i like listening to news-guy's broadcast - after all, its not like Christian news-casts can be found just any old where. Anyway,

value his ministry enough to contribute some to it each year.  Yeah, not much, but it is what it i$.   And sure, don't always agree with what he says, but such is life in the real world.  Per a recent broadcast of his, he said that Mexico is 1% farmed, and something like 30% forest.  He said our planet could sustain 20 billion people.  But that sounds like every forest would be cut down - every field would be turned into 500 square foot houses, to house 7+ kids per household.  Uh, sounds a bit crowded.  And where would animals live?

While i'm know better enough to not argue with Scripture, (because the Lord holds all the cards, and i don't) there is one area of Scripture that i have a really hard time with.  That is: the mandate to not use any birth control.  Granted, that time of life is past-tense (and neither so i miss the drama, not even one iota) but still, know in my heart, that if i could do a do-over, there's no freaking way i'd want a bunch of kids, not have a job, and be financially dependent on a man.  NUH-UH!!!  

Sounds feministic?  Yeah, well, what freaking ever!  Point is: seen too many times, where that leads - btw, talk to my mom, for starters, and then go talk to that 95 year-old lady who lives in that welfare apartment in town.  Btw, she's only been to church once this month - been a cold January...might have to do with lack of warm clothing.  In other words, the mom of like 4 or 5 kids, she didn't have a job, and was dependent on a man...yeah :/   And then, not too long ago,  some other pee-wee,  in her extended family, had stolen from her.

Bible says, think around Matthew 7 or so, you can tell a tree by its fruits.  And, evidently, per the history, her late husband didn't care enough to provide ... yeah, like that's breaking news.

Anyway, break's past over.  Back to work.

Been going to the "new" (for me) church since the new year - and yeah, the people there -

will guesstimate about 20 for adult sunday school, and about another 100 for church.  Anyway, wasn't surprised, there's a new deacon (think the old one moved to florida, but don't know, anyway) and sure, when the preacher introduced him to the congregation, he mentioned the guy having just retired from 38 years as a ... NOPE, not a data entry clerk, or a delivery man.  He had the kind of job, where he traveled to a nearby well known city to attend important staff meetings and such.

Oh wait, before sunday school started, some women sitting behind me were doing the normal family/friends chit-chat...ya know, the nice house sitting on several acres.  But, have to again backtrack here.  Was last sunday, during the service.  The preacher was saying that most preachers don't like it when the weather turns nasty, and they have to cancel church...for obvious reason$.  Anyway, the preacher said we were a faithful group, because the offering was about twice as normal - so, that ice-covering-snow sunday was no big deal.

But here's the deal: check out the parking lot outside, and give some ear to the pre-service chit-chat going on inside.  By the way, when the service starts, the car/house/florida chats stop!

So, even if i was still driving that 98 rust bucket (took off the road, because it wouldn't pass inspection) wouldn't keep me from going to that King James only church.  Reason being:  the Lord doesn't frown on people because they work entry-level/menial jobs,  live in small, barely insulated houses and drive old/er vehicles.  

What the Lord thinks.., that's what matters.

Social-security is a form of welfare? But wait a second, you have to work for atleast 10 years

to get even a minimum - which, no way, is even enough to buy groceries, let alone insurance.   People who get those $2,700+ checks each month (and that's barely enough, even if debt-free) worked more than the required 40 quarters, and in jobs that were well above menial/entry-level.  

Think the guy who, on a newscast, equated welfare with social-security had opted out of it years ago.  Meanwhile, a certain King James Bible preacher - who also knows a bit on how the real world operates (because he lived and WORKED there for a time - rather tongue-in-cheek, warned against this opting out - guess he had run into people who had done that, and now at 60-something...eh, things weren't going so well.

If i'm not mistaken, Pastor Barry (who WORKED for years building houses) knows a pastor who, after he couldn't preach anymore due to health issues, subsists in a 5-wheel soda can - they leak heat like nobody's business.   Needless to say, Pastor Barry wasn't one to shake the plate at his small congregation - some of whom were barely scraping by.  

i remember dick pulling out a $10 for the plate.  That may not seem much, but the guy was like 80, and didn't have much.  He had to live with his daughter, and boy was she a bitch; UGLY! all over him, because the little marine was about to bite into a small piece of cake.  Yeah, i know about diabetes and all, but that slice was hardly a 2-inch square. 

Guess news guy didn't get the email concerning elder abuse, either.

Anyway, news-guy was basically going on that old people are a bunch of welfare recipients.  His solution?  Sandwich the (40-something) kids.

Baloney!  

The kids, who are helping out their folks, (and not creating church-house drama) also have their own kids to provide (college) for - and some five or ten years left on the mortgage.   

And, by the way, if social security is welfare, then the HMOs - that working people pay into - are medicaid.

People too focused on finances to have kids? Excuse me, but just received

my home and auto insurance.  Both went up a few hundred from last year.  And yeah, am going to make an appointment with my agent to ask why.  But, per the auto, think i've atleast part of the answer.  About 20% of my auto premium is to, basically, foot the bill for uninsured and underinsured drivers.  And yeah, in my state, you can sign off a document for cheaper auto insurance - but going that route gives me the willies.  So, am wondering about the electric bill - what percentage is providing electricity for people who are constantly late paying there's?  And yeah, i get it:  it's winter, and the power can't be shut off - nor should it, because people will freeze to death, and that's waay too social evolutionary.

But it doesn't take a financial genius to figure out, there's alot of people out there making partial (if that) payments, and taking the rest along on casino roadtrips / down around the corner to buy pot, and then enjoying a nice steak/lobster dinner afterwards (while the responsible are at their 65f home, wrapped in flannel, and eating a cheese sandwich for supper.)

Fixated on finance??   Because ya never know what unexpected things can crop up.  Uhm, that's called being responsible.  i come from the "can't feed em? don't breed em!" side of town - the same part of town, where the folks aren't overjoyed in having to pay for other people's habitual lack of foresight.

And as the comment about people not wanting to be poor...what square-footage - with the marble island, did that one pop out?  Of course people don't want to be poor, you ninny!  Poverty sucks - hard!

Get married, have multiple kids, whether or not the couple is financially solvent? Why is it, the "be fruitful,"

gets overlooked, time after time, in favor of "and multiply?"  In the Bible, "fruit" describes everyday actions.  Actions like, doing a job right and doing it the way the boss (who's paying you) wants it done.  Proverbs has lots to say about making sound financial decisions and steering clear of debt.  By the way, "be fruitful and multiply" is like on page 2, and in that order.  

Telling people to keep on having kids, while living in a 600-some square-foot tin can ... yuk, what chaos!  Went to school with a girl who had grown up in that :/   It wasn't that mom and the girls were lazy - what it precisely was:  there was NO ROOM to put anything anywhere - ever!  And, like waay too many places, no back yard to speak of either - for the boys to even throw a football.

Anyway, i get so tired of hearing the same-old gas-lit accusations - that americans want the 3k square feet and the 2 car garage.  Uhm, yeah!  It's called having enough living space, so that in winter, the space heater in the living room has its three feet, and won't catch the place on fire.  It's called having enough counter space in the kitchen to prepare a meal - and using the range for cooking only...not storage, either on or within, or even too close by.  

As for the 2 cars, guess the quiverfull-pharisees didn't get that email, either...in short, if you live in America and want to make your dentist appointment, you'll most likely need to get there by car.  Oh, and by the way, people (sisters, neighbors) are busy enough with their own situations, and really, absolutely, do NOT need the extra burden of playing taxi.

Browsing the tract-rack over at church - the one i go to now. No longer go to the other church, because

Pastor had to close it, due to his health.  Anyway, notice a pattern, concerning tracts.  Few of them really hit me.  But yesterday, had the following thought as to why:  think most tracts are written by people who've gone to church, about every Sunday (if not Wednesdays too) since early childhood.  People who had things going on, and so had very little to no time for smoking, drinking, running around, and other such time-waste stuff. 

People, who at fifteen and sixteen, already knew that pot parties lead nowhere.  People who, in high-school, took their studies seriously, because they - as teens - knew that most times, the so-called "cool" kids end up going down the drain around 40-something, in some dingy postage-stamp, where the walls are thin, and the neighbors are sullen...on a good day.

Yeah, church people are called "goody-goodies," but seeing the age 50+ folks park their nice worry-free cars, and hearing them chat about their comfortable lives (can ya spell the wisdoms of Proverbs?  It's all about working diligently and saving, not blowing).  Anyway, looking around, calls the question:  Who's "cool" now?

Anyway, back to the tracts.

i didn't grow up in church.  And neither did alot of other people.  Made alot of really stupid decisions back then - so have alot of other people.  As for the stoners and such, they're people too - and the Lord Jesus wants them to come to Him, for a new heart, and an eternal home with Him in His kingdom.  

As for the tracts, the kind that (oh yeah, King James Biblically) speak to screw-ups like me, and others, will keep looking.

Anyway, break's over.  

Of course the building is haunted, what's so unusual about that? For one thing, it's location used to be

a not the best of neighborhoods.  Back in the early 1950s, and earlier, the neighborhood was where you went to get drunk, start a fight, find a hooker and such.  Up the street, was a place where young women went for abortions.  By the way, atleast the man who preformed them was not a butcher (like the one in a nearby community) ; in that place were beds for the women to rest for about a day, and a nurse to see to them.

Anyway, several people have noted unusual things going on, like that electronic door that opens, and nobody is there.  Well, that could easily be explained since electronics does odd things.  But back in april 2020, when there was nobody else on the floor - and probably no one else on the floor/s above or the one/s below - when that stupid door swung open, why did the steady hum of the machines quit, and where did that cold air come from?  The windows don't open, and any entrances are several floors below; the nearest stairwell is behind a firewall door, and is over thataways a bit.  By the way, the windows used to be the kind that opened, but some years back, someone jumped out from like the 11th or 12th floor; there might have been another before, don't know if that person had jumped from a window a few floors up from there or not.  

It's a big building.

One of my co-workers has been there several times alone, working ot, when that door had swung open.  Don't know what had spooked her that one particular time, but she said, per that time, she turned off her computer, grabbed her purse and got out of there.

