, chain-link (think that was the person's name) won the case.

While waiting to be checked out, he glanced over at the locked display cabinet which stood behind the cashier.   It had been several months since Max had bought a pack of cigarettes; nor was he interested in shelling out $17 and change for a second, containing eighteen cigarettes.  The first had been a rite-of-passage thing; having turned 25, he was able to legally purchase tobacco products.   Max hadn't finished the first pack, just wasn't his thing.

He turned at the red light.  On the corner, which - when he was a kid - had been a little diner, then became a craft shop, then became a body art salon (by that time, the neighborhood was beginning to slouch) then became a hemp outlet.  The place was now another "dot matrix."  Max did a double take.  There was already one just outside of town - in the same strip where the grocery store was.  Evidently, there was a sufficient customer-base.  The parking lot was full enough, and coming the door, was an individual, who evidently couldn't wait long enough to get to his or her car, before flashing multiple selfies of his or her forehead.

Max, Part 3 - "THA-WONK," the old volume hit the thinly carpeted floor. Max did a double take.

How'd that happen?  He wondered, since he hadn't even set foot in that part of the room.  The vent was on this side, not that side.  As busy as max was - nothing usual there - our young hvac hero held a deep respect for old books.  He set aside the vent cover, walked over to where the volume lay - minus the few pages that fell out, and landed nearby.  He inserted the missing pages, all but one.  That one, for some reason - and he didn't even think about it, but he read part of page before inserting that into its rightful place within the volume.  Unsure, whether the book had fallen from the 2nd or the top of the 3-tiered wally-world shelf, Max simply placed the ladge-print volume.   Somehow, he knew the apartment's tenant wouldn't make a fuss.

No, it wouldn't be until a bit later, that he would think about the portion of which he had read.  For now, his mind was on the here and now - and here, he had totally forgotten some other papers, about which he needed to see the tax collector.  Max didn't like the guy; why Pop continued to do business with him...?  Yeah, yeah, second or third cousin and all ... still, the guy was  ... that was a daytime-drama in itself.

Outside, the sleet was finally starting to let up - weather report said it would be moving out around 2-ish.  Three other jobs yet, and he hoped to be done around seven.  After which his big evening plans included going back to his apartment and, hopefully, getting atleast a half-hot shower.

For as much rent he was paying ... but then again, he couldn't blame the landlady.  She had the same problems Max had in finding reliable people to do work.  And on top of that, Max had noticed the evening before yesterday, another "Notice..." posted on the door of a nearby unit.  While he didn't know the tenant, nor really cared to, the probable reason ... well, it showed.  The balcony was a mess, and the sliding glass door looked as if it hadn't seen, for too long, so much as a mist of glass cleaner.

It had been a year and a couple months since he had moved in, and within that short amount of time, it was evident enough, the complex was not its former self.  Granted, Westgate was no Martha's, but when Max moved in, no parent had to worry overmuch if junior forgot to lock his bicycle, or left his leather baseball glove sit out on one of the plastic picnic tables.

Back in 2021, the mail is waiting to be picked up.

Max, Part 2 - The coffee was it's normal semi-palatable serving, but the breakfast-sandwich,

that third-ways eaten, went in the trash.  Second time this week.  One thing for sure, max wasn't going back there, to wait overly long, for a more-sizzle-than-steak-and-egg that ... didn't taste quite right.  Sure, the car line had been long - and seemingly getting linger -the ads about everywhere.  Well they could all have at it.  A partially eaten sandwich, from earlier in the week, lay near the bottom of his wastebasket.

Was going to be a long day, since he probably would not have time to stop anywhere later in the day.  He turned on his computer.  Two or three flies sped by him, enroute to somewhere.  He swatted the one, the other one or two dove toward the earlier discarded feast.  A bit late in the year, Max paused, but didn't give the winter-time flies any further thought.

From up the street, he heard that familiar 4-cylander engine, it entered his parking lot as if there was no this-morning.  His wall clock read 7:37.  Also, the second time this week.  He and ruthie would have to have a little talk.

Max didn't get it.  What was ruthie expecting?  Three feet of snow to fall, between where she had parked, and the front door?  Anyway, he'd call her in to his office a few minutes after 8; that was her start time.  

Some minutes later, max advised her, that perhaps she should pretend her little car was one of the company vans.

"Huh?"  Ruthie, evidently, didn't get it.

"Ruthie," her boss spoke, "if you don't slow down, they'll put you in jail."

What max didn't tell ruthie was, anything about sonny, his neighbor.  Guy certainly wasn't himself, not since he'd been arrested for doing the same sort of nonsense.  "Safety hazard..." horse-spit, sonny was just being sonny.   But, evidently, county wasn't near  the same place his pop had been a "guest" at, back in the day, for drag racing - or for whatever other vehicular stupidity.

Break over, back to 2021.

Back aboard the time-machine - Max wasn't too thrilled about leaving college.

But he didn't have too much of a choice.  Pop couldn't handle all the calls - and the customer load was increasing.  Yeah, so were taxes, and other costs.  The money part wasn't the real issue - mom and pop had always been the careful sort.  The problem was: pop - his arthritis, was getting too much for him to be crawling around in dank, dusty basements, repairing furnaces - furnaces, of which the owners, for the overwhelming most part, had neglected to call for routine  annual maintenance.  So yeah, when you don't atleast clean or replace the filters, you won't get much, if any, heat in february, or ac in august.

Max knew that within, maybe two or three years, he'd be running the business.  Pop paid him well, that wasn't the problem.  The problem was: his folks were talking about moving to arizona; in short...what!  he'd see his folks, maybe twice a year - if that.

The other, ongoing nagging problem was: finding people willing to show up for work, atleast on a semi-consistant basis - and to  show up, reasonably fit for duty.  Yep, you guessed it, Dear Reader, our had-to-ditch-college hero had to fire one of the had-seemed-to-be-working-out assistants.  Hiring was a headache, and agencies - even the so-called, "better ones" - just sent over about any one who walked in their door.

And yes, ruthie, was dependable and skilled.  But comeon, ruthie was a 50-something woman, who really had no business crawling around cramped dirty spaces ... the heck was up with that husband of hers...would have his wife getting all damp and dirty - ugh!

Did the hiring issue have to do with...what he'd been seeing more and more of, here of late.  Those dots.

Anyway, more later.  Back to 2021.  Shift ain't started yet, but have to get busy anyhow.

Here, back in 2021 - glad i heard that sermon; preacher said, there's a (big) difference between the wrath of God, and

the wrath of man.  While the preacher is pre-trib ... and yeah, he has ALOT more education than mid-trib me, his sermon helped me out, alot.  Okay, real qwik - reason for the mid is: seems to me, that throughout Scripture, things get really hairy for the Lord's people, before He intervenes and rescues His.  Uhm, Egypt's chariots were about on Israel's heels - tell me, those people weren't scared ... and scared, crapless!  Later down the line, the Babylonian captivity - those conquerors weren't nice people, they didn't exactly help poor widow simmons across a busy street.

