Writing by Carol Mays


Carol Mays
Church Bullies
Hey! It’s great to see you again! The last time we visited, I was ranting about my trailer and then the HOA in my neighborhood. Well, now I’m angry about my church. I’ve been to a lot of them, and they are all the same. It doesn't matter what religion it is--Protestant, Catholic, whatever—bullies run these places. Yes, I said bullies. Just hear me out. And don’t worry. I’m not going to preach anything. No Bible passages or scriptures. I don’t think I know any—come to think of it.
Now, to be fair, there are probably some really good churches out there run by really nice people who are just amazingly understanding. If this is your church, then you must be one of those people who manages to get in and out and participate just enough without any problems. But I’m warning you, the bullies are there too. They just haven’t gotten to you—yet. Let me help you. Bullying is usually subtle. These are the people who stare at you the minute you walk in. The ones who over-smile and the ones who glare at you. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Smiling is bullying? Yes, it is! It is an invasion of your mental comfort space. It’s a way to put you on notice that you are on their turf. But the worst bullying is the kind I have endured. I’ll be more specific.
I was at church singing my favorite hymns. I love to sing, and my church is small, so my voice carries. Anyway, I was singing and doing what I thought was a pretty good job. And this guy, who is extremely annoying, kept staring at me. It was weird, like serial killer weird. You know, like classic 1970s to the 1980s serial killer. I ignored him. After church, I needed to go to the restroom, because the service ran longer than usual, because—get this—the previous Sunday, a man got up from his pew before church started, went across the aisle over to a woman who happened to be a visitor, and told her that she “needed to cover up!” The man thought her outfit was too revealing! The whole homily was about how wrong it was to treat someone like that—especially a guest. So, evidently, the priest had no problem with the woman’s plunging neckline.
Anyway, I was on my way to the restroom, and this weirdo grabs my arm when I passed by him. I’m not kidding. This was right in the church. I swung around, and fortunately, he let go of me, but I nearly fell over. I had to take a step back to get my balance. I gave him the look of death. He then says to me, “I just wanted to tell you that you have a beautiful voice.” Are you kidding me? He could have just said, “excuse me,” but no! He grabbed me! I just wanted to get away from him, so I mumbled a “so do you.” And that seemed to knock him off guard. His face turned all red, and he said that no one had ever said that to him. I turned and walked off. But I am still pissed off about this and mainly with myself. I should have told that idiot not to touch me. You see, that is bullying behavior. But then he got bullied by this other man, who is the husband of this horrible, snobby woman I silently call ‘crooked mouth’ because she always has her expression set just that annoying way. She twists her mouth in a sideways upturned manner. Well, anyway, before church started, I heard the weirdo in a heated, verbal argument with crooked-mouth-woman’s husband, who is an even worse bully. He’s super gruff. Need more proof of bullying? Here is the next one.
I was at church one day. It was packed, but I found a seat next to this nun and put my purse under my seat. Suddenly, this bitch, who lives a few blocks from me, shoved my purse from under my seat. It sailed between me and the nun, and I managed to grab it before it took flight. If the nun hadn’t been there, I would have totally told the Bitch off. Need more proof? Okay.
I’m a vendor at various locations. I am truly grateful for all the opportunities I get to sell jewelry, various stuff that I make, and the books I write and self-publish. Well, I got this amazing opportunity to set up my table at a top professional building during the holidays. It was a benefit provided by this company for the employees to have a shopping opportunity. Well, I was ready and here came the executives one by one looking at all the wares of my fellow vendors. Well, who happened to be one of the snobby professionals? No, not the weirdo. Thank God for that. It was a Deacon from my church. Oh, he is a sour, horrible little man. I smile and welcome him to my table, and what does he say? “So, this is what you do for a living.” And, with that, he walked away. See what I mean! A bully!
Well, I could tell you of other church bullying stories like this woman who called me and told me not to come to the fellowship time after church because that was reserved for “them.” Meaning I was not the right ethnicity to socialize with “them.” Or I could tell you about a time when I took a Bible class, and this woman who ran it said, “We have tolerated your diversity enough!” So, I can’t win. Either I’m too ethnic or not ethnic enough. So, here’s what I plan to do. If I ever go to church again, I am from now on—going to fight back, and I don’t care if Jesus himself is there.
Hey, wait, don’t leave. Why are you always running away? Let me pour you another glass of wine. It’s your favorite kind.


