Flabbergastery

Hello. This is the author of Pat O'Neil. I was wondering to myself whether I should write this in character, but I decided it would work better in my own voice. Up until a week ago, I thought no one was reading the ridiculousness that I was putting up here. As of Sunday, I was aware of only three readers. That brought the total of people who had ever read my blog to 8 or so. Then, Sunday evening, I was told I'd been put on a "lamest blog list" on MSN. After some research, though, I discovered that it was actually PC World magazine's 11 Lamest Blog list. At the time, my heart sank a little. I consoled myself with the saying, "There's no such thing as bad publicity," but it did hurt some, I've got to admit. I mean, it's not as if I'm writing erotic One Piece slash fan fiction or anything. However, I was still going to just let it slide.

Then, this afternoon, I find 14 comments awaiting moderation. All of those were posted in roughly three hours. To those who like what I'm doing, thank you. To those who don't, I know this is not for everyone. I would like to make clear up front, and this seems as up fronty as this is going to get, I have no illusions about what I write. I know this is not literature. I am not expecting to change the world with the tale of a guy from Iowa fighting ninjas with an army of hyper intelligent, genetically modified squirrel monkeys with the financial backing of Charles Lindbergh. If you're expecting to find literature on the Internet, you should navigate over to the Gutenberg Project's homepage right now. I suggest starting with the Odyssey and working your way forward in history from there. When you get to Huckleberry Finn, follow Hemingway's advice and quit reading before the boys free Jim. He was right, everything else after that is cheating.

The reason I began The Adventures of Pat O'Neil, and the reason I will keep writing, whether anyone reads it or not, is that our world needs a little ridiculousness. Stand up from your computer and look around you. Our world looks like its falling apart. Our economy is failing because no one was on watch. Much of the time, it seems our government is out to make our lives as unlivable as possible (don't believe me? Go to the DMV. Better yet, try dealing with DHS sometime). Our children have forgotten how to go outside on a nice day and just stare at the sky for an hour or so. Now, when you stack all of that up, maybe we need something we can acknowledge as utterly, totally insane. We can, and I include myself in this, live for a little while in Pat's strange world, knowing that, when the insanity is too much for us, we can step out again. That's why I write it. I need that. I need to know that there is a place that weirdness can have a safe home. A place that weirdness can live its brief life in our heads, make us simply happy, and then blow away like crushed leaves. From everything I've seen in the past couple of years, the natural home for weirdness is the Internet.

I am not ashamed of Pat or my writing. I am not ashamed that it is silly, confused and frantic. I do not feel bad that some people don't like my brand of humor. I've been dealing with that since I was a wee lad. I am going to continue Pat's story because I enjoy it. If you enjoy it as well, you are welcome to come. If you don't, that's all right. Maybe you could try out Dave Barry's blog. He's pretty consistently funny. If that doesn't work out, keep trying, you'll find something you like.

For those who stay, thank you. Now let's fight some Meth Ninjas.

A Grand Opening

Before I tell y'all about all the stuff I gots to tell you, I just wanna say hi to my fan base, which, according to my estimates is all the way up to three now. And at least one of them fellas or ladies is married, and he's a fella. Unless he's a lesbian, then he's a she and she's a lady. If that's the case, though, she must live in Massachusetts, cause he or she has a wife. Regardless, hello people, thanks for reading, it makes it easier to write on a Sunday morning if I know someone's going to read all the drivel I'm spewing here.

Anyway, the body shop finally opened on Friday. It woulda likely been opened a month ago, but, in a fit of frustration at havin to drive down to the donut king every couple of days because donuts turn to bricks so quickly and because I can't live without my morning donut and coffee, I said to the squimonks that it sure would be nice to have a donut shop closer. So, a couple of them fellas, or ladies, I don't ask, decided they should just add a donut shop onto the body shop. They had to tinker some with donut recipes, but they finally nailed it and made the perfect maple long john. So, now I gots myself two businesses to pretend to run. It's tough, but I'm managing to get through it. I'm still tryin to figure out how donuts are gonna help us fight ninjas. I suppose that, if they get hard enough, we could throw them at the ninjas, or maybe build us a ninja jail out of old donuts. I've heard, though, that ninjas are good at escapin places, and I'm just not sure old donuts make a really secure jail. Of course, I've never seen a ninja eat a donut, so maybe donuts are like ninja kryptonite. That'd probably be too convenient.