So, per the preacher, God's wrath begins, when His Son, Jesus begins to unseal that book.  That starts in Chapter 5.  Need to re-start.  And yeah, i get it ... far greater minds than mine ...  And yet, i don't see my little brain, heading towards pre-trib.  Question is:  will the Church still be around, when people are lining up (on pain of losing their JOBS) to take the jab - in either the right hand or the forehead?

Oh, i don't know.  But i know this:  while the covid shot is NOT the mark, it's a bit too close of a doggone good dry run, for the Mark.  So, it all boils down to depending on the Lord -  every day.

As for Daisy, Dear Readers, oh, she's doing quite fine...of course.

But let's go back, briefly, to that Sunday mid-to-late morning.  Oh, it was just a bit past 10, maybe a quarter past, and Daisy was fixing to get ready for a very important 1pm brunch.  First off: the outfit which her maid had laid out for her, clearly was not the appropriate season; micro caprese were certainly not something you wear after Turkey Day (or before Halloween).  Okay, Daisy had kept her cool so far, after all, what can you expect with ... a rude term applied to central american people - which, by the way, was acceptable speech among higher income-caste circles.

Daisy's phone buzzed.  She picked up, chatted a bit, then - after several minutes - ended the call.  She had to get ready, her clothes,  her hair, her makeup ... yes, she had overslept some.  The previous night had run it's usual too long into the am course.  

She barked for her maid.  Hearing no response, she cursed, and barked again.  Still no response.  Getting madder by the second, she went about the other rooms.  The woman wasn't in the kitchen, nor was she in the laundry area, nor touching up in any of the parlors.  Daisy went upstairs - which made her doubly irate (while the drugs, did wonders, her knees ... well, only so much can be done, when you continue to allow abuse of them). 

The maid wasn't in any of the guestrooms, nor in any of the bathrooms, nor in the guest exercise rooms, nor in the upstairs portion of the library.  Daisy arrived at the bottom of the staircase to the third floor, and barked again.  No response.  She climbed those steps, and peeked inside those several rooms.  Back to the staircase, oh there was no way, she was going to climb that, just to check the two small rooms up there.  

Back down, on the main floor, she made her way, past the foyer, into her suite of private rooms.  The maid was not in Daisy's parlor, nor in her breakfast nook, nor her office.  It was then Daisy noticed a strange smell.  It was comming from the area of her bedroom.  The smell was a bit stronger, as she neared her wardrobe room.  Then she realized what the causing the smell.  In the sewing, room adjoining the wardrobe room, the ironing board was up, and the the iron face down upon one of Daisy's better table-top sets.  

Oh, Daisy was furious; that top was one of a kind, and had cost several thousand.  Just plain livid, Daisy didn't notice the faded green cotton dress, the worn looking half-slip hem, peeking from beneath the dress.  And underneath, those ugly brown shoes the woman always wore (uhm, if the woman had been paid decently for the some 70-freaking hours ... ugh!).  Anyway, this poor pile lay upon the floor in front and center of the iron.  

Oh course, Daisy didn't touch the pile.  Along side it, maybe a few inches away, a silvery object caught her eye.  She bent to look at it.  It was her maid's wedding band (her husband was deceased).  Just a plain piece, probably had cost maybe a $100, if that.  Nearby, that abysmal little bracelet...hhmm, which dollar store did that thing come from?

Anyway, Daisy was clearly upset.  She'd have to call this in, and miss the brunch.

Okay, moving forward:  while her finances could be better, Daisy did manage to sell the beach place, and make some trades.  She had come out ahead enough to finance a modest place in a sufficiently fashionable area, near Martha's Vinyard.  

Dear Reader, you might want to know what Daisy thought about the "disappearance."  Well, she didn't think too much about it; Daisy didn't want to think about it.  You see, Daisy was going places, and it would only be a matter of time until she was able to have a place, a big place, AT - not just some knock-off, near - Martha's Vinyard.

Problem was, though Daisy didn't want to admit it, she knew full well, she was living on borrowed time.  In short, she knew exactly what happened to those people.  And she knew what would eventually become o her - and any body else, left behind.

Daisy, walked into her bathroom, opened the little cupboard along side the large mirror, took out a small bottle, opened the lid, and took a swallow of the smelly potion.

The Days After: The stats came out, within hours. In the us, was figured between 5 and 30 million, but with fake news,

who could know, and frankly, could care less.  The weird sibling or neighbor - or the guy in the soup line - is gone.  Good riddance.  Our ex-interrogator found real  work, shortly thereafter.  He was so glad that plant-gig he was doing, for that brief time, was done.  Qwik backtrack: about a month, before - prior to, whatever number of people, supposedly, vanished in thin air - he had taken the plant part-time position.  Our villain was having cash-flow issues; and he had a history of being let go.  

As a matter of fact, the last church he had "visited," had been his third.  He hadn't a good fit at the church before that one; but you know, it wasn't his fault.  That old fat guy shouldn't have been allowed to drive, and when the geezer backed up, he had come within a half inch of ex-interrogator's pre-owned toyota.  Needless to say, ex spewed out certain words, and of course, was politely asked to leave the premises.  So, it didn't take long for word to get back to the bureau.  He, however, was offered one final chance.

But anyway, that's in the past, and ex works a 9 to 5 getting apartments ready for new tenants.  The pay isn't half bad, when you consider, what you can put in your pocket, and - if halfway discrete - put in your vehicle.  Ex is the proud owner of a coin, from around 1517; it's worth, to the best of his knowledge, about 10 grand.  Needless to say, our villain is not completely stupid.  He so did NOT google that coin - or any other.  In his neighborhood, is a vintage book store.  What went into his car, was a solid silver dinner-plate, and two (Pennsylvania made) Lennox Barclay teacups with matching saucers, (probably worth about a 1/2 k) a cigar box containing several unmatched sterling silver eating utensils (maybe another 1/2 k) and some 1/2 decent clothing he could wear - shirts that covered his belly (sensitive issue).  Have to say one thing about those odd-balls, he thought to himself, they bought and took care of things - things a person can use.

So, the cramped ugly toyota is gone.  He has a new car now.  As for the unpaid balances, that should become manageable within the following year.  He has resigned himself to let his lover move in, in order to share expenses.  Sure, that will cramp his style - bigtime, but only for about a year - then he can show the b*tch the door.

So, what happened to everyone, that Sunday, around 10:30 am?  No one really knows, the news doesn't talk about it - and, so, people don't ask about it.  Sure, like anyone else, he ponders questions - but is savvy enough to keep his thoughts on the matter (and a half dozen other matters) to. him. self.