Maybe the unclean spirit who happened by was dirtier than the others who inhabit the area.  Per Matthew 12:45, foul spirits do wander from place to place, and like crooks, some are more wicked than others - some gang-bangers draw a line at harming kids, while others would stab a four year-old and laugh.

"There goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there : and the last state of that man  is worse than the first.  Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation."  Matthew 12:45

Fortunately, Martin Vilars is, evidently, doing quite well for himself. Unlike too many boys, especially,

who grow up in broken homes ... uhm, Daniel Amneus' books (Garbage Generation, 1991) can fill ya in.  Anyway, Martin - per the year he was born, and some of the articles about him, seem to connect - is doing just fine.  He isn't, like too many boys from broken homes, now 50-something, barely scraping by, living in some dingy by-the-week - and living with a record.  

Yay, Martin Vilars has a good job.

Perhaps he lived with dad after the split, perhaps not.  But what came off a bit odd was : no Wiki article.  Can't help but to suspect that Martin has his life, and is fine with things as they are.

But anyway, it's almost funny (but not at all) is Esthar Vilar is the mra's sweetheart heroine.  On their websites, have been plenty of posts, praising her, for writing that ;/.  But wait a sec, these same mras constantly pound out posts which vilify wives who divorce their husbands (get the goodies) and make off with the kids - while dad is stuck paying support, while remaining stuck in visitor-zone with his own son.

"Manipulated Man?" Hhmm, wonder if Martin, Ms. Vilar's son,

thinks, about the whole deal.  When Martin was a boy, his parents divorced. Mamma has a quote, that goes along the lines of not divorcing her husband, but marriage itself.  Well, that all sounds sssoo revolutionary,  but there was one little glitch:  her son, a young MAN was forced to grow up without both his parents in the house.  That can be really tough on a kid.

And sure, the divorce was likely drama-free.  But still, even drama-free divorces pull the rug from beneath kids' feet.  Btw, this isn't about where one spouse is just plain mean and wicked.  Most couples who divorce, do  want to keep their children connected to both parents. 

But visiting dad (or mom) every other weekend, and every wednesday...it's not the same; but it is alot of shilly-shallying around ...ya know, aw crap, left my math book at dads (who lives 40 miles away - if not further).

Could be a plant - recently, mrs.shez-all-that ran an article about a wife who put up with

her husband running around on her, more than once, or even twice.  For years, this went on.  Well, needless to say, mrs.shez...and her crew are gushing like a texas oil rig (if that is allowed ;/).  Question is: have they all forgotten that cheating spouses can expose the couple to veneral disease?  People tend to think, in the husband's case, that his girlfriend just sits in her apartment pining all weekend, waiting for monday or tuesday, when her married lover will call or come over.  

Btw, a dear abby post, from years ago, summed up girlfriend's situation - forget about weekends and holidays, and going places with your married boyfriend; he might bring over a bottle of wine and some steaks now and then, but the dates will usually be inside, and on girlfriend's utility bill.  

Also, the other question is:  if a spouse can step out, what foul else is the cheat prone to do, or not do?  Heard a sermon (sermonaudio.com) not long ago, where the preacher summed fornication in one so right-on phrase - "...based on a lie."  Yep, the other shoe can drop at any time.  It may drop twenty-some years down the road.

Reality check for the citizens over at bubble-land.  When you're 35 you can bounce back when things go wrong.  When you're 50-something...whole different ballgame.

Yeah, ya bet yer boots this post is referring to financial matters.  But i guess, when you've got yours, it's easy to spout, "oh, Jesus is my social security. "  Uhm, when that woman - who doesn't have to work, drives a late-model car, and is fixing to inherit about 200k (when her mom kicks) - spouted that off to me, had i been a lost person at the time...  Yikes, mighta stayed lost.

That happens with people.  How many souls are now burning in hell because some praisey-maisey, for the sake of self promotion, dropped the name of Jesus.

More chidey heidi from the worldlings - was looking at the weather.

High winds, of course.  By the way, when that windstorm took out all 10 of Job's and Mrs. Job's kids, guess who wanted the storm?  Yep, the devil sent that - of course, he had to get permission from the Lord.  But had devil been occupied elsewhere, those 10 kids wouldn't have died in the storm.  So, it stands to reason who initiates crappy weather, and because we all fell in Adam, the Lord may give the okay.  In short, the devil may want today's wind to gust up to 180, but the Lord decides what mph.  The wind groans, sounds like it voices all of post-fall creation.

Anyway, it snowed last night, about two inches, then it rained.  What an icy, slushy mess.  The five-gallon bucket has ice-melt.  Too bad, not regular good old fashioned rock salt - that's in the pole barn.  And yeah, i get it: ice-melt doesn't chew on your concrete.  But ya sure have to use alot of it.

i like the rock salt.  You can sprinkle that, and some 15 minutes later, the ice can be shoveled away.  i just used over twice as much ice-melt, as i would use salt.  And the stupid ice-melt...didn't as of yet.

As for the weather, someone on the net had mentioned, fearmongering - check the ads when you visit the weather page.  Yep.  An ad for a generator.   Oh yeah, like most people have a few grand just sitting around, wanting to be used - like that few extra grand isn't needed for any other type of repair.

Chidey heidies don't have repairs waiting to get done, and they don't have budget constraints.   But one thing you'll likely hear from the heidies are horns being blown, whenever one of them decides to send fifty bucks to a charity - ya know, like the racket you heard back in november 2020.

Those little pamphlets the electric company send out,

admonishing their customers for using more electricity than their neighbors, there's a guilting tone - and that tone is backed up with references to getting your home at top efficiency.  Cha-ching!  Oh, you don't bu-ku bucks to have your place saran-wrapped all the way around, a good 1/2 foot thick?  Why you irresponsible luzer!

Yeah, that's the tone.  And you're supposed to feel inadequate, because you finally figured out where the draft is coming from - thanks to a breezy day at 7 farenheit.  So, all those years, bleeding out electricity.

But here's the difference: the Lord is not mad at people, for not having some stupid windows replaced.  In fact, the King of kings doesn't care if you hillbilly the thing with...what's ever at hand.  But the worldings expect you to get new windows, whether you can afford them or not.

A recent post, over at mrs.shez-all-that's website, she and the submissive-sorority were going all ga-ga about

Connie.  Well, word is, Connie had passed away.  Hhmm, like Anthony's wife's mom - who died a tired old woman at 44?  Anyway, they're all over there praisey-maiseying Connie, for having put up with peewee - who would come and go, leave her with yet another baby, while he would go off, get in trouble with the law, and go to jail for a stretch.

A real preacher, and guess what, there ARE, Praise The Lord, a few of them around.  These few real preachers (who happen to preach the Word from the King James Bible - and no other :) wouldn't chide Connie for one second, had she left that Jack-leg, five-five-some babies ago.

And babies, that's another thing.  

Those kids are probably traumatized.  You don't tend to get over spending most your childhood hungry and wearing shorts to school in November - because you don't have any warm clothing.  And then there's the b*tards at school, whose parents must have forgotten to teach their kid's common decency toward their classmates.  Kids need security, stability; if kids don't get that from their parents, or parent, they're prone to become druggies, hookers  or hoarders when they become adults. 

Oh, but ya won't hear one peep about those kids.  Oh, wait a sec, maybe the one who became a missionary.  It's as if the other four or five had only existed as babies, but not people.  Real people, with real struggles aren't much use to pharisees. 

Speaking of pharisees, ever notice when that poor widow gave her last two mites (Jesus said, that was all she had) not one of the pharisees had the compassion to atleast buy her a sandwich.

The 80% question - a friend from church, while talking about an unrelated topic, had expressed amazement,

at how people will buy new homes, with the expectation that, even a few years down the road, no repairs will be needed.  Her amazement was: "people don't want to fix things."  She knows about stuff like that; me?  The only thing i know is: when work needs done, you call reputable people - and pay good money.  Oh well, that's what grownups do - we work and budget our paycheck so windows keep the draft out and roofs keep the rain out.  

Anyway, thinking about what my friend said - this being several years ago.  Evidently, this maintenance-aversion is not uncommon; people would rather spend their money on playtime - and not responsible homeowner (full) time.  It's true, the house owns you.  Oh well, then get an apartment - eeyikes, the rents are ridiculous!

So, it stands to reason that while the full-time working wife and mom, not only comes home to do too much, with not enough space to do it properly, add the sink with the slow drain - that's been slow for the past three years - the cracked linoleum floor in the laundry room - that is not only a beech to clean, but it holds and tracks in dirt.  Then, there's that stupid shelf that's propped in the corner, for the last...ugh - instead of usefull on the wall.

Guess mrs.shez-all-that-and-a-loaf-of-homemade-bread doesn't stop for a minute to consider what more than a few of her sisters in Christ have to put up with.  Nope, mrs.shez-all-that just goes on her merry "wives must be submissive" chide-fest.  Seig-freaking heil :/

Well guess what, a person can only carry a heavy stone uphill for so long.  Sooner or later, that individual is going to ask, What's the point, in continuing up the same chuck-holed hill, with the same gritty rock?  

Talk to Shirley, her life is peaceful now.  The peewee drama is past-tense.  She can come home from work and enjoy being with her children.  

Because the gubment (the taxpayer) helps her out?  Well, guess what, somebody has to be the patriarch.  Evidently, peewee couldn't be bothered - no wait, when he wanted his rc-cola brought to him, oh then he was king of the (tin can) castle.  

Funny how that (non)works.

Not a story, just a rant. While i won't name names - because its not really necessary. People who live in the real world,

have had their fill of being told how to manage their lives.  There's a woman who runs a website, where she preeeches that women should stay home and not work.  Oh fine to make those noises - from a spacious kitchen, where all the cooking and home canning stuff is stored in one or more of a score or so cupboards.  Uh, reality check:  when you live in a large house, you have room for things, you have room to keep a house spic-n-span.

And that's why, the only thing on mrs.shez-all-that's countertops is a microwave oven.  Oh wait, didn't see a coffee-pot on that you-tube, probably because the camera wasn't pointed in that direction.  But anyway, in the real world...