Anyway, on Friday, I got myself some balloons and streamers and whatnot, then I put an ad in the paper lettin everyone know I was open for business and everything. It was a pretty big ad with my picture in it. It said, "Friday, why go out shoppin for all that stuff you don't really need anyway? In this economy, it may be better just to go have a donut and maybe get that fender fixed from when you hit that deer a couple of years ago. We know you were gonna do it yourself, but you haven't yet, have you? You don't even have a rubber mallet. We have rubber mallets, though, and other stuff to fix your car up. We'll make sure all your doors are the same color, too. You can even have a donut while you wait. If that sounds good to you, come on down to the Grand Opening of Pat O'Neil's Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery. Friday will have a bunch of specials, many of which I haven't thought of yet, but there will probably be free donuts involved in there somewhere."

Now, that may not be the catchiest ad ever written, but you gotta know your audience. And, knowing the people around here, there's nothin they like more than free donuts. That ad worked, too. In fact, Frank brought it with her when she came to the opening. She even showed it to me. Of course, what she said was, "Are you an idiot? Why the hell would you write an ad like that?" All I could say to her was, "People like free donuts."

"Are you kidding me?" she said, "Why are you opening a body shop of all things. I've known you all your life, and I've seen you work on cars. You been drivin that rickety truck around for nigh on 15 years now with it painted four colors of primer. What makes you think you can run a body shop?" After this tirade, she seemed a little out of breath, so she had to sit down for a bit. I gotta say, I was a little dizzy, too. I mean, she was right, what do I know about running a body shop and donut eatery? But then I remembered that the whole business was fake anyway, so I was OK.

"You know, Frank," I told her, "I been workin on my skills. In fact, I got that truck all fixed up and I did it myself."

She didn't believe me, so I took her out to show her Mable Lou, all cleaned up and beautiful. You couldn't even tell that she had been flipped upside down, torn apart by a town truck, rebuilt and then had a flaming couch fall through the bed. She looked better than new. When she saw Mable Lou, Frank was aghast.

"You did that?" she asked, unbelieving.

"Sure did, all by myself, too," I told her.

"The sparkling flames, the chromed tailpipes, the cow horns on the front, Pat O'Neil's Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery hand-stitched in the white leather of the steering wheel? You did all of that by yourself?"

"You betchya," I told her.

"Where did you learn to do all of that? Two months ago, I woulda sworn you were incompetent to pee standing up, and now you're telling me you did all of this by yourself?"

"Yeah, I sure did," I told her, "I been taking on-line classes and listening to a lot of Car Talk lately. And I been watching some cooking shows, and that's why I'm doing the donuts, too." So, it was all wrapped up in a neat little package.

Then, she looked me right in the eyes with all the understanding a big sister has to offer and told me, with caring and honesty, "You're full of horse crap! What's really going on here?"

"Honest injun!" I told her, "I ain't lying about nothing!"

"BS," she shot back, "I know you're lyin because you always start usin your g's again when you are. What's the story here?"

Well, I couldn't tell her, so I spun some story about something, I don't recall very well now. It's really all a blur. There was something about aliens takin my brain and replacing it with that of a much more motivated man and something about a French chef dying in my arms and passing on to me his recipe for a perfect long john so that humanity did not lose out by not being able to eat the perfect donut. It was a yarn and we both knew it, but I think I distracted her enough to get her to go home. I think she'll be back, though.

After Frank left, the grand opening went great. I had about 20 customers. All of 'em apparently hit a deer a couple of years back and had always meant to fix their fenders themselves, but had never even bought rubber mallets. Like I said, know your audience.

Ninja Temp Agency

Alistair here again, Pat is currently assisting my Squimonk brethren in the construction of our body shop front. Actually, by assisting, I mean he is eating donuts and watching the shop come together when he's not watching Judge Judy. Sometimes, he goes hunting with that Douggy character he hangs around with. We're OK with that, because then we get work done. Plus, while he's gone, we like to rifle through his stuff. We don't steal anything, we just like to rifle through things, we are squirrel monkeys after all. While we're building, though, I would like to tell you more about my time with Lindbergh.