Just as an aside:  when it happened, he thought perhaps, he'd gotten hold of a bad supply.  And since then, he's somewhat laid off the stuff.  He has a sibling who flipped out from a bad dose, and has been in a mental facility - and probably won't get out anytime soon.

That morning, there had been a few cars abandoned on the expressway.  The one vehicle he had recognized - one you couldn't miss.  Down the road from him, lived an old guy, who drove a 1976 - YES, a 1976 Nova.  Where that guy was able to get parts?   But then again, he knew cars - would take apart engines and transmissions, fix em, and put em back together.  And the cars would run just fine.  Well, the car didn't sit in the off-ramp for too long, before the hubs did a disappearing act - along with two of the tires, the back bumper, the so-70s hood ornament, and the tech stuff inside.

Epilogue: Some ten minutes before - pimples walked into the church house. He and his folks were almost late ... the car, it was quitting.

Yep, that's all mom and pop needed.  Well, they made it.  Thank You Lord Jesus.  It was beginning to sleet - not a good situation to be stranded in.  They took a seat.  The kid's mom laid a throw on her husband's lap.  He wasn't doing so well - heart issues.  

About half way through the sermon, pimply began to feel funny.  Kind of faint, his vision turned - well for a second or so - but long enough to see the people around him start to appear more like mist.  Out of the corner of his eye, his hands appeared the same.

They were gone.  Maybe a dozen or so had been in the building, but only two or three remained - one which was a recent plant.  

A job that paid abysmally - that was, until you could get results.  That could take a year or so.  And the hours involved, of having to fake-friend - ugh! with such boring, ya wanna slap the eff silly people.  Yeah, one of those gigs usually taken up by the comfortably retIred, and don't need the money sort of.

Millennials!  They made the ex interrogator fuming, hopping mad.

THE END,

but the Beginning, for the Bride of Christ

Last day: it was as if the evening was one big blurr. Becky was in her nightgown.

She had said her prayers, and was getting ready to read a little bit before calling it a day.  Was around 10 that she fell asleep.  Seemed like a few moments later, when she heard a loud crash - from inside her unit.  It was the front door.  Before she had time to think, she found herself being rough-handled, and hurled into the back of a van.  Within, were several sobbing others - along with the smell of varying stages of both fresh and stale pee and solid matter.  If the van wasn't smelly enough, the holding cell was ... she threw up.  Well, she more less dry-gagged, but enough to sprinkle the front of her nighty, and the old robe she slept in.  With neither socks nor slippers on her wet bruised feet, she shivered.  The cell, through crowded, had a chill about it.

Near the one corner, a little boy was sobbing, "I'm so scared."  He kept his murmurings low.  Discernment?  The kid didn't look much older than five or six.  His mother appeared nowhere in sight.  She may have been in one of the "last chance" interrogation rooms, or have already been "dealt with - and disposed."  Or, like countless other kids, simply abandoned.  

It wasn't as if Becky had just fallen off the melon truck.  She knew what was happening, and it scared - literally - the shit out of her.  

Lord no, don't let me cave, she murmured softly.

The kid's small voice moaned again, "I'm so scared."  Beside him, stood - since there was really no place to sit - besides upon the floor, which was filthy - a what appeared to have been trucker - and boy, did he look worked over.  "Kid, I'm scared too."  The two didn't appear even remotely related, but the man was, well as best as he could, was looking out for the little guy.

Hours passed.  Becky's ankles were swelling up from the cold standing.  She was able to lean against the wall, for a little while.  But there were others, and besides the stupid wall was cold, and, of course, damp too.  Neither did she talk to anyone - well except one or two people, but very briefly.  It was known there would be atleast one or two plants.

Becky's number was up.  She was none to politely led into one of the rooms.  As predicted, she was offered the last chance to "cooperate" - for the greater good, of course.  What she didn't expect was.  Why the calmness?  Why wasn't she shaking like a leaf in last September's storm?  Why wasn't she crying like a river?  

When the offer - for lack of better terms - was made, she politely responded with, "I can't do that."

"WHY?"  The interrogator's response was followed by a the usual diatribe - and peppered with a rather foul smelling shower of - a drug nearing the strung-out stage.  Anyone who's been out of the house lately, has seen it, has smelled it.

Anyway, to wrap this up - cause, Dear Reader, i really need to get back to 2021 - the interrogator had a melt down.  Fortunately, and mercifully, Becky was spared the unspeakable abuse that went on in such places.  

Well, not just yet.  The interrogator was furious - about some personal issues, namely about a stiffed pay rate.  And the repo.  There was nothing more embarrassing than being seen driving to work in a .... it didn't matter.  For all the bragging, the others were dishing it back, and then some.

Anyway, whatever had set off the interrogator, Becky didn't see it coming.  Happened so fast.

She was dead before hitting the heated cement floor.

Needless to say, not an hour later, the interrogator was the one begging mercy.  For not following procedure, the, now ex interrogator had five minutes to clear out locker #9.  No uc of course.  And yeah, the landlord would - in this case, with no court drama or cost - be able to rent the apartment within days.  Anything left behind, the landlord was legally able to dispose or sell, with no legal snags, whatsoever.

Oh, for some reason, nobody could figure, why all the hub-bub over some old broad who died of a broken neck.  Before dawn, someone from the janitorial staff had been directed to remove the body, and throw it in the "bio hazard" dumpster.

The pimply-faced kid was having some vision problems. But he saw no use in saying anything about it to his parents.

Both dad and mom weren't working - take a good guess, Dear Reader.  Yep, you got it - neither got uc either.  So, the very idea of getting an eye exam - let alone glasses, wasn't happening.  Besides, pimples was no longer in school, to attend, you had to ... yep, you guessed right, Dear Reader.  As for truancy issues, that bureau was just one of understaffed many.  So, atleast the upcoming fist full of fines wouldn't happen - well not right away.

Needless to say, the young man kept a low profile.  He didn't get out much, especially during weekdays.  He kept up with the algebra lessons - lessons, which the kid was, quite evidently, God gifted to have had the foresight, to download and hard copy his entire text.  Was barely a few days later, he lost his internet access.  As for the history and the various social/literary sciences, he didn't give one hoot about - all those lies.  He did miss the tech science class, but with no internet, what was the point!

Not only that, to even turn on a computer - yeah, he was savvy enough to climb into a few windows, but to do so, that wasn't wise. So, in the meantime, he studied his algebra, re-read the books he and his parents had - well, for an hour or so.  Then he had to give his eyes a rest for a bit, before continuing.  

Mr.smoothpalms was no one important, but he knew someone who was.