Most women have to work, and then come to a home that's too dern small to properly do the second-shift - cooking, laundry, cleaning up, and such.  As for home canning, that's a skill which many women never have had the time to learn.  Yeah, how about that: full-time jobs take up alot of time.  And that does not include the commute, and the stopping at the daycare and the take-out.

Oh yeah, that's another one of mrs.shez-all-that's sermons.  Don't cha know, take-out is expensive, and nutritionally bankrupt.  Well no sheet shirl - you get a job, work at it all day, week after week, (maybe a job you don't even like that much) and then go pound yer unprocessed-foods pulpit.  Yeah, time will tell.

Another sermon-theme on that website is, that "80% of divorces initiated by the wife..."  Hmm, which mason jar did that one come out of?   Anyway, assuming the figure is atleast partially true, would it have aanything to do with, too many tasks, and not enough time, or space, to do them - efficiently...ya think?  Anyway, between being full-time in the labor force, then full-time keeping house (where there's no place to properly put stuff...move ten things over here, to clean over there - and then move it all back).  The same old too much to do, with too little to do it gets very tiresome as the years pass.

This whole rant boils down to, the pharisical tone of that website is very annoying, to say the least.  Cannot help but to notice a real lack of empathy.

Partytime.., Epilogue. Pellet flew past the moon, mars, and beyond the PLANET pluto.

Within a distant solar system, Pellet spotted a rocky planet, about the size of Neptune, which was experiencing tectonic issues.   "Yeah, yeah, can hide out there." Pellet concluded.

"And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall upon us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:"

Revelation 6:16

The End.

A few other Scriptures:

"But one of the soldiers with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came blood and water."

John 19:34

"And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the deep."

Luke 8:31

"When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none."

Matthew 12:43

"A land of darkness, as darkness itself, and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness."

Job 10:22

"The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid is their own foot taken."

Psalm 9:15

"Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.

Lest thou shouldest ponder the path of life, her ways are movable, that thou canst not know them."

Proverbs 5:5-6

Partytime.., Part 6: It was a now or never moment. Yeah, Pellet was determined

to show the other demons a thing or two.  He flew above the Tomb, floated there and waved - neh, neh, neh.  Not only that, Pellet drew closer to where Jesus's body lay.  His about two-sheets-to-the-wind co-rebels cursed and carried on, as Pellet drew even closer.  Pellet ate it up with a grin, none of them had dared even half the distance.

Why?

You'd think ScumWaffle would have taken up the challenge; he always had to be the champ - always.  

Something was not at all right.  

Below him, the Lord God's sentries just stood there.  Why hadn't they run Pellet off from the start of his profiling-Parr-teh?  

Were they rendered powerless, now that Jesus was door-nail dead?  And were they calmly grasping to hold on to the bluff, for as long as possible.  Ooo, were the Lord's obedient little boy scouts shaking in their sandals, pooping in their robes?   Ha ha and ha.

The answer to these questions took form, when Pellet happened to notice something, as he drew close enough to get a good look inside the Tomb.  

Pellet's victory smirk vanished.

He flew out of there, like a bat out of a cave.  He didn't want to be the one to tell satan that they all were in a really bad situation.  

A bit over twenty-four hours had elapsed since that soldier has trusted his spear.  By this time, Jesus's lungs, his heart and such should have, at the very least, began to become runny and nasty.

Nope.  Not one cell, outside or in, had even begun to decay.  Not. A. One.  

Nuts to the victory dance, and forget about host-hunting.  While Pellet wasn't sure what was up with the body of Jesus Christ, Pellet did know one thing.  This unforeseen turn of events wasn't good news for Pellet.  

He trembled.  Trembled so much, he could barely stay in flight.

Partytime.., Part 5: 2nd Evening. Pellet's pursuit of a host wasn't going so well. He was getting fed up with

being roundly excluded from the possess-parties going on all around him.  Many of the demons shared hosts - some flitting to another, and maybe back again.  But Pellet assured himself that he was picky - which was partially true, but...

Pellet decided to settle for a certain vacancy.  A legal assistant.  Granted, the body was a slave, but a rather high-ranking one - and boy, what a babe!  On the way over to the Law Offices of Bayt & Swiche, he caught a glimpse of the Tomb.  Around it, of course, stood several of Ga-ga-gaawd's ever goody-goody sentries. 

He noticed, however, something was out of place.  With all the demons, having chose their hosts, (human or animal) not so much as a mangey dog woof'd nor snarled at the Tomb - never mind, a snickering pharisee nor soldier happening by, for a few jeers, before heading on their way.  

That's strange!

Were his co-demons scared - and, of course, too scared (of being ganged-upon by the others) to let on, that something could be wrong?  

Yeah, understandable enough.  But, what if...

Pellet was upset.  Upset because, it was the higher-ranking demons who should be paying attention.  But nnnoo, that would pausing the party.  StyEye, one of the arch-demons, was currently seeing about some stupid chariot.  Oh my, perish the thought of interrupting that, for so much as two seconds -the idiot! And satan?  Hhmmm, probably laying about in some tropical glade, on the other side of the planet, slowly swallowing a poor defenseless little mouse.  

Meanwhile, before them all, stood the very real possibility, that conquest's one-time open window, was fixing to shut.  And might do so, real soon.  

Partytime.., Part 4: Pellet then switched his thoughts back to finding a host.

Having no body to have some fun in, that was fine and dandy for Ggaawww's goody-two-shoes crew, Pellet snorted as hs continued his search.  He flew over the Jew's Ha-ha-hholy temple, and had briefly considered taking up residence in one of the junior sadducees; despite their moralistic pontifications, which got old, quick, atleast those guys were fool enough to only believe in the here and now.  The added bonus was:  they ate to live, not the other way around.

Just as Pellet was about to move in...yep, ToeJam had beat him to the punch. Crap!  Oh, just as well, Pellet headed away from the building, those guys' group-think was especially boring.  One of them, was going on about the evils of gambling.  Hhmmph, the old prude...nothing wrong with betting on the ponies, as long as the kid had shoes on his feet.

He flew over the shopping district.  "Oooll, nice fabric!"  He exclaimed...and almost collided with, YIKES, Gabriel.  Seriously, Pellet scoffed waay under his breathe, that self-important toady was on his way to supervise the guarding of a what?  A freaking dead body.  Pellet rolled his eyes.  

Well, this looks interesting, Pellet paused before, what appeared to be a fashionable residence.  Therein, was some fun and games to be had...but, on second thought, that particular brothel was noted for drawing in some real weirdos - namely, several of the demons who had accosted Pellet.  Not going there.

Partytime.., Part 3: As Pellet flew past the Legion, he happened to notice

a soldier ricocheting out the door.  Oh boy, Pellet grinned - having seen that guy before, in same place, same condition - a flogging waiting to happen.  Pellet wanted to stick around, egg it on, and watch (the soldier's commanding officer was nearby, and looked mad about something) but Pellet didn't have time.  

And something was troubling him, as if things were too good to be true.  He stifled it and continued on.  He slowed down some, approaching the library, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dirt Bag.  Drats!  It was best to give Bag a wide berth; Bag was a brownnoser extraordinaire - had connections all the way down.  Needless to say, Bag didn't want to change hosts.  He enjoyed the stoic lifestyle - they ate fruit and low-fat bread.  No beer, no dope, and no junk food.  And certainly,  no offensive vapors.

Pellet detested earthly food, gross how it came out.  But if you wanted a host...  Pellet had pondered this nutrition thing, but oh, didn't discuss it with any of the other demons, because sharing observations about everyday things, somehow would end up twisted into something very else.  And it wasn't like Pellet was the only demon to end up bound and belly down ... over nothing really.

So, Pellet kept his observations to himself.  Frankly, he could only conclude this food intake (which was gross too) and elimination process was clear evidence that the Most High God wasn't all that, with apple slices on a bed of lettuce.  Pellet's ponderings were abruptly southended.

Outside a healer's shop, a horse which apparently had a belly load of 3rd rate feed, had suddenly let loose.  Pellet gagged so violently, he veered off course, and came dangerously close to Valour.  Yikes!

Valour, one of the Lord God's angels, was heading in the direction of a borrowed tomb (Pellet had snickered upon hearing that little detail), where Jesus Christ's dead body had been interred.  Pellet scratched a matty tuft on his head, What's the point, guarding a corpse?  Wasn't like Jesus was in any condition to get up, and from inside, roll the stone away - the thing had to have weighed a few tons.  

Partytime.., Part 2: Leaving his whiney host - and the smelly cloud,

evidencing clogged organic plumbing, (from too much processed flour) Pellet set out for his dream host.  He flew down the street and around the corner, to a side building next to the arena.  His teenage potential host was lifting weights.  Definitely a healthy eater, who didn't emit noxious clouds; five and one half feet, 120 pounds - and not a blemish on her body.

Oh but as typically rotten luck would have it, Rat Turd flew in, and was on her, like stink on ...  It was as if Turd was keeping tabs on Pellet, for no better reason than ... because he could.  Pellet wanted so badly to just go over there and punch that smirk off Turd's snout.  But that wasn't going to happen, better to simply avoid trouble and look elsewhere. 

Turd was also relishing his freedom to choose a host, or go look for another.  It had been awhile, since he had enjoyed the privilege o possessing a soul that he enjoyed manipulating.  His previous assignment was the pick-pocket who had ... no wait, that one died in jail during the Caesar administration.  Whatever..!  The dullards all melted into one big bore.  

Pellet had reason to console himself as her flew away from the arena-complex.  Atleast his hosts had mostly been of a higher social caliber than Turd's.  And in all fairness - that which Pellet priced himself - Turd had been under unreasonable punishment.  Had something to do with a serious quarrel that was fixing to break out between Shem and Japheth.  In all fairness, it wasn't Turd's fault that Ham just had to show up with the right tool.  

Anyway, it presently looked like Turd's punishment - for something that no way, in the entire universe, he could have stopped - had been lifted.  Well, atleast for now.  But you never know, not with their king - the father of lies, being changeable as the Galilean Sea.