Pepper Cane's Rant
Merry Christmas, you say? For you maybe, but not for me! I mean, who ever heard of one of Santa’s elves getting arrested and having to do community service? That’s the mess I’m in now! You see, I’m an elf -- a real elf -- who just so happens to have made one little mistake and now I’m sentenced to 60 hours of community service during the Christmas season at this stupid mall as -- get this -- are you ready? An elf -- helping the imposter Santa at the Picture Gallery. It’s a mind numbing nightmare. On top of my 60 hours, I have to go to anger management sessions with this complete idiot -- some psychologist, named Dr. Phil. He kinda looks like the Grinch with his bald head and beady eyes. And, really I shouldn’t be here. The mall, I mean. It’s kinda all your fault -- well, maybe not yours but people like you. You see, most people think elves live at the North Pole, are short, eat tons of sweets and make toys all day long. WRONG!!!!!
Elves are everywhere doing all sorts of jobs -- not just toy making and baking. I don’t have tons of time to explain this to you but let me see if I can. There are two kinds of elves: Green Hats and Red Hats. Green Hat elves are construction workers, plumbers, electricians, you know -- skilled labor stuff. At the North Pole they do the baking, card making and any sled repairs needed. Red Hat elves, which is what I am, make toys at the North Pole, and are often teachers, doctors, nurses, writers and stuff like that everywhere else. I used to be a top Red Hat Elf before the Incident. I made simple things which kids used to want for Christmas: blankets, pillows, stuffed toys, and my best of all: Sock Monkey. That’s been popular for a long time until that bitch stole it from me and mass-produced Sock Monkey -- and not very well made I might add. I found out about it when Spike -- oh, you don’t know him. Do you? You might. He’s a Red Hat hot-looking elf with spiked blue hair, edible piercings, and a tattoo of a red hat on his right arm. Well, Spike makes wild, cool, crazy cool toys that do amazing things. He invented pop rocks, exploding volcanos, motorized scooters just for kids, well just about anything that explodes or flies. He’s so cool. Well, Spike is the one who told me that Candy Land -- the bitch -- stole my Sock Monkey and changed the look to get away with it. She thinks she is so wonderful just because she’s from the wealthy and famous family who invented the game -- Candy Land. She’s used to getting her own way and when -- oh, yeah she’s a Red Hat elf too if I failed to mention that but I guess you could’ve figure that out. Oh, where was I? I get so mad I forget what I’m talking about. Oh, yeah. She stole my pattern of Sock Monkey off my desk and instead of him being the usual brown sock she made all different variations of Sock Monkey -- that part was fine -- all she had to do was ask me. But the part that is not o.k. is that she makes them talk and say some nauseating, high pitch-voiced phrases that when you pull the string it makes a: pooshk sound and says, -- “Candy Land is my favorite game! Pooshk -- Candy Land is where I want to live! Pooshk -- Candy Land is fun for you and me!” It’s selling at an over-priced store ironically at this stupid mall.
Well, I got so mad that I confronted her at one of our Christmas parties. It was such a perfect party too. Chocolate fountain, pizza, a crystal ball and rock- n -roll Christmas music. Spike was playing the electric guitar and singing. Oh, he’s so hot!
“Candy!” I yelled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing stealing my Sock Monkey and making it your own?” She turned and looked at me with her perfect grape eyes -- all the guy elves love purple-grape eyes -- I have chocolate-brown eyes but you can see that -- and in her annoying fake-whisper sweet voice she had the nerve to say, “I don’t know what you are talking about. I checked and your Sock Monkey didn’t have your name on it. You didn’t register it. So, I just perfected it and made it more up-to–date and cool. Oh, and my Sock Monkey -- registered in my name -- has accessories. So, I don’t know what you’re talking about Peppercane.” She patted me on the head -- because she’s taller than me. I snapped. I completely lost it. On her. I never lost it like I did at that party. I can remember Spike yelling, “Way cool! An elf chick fight!” I kicked her knees then, I punched her face making her red velvet Louis Vuitton Hat sail across the room and land at Santa’s feet. Candy’s eyes rolled back, then she hit the floor with a wobbly thud. Santa looked at me with a grave expression.