Someone whom he was able to please.  And yeah, it showed - and it was taking his health down.  But the torn innards were treatable with the drugs his lover supplied ... well, somewhat treatable - that is, if he avoided any of the foods he loved.  Anyway, it was so worth it - being seen at those dinner parties.  The tv people were constantly all a gush at who was attending - and more importantly, who was not.  Even the newscasts made way for these happenings.  

So, in short, mr.snoothpalms - being no dummy - was all speedahead to enjoy it, while it lasted.   Yeah, he was well aware of what happened to the ex-lover before the last ex.  That person, though, was not discreet, and ended up ... ruined.  Smoothpalms, was smarter than that.  When the inevitable came, he'd certainly not make a scene, but quietly get out of the picture.  He had funds stashed away - enough to get set up somewhere out west.

But for now, he was among the favored elite of lovers.  So much so, that he had, though limited power, oh yeah, he had every (though careful) intention to use it.  Why not, he was being used - and rather harshly so.

He knew, unlike countless others, he'd successfully make the transition back to social anonymity.  Besides, being the big fish, in a small pond, was easy, was fun enough - and so much safer.  Really, it was the little things in life that gave him pleasure.  He smiled to his reflection in his bathroom mirror - oh the shattered look on that silly  dyke's face, when he told her to clear out her locker.  Teary-eyed, she begged that he reconsider, that she had a child, that the kid's dad was ... well, he couldn't remember if he had taken off, or was in jail.  Not that he cared.  She broke the rules about having an outburst - either to a team member, or a customer - while on the premises.

Good times.  He straightened his shirt collar.

The preacher looked over his still dwindling congregation. He had some sad news.

Not that sad announcements were that new.  Widow So-n-so was found dead in her apartment.  It wasn't her daughter who found her, oh no the girl was long gone - left her two kids flat, and headed off to ... wherever.  Nope.  Was a neighbor, who began noticing a foul smell.  Cause of death: hypothermia - the old woman had neither heat nor electric.  Another death was a result of a break-in - likely drug related.  As nearly anyone knew, pot and opioids were mostly past-tense, and were the choice of mainly elementary aged kids.  Nope, the new drug was alot more powerful - and very expensive.  

Even for partakers of means, it was commonly known that generous bank accounts drained quite quickly, multi-million dollar houses would suddenly appear on the market - in the ever growing "foreclosure" section.  The auto market, which had not long ago, been selling luxury models, almost like pancakes, were now stuck with an ever increasing inventory of repos.  They either sat, or were sold - cheap, too cheap.  In short, both the real estate and auto market weren't doing nearly as well as last year's sunny projections.

The preacher gave yet another announcement: advising his flock to keep their coats nearby.  The heating system was on-again, off-again - more the latter.  "We can't fix it, or get it fixed...you know the drill."  While one of the guys had brought in a kerosene heater - for which the landlord would probably take issue, kero, like about everything else, could not be paid for with either cash nor check.  

What the preacher did not announce was :  he had tested the system back in mid September; the decon, a recently retired heating systems pro, had carefully checked it.  All was fine.  What happened, sometime during the last few weeks?  Well that was anyone's guess.  

The service was to begin shortly.  A certain pimply-faced young man took a seat near where Becky was seated.  She waved a hello, he greeted her back.

"Church," the preacher began to speak, "there will be no adult, nor children's Sunday school after the service.  As a church, we need to make some plans."

Becky, Part 13 - The can was two years old, past its expiration date, by almost a year.

Becky had a few others remaining.  Inside the cupboard, thankfully remained a canister still partially full of rice.  In the back, sat a large can of peaches, and one of pineapple rings.  She had an unopened bag of noodles, some crackers, and a small jar of preserves.  2025?  Oh well, still should be okay.  And anyway, these remaining items were so old, they'd probably stay down.

Becky paused, before opening one of the cans.  Her supply was ... well, not much.  Earlier in the year, she had tried to stock up as best as she could, but her savings certainly didn't keep up with the inflation-on-overdrive.  

It was late November.  Her fuel oil might get her into late January.  Good thing she had had the tank topped off, before her credit was shut off.  Her card, by the way, had had an unpaid balance of $67.12.  Funny, the company had no issue of accepting her mailed check.  Neither did the electric company - who by the way - gave notice that starting January 13th, subscriptions had to go with their credit line.  Well, Readers, you know what that entails.  Yep, taking - what was, not so long ago, called the upload, but now called exactly what it was - The Mark.  As for Becky's phone, same story - except that customers had until mid December to switch over, if they wanted to remain with the plan - or enroll in any other.  

As for Becky's health insurance, that had quit 30 days after she had "resigned."   Talk about dependence upon the Lord to keep her in health.  Becky, being in her mid 40s, was old enough for things to go wrong, but had no insurance to get anything that went wrong, to be made right.  But anyway, to any medical facility, was about the last place she wanted to be even near.

A few days prior to the store incident, she'd filled her gas tank.  Being that she could neither buy nor sell, there was really no point in going anywhere, other than church.  She had formerly gone both Sunday morning and Sunday night - sometimes to Wednesday's Bible study.  But having to save gas, that shut her out from the only place outside of home she cared to be at.  Except Sunday morning, that is.  When the gas ran out, she'd bundle up and walk the several miles.  

Really, it was a miracle that the congregation's supplies were holding out as ling as they had so far.  They car-pooled, when they could.  But it being so dark, and many of the people couldn't drive at night - and besides, being out after dark, wasn't exactly safe.  Nope, Sunday and Wednesday night services were sparsely attended - and only done so, by those who lived nearby.  Five miles - and in the dark - was pushing things.

Sunday was the day after tomorrow.  Becky would wait.  

Mr.prettypalms made his way upstairs to his office. He had some matters to attend to -

including getting the word out to, even to the rival store, just down the street, to not hire a certain stockboy.  Not that the pimply-faced little geek did or said anything inappropriate.  It was just that, he didn't like the kid.  He didn't like the boy's ... well, world view - it was written all over his acned face.  Anyone, with any brains could tell, and with no words spoken, exactly where the boy was coming from.  Yes, just like, UGH! blondie - except, at least pimply-pete had some proper social graces about him.  

On the other hand, blondie was trouble waiting to happen.  Discernment, (from below) he had caught the facial expression from someone walking nearby, when blondie had her outburst.  The old guy had smiled, then casually, but quickly shambled out.  Ya know, as they say, "See something, say something."  Which was precisely what mr.smoothpalms was going to do - that was, had he not been interrupted by an argument coming from the breakroom.

Those two had to go too.  And that nitwit in hr, wasn't doing her job.  Skimping on the background checks, obviously.  The two in the breakroom, had evidently been lovers - the one hired first, had pulled some strings to get the other on-board.  He'd seen it too many times before: one partner, getting the other partner in, and getting the bonus.  Well, obvious to say, one of the partners wanted a part-time diversion; that didn't bode too well with the other.