Partytime, Whahooo, Part 1: First Evening - The moment the soldier yanked out his spear, which he had so rudely

thrust in, from the prisoner's side, as the Blood and the water spurted out separately, a resounding cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd of devils.

Jesus Christ was dead.

And not only that, it was finally partytime.  After some 4,000 years, with hardly a break, satan had been working them about non-stop... well, some devils more than others.  But now, that Jesus was finally off their scales, it was as if satan had declared a day of rest - maybe, just maybe, even a few days of leisure.

Wow, what a feeling!

For the first time, since their defeat - and immediate expulsion from heaven - the devils had found themselves free to roam about.  But that wasn't the half of it.  For the first time, not having that awful dread of the coming wrath of God, nipping 24/7/365.25 at their tails.

Jesus Christ was dead.

He would not be coming back, riding a horse, wielding a sword, casting the rebels into the pit.  And neither would any of those smelly clay pottys be given any cities to rule, nor crowns to cast at Christ's pierced feet.

For the first time since the rebellion - that didn't end well, of course - MousePellet had some freedom.  Was a bit shocking, and yet a bit scary, to be allowed to just up and seek a different host-body - one of one's own choosing.  And one who wasn't anything like the spoiled, ever peevish, dough-faced senator's brat.

Ugh!  Having been stuck in that kid's flabby frame, had been a non-stop miserable, and oftentimes humiliating experience.   The little wussie was no fun - ever!  He didn't fuss with his sister, he didn't roughhouse with any of his brothers - and knock over lamps and vases, nor did he trouble any of the servants.  Neither was the early teen into stealing, cursing or making fun of homeless people.

Nope.  None of that.  The kid's all consuming sin (against the Most High God) was pizza.  Pizza, pizza, and more pizza.  

MousePellet hated pizza - especially pepperoni, which was the kid's favorite - with a passion.  Nor did Pellet care for the kid's 2nd favorite food, ham-n-cheese boli.  Just monotonous.  Everyday the kid sat on his flabby bottom, feeding his face.  And forget about his table manners, just atrocious. 

The last soul, Pellet had been stuck with - and was now screaming non-stop in the black flames of hell - had been a similar load of doughy vapors.  That one, the son of a prominent egyptian magician, had a non-stop passion for jelly donuts.  The host before duke-donuts ... whadda sissy! 

One embarrassment after another, while the other devils somehow managed to possess princes, 1st rate call girls, gladiators, mob bosses...the cool people.  In short, it was as if Pellet always got stuck with the luzers.

But Pellet had long since learned to not so much as humbly request - let alone, stand firm and argue - for an assignment, ones which were better suited to his preferences and competence.  

Nope.  Pellet had decided that making any appeals before his superior, not worth it, to say the least.  Last time was, a few days before some weird guys of Gibeah...anyway, all that - the careful phrases, the simpering in general - got Pellet was having been roughly turned over on his belly.  There must have have been arleast twenty of em.

And to this day, Pellet was expected to go around, just grinning and simpering, and acting like that outrage never had happened to him?  Seriously???

After.., Epilog: The little boy squirmed out of his car-seat, and tuned around. The truck's bed was full

his parents had loaded whenever they all went in a camping trip.  But there were other things as well.  Blankets, mom's winter coat, gloves, and other things they didn't use for camping.  A sawed off lay underneath some stuff in the back seat, that wasn't camping stuff either.  Neither could the boy figure out why daddy told him to leave his tablet at home.  Missing the pint-version of SpeedRacer, the kid fidgeted a bit, then settled down as he gazed out the back window.  Up front, Cowboy patted his wife's belly.  He turned onto the highway, and headed west.

The End.

After.., Part 18: "Honey, i'll be fine," Lana assured her husband, then added, "besides, they don't sell sunscreen."

"Okay." Though Cowboy had misgivings about his wife going inside alone.  Maybe she was right, after all, they were at their local bank, not the big-box - where, these days, you wheeled your cart carefully, because anything could break out, at anytime.   

Woah, that last episode, those two women - cowboy wasn't sure, about the one, especially - tearing up.  That bottle flew past Lana, and hit a teen, who appeared rather neglected.  Lana, of course, quietly went over to see to the youngster, then the teen's parent - maybe, but Cowboy had cause to wonder about that, jumped in, like out of nowhere. Anyway, the "parent" got real ugly, real quick.    Leaving the cart, Cowboy, simply took his wife's hand and got her out of the store.  Behind the couple, the "parent's" voice raged at the teen - calling him or her, about every vile thing possible.

While Cowboy didn't mind having to drive, and accompany his wife, about everywhere, it just wasn't right, wasn't healthy for an adult to have to be accompanied, as if she was a nine year-old at the Gaia-Day parade.

Lana came out of the building, her head bowed, her hair in front of her face.  "Getting into the truck, she stifled a sniffle - but not quite.  "Can we go to the ATM down the street?"

The scene which had taken place in the bank - parts of which were unclear, due to Lana's tear-garbled voice - had immediately led to a second decision.  One which, in no uncertain terms, Cowboy was firm.  

"Never again?"  That phrase out of Poland and Germany, nearly a century ago...well, a certain garbled word, from his wife's lips, seemed to indicate that it was fixing to happen again.

The strange thing was, Lana didn't go around blabbing about ancestory - or anything else, for that matter.  She had never even sent for one of those dna kits; claimed that set-up, was...

After.., Part 17: Cowboy made a mental note, as he climbed onto his motorcycle, to see about a weed-whacker. The one he had

had about thrown its last hissy-fit, and he was about done with the drama.  He headed off to his job.  Waving to his co-workers, some waved back, some did not.  Whatever...  The guy whose locker was next to Cowboy's was going on about Kick's party.  Hhmm, nobody had said anything to Cowboy.  Whatever...

What struck him, was the big bold sign posted on the bulletin board along the ship-area wall.  The sign was posted over the union and safety stuff.  Strike One.  That, especially the safety stuff, was NEVER DONE.  Oh no, they lost a guy last year.  The sign read "As of April 31st," and in larger font, "ALL EMPLOYEES MUST," the next line, "RECIEVE THE B-SCAN," next line, "No Exceptions."  Strike Two.  

Right there, there was no ways about it.  Cowboy had already made his decision, and was determined to stick to it - come what will.

Strike Three didn't occur to our perplexed hero, until 3:15 - after the second break.  No body beefed - NOBODY!   The guys were known to beef about anything else - the vending machine was is of ho-hos again, someone didn't pitch the grounds before making another pot,  Elroy-earn-n-burn is mad because he can't have off...Thale men's reaction - more like non-reaction - to the bulletin-bomb stung.  Cowboy headed to his motorcycle, and turned into a nearby diner and asked for a coffee.  His hands trembled, in the counter, as he took a sip.

After.., Part 16: Lana was upstairs lying down. She, evidently, needed some space.

Earlier in the day, while the pot pie was slow cooking, she and the boy had run over to that ... that dive to visit gram.  Well, among other things, the place had belched up yet another sheet policy.  No Children.  "What the ef!" Lana had barely touched her dinner, and not long after, had gone upstairs.  There was more, gram wasn't doing well, was only a matter of time.  Cowboy had his suspicions, but now wasn't the time.  And besides, his wife didn't have POA - that was in the hands of a certain family member, who seemed far more concerned about the old woman's money - not like Edna had anything, save for a fund to be put into a big-box, when the time came.

"Whoosh."  the boy's voice came from the kitchen, followed by other battle noises.  He and the other mighty men were on the march to slay some philistines - or was it edomites?  Cowboy wasn't sure, but the next noise was, evidently, whatever enemies victory.   Apparently, Doeg - or whatever his name was - had opened that certain cupboard door, just alittle...but enough to trip up the young warrior, sending him crashing into that rickety stand by the window.  Boxes, bowls, and whatever else clattered to the floor - along with, evidently, something made of glass.

Oh brother, Cowboy arose from his livingroom seat.

After.., Part 15: Nope, guess not today, Cowboy glanced at the windowsheild of his truck.

A wintry mix was pooling in the wiper-well.  He'd hope the storm would have held off till later in the morning, atleast.  He had wanted to take Jr for a spin on the bike, but, uh-uh, not today.  Both father and son climbed into the truck and headed down the road.  Cowboy grimaced, those places were cropping up everywhere, while at a red light, he glanced at what once was a small church, which had been converted into another Goatee Hair and Body studio.  Out in front was a statue of ... whatever, sporting some sort of tight, hairy plastic brownish red suit, and platform shoes that looked...well, like goat's feet.

Down the road, just alittle ways, he pulled into bank's parking lot.  Cowboy grimaced again, as he and his son entered the building.  Why was it always in the way of customer traffic?  Those stupid queues.  The two, cumbering up the lobby, were longer than the ones seen - and avoided - elsewhere. 

Oh, that's why, Cowboy scratched the side of his head.  The sign read NO INTEREST LOANS.  Below it, some small print.  Cowboy had no desire to even read that small print; he wasn't interested in a home equity - or any other sort of - loan.  Sure, the house needed work, but he and the mrs would just make do.

The first thing would be that tier of cupboards in the corner.  They were nasty, the door to the bottom one didn't stay shut, and the middle one ... well, it wasn't much better.  And the thing hogged up counter space, which was also a hassle.  

On the way out, he glanced at a clock which sat on the receptionist's counter.  It read 9:30.  Their Sunday dinner, of beef pot-pie,  wouldn't be ready until around 1.  Though the family had just had bacon and eggs, hardly an hour ago...

"Let's go get some donuts, sport."  The two climbed back in the truck, and drove off.

Meanwhile, back at the house, Lana had put the breakfast dishes, and had started to brown the meat.  Having a few minutes, she ran upstairs and changed her flannel gown for a checkered shirt and a denim jumper.  The lady was resourceful.  Underneath the jumper was an old flannel she had recycled into a slip.  The house didn't keep in the heat very well, and getting that fixed...cha-ching - for starters...that is, if you could find someone to do it, sometime before next summer.  Ugh.