I woke up the day after meeting him knowing much more about the world and more convinced than ever that I was making the right decision in turning against Clan Platypus. I had begun to learn about the evils of meth and of ninjas, especially the evils of ninjas with meth. That's some kind of super crazy evil I can't even begin to describe. Think about it this way: meth turns people into mindless zombies. When people do meth, it bonds with the calcium in their bodies and eats their bones. It also forms tiny crystals under people's skins so they slowly become geodes. Ninjas are silent killers trained to cheat and sneak their way into any situation in which they can assassinate people. Take those two and put them together. Now put a little week old cake on top. Now, take all of that and throw it into a blender with Castor oil. While you're at it, throw in some anchovies and let it all sit in the sun for a day. Now, drink that concoction. You taste that? Do you? You know what that taste is? Evil. That is the taste of evil, my friend, and don't you doubt it. I've heard some people say that V-8 mixed with Slim Fast is the taste of evil, but that's not true. That's really just the taste of stupid. I mean, why would you mix together vegetable juice and liquefied chalk? That's just not right. But Ninja-meth-cake-Castor-oil-anchovy day old hot cocktail? Pure evil. But I digress.

I woke up the next day ready and eager to help Lindbergh in his fight against the meth ninjas and so I asked him how I could help. He let me in on his plan. He was trying to raise an army to fight against clan platypus, and I was to be the general. The army, though, must have intimate knowledge of the clan's workings and their distribution network.

"You're talking about the squimonk, aren't you?" I asked him.

"Indeed," he said.

"Who the heck says 'indeed'?" I asked him, incredulously.

"Look," he told me, "I was born in 1902, if I want to say 'indeed' or 'consarnit' or 'curses' or even call the 0 in 1902 'aught', then I have earned that right, dagnabit."

"Fine, fine," I told him. I realized then how much of a generation gap existed between us. He had been born in 1902 and I had been born a week prior. Amazing how a hatred of ninjas could draw us together.

"So," I inquired, "how do we get to the squimonk?"

"Sadly," he responded, "We don't get to the squimonk. You do."

"How so?"

He then told me his plan. I must return to clan platypus and act as if I'd delivered the meth with no problems and without attaining sentience. I must then work from within, analysing each individual squimonk and push them to the point of sentience. Then, when all had been made sentient, or, in the case of Carl, able to poo on their own, we would all plan an escape together. In the meantime, Charles would implant me with a learning chip, capable of accessing information through his private satellite, so I could continue to learn throughout my spy mission, hopefully coming up with new ways to combat the ninjas. Charles would continue to pose as a large buyer of meth, keeping some of it off the markets. This ruse would give us a chance to occasionally contact one another. When I visited his house, I was to practice anti-ninja combat techniques.
"This last part," he told me, "is the most vital and the hardest to set up. You will be practicing on real ninjas."

"Really?" I asked. "Where do you get real ninjas?"

"From Ninjatemp," he said, "the ninja temp agency."

"Why is there a ninja temp agency?" I inquired.

He responded, "In this day and age, it is increasingly hard for ninjas to find work. First, with all the movies inspiring nerdy young teenagers to take up ninja'ing, the market is really saturated. Second, most assassination work these days goes to shooters, which is sad really. I mean, look at Kennedy. That was a sloppy job, too many witnesses. I'm not saying I condone the killing of the president or anything like that, in fact, Kennedy was a very close friend of mine, but the fact remains that, if that hit were done by ninjas, there would have been no witnesses left alive. In fact, the American people may not have even known their president was dead until the next election. Regardless, because of a serious dearth of work, ninjas are hiring themselves out in other industries; light industrial work like splitting boards or sharpening paper cutters, construction and, sometimes, secretarial."

I tried really hard not to ask. I really did. But, in the end, it overwhelmed me. "OK, OK, why secretarial? What does that do with being a ninja?"

"Nothing, really," he responded, "but ninjas are fast typists and very quiet. Plus, there's a lot of secretarial work to be had. If you go to a temp agency, you have a 50/50 chance of being a secretary somewhere. Ninjatemp's no different. But the ninjas I've hired will be doing real ninja'ing, and they are thrilled. So, whenever you return here, which will be once every two weeks or so, you will learn anti-ninja combat skills, which we will eventually use to overthrow Clan Platypus and foil their nefarious scheme. HA HA HA HA!!!"

"That was a little dramatic," I said.

"I've told you before, you get weird when you spend a lot of time alone," he responded.
And so, my training begun in earnest. I traveled back and forth between Clan Platypus and Lindbergh's estate, learning about the world and how to fight ninjas. I studied my fellow squimonk and helped them grow in intelligence. We all worked together to plot our escape, which is a story for next week.