Why people took other people so seriously, smoothpalms, let out a huff, wasn't worth it.  Wasn't worth the inevitable drama - especially since one or more of the parties became tangled in relationships, became stupidly possessive.   Why would anyone care to, for even a few weeks - let alone, months, deny themselves ... uh, variety.

Becky, Part 12. While no fan of halloween, Becky considered

buying a pumpkin.  She chose a small one, and put it in her cart, then proceeded to buy some other grocery items.  The usual: milk, eggs, oj, bread, crackers, cheese and some lettuce and bologna.  Oh, and tissues, she needed a box.  On the way to the register, she grabbed a few health bars.  

Yeah, the atmosphere in the store was no different than any other place.  People didn't really converse - except maybe to quietly grumble about this or that.  Mostly, as they shopped, their attention was focused on one or more videos being played...well about anywhere there was room.  Needless to say, sometimes quarrels broke out ... the usual, but socially acceptable, blasphemous, obscenities, cursings.  Sometimes, there was a floor show, especially when two work/or otherwise weary and typically highly agitated strung-out females (women wasn't really a proper noun to utter in society) would screech at each other, and begin to duke it out.

A time or two, Becky had almost become uncomfortably close to one of those situations.  As a matter of fact, was only last week, a 3-eye (that's a term one NEVER utters in "polite" company) started in on her - and there was no rational reason for it.  Needless to say, Becky left her cart - with stuff she really needed - and got herself the heck out of there.  Oh but guess what: The crazy broad (another illegal term) had chased her almost to the door.  Thank the Lord for having sent the downpour outside.  There was no way our skinny heroine would have come away from that - that is, without an ambulance ride to the nearest medical facility.

Anyway, the store being not too crowded, and appearing at least reasonably safe to shop in, Becky headed for the checkout.  The sullen-faced cashier (whose expression matched about everyone else's) rang up her sale.  Becky - who no longer carried a purse, for obvious reasons - reached into her pocket and took out two $50s; she only had bought a few items.

"Didn't you read the sign?" the cashier snapped.  

"Uh, what sign?"

"That sign, blondie (a rude term, which was socially acceptable.), the cashier pointed to a poster, hanging right above the "customer (they really did NOT) care" center.

"But, but, i was just here the other day, there was no sign."

"Well there is now! We no longer accept cash!"

"But why?" Our Becky was dumbfounded.

"Because cash and checks are unsanitary, that's why!"  

Hmmph, Becky thought to herself, while reaching for her credit card, that what goes on at various pleasure palaces (that were about everywhere, and catered to one or more "income-castes" (YES, that was a socially acceptable term)...such goings on were sanitary???  Was all Becky could do to not let out a snorty laugh.

She inserted her card into the reader.  It read "Inactive."  A third person got in line.  Already, patience from both the cashier, and the other two customers, was waxing thin.  Becky inserted the card again.  And again, the same message.

"WTF?!" Becky tried a third time.  Same message.  

"Is there a problem?" came a snarky voice to Becky's right.  The sneery expression, just oozed - like yesterday's ... ew!

"Yeah, there's a f*ing problem! Becky snapped!  "There's nothing wrong with the cash i have to pay for these groceries."

"Ma'am, you know such outbursts are not permitted on the premises..."

"F*k you, and your premises!" Becky grabbed her card from the reader, left the cart sit, and proceeded to walk out.

Almost at her heels, mr.prettypalms continued his nannyish chide-fest, of threatening to call the authorities.  Becky turned around 180 degrees, flipped him the bird, turned back around and headed to her car.

Becky, Part 11 - "But devils can't bother the saints, can they?"

"Read the first chapter of Job," the old guy, sitting in the pew directly across from her, responded, while reaching in his suit pocket for a pen and pad.  The worship service was soon to begin.

Dear Readers, our Becky had no idea of things going on behind the scenes.  And she had no clue, whatsoever, that a certain day, sometime during the previous September, would make her a target.  Okay, here's a brief rundown of what went down:

Late last summer, Becky was minding her own business, eating a pasta salad in the cafeteria, where she had worked.  Across from her, a coworker - who worked in a different department, and on another floor - sat and more or less, stared into space, while stirring some sugar into his coffee.  She waved a qwik hello.  Well, anyway, they both got to chatting.  Unbeknownst to her, he was contemplating doing something really dire.  Anyway, she said something...something so, well seemingly, unrelated.  Becky forgot about the conversation, and didn't hear until sometime afterward, that the man had resigned.  

And here's the real deal.  She didn't have one iota of a clue on this one either:  he and his wife packed their stuff and moved several states away.  Well, to make a long story short, he took to giving the Gospel in the streets of a large city.  People were coming to Christ left and right.  And to make the devils even madder, in the crowd, was a certain young thug - a real belligerent sort... Well, he got saved - and so did half the gang he ran with.  In short, all from the Gospel message from a mouthpiece, who several months ago was considering putting a 44 in that same mouth.

Becky had no clue, whatsoever.  And anyway, it wasn't like the street preaching would make the news.

Meanwhile, our heroine was enjoying the mid summer weather.  While people around her were beefing about the humidity, and the ac costs - and, per usual, about everything else - she enjoyed soaking up the sunshine...and not being cold.  Talk about a silver lining in the haze, Becky had only once, maybe twice, had turned on her ac.

Ms.nosey-posey glanced at the mirror in her living room, that stood above an ornate bookshelf. The mark

on her forehead was a source of irritation.  The IDIOT!!! who had installed it, not only had done so, off center - only slightly yes, but certainly noticable - but the hue wasn't quite right either.  Atleast that part could be rectified - and yes, it would cost a bit, but such as life.

The tv, finally, was through with it's latest string of commercials - there were two advertising garden gear, one from a travel agency, another from a software shop, and three others from various other businesses.  The commercial-free option was ... hmmph, "experiencing technical issues..." How convenient...and didn't their rate just go up, again?  

Posey muttered a blue streak.  She was beginning to consider switching back to standard, but then she wouldn't be able to watch ... well, alot of things.  Not only that, the programs available on the standard, were shortened, although by five or so minutes per half-hour episodes - in order to accommodate the advertisements - still, five minutes, more than occasionally, made the difference between finding out who done it, who was doing who (or what) and not finding out who, or why.  

Another little trick to get you on premium - whether or not you could afford it (many really couldn't) was the volume games.  On standard, as soon as the butler began to sing to the detective, the background music would kick up enough, that you couldn't hear all the details being spoken - just most of the whys and the hows...almost is not enough.

But what posey was interested in watching, wasn't her usual fav dramas.  No, the evening program would be viewed by a global audience - superbowl, take a seat!  That wonderful, inspiring world leader was about to, once a glorious again, take world-wide center stage.  And oh, he was a looker.  Yep, Posey's little plastic toy, in the other room would be busy tonight.