After.., Part 14: Well, that's strange, Lana pondered. No message from Gloria. Lana had texted her best friend two days ago,

and no response.  She concluded, with all the strange things going on, maybe Gloria was just punting back some to sort things out.  Cowboy pulled into clubhouse parking lot.  As Cowboy held the door open for his mrs, they were talking about a can of paint they'd bought, and whether they should have bought two.  Neither he nor she noticed the two or three glares which had, for a second or two, focused in their direction.  Neither had the couple noticed that an unusual amount of time had passed before the bartender served them their usual, OleMicks on tap, and the soda for their son, who had b-lined for the racing video, which sat in a corner, nearby some tables.  Both were still going on about that paint - that the ceiling would look better with a slightly different color.  "And did you see that...well, I'm not sure what it was, over by the..."

Needless to say, it was any wonder Cowboy no longer chose to remain in the truck while his mrs ran inside.  The fries were done, Lana took the boat over to one of the tables. A few minutes had passed.  The boy ran over to his dad, asking him for some change.  "Honey, eat your fries first," Lana glanced at the boat, untouched, "then you can..." 

What was that all about?  Some terse murmurs a few seats away, came from a source, not normally given to "moods."  But that was the thing: thing's weren't normal.  And, of all things..!  Sonny and Cheryl were splitting up.  Lana had heard about it, last week, while in the laundry needs aisle.  Overheard it, to be more precise.  Lana wasn't one to traffic in gossip, but neither did she care for the possibility that, perhaps, she was intentionally being left out of the loop.  Anyway, seemed that way.  

Above the bar, a basketball player was just about to make a shot, that would either make or break his team's (yes, this was the vintage league - also, waay out of the loop of winning any regional - let alone, national recognition) winning the game... Anyway, groans erupted around the bar, when the game was rudely preempted by some overly primped-up talking-head.

The game however was like majically forgotten as soon as talking-head dropped a certain name.  Almost the dozen or so individuals in the place, were fixated.

"Bummer."  Lana mouthed.  She liked basketball, and catching atleast part of a game, was a pleasant treat during her busy weekends.  She had played varsity in school - that is, for about half the season.  But her shooting the hoops days, were put to the skids, when another "girl" had knocked Lana  with such force, landing her in the hospital - long enough to having had seriously considered the option to repeat her junior year.

"Oh ...fire!"  Lana shook her head, disgusted with talking-face upon the screen.  Upon noticing her son was no longer playing Race-Champion, or whatever that thing was called, but was instead glued to that airbrushed "image" on the tv...oh no and NO!  She calmly, but immediately, arose out of her seat, and went over to her boy, to chat him up about racing, or whatever he wanted to talk about.

Cowboy noticed some daggery eyes launched at his wife's back.  Women! He scratched his forehead.  As he reached in his pocket for his phone, he happened to notice, no one else seemed to be browsing upon there's, alone flashing pics of engines, bikes, babes...whatever, to the guy sitting beside him. 

After..,Part 13: Lana settled back, after a busy day, to catch an episode of her favorite tv program. "HomeWorld," it was a

home reno, where the viewers were treated to seeing how cramped spaces could be made over.  Just when the old kitchen cabinets  - which really looked okay - were being carted out, there came a knock at the front door.  From within the other room, the viewers could hear the program's host greeting the home's owner.

The program cut to a commercial, followed by another, and still another.   That was, just five minutes after the previous commercial break.  Anyway, how that kitchen would turn out, Lana wanted to see.  Finally, the commercials over - well, until another five or six minutes had passed - the home's owner stepped into the kitchen; behind him trailed ... something wearing some sort of dog-collar, or whatever.  Disgusted, Lana clicked to another channel.

Behind her, she heard the soft thud of a kitchen cupboard door being opened.  Sounded like the one above the counter, where she kept the snacks.  Cowboy then entered the living room; in his hand, a canister of mixed nuts.  

"Lots of them on tv tonight."  Lana moved the clicker from the coffee table, to the end table right next to her husband's recliner.  

After.., Part 12: Lana wheeled her cart, that contained a few items her family needed, toward the checkout. On the way,

she ducked into an area where tanning lotions had recently been put on display.  There, she wrote out most of a check, so that when it was her turn, the transaction would go quickly.  People seemed to be growing more disgruntled and impatient by the day; during a recent visit to the super-store, some ugly words had been fired at some old guy for...no better reason than having taken a few seconds too long in reaching for his bill-fold.  Lana just wanted to get home.  Being out was becoming more a chore, navigating through surly faces.

"Oh, what th..," she groaned, rounding a corner.  Before her, a display - having been placed, intentionally jutting out to attract purchase of the ... really money-pit item.  Well, the set-up had gone down with a crash, after a child had apparently brushed against it.  Oh the words which spewed out from the poor kid's parent.  Sure, kids crazy-make, but come on.  

Lana got in the queue.  As per usual, over half the registers were unoccupied.  It would be awhile.  And no point in striking up a chat with anyone - those days had also  "disappeared" ... along with..."What the heck is this!" Lana muttered, as she began reading an overhead statement, following "ATTENTION SHOPPERS!"  

If Lana hadn't of known any better, she'd be certain, the policy was merely put in place, specifically to punish customers who preferred to pay with cash.  But mrs cowboy was no dummy, while she wasn't quite sure of the policy's rationale - if there even was one - whatever, the cause, it was bad news.  Bad news, fixing to get worse.  That much she knew.

Anyway, the stupid policy would go into effect March 1st.  Lana glanced over to where a display of heart-shaped chocolates had been sold - an opened box of the same sat at home, upon one end of their buffet.  The store area now displayed various GaiaDay chocolates and small furry toys.  What was with cute little bunnies having creepy green eyes, anyway?

After.., Part 11: A young child eyed the pastry case as his parents ushered him toward a booth further down the thi aisle.

Doyle, Jr. was deciding on either the chocolate cake or the custard pie, and maybe some cookies on the side.  Some moments later, the family seated, the boy took a sip of his soda; his parents read off one of the two menu-copies, while enjoying their coffee, they'd be given by the waitstaff person.  The other copy lay unopened.  The boy already knew what he wanted.  

The staff-person appeared with an electronic tablet in one hand, and a pot of real coffee in the other.  Both parents wanted basically the same thing, roast beef - one with fries, the other with rice.  "And what would you like?"  The staffer, smiled at the boy?  

"Custard cake," the boy announced, with anticipation.  Whatever item within the case that was, needless to say, both Cowboy and his Mrs, both rolled their eyes.  "Honey, food before sweets," his mother's soft gentle voice then voiced a hot sandwich and a side from the regular menu - mammabear didn't generally care for kiddie-menu selections.  She just didn't.  

The meal was followed up with another round of coffee, a glass of milk for Jr.   While the parents conversed over a shared slice of key lime pie, their son enjoyed an ice-cream cone.  

Seated a few tables over, a smartly dressed, slender woman, in her early 50s stirred a plateful of fruit, laying in a bed of greens.  She glowered at the family.   That man...! Daggers shot out from the woman's eyes directly at the lard-arse he was sitting close beside. Ellen was livid.  She had spent good money on that pic she'd sent - twice.   

After.., Part 10: The election had been close, though cowboy still had mixed feelings about it.

Sure, on the one hand, he was bummed out that the other guy got in.  But on the other hand, he liked having his den back - deskspace, free of the general clutter which had accumulated during the terms he'd served.  But there was more to it, than the mix of disappointment and relief.  The general mood of the clubhouse was changing, a carelessness about things.  During the last two meetings, not one word was said concerning 2X4s, drywall, paint, and suchlike.  But there was something else, and that something else perplexed him.

Cowboy had been with the club for more than a few years.  Presidents got voted in, and voted out, no big deal really.  But the club's annual Yule Fest?  That was a big deal.  What was up with it having had been cancelled?  Granted, the new President had neither a wife, nor kids, but still most the other members had families. But there was more.  It was as if there was a general coldness about the place; a coldness that had nothing to do with the building's excuse-for-a heating system.  Yep, not a word about getting that fixed either.   Bbrrr, January had come in howling, and the radar indicated it staying into February.  No snow, just cold biting wind, with some sleet here and there.

He opened his credit-card statement.  He looked over the three or four charges - one for groceries, another had been for a game his boy had wanted for Yule, another for a few items from the wally-world - then wrote out the check.  It was then he noticed the PLEASE READ IMMEDIATELY on the front of the torn envelope.  Along with the mailing, was a small pamphlet.  It said something about a merger, and went on about "customer care..."  Yeah, right...!  Anyway, the expiration date of his card - and others of the same series - was being moved up to March 31st of THIS year.

But that wasn't the half of it.  Going "cardless" was no longer an option.  Beginning April 1st, customers had to get the implant in order to use the service.  Of course, he had a second account...well, evidently, for now.   

He picked up the check, grabbed his wallet, put on his jacket, started up his truck, and headed over to the auto-parts store.  Upon entry, he headed over to where wiper-blades were being sold.  As he made his selection, he realized the store had made some changes.  More flatscreens.  Several customers were gathered over where something else the truck needed was shelved.

What was with all the flatscreens?  All showing the same air-brushed face?  It was as if, you couldn't so much as go out for a paper and a pack of smokes, without seeing THAT creepy mug!

After.., Part 9: "Ellen perused the suits hanging in her closet. She had overslept a bit and

was running a tad late.  She chose the dark maroon one, laid it on the bed, then began to pull on her panty hose.  Next came the matching thong - this one had three (industrial) diamonds upon the peekaboo.  She then stepped into the micro-skirt, pulled it up, sucked in her belly...the zipper began to quarrel about half way up.  "What th' ... " the obscenity drowned by the groan of the Kerouac "is this?"  Ellen shrieked.  She flung off the skirt, gave it a kick, and in the process, stubbed her toe.  Needless to say, more obscenities had burst forth.  What Ellen didn't yet know was, the zipper had broken.  That little surprise would come later - and at an equally inconvenient time.  So, she selected a different suit, stripped off the thong and the hose, and put on a set that would match the gray suit.