Burritos with Lindbergh

First off, I wanna apologize for the delay in this post. I gots myself so wrapped up in that there electioneering, I plumb forgot about the internet. But it looks like they still got the pipes clear and all, so I'll likely be writing more regularly. I also wants to say, now that we gots a new president, it's time for some of us to show our integrity. If'n you was one of those people who was sayin a couple of years ago that we got to support the president no matter what, just cause he's the president, it's time to live up to those words. Now we gots someone new you may not agree with, but you gots to support him because he's the president. All right, that's enough politickin on my part, it's time to continue with Alastair's story. I'm lettin him type it himself. Partly because he types faster than me, and partly because it's pretty funny to watch a squimonk type on a full keyboard.

After transversing landmines, alligators, rhinos and an angry Siberian tiger residing in a house made of waffles and bacon for some reason, I reached the door of the mansion. There, on the porch, I had a crisis of conscience. Through the trials I had just faced, my brain had developed enough that I had reached self-awareness and moral thought. I realized for the first time what Clan Platypus was doing and my part in it. With that realization, I knew that I could not work for them and, in fact, must fight them to save the world. I took the bag of meth and threw it as far as I could. Fortunately, it landed on a mine and exploded. Unfortunately, the alligators were caught in the cloud of meth dust that resulted and they began freaking out. They tried to attack the rhinos, who were having none of it. I stood there for a time watching the fight. The rhinos seemed to have the upper hand for a while, but the alligators had meth on their sides. They drove the rhinos back, right into the drifting meth cloud. That really turned the tables. By this time, all of the animals were heavily under the sway of the drug. The battle raged back and forth, but none of the combatants sustained serious injuries. After a while, the two sides ceased their fighting and wandered into the tiger's house to scrub the tile and vacuum. I paled in amazement at the power of this drug and the horrible potential that it had to rob creatures of their minds.

I kept a close eye on the animals and on the dissipating cloud of meth. I finally deemed that both were sufficiently safe for me to make my back out of the compound. Just then, I heard the door of the mansion open and a voice say "Well done, little one."

I turned quickly to see the client standing in the doorway. I both loathed and pitied him in that moment. I loathed him because he was helping spread this disease. I pitied him because he was also under the influence of Clan Platypus and would soon be nothing more than a mindless zombie. How ignorant I was. Unable to speak or write at the time, I could do nothing but stare at him. He was a tall man, apparently in his mid-forties, with dark, well coiffed hair and a triangular nose. His eyes and mouth both slanted down slightly, giving the impression he had stood up too fast for his face to keep up. As he looked at me, though, his eyes showed a great deal of compassion, and none of the glazed look that meth addicts get.

"I can see the confusion on your face," he told me, "and I assure you, I have nothing but the best intentions here. I swear to you that I am not a meth user or distributor. I am fully committed to defeating Clan Platypus. You, my small friend, are a part of that plan."

I was not sure whether to believe him, but he seemed very convincing. He turned sideways in the door, sweeping towards the interior with his arm, "Come in and all will be made clear."
I don't know why, but I decided to take a chance on this guy. I walked swiftly into the entry way and was stunned by the grandeur with which this man was surrounded. Everything was Italian marble, cut crystal and chrome. His entry hall alone was cavernous. The ceiling seemed to stretch to the firmament and was dotted here and there with lamps, giving the impression of the stars fixed in the sky. Painting after painting dotted his walls. In the front entry, I later learned, were a series of woodcuts from Milton's "Paradise Lost", the tragic beauty of which moved me in ways I hadn't known possible.

"Since you have trusted me this far, I ask you to trust me a little further," he told me. In his hand, he was holding out a small rubber cap. "I am going to put this on your head. It is designed to read your brainwaves and convert them into language. I have wired it into a series of speakers in the walls. This will serve two functions; first, we will be able to communicate very naturally; second, you will begin to learn language, which is a vital skill if you are to defeat Clan Platypus."

I nodded my assent and he placed the small cap on my head. The words came out in a rush, "Who are you? What is this place? Who am I? Why am I here? What am I? How can I trust you? What is going on here? Why? Why? Why?"

He just smiled a little, sad smile. "Let me introduce myself first. My name is Charles, Charles Lindbergh. I was born in 1902 and was the first man to cross the Atlantic ocean in an airplane. Shortly after that, my young son was kidnapped. The police never solved the crime, but I vowed to. I paid a lot of money for my information. Eventually, I found that my son had been kidnapped by Clan Platypus, though I never discovered why. I vowed to bring down their organization and get my revenge. It had the added bonus of clearing mind-numbing drugs out of the world."
My voice came from the walls, "If you were born in 1902, how are you still alive, and still so young?"