(Mental pictures, mental pictures, ew, that's gross - posey is, like in her mid 60s...ugh!)

Well, now, Dear Reader, while you're headed for the nearest waste-basket, to puke your guts out, your narrator has got to get her old fat ars'e, back to 2021, and over to the grocery store.  Yeah, can't let that go for tomorrow.  Tomorrow's the Lord's Day.

Becky, Part 10 - The late January snow was coming down, they were calling

for, maybe, over a foot.  Becky glanced over at a corner, where the shovel sat.  Even though she had no place she needed to be - certainly not to any job, since she no longer had one.  Over the past month or so, her search was unsuccessful.  Place after place, was all the same, they demanded that not only their current employees be properly uploaded, but any "Persons un-uploaded, need not apply - NO exceptions!"  

How businesses were managing, Becky couldn't figure.  Everywhere, there were signs posted alongside, practically begging for help.  The other day, at the grocery store, they were out of - of all things - apples ... what the...???  Guy at the checkout told her something about cdl regs ... yep, you guessed it.

But there was more.  Alot more.  Not that Becky, or anyone over at church could prove, but, within the past year ... and yeah, old people have been beefing about the lack of work ethic in society ... for how long??  But this latest trend was different, way different.  Seriously, if you so much as bought a few groceries, or a bag of salt from the hardware store - and good luck finding that - and were met with so much as a half smile, that was something to remember.

Becky slipped on her other sweater, it was heavier than the blue one.  She kept her heat set at 62.  She also needed to buy another set or two of long underwear; northland had instead sent her a refund check...you guessed it, they were out of stock, and didn't expect any until mid february - and it didn't profit them to order winter inventory only to, maybe, arrive so late in the season. 

Our heroine was cold.  She wrapped herself in a nearby throw.  While Daisy was spending money and raging bigtime in front of her 3-way - and at her much harried maid -  she really didn't have, in order to hold on to escaping vanity... Becky didn't even want to look into the small mirror above her bathroom sink.   

A week or so ago, Becky had caught her reflection as she was bending over to pick up her hairbrush.  The novelists like using the term "willowy," but that wasn't even worth pretending.  Becky looked more like a scare crow.  Yes, she had sufficient funds to keep her in necessities for another year - that is, if prices didn't go too high... It was, other than toast, peanut butter, and fruit - if she could find that - not much else stayed down.  And if it did, it quarreled.

She finished writing out a check for her electric bill, and put the envelope in her purse.  It had arrived in her mailbox earlier, just when the snow was starting to accumulate, and would go in tomorrow's mail.  She wasn't going anywhere.

She glanced at the shovel.  Yeah, she needed to get out there and atleast shovel her part of the walkway - else, ms.nosey-posey would  make a fuss.

Becky's phone rang.  She picked up.  It was her cousin, the one that ... well, what now ;/  A few moments of small talk, with an agenda thrown in, Becky's ears were about stuffed.  She basically interrupted, "I can send you something, but it's not much ..."  More of the same-old, same-old coming from the speaker.  Becky basically interjected again, "I really can't manage much else, I don't have a job right now."

Upon hearing, what she thought she heard as a response, her eyes widened, her head shook.  "Excuse me!" Becky exclaimed.  Cousin repeated the statement, as if the conversation focused upon who would win the stanley cup, or whatever.  "NO, i 'should've' not...LOOK, i'm sorry you're having issues..."  (There was no point in any  i-told-you-so elaborations.)  The call lasted, maybe, a minute longer, but that was it.  Dear Reader, you know how it goes - with some people it's all too seldom enough, and usually someone else's fault.

Daisy, Part 2 - her reflection in her 3-way mirror, really...ugh, showed.

Needless to say, Daisy was highly concerned, and very, very upset.  The shipment didn't come through.  The boxcar had either been intercepted,  and directed to a more profitable group of clients,  or worse - per what she had heard, may have happened - there still remained, in law enforcement, people who believed that human life, especially children's lives, trumped any man's, or woman's, or any combination thereof's desire to (unnaturally) retain youthful appearance.

Oh, our villainess was positively fuming, bigtime.  The silk shortie-set she had planned to wear to the dinner party....well, that wasn't going to do.  She balled up the delicate scanty fabric, and hurled it against a long row of other "late fall" outfits.  She selected another outfit - which had also showed more toward her actual age.  She tossed that as well.  Then chose another.  Not satisfied, but it would have to do.

She then barked for her maid.  

That wasn't the half of it, however.  Yes, Daisy prided herself in having all of her ... "brats" in a row.  In short, Daisy was proactive; she always had atleast one other source of supply - on speed-dial.

But there was one other little problem...well, actually, not so little.  The fee...one that was orbiting mars right now, and could, within short time, head out for jupiter.  

Her phone rang.  It was about time that little faggot troubled himself to return her call ... he just didn't know - but should know, exactly - who the hell he was dealing with.  As if Daisey's evening couldn't get any worse - due to unforeseen market issues, the advance she "requested" wasn't going to be enough.  

Not to mention, several other bills which were either coming due, or past.   One of which, was the mortgage on her beach property.  One that, looking back, she should have sold last season - that is, before that storm.  The repairs had cost a pretty penny, and the insurance hike had cost about half as much.   Daisy was possibly, probably, looking at selling a certain necklace and matching bracelet - a gift from a past lover, a duke and close cousin to his nation's king.  

The set was certainly enough to keep her in appearance... well, for maybe until summer.  But then what?  Yes, Daisy had other pieces, other saleable assets...but you know how it is: brokers are all a bunch of needy greedy mangey vicious little predators - out for every single dollar they can get their smelly paws on.  Needless to say, the words erupting out of Daisy's mouth were enough to make any dock-worker blush.

Becky, Part 9 - "Why, those rotten fricking b*tards..." Her (unmarked) hand shot up against her mouth. She had to watch her language -

having been warned more than once.  "Fricking" was, of course, offensive toward individuals who chose to engage in various acts of pleasure - in one or more ... methods.  As for "b*tards?"  Whether that was directed toward the mentally challenged (of which were few - because, within the last few years, medical science could, supposedly, detect that either before birth,  or not long after...and that problem could be easily, cheaply, done away with).  Or, even worse, the "b*" term was usually perceived as an outdated, and forbidden word, because it denoted ... well, most of the population.  

Had Becky blurted the Lord's Name, with the eff word in between, that would have been acceptable language.  But anyway, her last remaining friend in the whole place, Yuki, was faced with a real problem.  Well, so was Becky...but Becky was young enough to ... maybe find another job - maybe.

The memo about stated, that all employees had until the middle of December to get their upload, or they could get another job.  "WT..., couldn't they have waited until January?"  Becky grimaced, then added, "course nnottt!"  

"So, I'm out of here." Yuki quietly spoke.