Problem was:  she had just worn the same set just the week prior to the last.  And that doesn't do.  She had to put shopping on her to-do list.  That, of course, created another problem.  The usual: m-o-n-e-y. 

Oh well, time to start up the time-buggy, and roll back to January 2022 - it's after nine back there.  Time for beddy-bye.

After.., Part 8: "Son, you stay close to your mother, ya hear?"

The four year old, heard loud and clear, his father's unspoken words, that if he wandered off, even a few paces...his hiney would know about it, real quick.   His dad disappeared for a moment into the crowd of queues waiting to order either/or funnel cakes, nachos, sno-cones, meatball subs, walking salads... "Mom," the boy pointed at an ice-cream truck.  "Can I have a..."  The boy's mom, tightening her grip just a bit, on her son's hand, as the crowd began pulling in another direction.  "No honey, we're gonna get supper first, when daddy gets back."  The boy wrinkled his face.  He wasn't interested in having to eat, and finish, a fishwich or a burger; he just wanted a big cone of cookies-n-cream.

Something wasn't right, and she'd seen it in her husband's eyes, here of late.  He'd been acting different.  And whatever was the big deal was, about her having arrived home a bit late from wally-world?   Man, he was starting to sound like that guy on u-teevee.  And yet, she knew her husband well enough to know, there was something...well, creepy going on.  

Hardly five minutes passed when her husband reappeared.  "Let's get some grub," cowboy extended his hand toward a pulled-pork vendor.  The family headed in that direction. 

At the other end of the food area, Ellen was on the lookout for unaccompanied children.  She had spotted and began to track a rather unkempt little boy, but as her luck - here of late - would have it, the boy's equally unkempt father found him, and whacked his bottom, for having wandered off.   The two then headed toward one of the food lines.

The parade would begin in about an hour.  And the pickings would be even less, since the little b*tards would be with a parent, or parents - their young eyes focused on the baton twirlers, drummers, trumpeters, clowns, and a fleet of theme floats.  

After.., Part 7: Meanhile, back at the skimpy-portion party, Ellen was again left standing.

Just when the conversation with two other guests was, maybe, making some progress, a third beckoned to the two to an adjoining room - where the other bar was - Ellen, was simply overlooked.  She checked her phone, found a seat, read some messages, and sent a response to one.  She paused for a bit, glanced around, and feeling invisible, began to take the hint.  It was barely past 1am, by the time she unlocked her front door.

Catching her reflection in a full-length mirror, which stood in a corner of her spacious living room, time was gaining its inevitable victory.  Adjoining rooms, where the good stuff was stocked, where the fun and games were really happening, were also happening to be slipping past her - as if she had never existed.  

Ellen slipped into her shower, dried off, entered her bedroom suite, clapped on her flat screen, slipped between her calif-king silk sheets, and watched a movie about ... well, a storyline - for lack of better terms - has no place on, basically, a PG-rated blog.

Later in the week, Ellen was at the office.  An assignment had come down to her; it was the typical PR stuff, but the project did contain some personal benefit.  But there was one slight difficulty - the setting was a bit too close to tent-town.  Ellen sent one of her staff to cover the fund-raiser instead.

Ellen took a sip of her coffee, it was cold.  She texted one word to the clerk out front. "Coffee."   She then continued browsing the potential client's website.  On a following page was some sort of project going on; in the background were several booths.  On the front of one, there was sign saying something about a local hospital's family services department.  Nearby, a familiar figure was receiving a modest trophy, as thanks for his org's donation of some free food to be distributed to the area's needy families.  

Cowboy.  To her surprise, he had some social benefit.  The caption listed him as "President..."  

A bit after 5, she pulled out of her parking lot, and into the lot of a nearby merchant.  "SelfieCentral."  The retail service specialized in various backdrops, props, and related gear.  The outfit she had purchased, and changed into, had barely enough fabric, for the average ranch-hand to blow his nose into.  Ellen had chosen the motorcycle scene.  Among the purchases was the lacy purple face mask.  The thigh-high boots, she had leased, were a size 5, a bit too small for her feet.  But hey, she needed them for what?  Fifteen minutes?  

Needless to say, the salesperson, in doing his or her job, looked in on some noise coming from within the "chopper" enclosure.  Like a pro, he/she sensed opportunity, and turned over the sign just inside the front door - which now informed any incoming customers, "B Back in 10." 

Inside her secured door, she wiggled out of her mini-suit skirt, threw her jacket and silk blouse in the direction of the sofa.  Both missed.  She didn't care as she removed her remaining ... for lack of better terms, garments, which consisted of a bra and a thong.  Running some warm, sudsy water, she then soaked in the tub.  Her phone remained upon a round-table in the living room.  She'd send the pic, maybe tomorrow, but probably the day after.  Her body felt a bit tender, in various places.  

Saturday morning held promise.  While the day was brisk, and a bit windy, the rain wasn't supposed to arrive until around 10 or 11 that evening.   In short, the halloween parade in town would be over.   Cowboy, scanned his messages, while his son watched a favorite cartoon.  It aired on the vintage channel.  The cartoon's name was "Speed Racer."  Cowboy couldn't recall it either, it was one that came out when his dad would sit and watch a few saturday cartoons.

From the dining area, cowboy heard his wife just going about her normal saturday morning routine of generally picking up here and there.  Her phone buzzed, she picked up.  "Morning gramma..." a tv commercial shouted another you-must-have to the juvenile audience.  "...tomorrow morning around 11...yeah, i read part of the chapter, but don't quite follow...didn't Paul...?"

Cowboy continued down his messages.  One from a buddy with a pic of a fish he'd caught, another buddy with a long description about a you-godda-see website.  Cowboy backed out; it was one of those conspiracy blogs.  No thanks.  Another message was nothing but click-bait.  Delete.  The following message was from...well, he wasn't sure, but clicked anyway.  

It was a pic.  Sure cowboy took in an eyeful of the "biker babe"...for about two seconds, shook his head, then BLOCKED!

After.., Part 6: Meanwhile, across town, and up in the woods alittle ways, another party was getting started.

Cowboy opened the front door of the clubhouse, stepped aside to let in two of the  women; their arms full of groceries/kitchen supplies.  Inside, several other rosy-cheeked women were chatting, laughing as they filled the table with bowels and trays of ... where to begin!  There was lasagna, sausage, cold-cuts, venison - having been brought in by one of the guys - sweet potatoes, FRESH corn, peas, (also from someone's garden) apple pie, brownies, watergate salad, cookies...

While a few of his club-brethren were already eyeing the table, and filling their plates with bologna slices, crackers, and other pre-meal items, cowboy wasn't hungry yet; there was most the night to eat, and so, no hurry.  He filled his mug from the keg, then joined two other guys who were sitting at a nearby table. 

Yep, like the other party - which would go on until the wee hours of sunday morning - there was some business to be discussed.  But unlike the other place, no hurry.  And by the way, cowboy was a member, in good standing, of this particular motorcycle fraternity, and so didn't have to kiss hiney for an invite.

The club building was rather small, and needed some work; the men had also decided on getting together to put up an addition come a certain day in late april, weather permitting.  Sure, the heating system was wanting, the place drafty, and various other issues...still, the former home of Antioc Bible Baptist Church, had been acquired and completely paid for by the Men of the North, Motorcycle Club, Chapter 616.

Later on that evening, cowboy and two or three other members were standing outside, discussing a subject none of them cared to have reach of the ears of their wives/girlfriends.  "Bizarre-baad!" the speaker puffed, then passed the cigarette.  Several days ago, he, the chapter's President,  been made an offer - one which he'd, in no two ways about it, had refused.  Uh-uh!  Running game guns (of course, made illegal, years ago) pimping, loan-sharking, and other such like tax-evading activities were just business as usual.  But stealing kids, and selling them to be...N.O., NO!  Wasn't going to happen, not in his chapter.

After.., Part 5: Of course, everyone knew Sty's party was but a stepping stone, and

that the people in the right circles would condescend to stay, maybe an hour, that is, if Daisy and her league cared to show up at all.  And of course, the glaring fact of the set appearing early, carried the unspoken message that the much sought-after guest was on it's/her/his way to somewhere else.  The party, like most others, began around 8, but key people usually didn't arrive until around 9 - but before 10 if the guest wanted to grab a plate; most caterers usually began packing up shortly after 11.  

Needless to say, Sty's biker days were behind him, and so were the rib-sticking bowls of scalloped taters, pasta salads, salami and cracker trays, cheeseballs, oatmeal raisin cookies...  Such foods were...well below-league.  Of course, Sty - still having his common sense about him - missed those wonderful dishes the wives and girlfriends brought; dishes which, the biker buddies he'd left behind, were still enjoying second and even third helpings.

The food table, all set, contained the usual league-appropriate stuff.  One large tray of veges - each containing an undersized bowl of some sort of fat-free lobster-yogurt dressing; the other tray - half of which contained those little carrots - had some sort of similar low-fat, and even less flavor dressing.  Nearby, sat a plate of various cucumber, topped with some sort of caviar-topped open-faced sandwiches.  Yes, the table contained dessert:  a plate of decorated cookies and small square cakes.  To the side, two carvers had begun serving thin slices of pork-loin (which appeared to have been just a tad undercooked) and roast beef.  

The rather wanting food tables weren't a result of Sty experiencing cash-flow issues.  A nearby table contained ornate chests, brimming with bottles of wine coolers, bottles of the area's finest micro-brews, and various flavored sparkling waters.  The party, just having started, already, the bar-tender was busy enough mixing and serving cocktails.

In short, if the food got low, or ran out...oh well.  But, oh no, if any of the "drinks" were gone - from now until around 3am - talk about a major flop.  One of the most popular - and much coveted cocktails - was available behind another bar; but that one was located in another room, and so, only available to certain guests.  

Ellen hoped she could score some of that, but it didn't look like that was going to happen.  Rick, her ticket in, had received her update, per the account, and he was all smiles about the news.  But, evidently, not smiles enough to introduce her.  Instead, Rick and his companion stood there and lickey-faced a bit, then sauntered off - as if the third person (Ellen) had never shown.  