You can guess the rest. Rudolf couldn’t keep a secret if his red nose and Christmas depended on it. I was arrested, booked and put in a cell across from the real Grinch -- not Dr. Phil. There were some others there on the naughty list. I can’t believe I just snapped like that. I really can’t explain myself. I’ve been taking it from her all my life and I just couldn’t take it anymore. Dr. Phil says I’m a disgruntled elf and says I should, “just let thangs go -- invent somethin’ new and register your inventions from now on.” I wanted to punch him when he said that, but I just smiled and said, “Thank you, I will do that from now on. I am so fortunate to have your help.” Santa bailed me out and is giving me a second chance.
Well, I guess I better get back to work my break is almost over. I see a long line of kids waiting to tell the fake Santa what they want for Christmas. I hope it’s not Candy’s stupid talking Sock Monkey. Wait -- I’m getting a text. It’s from Spike! He’s asking me to the annual Christmas Ball! I guess it’s a Merry Christmas after all!
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CAROL MAYS
Carol Mays has written four novels about talking cats.
That House
Nina Rothford, age 59, an empty–nester housewife, rode her red tricycle through her plush suburban neighborhood as she always did at six in the evening. Her life was perfect, just like the McMansions in this subdivision called Trees. Each street named after the trees that were planted there: Oak Drive, Mesquite Drive, Juniper Lane, Magnolia Way, etc. She rode past the homes with manicured lawns meticulously monitored by the ever-hovering, Home Owner’s Association, better known as the HOA. Little did she know that this evening would change her life forever, for she had just coasted past that house.
It caught the corner of her eye as she pedaled down the street. The house was one of the oldest in the neighborhood, which isn’t saying much since that makes it about forty-five years old. It was hardly an antique since it was built in the early 1980s. A couple: classic, old-fashioned, career husband and old-money wife, built it. A few years ago, the wife, annoying Mrs. Primrose, died at the age of 85. Now, alone, Mr. Primrose sat on the porch rocking back and forth.
Nina waved as she coasted past him. Mr. Primrose hollered, “Hey! Stop by for a spell!” Nina spun around and rode up the walk. She stopped in front of him and smiled, “Sorry about just riding on. I’m never really sure if the neighbors around here want to visit or just wave.” Mr. Primrose just nodded. He took a deep breath, coughed, and then said, “I know. This has always been a snotty place to live, but my wife loved it.” Nina never liked her, but thought she should say something nice. “I’m sorry about her passing away. She always made the best casserole for the annual HOA meetings.” Mr. Primrose coughed again, “Well, I’ve been very depressed lately, and the bills just pile up. I wanted to tell you that I’ve invited an old buddy of mine to move in. He and I were in the Navy together. I don’t want to go to a nursing home, and well, neither does my friend. We are going to hire around-the-clock home health nurses. Just thought you might like to know since you ride by every day.” Nina nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”
The next evening, Nina hopped on her trike and headed down Juniper Lane. She thought about her husband, who basically spent every waking moment shut up in his office watching the stock market. He called it work, but Nina thought it was just an excuse to have as little to do with her as possible. She spotted Mr. Primrose rocking back and forth, laughing. The other man laughed too as he gestured. They looked like they were having fun. “Hey! There you are! Stop for a spell! I want to introduce you to my navy buddy, Tom.” Tom, like all those old military guys, was in pretty good shape: full head of hair, all of his teeth, and surprisingly muscular.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nina said. “Well! Commander Pete Primrose! You never told me about this beautiful woman!” Nina blushed. “Stand down. She’s married.” Mr. Primrose said, laughing. Nina loved the attention. They invited her to sit with them. A nurse brought out a tray of sandwiches, chips, and beer. Nina enjoyed hearing about their navy life, all the places they went, and the fun they had. She shared her life with them, how her two children had moved on, and her husband’s preoccupation with the stock market. All she had was her male, black cat Mushymoto. “I think you have more than you think,” Tom said as he pointed to Nina’s trike. “That will take you where you need to go and keep you in good shape, too.” Mr. Primrose nodded, “Tell you what, Nina. Why don’t you just make it a habit to visit us every day at about this time, 6:00 pm. We’ll have supper together.” Nina nodded. “Sounds like a perfect plan, but I will bring the food. It’s the least I can do.”
Over the next six months, Nina visited Pete and Tom every evening. They sat on the front porch, laughed, told stories, shared worries and concerns, and enjoyed the many different meals Nina had prepared.