He replied, "I had grown old in my search for Clan Platypus without being able to achieve my vow. So I began to search for ways to extend life. That search led me to Hawaii. There, I met with an old man that showed me the secret of staying young. I take a special treatment every day that tastes awful but keeps me young so I can pursue my vengeance. Speaking of which, it's time for my treatment. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," I said, finding I really was.

"Then to the kitchen!" he yelled, with a dramatic flourish I thought may have been a little over the top.

"That was a little over the top," came the voice from the walls. "Dang! I will have to learn to control this thing! Dang!"

"Yes, little one," he said, "it may have been too much. I have spent many years alone. After that, people tend to get a little weird. Did you see the waffle and bacon house for the tiger out there? That's not a thing a normal person does. There are also suitcases in there. It's very strange. I don't know what I was thinking. I tried to dismantle it once, but the tiger got very angry and started stealing my butter. Ah, the kitchen!"

He began to rummage through the cupboards and the fridge, finally pulling a jar full of tiny pink things and a tub of orange sludge out of the fridge and a bag of nuts from the cupboard. He handed me the nuts and I dug in. They were sensuous and delicious. I felt transported to another world by their taste and texture. It was like a nut explosion in my mouth, a warm, salty nut explosion and it filled my mouth with salty delight. But I digress.

Lindbergh begun to pour the pink things onto some weird pressing machine. The room was filled with the stench of burning fish.

"Oh my god!" came my voice, "what is that?"

He replied, "That, my friend, is the smell of eternal youth. Retched, isn't it? This is my daily treatment; a burrito of sweet potato compote on a tortilla of pressed sea monkeys. It's horrendous, but it keeps me young." He continued to make and consume his meal as he explained the rest of the story to me.

After Lindbergh had discovered the secret to eternal youth, he faked his own death and plotted the demise of Clan Platypus. He soon learned that they had begun a genetic engineering project to create intelligent animal couriers. So he hired a team of behavioral psychologists to determine how to accentuate intelligence. They came up with a obstacle course that would require many types of thought. They theorized that, if an animal were to develop intelligence through the solution of these problems, they would reach the stage of moral judgement and would therefore be willing to defect. Then, he posed as a large meth dealer. It took years to get into the good graces of Clan Platypus, but once he did, he made orders for millions of dollars worth of meth, explaining the difficulties of delivery.

"You are proof that their theories are right," he told me, grimacing at his burrito. "You are the first of the squimonk to attain self-realization. Your moral compass held true, as well. Now you have a decision to make. Do you want to be freed to seek your fortune in the world or do you want to stay here with me and train to pull down your creators?"

Before I knew it, the voice was resounding through all of the speakers in the house. "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" the cacophony grew ever louder until there was a pop, and then silence.
"I believe you have blown the speakers," he told me. "Fear not, that just demonstrates passion. I will repair them before you know it. For now, though, we will begin filling you with information."
He took me to a small room full of computers and explained to me that all of the information in the world was mine. He placed a different cap on my head, saying, "this will transmit information directly to your brain. You have a near infinite capacity for knowledge, which was necessary to overcome my obstacles. All you need do now is think. Anything you have questions about will be answered. Follow your natural curiosity and the information will be delivered to you. I must now retire to a bath of salt water and electric eels, my little friend. In the morning, we will begin planning in earnest."

And so begun my days with Charles Lindbergh.

The first, and final, mission

"So there I was," Alastair began, "in the lab of Clan Platypus, staring blankly at a sack of nuts. Good lord I love nuts." After that, he sort of trailed off for awhile. I can't say I blame him. This conversation seemed like it took over a month to complete. Which is odd, because I know it all happened in one night. Time can do funny things.

He snapped back to life, "Wait, what was I saying?"

"You love nuts," I replied.

"Yeah, right, I love nuts." He trailed off again with this weird, far away look on his face. So, I got up to pee. When I got to the bathroom, I started to pee. When I got about halfway done, I tried pushing out a little fart, but it turned out not to be a fart. So, since it had already gone past the point of no return, I had to sit down and drop a load. I was in there for awhile, because I'd been eating a lot more fiber lately. Also, I've got this crossword book in the bathroom, and I was doin real well on a puzzle, so I didn't want to get up. Then my legs fell asleep, and I figured it was time to go. By the time I got out of there, 45 minutes had gone by. I came back to the porch to sit with Alastair and he was still starin off into space.