She spotted Margaret, who was currently conversing with some guy wearing an orange leather midriff hoodie and matching mink-hemmed shorty-shorts.  The guy's boots alone, looked enough to have paid Ellen's rent for the best end of a year.  Margaret was, of course, in an outfit - either bought, or rented, for the occasion.  Well, of course, one could hardly rent an outfit's more expensive absolutely must-have.

That was the peek-a-boo - the, preferably jewel-encrusted band which held ones thong in place.  That piece was no knock-off.  Ellen had seen the display, the advertisement, the one that took the brand soaring - poking fun at a rather absent-minded old lady asking the clerk where the white cotton briefs were.  The woman, of course, was directed next door - to the adult diaper section.    Ellen rubbed her lower back region; the knock-off encrusted band chafed - well, they all did, knock-off or not; was just the way it was...especially after ... that was a bit of rough-riding the previous night.  Maybe, she reflected, they'd hook up again.  He had ordered her to don a full leather mask, and keep her spiked heels on.  

After.., Part 4: Doyle, though Ellen wasn't quite sure, but anyway, he'd been real fun, but she hoped he'd been gone,

real soon.  If he thought she'd make him breakfast...oh no, that wasn't happening.  And she also hoped, he'd get his bony hide th' ... out of her bathroom.  She had to be somewhere - so she had said.  From her bedroom suite, she heard the rustle of jeans, and the click of a belt.  She walked into the room, planted a kiss on his neck, and left a mark.  "Sorry, I have to run, early meeting," she lied.  Whether or not cowboy joe believed her, or even cared, he grabbed his hat and was gone.

For a refreshing change,  Ellen actually had all Saturday morning to herself.  Still in her teddy, she sauntered into the living room, switched on the flat-screen to watch a favorite set of programs - ones she seldom had time to watch.  Sacha, Warrior Princess was the kickoff, followed by The Fantanstic Four - a remake of a Saturday morning program which ran in the mid to late 1960s.  But the remake was far superior - three of the the hero's were female, the fourth - the ugly one - was ... well anyone's guess.  The third program, Ellen didn't  watch more than five minutes in, but instead had decided to get some random things done.  She really didn't have too much time to just lollygag away.  

By 10:30ish, she was finishing up the egg - cooked, just everso - a slice of melba toast, fruit cup and coffee she had prepared for herself.  Breakfast was really her favorite meal, the only one she actually enjoyed preparing...for herself.   

She needed a few things at the store, then she'd go over to the gym, then pick up her dry cleaning, come back, make some calls, get dressed, and head out to a certain party - one that, well, actually, she hadn't been formally introduced to the hostess, or any of her circle, but hey, there's ways around things.  Namely, Rick would be there, and he absolutely wanted to be kept up to date concerning a certain account.  Yep, that was the ticket in.

And, back in 2022, it's 10'oclock, party over for me, back into the time-machine.  Godda roll, goodnight.

After.., Part 3: "Wuh-ho!" Ellen stared at the little cash-calf, who was sobbing not far from where a community group was handing out free

hot dogs.  From the appearance of the child, she was probably from tent-ville.  An older boy, maybe around seven or eight, had already eaten the hot-dog he'd taken from her.  

Ellen had to move quickly, but carefully.  The little girl, wasn't just any kid.  Nuh-uh!  A pre-tween plain-brown fetched the best price.  Oh yeah, enough to pay up this year's club dues PLUS some extra toward having the dragon redone.  

"Aw darling," Ellen approached the dusty child.  "See that stand over there?"  The little girl looked over to where chicken and fries were being sold.  The girl's expression turned downcast - at five or six, she knew that the two dollars and change in her pocket wouldn't even get her a small boat.  "I'll get us a dinner, it's too much food for just me.  The child began to smile, just a bit.  "Would you like to help me eat it? "  

Ellen took the little girl's hand.  Together they walked over to the vendor.  A few moments later, the two two sat at a table, eating, smiling and laughing together.   A few minutes later, a toy vendor happened along.  The little girl kissed the little bear, and put it just inside the the collar of her shirt.  "Dare, you stay nice and warm."   

The two walked along, passing some vendors stationed near the edge of this temporary venue.  They crossed the street and just when they were about to walk between two buildings - both in need of a paint-job, for starters, The little girl looked up at the woman then, as if sensing something wasn't right, let go of Ellen's hand and turned about face to RUN in the opposite direction.

But not soon enough.

A week or so later:  a little girl's plain brown body was found by two college boys who had been canoeing on the river.  The one, a pre-med student, had given his report, but was politely, yet point blank told, to keep his yap shut... or else.

After..., Part 2: Ellen texted a newer partner. Meet me. There was no need to detail where, or even when. Both had a similar purpose. Both needed

money.  As for the partner, whatever the particular situation, Ellen didn't know, and didn't care to know.  Ellen was late on her car payment.  Sure, one could pass judgment on her for buying more car than was necessary for a junior exec.  But the matter was: the proverbial, if-ya-wanna-run-with-the-big-dogs...  Ellen peered inside a showroom window.  The sofa within, sort of resembled the one she'd seen in Daisy's outer office.  Of course, the sofa inside, was likely a knock-off - since, the particular store was but moderately upscale.  Needful to say, Ellen had never been inside Daisy's inner office - let alone to be a guest at one of Daisy's fabulous parties.  

Oh, the bane of Ellen 's existence.  She was no longer young.  Her last birthday, delivered the number 52.  While she could still carry herself reasonably well in a backless, sleeveless pencil dress, a thong bikini was no longer even a question.  Needless to say, Ellen chose not to participate at the poolside activities, given over at the country club.  She would instead remain inside the east lounge.  Yeah, that was another problem :  dues were coming up the month after next.   

She had some time, and so stopped inside a little tavern for a glass of wine.  Granted, she preferred a micro-brew, but beer - even one - eventually, will add up to pounds.  Which was one reason why Ellen remained slender.  When she drank, she drank one.  On her way out, she first stopped into the rest-room.  Glancing at the mirror, that was another issue.  Green dragons were on the way out ; she needed to have her mark redone.  And yikes, that was about as much as the stupid dues.  

Which was why, she needed to count to ten and get it together.   The street fair would soon be hosting the community's pre-halloween parade - with free hot dogs, soda and candy.  Lots of kiddos, some coming over from tent-town - kids, whom law-enforcement would find it difficult to track, if one or more of the little ... was to end up, uhm, missing.  Yep, pulling this off would not only get the car paid up, but get the insurance premium off her tail as well - that was coming due around turkey day.  

After the Queue, Part 1: The little coffee shop, was a bit pricey, but hey,

the $7-some - for a six-ouncer - kept out most the free-queues.  Ellen typed a response into her laptop.  With enough time before an upcoming meeting, she had ordered a sandwich.  An email popped into her in-basket.  She saw who it was from, and would respond a bit later - per the title, let alone any of its contents, the subordinate was becoming a bit familiar.  Later, perhaps, following the meeting, Ellen would have a little talk with the clerk's boss.

Ellen's stomach let out a soft groan, but loud enough to cause her some embarrassment - a suit, from a nearby table, glanced over.  She continued with her work.

Ellen had come a long way, over the past few years.  She now occupied one of the corner offices - thanks to a little jittery here, and a little more pokery over there.   It was as if, the career path went all clear, not long after that particular Monday; the one on which Joyce didn't show up for work.  Typical n*, Ellen still scoffed.

Never mind, Dear Reader, Joyce had been with the firm for about 30 years, and the only other time she had neither shown, nor called was when her husband had suddenly passed.  Needless to say, Joyce had been a mess for awhile, but her co-workers had her back.  Thing is - and any of us would be astounded at the rather sudden changes, not long after the disappearance.  And yeah, it's not wise to either capitalize, nor put quotes around that d* word - sometimes, web-bots seem to get carried away.  Anyway, our villain hasn't had a bite since around 6am.

The plain-brown-wrapper finally arrived.  Without looking up, Ellen noticed a red sliver with white on top. "I SAID, NO TOMATO OR MAYO.  ARE YOU DEAF?"

The plain-brown murmured a fear-full apology.

"Well, take it back, and bring me a LIGHTLY TOASTED bagel with some LOW-FAT cream cheese.  Can you MANAGE THAT, without FU...?"  Outside, a jackhammer drowned out the obscenity, with was followed up by a certain two-syllabled blasphemy. "AND make it snappy!"

"Yes maam."  The tired waitperson scurried away.

By the way, Dear Reader, back in '23 - maybe '24 - in this very same location, a similar outburst had taken place.  Difference then, and now, was striking.  Then, most of the other patrons were upset with the patron voicing a tantrum over what!  A stupid sandwich.  Back then, it was usual for atleast one or two of the other diners to voice a "Dude, (or dudess) what's yer problem?"  But that was then.  The other patrons either ignored the scene, or snickered a bit - at the waitperson's expense...of course.

An economist-wannabe, slouched at a corner table piped up something along the lines of ..."gedda bot."  Shure!  That, Dear Reader, was the proverbial, six-of-one, and a-half-dozen-of-the-other - a very telling statement.  While America still used the old English form of measurement, more than a few had to stop a moment, and think about what constituted a dozen.  

In short, the typical person living during the pandemic, would have been surprised at everyday life a decade and some after covid.  For one thing, the whys, and the hows the thing started...?  Well, nobody really cared.  The guy or gal stepping off the time-machine, would notice - that, on the surface, things appeared the same.  No cars and trucks flying above; no touring out to Jupiter, or beyond.  People still carted around their laptops, and texted on their smart-phones.

Downtown Haarsburg happened to be noted for a certain school, one which about any parent would have been proud of their child's attending.  The school boasted of - get this - an 80% graduation rate.  

One change, however, was the birthrate.  Down around .8-ish - statisticians weren't projecting any improvements any time soon.

Back in the employees' restroom, just off from the kitchen, the waitperson glanced in the mirror.  A spot right in the middle of his forehead.  He wrinkled one side of his lips.  "Did people purposely step on ketchup packets?"  He dampened a paper towel, and wiped it off.  "Silly question."  His left hand, however, had a mark which no amount of soap and water could ever remove.  A stupid tat he had gotten...well, he couldn't recall, except it had been, back in the day, at some weekend keg-party.