"I'm sorry for the outburst," Becky replied, then glancing at Yuki's wall calendar, which had a lovely oriental garden scene - complete with a bridge.  Thurday, of course, was "TurkeyDay" and today, being tuesday, was the first day, anyone - well, evidently  - most people, had been notified.  Becky added, "it's like they had this planned..."

"Of course, they did, Dear."

Back to 2021, things to do ... like - yawn - grocery shopping.  More later.

Becky, Part 8 - The passenger side window ... it's amazing how the Lord works things out,

in the nick of time.  That small gap in her window, was becoming yet, what she thought would be, another hassle - with cold weather coming on, and all.  It was only, maybe a sixth of an inch, but enough to let in cold air, and her car heater ... meh, was ... well, not the greatest.

Just when Becky began to question that maybe she needed to ... as they say, go along to get along, perhaps, that old book could be in fact, just a collection of old desert fables.  But she dismissed any thoughts, besides the fact that she had to get somewhere immediately after work.  

She got into her car, threw her purse on the passenger seat.  That's when she noticed a small white envelope laying on the floor, by the console.   It was as if, a still small voice told her to forget about whatever or wherever she had to be - and, instead, just get right home.  She placed the little unopened envelope in her purse, and drove directly to her driveway.

Inside was a brief letter, unsigned.  But she recognized the handwriting.  Basically, all it said was, "Whatever you do, don't take 'it.'"

Well, talk about scales falling to the floor!  For the ... for lack of better terms, the fun - no, better yet, the JOY of it, she reached for her little sweeper and ran it over the "scales" then, emptied the basically empty sweeper's hopper into the trashcan that sat outside on the back porch - which was hardly a porch at all ... but whatever - (overpriced) townhouse units be townhouse units.

Becky, Part 7. The missing dish, and other changes.

The box of crackers sat on the little table -  off to the side from the main conference table - alongside of what was left of the store-bought clear plastic-covered cake.  Beside that, sat a short stack of logo'd plastic plates and a few matching napkins, and a few remaining plastic utensils.  A partially opened bag of chips leaned upon the crackers.  

The sorry-imitation-of-crystal plate, which had contained the sea-salad was nowhere...in either sight, nor smell.  Becky had asked a co-worker, who had attended Friday's little party, if "they" had seen it.  Apparently not.   Becky wished she had used another dish.  Not that the missing dish was of any monetary value.  On the contrary, it had been purchased at a store, called "Kmart."  She still recalled the day, her mom put the holiday left-over item in the cart; Becky had been in either second or third grade, and they were on their way to ... she couldn't recall, but probably over to uncle pete and aunt cheryl's.  Dad was on his way back from a run, and they'd meet up.  Nothing really significant about the day...just another day of growing up in a family where dad and mom actually liked each other, and liked their three kids.  

All said, and Becky couldn't put her finger on it, but that plate held sentimental value, and she certainly never imagined it would go missing; seriously, who would want it?  It wasn't even fake glass - let alone crystal.

Becky had meant to remove the items on friday, following the party, but some work things had come up.  She glanced at the clock, it read 8:24.  She loaded the items into a mail cart and wiped down the little table.  Upon exiting the conference room, two of the meeting's attendees were arriving.  As Becky wheeled the contents towards the breakroom, out of the corner of her eye, she met Daisy's not-so-usual dismissive stare.  But this time, there was something else - something far from friendly - from those painted just-ever-so eyes.

One thing for sure: Daisy didn't buy her cosmetics from anywhere near a "Kmart."

Another thing for sure - as she wheeled the now empty cart by Frank's now vacant little office - she missed him.  Frank was one of the few people who was ... well, real.  Realness was becoming less and less.  Unsurprisingly, realness was found amongst the becoming fewer - and far betweener - absense of that certain little tell-tale upload mark.  

The one either upon the right hand, or upon the forehead.

Every story needs a bad guy, or mean gal. So "Daisy's" it - okay, the antagonist's name is from a story

i'm currently reading, and boy, Daisy, in the story is a real hum-dinger.  Anyway,

As soon as Daisy pressed the elevator door, her nose was greeted with a foul smell, coming from somewhere.  Making her way to her office, she made a mental note to have someone look into the matter.  One likely of one or more of the janitors not doing their job.  Those [blasphemous phrase] people...she wrinkled her nose, passing the conference room and entering her office suite.  She locked her handbag and proceeded into the small bathroom.

Oh, she had to pee.  When you're 60+, you can't hold it for too long.  While the room was small, she did manage to have a somewhat truncated full-length mirror placed in back of the door.  While nothing like the 3-way she had at home, the narrow one would have to do.  Her hair was a bit out of place, thanks to the [expletive] wind.  She continued to examine, and admire, her reflection.

Not bad.  Not bad at all.  Daisy knew, she hardly looked a day over early thirties.  A good age to be, old enough to handle situations, but young enough to enjoy ... things.  

What was bad - and getting worse - however was, the appointments were expensive.  Very expensive.  And frankly, she believed, the quality of the treatments were not as they had been a few years ago, when the procedure was new.   Perhaps ... oh, no perhaps about it - they were using, well ... less than quality ingredients, from places like ... well, where those people come from.

Daisy mumbled a curse.  Her cell was in her car.  The distractions in her life, last Thursday's appointment fell through - and frankly, still gazing at herself, it showed.  Coupled with some recent supply issues, it was only a matter of time before the fees would go up - again.

She entered one of the elevator cars, and was met with yet another reminder of her situation.  With an audible growl, she ripped and crumpled the announcement, which someone - probably Bbbeeeckyyy...ugh! had taped up late last week.  Frank's retirement party.  Good [Expletive] Riddance!  

Really, he was an idiot anyway.  His heart condition was his own fault, one which could be resolved - if not lessened greatly - by simply taking the upload.  Not that Daisy particularly cared; she clearly didn't like him from the get-go.  He'd say inappropriate things, and converse with ... well, the wrong sort of people.

A qwik example:  Daisy had been on her way to a meeting, sometime last year, when she had caught part of a brief conversation between Ffrrrank and some guy with ... of all things, a trash barrel in tow.  Something miss-becky-of-sunnybrook-farm had done, for so-n-so.  Daisy didn't get the details, and really didn't care.  But Frank's "if I was ten years younger, I'd ..." response, for some reason, set her off.  Thing is: she didn't even like Frank; he wasn't her type.  And the very last Daisy was interested in was, ugh... marriage.

Daisy couldn't even fathom why people even bothered with that anymore.  Frankly, overnight was more than enough; which was why she preferred hoteling ... let the staff clean up the mess.   That way, in the morning, or whenever she returned to her home, her large rooms remained unsullied from ... other people's odors.  Better yet was - and this is why she usually put the room on her card - whenever who, or "they" were perceptive enough to take the hint, and leave shortly after the evening's fun-n-games were over.  That didn't always work out, however; sometimes, she simply made up a reason to take offense - at nothing, really - and he, she, it, or whatever, would pull on it's duds, and leave...good riddance.