"You was also sayin somethin about you bein in a lab," I tried.

"Wha? Huh?" he blinked slowly and came back to recognition. "Oh, right, yeah, there I was in the lab. That's really my first memory. I was sitting on a steel table, ninjas all around me. Usually, if you're surrounded by ninjas, you don't know it until it's too late, but it's pretty different in a medical lab. If you've never been in one, all the walls are white, the ceiling's white, the floor's white, and the ninjas are all standing around in black. It's really awful camouflage. They tried to do something about that for a time, requiring all ninjas in the lab to wear white, but then they kept bumping in to each other, slicing each other open with scalpels and poking each other with needles. They lost over half of their scientists to that. After the Great Medical Tray Fight of 1992, they decided to just let the ninjas wear black. Everyone was happy with this compromise, even though working or living in the lab was like living in the TV in the 1950s.
"Anyway, there I was in the black and white lab, just staring. And I felt a tugging at my back. I turned around to look and saw a ninja strapping little bags to my back. I didn't have a mirror or anything, but I'm pretty certain that looked darned cute. Think about it, a tiny flying squirrel with little saddle bags. I was downright adorable.

"After the bags were attached, the ninjas showed me a map and then took me to the training ground. They were testing my retention ability, to make sure I would be able to get to my destination safely and quickly. I ran the course a couple of times, never once making a mistake. As I ran, though, there was something happening in me. I couldn't describe it at the time, mostly because I'd had no experience of language. You would be amazed how difficult it can be to describe something when you don't know any words. I've learned that most linguistic beings acquire language from their parents or creators. It's difficult to do that when your creators focus on being as quiet as possible all the time. They never speak, and they almost never make sounds while they're moving. Even in the Great Medical Tray Fight of 1992, only once did the sound exceed .00005 decibels. I know now, though, that my intelligence was slowly growing with every new task I completed and every new obstacle I overcame. The ninjas were thrilled because I found new ways to completed the maze quicker. This, they thought, would be a great asset should the buyer change his defenses around to get his meth for free.

"Finally, the day for my first mission came. They strapped the meth to me, showed me the map, and set me on my way. I ran day and night for a week until I reached Wyoming. In that time, I learned how to read road signs, how to avoid trucks, how to trade a little bit of meth for a ride from a guy driving a '76 Volvo and how to flirt with truck stop waitresses. I've got to admit, when that waitress and I made eyes at each other, I don't know who was more desperate. I'd intended just to go in and get myself a pecan waffle and pick up some beef jerky for Ron, who was gassing up the Volvo. But I hadn't slept in a couple of days and Flo and I got to talking about life, love, meth, ninjas..you know, things we were familiar with. By the time we were making out in a bathroom stall, I had grown enough in intelligence to understand I was making a highly questionable choice. I broke away from her with some excuse about being gay and a squirrel and only about a week old and got the heck out of there. When I got back to the Volvo, Ron was pissed. He started yelling at me about how he was doing me a favor by taking me to Casper and how I was rude to let him stand there waiting for me while I was nailing the 80 year old waitress. But I gave him some more meth and he let it go. Not to say he calmed down, but he focused on other things, like the worms crawling under his skin.

"When I finally made it to the buyer's fortified compound, I had difficulty understanding why I was there. I had grown vastly in intelligence and had actually gained a conscience. I had seen, through the truck stops and rest stops all along the highway the ravages of meth. I thought through all of these things as I negotiated the mine fields, carefully picking my way through. I noticed that the buyer had misstated the position of his mines, so I had to change from the route I'd been given. I may have only been born a week before, but I wasn't about to step on a mine.
"After the mine field, I had to navigate the alligator pit. I have learned, in my short time here on earth, that alligators really love squirrel meat. I mean, they go after it like nobody's business. If there is a squirrel around, they will drop whatever else they are doing and go after that squirrel. They could be sitting next to their poor, dying, saint of a mother who is dying of cancer, listening to final words of wisdom and saying their goodbyes, but when a squirrel comes by, they and their mother will wrestle one another to see who gets to chase the squirrel. I've never seen any creature like another's flesh so much. Despite that, alligators aren't too bright, and they're especially bad at catching squirrels who have been trained in speed and fighting by ninjas. Don't get me wrong, alligators are ferocious and strong, but they're no match for ninja training. Long story short, 800 dead alligators, 40 guardsmen, a black hole, 1000 Siberian tigers, a robot army, 150 lost souls and one very belligerent turtle later, I was standing at the threshold of the mansion. All that was left now was to make the delivery.