Viv, Epilogue - About a year or so later. The recently unemployed custodian parked her car outside an ATM kiosk, and withdrew the remainder

of her funds - some $457.   Nearby, a lenghtening queue of people were either mumbling, grumbling, and in general impatiently jostling one another.  While up front, people leaving the temporary set-up, were all smiles, as they flashed to one another their newly acquired "ezy scan."

"Mommy?  Where we goin?"

"Somewhere nice Baby, somewhere..."  The out-of-work, and ineligible-for-UC ex-janitor pulled out onto the street, turned onto the highway, and headed west.  Fortunately, there was enough gas to get her and her child half way to a place, a certain small midwestern town, that she had heard about.

The End.

Viv, Part 6: She glanced over to where the hot-tub had, until recently, had sat - for awhile,

"OUT OF ORDER."   Word was, there had been nothing wrong with it.  Maybe it was costing too much.  Anyway, Fred having died it its warm swirly embrace...well no sheet, sherlock!  Viv switched off the treadmill, and glanced up at the clock.  It was after six, and the exercise facility closed at 7pm - but, in reality, the residents were usually chased out by around half past.  She heard Chester turn on the water in his stall.  Viv had long gotten used to gender-inclusive facilities...

Wait a second - except for that incident over at the mall some years back.  That was no mere guy who enjoyed wearing peasant dresses - the style was gorgeous.  What was probably a few minutes later, Viv had come to - her purse gone and two ribs broken.  

Anyway, Chester wasn't really in any condition to steal pocketbooks, and probably hadn't busted anybody's ribs since his college football days.  

Viv turned on her shower.  Grateful that atleast this place had individual stalls.  While over at The Pines - a rather upscale place, the showers were all in one large room.  Oh, no no no!  

Hardly a half hour later:

"Oh, what the ..." the obscenity was drowned out by the woosh of sweeper upon the indoor/outdoor carpet.  "Someone just left the shower run, and all their stuff sit."  The overworked custodian pulled out her work-phone, and sent out a text that a resident may be wandering around, buck naked.  The tired custodian's attention was drawn to a small object laying near the drain panel.  

The custodian really didn't want to, but things going on - the car needed tires and her child had just broke another pair of glasses, and the usual uphill things.  The wedding ring disappeared into a back pocket.

Viv, Part 5: would be so easy to blame the staff, for the general malaise of the place, but

that reaction was only the half, if that, of it.  Viv wasted little time toward finishing "Jackie."  How long did the volume sit, forgotten, upon the library shelf?  She had checked it out, only a few days ago - during two or three days of the period, she had been unable to read it, due to a medical condition...that was yet, another mystery.  Anyway, two other guests - one, Betty (or was it Bea?...not that it mattered, Viv kept a wide berth).  It was as if, there were more than just the typical few individuals who, upon seeing someone actually enjoy something...well, that had to stop.  

Betty, or Bea, or whatever, wasn't the typical meanie - mean was something Viv could handle reasonably well... after all, she had spent her sophmore, and part of her junior year at an inner city school.  No, the woman down the hall, not only sneered at...well, about anything, there was something creepy about her.  Move over Madeline O'Hair.  

Viv was still upset about Edna's missing sweater.  And no, she didn't think it disappeared down that corridor.  Needle in a haystack, stuff was filched, just business as usual - except, it seemed to Viv, the thefts had ramped up some, over the past year or so.  While the general health of the residents was ramping down.  

Viv, even now, had no time for internet conspiracy theories.  She had, for years, heard bits and pieces of what was impolitely  coded as "offloading."  And yet, she couldn't help but to partially believe it - being that some rather weird situations/restrictions going on around her.  

Anyway, Viv had to either get another plant for the sill, or just get hold of another plan.  The heart-shaped leafy plant was dying - guess a few too many of those redish pills pushed beneath the plant's soil were taking its toll.  

Max, Part 12: Oh, that's just peachy, he glanced at the sign on the door of the phone shoppe - they too, merged with some big-box, inconveniently located

out on Route Crazy-cruise.  And, of courssse, he'd have to drive all the way out there.   Not tonight.  Max was tired, and just wanted to go home.  Driving toward the strip-mall's parking exit, up ahead was a one of those donation boxes - which sat not far from a gas-n-go.  As usual, the metal box - where people could donate "Clothing and Shoes Only - Please" - was surrounded by non-textile...junk basically.  One such item was a plastic chair, with half a leg missing; beside that was an old tv - one of those bulky pre-flatscreen ones.  And some other stuff. 

There at l one end, it, sat a box.  Something, Max couldn't explain, bade him to stop.  The box was overflowing with, what appeared to be, old books.  The cardboard box was half waterlogged, since it had rained somewhat earlier in the day.  While the lighting wasn't too great in this particular area, especially with the fog, he somehow recognized, the books were worthy of a quick look.  He approached the saggy cardboard, pulled out his phone and clicked it on, to shed enough light.

From what he could see, atleast some of them were Bibles - Real Bibles, not those things are are chock full of commentaries, at the expense of Scripture.  He  switched off the light, put up the hood of his jacket, opened up the back of his van - and for some reason, the overhead light did not kick on.  It had also quit on him a few nights previous - probably had to do with that stupid pot-hole, that probably won't get fixed anytime soon.  He made a mental note to either replace the bulb or tighten the connection, or both.  

But for now, the power failure was a blessing.  He loaded the books, got into his van, and quietly headed home.  On the way, he glanced in his rear-view mirror, and just to make sure, he took a different road, then turned onto another, drove all the way out, past the State Park, then headed to town, and finally to his unit - where the books would join the boxes of kitchen and bathroom items he had yet to unpack.  

Max really wasn't all that thrilled with the apartment, but considering these end-times, it really didn't matter that the unit was, upon a closer look, rather dingy.  

And yeah, he missed the old place, the 1980-ish plastic tables in the common lawn area.  But most of all, he missed his land-lady.  She was always pleasant, and pleasant people were even more rapidly becoming rare.

He glanced at the Bibles; there were about 20 of them.   If he had to move again - and that prospect had begun to take root and grow - he'd grab the Bibles, some clothes, his wallet and phone, and be rolling down the road.

Where? Max wasn't sure.  But things were happening fast.  

Just the other day, he passed the old apartment complex.  Already, the demolition team was on-site.  Word was: the few acres would be the future home of Ullr's Castle - some sort of after-hours venue; they were popping up everywhere.  How they all stayed in business - considering the overhead, especially the liability, and the damages - was any body's guess.

Viv, Part 4: A few years later. Scene: "Senior Moments Village"

"Here, Edna, just put this around you." Viv offered her roommate a sweater - one of Viv's three remaining ones.  Edna's warm one had "disappeared."  More like, it had been five-fingered.  "Seriously, what the heck!"  Viv then reached for her walker, then headed out the small room, and down the rather narrow corridor.  

She didn't think she'd ever get used to the smell of the place - too many people, not enough staff.  And certainly not enough staff who cared to do anything beyond bare minimal.  Not that Viv could blame most of the staff - the usual, overly tasked, and not paid well enough to cover things ... things like rent.

Viv passed another, typically despondent "guest."  A staffer nugged by as he was in the process of taking down Yuletide decorations - the December 25th holiday was rarely referred to as "Christmas."  Using that term was somewhat discouraged, since the first syllable carried a non-inclusive connotation.  "Well no sheet, sherlock, where'd jua park the squadcar." Viv half muttered as she made her way to the facility's library.

Dear reader, you'd think the dump wouldn't have had anything worth reading.  But speaking of trashcans, it was shortly after Viv's having been railroaded into the joint, she had found, in the metal wastebasket - the one parked over by the light switch, a Bible, a real one.  Needless to say, Viv snatched it up, stuck it beneath her faded dressing-gown, and stashed it among her few remaining possessions.  

Needless to say, most of Viv's nice clothing was gone - in recent years, things like cotton blouses, full skirts (especially, lined garments) fetched a goodly price.  A typical pair of linen slacks (like the burgundy ones Viv once owned...hhmmm) could rather easily fetch $40, if not more.   Of course, her jewelry was gone.  Viv however, draw a hard line on any reason for removing her wedding band.  Oh that was a story in itself - several of the "guests" thought Viv was a stuck up stick in the mud, for well, no better reason than wearing one.  A woman down the hall just a short ways, had put it in, well, less than courteous terms.

Viv perused a bookshelf.  And what do you know!  "Jackie O!"  Viv had heard of the book, but never had quite the chance of reading it.   After Harry's passing, the following decades didn't leave her much time for leisure reading.  

More tomorrow, it's going on 11 pm, and 5 am comes mighty quick, back in 2022.

Viv, Part 3: "Aside of your mother having not brought up the weather on her phone,

our tests indicate no evidence of memory issues."  The doctor pointed to one of the pages, and began referring Viv's power-of-attorney to several others.  By the way, how that legal process came about...just chalk that all down to the "mystery of iniquity."  Ellen responded with various legal noises.  The doctor, while evidently, not even near forty, had seen this drama unfold before.  And sad to say, Dr. Sarah McDaniels, could read the writing on the wall - so could a few of her colleagues; that is, those who cared - and those numbers had been decreasing.  

Having made her rounds earlier in the day.  She'd stopped in to have a look at Viv.  The old woman was softly snoring, her Bible rising and falling upon Viv's ample chest.  Sarah, had of course, reviewed her patient's medications.  One was, somehow not on the list.  An oversight?  Sarah's gut said no - she'd practiced medicine long enough to have learned the wisdom of not immediately writing off hunches.  That particular med, was perhaps the problem.  While the old woman needed to regulate...

"Doctor!" A nurse called from the hall.

Several hours later:

An orderly and one of the kitchen staff were eating supper in the little cafe, next to the gift shop.  On a nearby flatscreen was a video of a robbery which had taken place just hours ago.  The art-shop clerk was doa, a one customer in critical, another in stable.  The two shook their heads, a friend joining them rolled his eyes.  "People are crazy," he remarked, set down his tray, and began querying his buddy about the game last night.