There's yard work to be done, back in 2021.  More later.

Becky, Part 6. But it wasn't just the not-funny tasting food that had her insides in a semi-uproar. Becky remembered parts of that conversation.

Those "parts" she though wished, she hadn't heard, but frankly, neither did the partially muffled phrases come as a surprise.  But still, those phrases and terms are supposed to be something out of a b-dystopian movie.  It was a friday evening last spring.  Becky was on her way home, when she realized, she had forgotten that sea-salad plate.  Oh brother, come Monday morning. that would have smelled real lovely, having sat out all weekend.  

So, she turned her little green datsun around and headed back.  She wasn't even half way in the lobby when she sensed something wasn't right.  And no, had nothing to do with so-n-so walking out with so-n-so - though if you-know-who found out, there'd be drama - complete with a big ongoing bill from the friendly neighborhood domestic relations office.  Yeah, yawn, people doing other people ...  Still, for a moment, Becky paused in thought ... the one individual was, supposedly, so big on ... well evidently, just moral flag-waving.

"Gonna vote dem come November!" Becky muttered, while slamming her thumb into the elevator button.  "F*ck!"  Her thumbnail was broken, down to the quick, and her "outburst" was met by a sidelong glance from someone getting off another elevator.

Muddled in second-thought, that the dems weren't any better than the repubs, she didn't take note of the firewall door being open.  She entered in, intending to grab the plate from the conference room, and leave - she'd wash it at home.  It was then she heard that muffled conversation...oh, this wasn't good.  

What Becky heard from inside a neighboring office, was enough to know.  But certainly not enough to prove.  And who would she tell anyway?  The police?  Hah!  They were so short staffed, to begin with.  To end with, what few remaining officers, who still believed the law was not just another commodity...well good luck doing your job with that.

Becky got right back on the elevator.   The plate untouched.  As far as Becky was concerned, they could call hazmat, come Monday.   She buzzed her car door to open, then, without stopping for her usual Friday night freeze-treat, she drove straight home.  A second and a half, in the door, she grabbed the nearest waste-can and vomited into it.

Becky's stomach hasn't been quite right ever since.

Enough time travel for today.  Goodnight.

Becky, Part 5. For several years, post-pandem, things had been ... eh, normal. Sure, the creepy factor, had all along,

crept in, but such was the "new normal," which was very abnormal.  But to question, let alone, disagree ... what worked best, and most importantly, Biblically, was simply to remain separate ... from all, or as much as possible, away from the the drama.  

Several months ago, maybe a year, Becky began noticing food in general - real food, like apples, bread, tomatoes, oj, eggs, milk ... real food, not junk - had a slight (NOT) funny taste about it.   But a person has to eat.  Made her mad, the needless meddling - of some sort - with the food.  But as with everything else downright weird going on, and intensifyingly so, you don't say anything, unless you want an earful of yet another longwinded, snarkey little secular mental health sermonette.

Becky did manage the salami sandwich, an hour ago, and it only made her semi-nauseous.  Power of prayer, she concluded.  She prayed another one of thanksgiving - for not telling whatzerface to mind her own [everloving] business.  Seriously?  Isn't it quite obvious that to tell someone - with obvious FAKE concern - that, "oh, you look a bit rough, perhaps, you should..."  Thankfully, the door opened, and in came an important client.  

Later on, and somewhat calmed down, Becky almost had to laugh, because she wasn't the one with all the piercings and graffiti all over her body - which, by the way, per custom, clothing was usually scant - and the heating bills needlessly high, as a result, to accommodate the ever important self expression  ... yeah, no wonder the cost of ... oh whatever, was so frakking high.  Sometimes, especially now it being November, just seeing people come in and out, gave Becky the shivers.  It's like 50 out, and windy.  

"Calm down,"  "You're having a melt down."  Yeah right :/   Besides being typical narco exaggerations, these reactions to normal human emotions, (conveniently) put everyone "in place," and kept them there.

More later, busstop ahead.

Becky, Part 4. Becky was never much of a reader - had enough of that in high school, and in college as well. Not to mention, that shortly after getting her accounting

degree, which she had done well enough in, to get a decent job...  Well, what, it's been some 20 years since then.  She can't even recall the day or even the year, but it's was warm out, the day was sunny, and she realized the whole evolution thing just reeked of an agenda.  Of course, our accounting heroine didn't study science, but she couldn't shake the suspicion of book-cooking activity going on...things she would read, while questions being either dismissed, or evaded...this and that scientist - who didn't even believe Genesis - getting invalidated, if not outright slandered - for simply doing science as he or she was taught.  

Of course, like any college kid, she had learned about Nebraska Man and such.  There were one or two other cases of fraud she had learned about, but that was back then.  But one thing had always stuck:  lie to me once, i'll assume it's a misunderstanding on my part; lie to me again, i'll do the same.  But lie to me yet again?  We're done!

Changes began to happen shortly after.  While Becky was not much of a Bible reader, she did pay attention to the preacher's sermon - and per the Lord's grace in her life, Becky sat under a for-real preacher, who actually studied the Bible.  And oh, get this: preacher did NOT farm out his wife to the workforce, in order to fund his ministry.  Anyway, changes in Becky's life, she could not, nor cared to, credit herself for putting a stop to certain things.  Things that just weren't right.  Ya know, this and that, she liked doing, but the Lord does not go for those things. 

We're not talking about anything gross.  It's just that, it doesn't take a fancy-schmantzy theologian to understand that, all it takes, in a person's life is: one - just ONE -  instance of flipping the bird at idiot who ran that stop sign, and almost ...  One obscene gesture is enough to cook ya - forever.   Anyway, somewhere along the way,  between Becky's first job (which didn't work out) and her second, she realized there was no way she could make it on her own steam.  In short, without Jesus Christ as Lord of her life, she was very burnt toast.  Needful to say, those few months, of finally coming to terms - on the Lord's terms - weren't fun.  

But, oh so worth it.  So worth it, not having to kick yourself for things that aren't even your fault - oh, but hollywood will tell you over and over, it is nothing but your own stupid fault, he (or yikes, "they") got away, you pathetic luzer.   But the real difference is - Becky has noticed more and more, over the years - people being so hepped up about living as long as possible, if not forever.

Oh, where's the science in that?  Because, Bezer-the-Geezer might last 200 years - per some really creepy methods - but sooner or later, things wear out.  Or some IDIOT!!!! on a stupid cell phone runs a stop sign.  That one's still Becky's hobby horse ... was a close one.

So, back to 2021, where filing awaits.  Will do some time travel, when i get on the bus.