"I stood staring at that door for well over an hour, thinking about my life. Did I want to serve as a courier for Clan Platypus? Did I want to spread this drug that would let an 80 year old woman make out with a week old squirrel? Did I want more people feeling they had works under their skin? The answer to all was no. So I turned to leave. As I did, I heard the door of the mansion open and a voice behind me say, 'You have passed the final test'...."

Ain't posted in awhile. I'll post again soon, I promise. If ya like what ya see, though, leave a comment.

The Perfect Squimonk

"That's where the story gets interesting?" I clarified. "That's great, because I've been bored out of my skull for what seems like weeks now. Time really slows down when you're bored, doesn't it?"

"Time doesn't really exist," replied Alastair, "at least not as you experience it."

"You wanna explain that to me?" I asked.

"I could," he said smarmily, "but you have to be super intelligent to understand it. The story of how we Squimonk began fighting the Meth Ninjas of Clan Platypus is more your speed."

I was a bit taken aback, but I'd had a couple of jars of my moonshine and I was feeling mighty friendly, so I let him get away with it. If I''d had one jar less, or even one jar more, I likely would have challenged him to some fisticuffs. Instead, I told him, "Well, get on with the story then."
And he did. Clan Platypus carefully designed their perfect couriers. They were made to look like squirrels, but have abilities and intelligence beyond the average rodent. They were given the ability to glide long distances, see in the dark, and be able to find their way to anywhere from anywhere without having to stop and ask for directions, even in those confusing neighborhoods where the street names only differ in label and not in name. You know, one place there's a Roosevelt St. and three blocks over there's a Roosevelt Dr. and that crosses Roosevelt Pl. Even in those kinds of neighborhoods, the Squimonk could find their way with perfect accuracy. This was an essential skill because, if you have a customer wanting Meth at 2142 Roosevelt Pl. and a squirrel shows up with a bag of white powder at 2142 Roosevelt Dr. there will be an enormous amount of explaining to do. The really funny thing is that, even though Meth is a stimulant, addicts are much more relaxed about a squirrel showing up at their door with a bag full of drugs than the average person who, more likely than not, will freak out. To prevent this, the Squimonk needed to show up at the right door every time. In addition, they needed to recognize and be able to count money. A lot of drug addicts will try to rip off a courier squirrel, but if they're confronted with a squirrel that can count, as well as chew their leg off from the knee down in three seconds, they will likely be more honest in their financial dealings.

With their new abilities, the Squimonk were sent into the world to be couriers for the Meth and thereby part of Clan Platypus' nefarious plan for world domination. Because of shifting circumstances and different delivery requirements, several versions of Squimonk were created, each suited to a different task or different environment. However, five years ago, something remarkable happened.

Clan Platypus had struck a deal with a very paranoid, very rich Meth dealer who lived in the deserts of Utah. He had created a fortress of sorts in the middle of nowhere, defended with drone aircraft, landmines and robot tigers. He was willing to share his defense schematics with the Clan so that they could send a courier directly to his house, where the transaction would take place in a sensory deprivation chamber. The Clan needed to design a new Squimonk with the capability of maneuvering through the mine field, avoiding or defeating the tigers, disguising itself from the drone aircraft, entering the house and finally being able to make correct change in a sensory deprived environment. In addition, because of the size of this order, the Squimonk would have to be able to carry 40 pounds. It was quite the task.

"The Clan's scientists worked night and day on the new Squimonk. The result was the apex of their engineering program, or so they thought. That Squimonk was me."

I looked at him for a moment. Then I said, "So you're the apex of the breeding program? All this work by these ninjas to create a perfect meth delivery system, and it's you?"

"Why do you seem so surprised?" he asked. "I have assembled an army of Squimonk to fix your truck overnight and also fight against our creators and former masters. I was smart enough to try to recruit you as our face to the humans. I was also smart enough to let you publish our conversation to the world so they would all know the danger. Why shouldn't I be the apex of the breeding program?"

"Well," I said, "I guess you got me there."

"I sure do. Now, do you want to hear about how I broke free?" he offered.

"I would love to," I replied.