Then, one evening, Nina saw flashing red lights speed by her house. She hopped on her trike and pedaled fast. By the time she got to Mr. Primrose’s home, the paramedics had already driven away. She saw a blond woman barking orders at the nurse on the front porch. Tom saw Nina and went up to her. “What happened?” Nina asked. Tom shook his head. “Pete passed away.” Nina gasped. She held back tears. “How?” Pete replied, “his heart. He died peacefully in his sleep.” Nina worried, “What are you going to do?” Tom pointed to the woman yelling at the nurse, “Well, that’s his daughter, Rachael. She said I can stay here. They plan to rent the other two bedrooms to some other seniors like me.
As the weeks went by, Nina got less and less time to visit on the porch with Tom. He seemed different. Weak, depressed, and distant. He just wanted to sleep all the time. He had no appetite for the casseroles that Nina brought. The nurses who occasionally popped their heads out to check on him were hostile, and some of them looked scary. Nina asked Tom about it. He just said, “Well, Rachael hired a new home health group.”
Then, one cold day, Tom wasn’t on the front porch. Nina parked her trike on the walk. She knocked on the front door. A long-haired man wearing medical scrubs answered. “Yeah.” Nina, startled, jumped back. “Um, hi. I was wondering if Tom is here.” The man simply replied, “I don’t know any Tom.” And, with that, he shut the door in her face.
Every evening for two weeks, Nina rode her trike by that house. Every evening was the same. She saw the long-haired guy in scrubs smoking on the front porch. Another rough-looking guy leaned against the post, and a third sat on the ground vaping. They always stared hard at Nina as she rode by. She felt uneasy. She decided that if she were going to find out anything, she would have to ride her trike tonight. It would be scary, but she had to do it. She waited in her house until 10:00 p.m. Her husband was fast asleep. Nina rolled her trike out of her backyard and switched on her headlight.
She turned the corner onto Juniper Lane and rode up to that house. A window blind was up in one of the front bedrooms, and she could see an old man sitting up in a hospital bed. A single light was on. Is that Tom? It can’t be. She rode around to the back of the house in the alley. Nina knew she shouldn’t do it, but she had to find out the truth. She parked her trike, switched off the light, and peeked through the fence. A light was on in the kitchen. The three guys who were on the front lawn were standing around the counter. Three more creepy home health workers sat around a wooden table. They were talking and eating burgers. In the back bedroom, a dim night light cast a long shadow. Nina could see two more old people in beds. In the living room, another dim light revealed six more hospital beds with patients, and just off to the right, the dining room, five more! How many do they have in there? Nina wondered. Something about the whole setup seemed wrong. Nina knew she had to do something.
The next morning Nina called the HOA. She hated doing it. “Good morning. This is Nina Rothford. I live at 1588 Oak Drive.” Cindy Perez, the director, answered, “Yes, Nina. How can I help you?” Nina told the entire story in five minutes. Cindy remained speechless. “Hello? Cindy? Are you still there?” Nina asked. “Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with anything like this in my thirty years of service.” Nina exhaled audibly, “Look. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth.”
“I believe you. I know Mr. Primrose passed away, and his daughter owns the house now. These homes are single-family only. So, if they are doing what you claim, then that’s a clear violation. I’ll have to check this out.”
Nina felt uneasy all afternoon. She needed to know something, and waiting for Cindy to investigate seemed too long. If there was anyone who could tell her about that house, it was the neighbor, Jill Cater, who lived next door. Nina dialed the number and almost hung up, but Jill finally answered. After Nina described the entire story, Jill simply said she didn’t know anything about that house. No way! Nina thought to herself. Jill is the noisiest person on the block. She’s lying. Why?
That evening, Nina rode her trike down Juniper Lane. As she approached that house, Racheal ran towards her and jumped in front of her trike in the middle of the street.
“I see you ride past this house every day! How dare you accuse me of running a hospice house! The HOA called me and said that you complained! How dare you!” She screamed and gestured. Nina, caught off guard, was speechless. Nina mumbled a weak apology. Rachael, satisfied, stormed back into the house. Nina rode home and called Cindy. She didn’t care that it was after-hours. It’s against the HOA bylaws for a resident who complains to be revealed. Cindy answered, “Nina. I was just about to call you.” Nina interrupted, “Did you tell Rachael that I complained?” Cindy replied, “No. No way. Why?” Nina explained her encounter. Cindy responded, “How did she find out? I didn’t tell her. Did you talk to anyone else about this?” Suddenly, Nina remembered. “Yes, Jill Cater.” Cindy said, “Well, that’s it. Anyway, I wanted to call you. You see, I thought it was weird when an electrician came by here a few weeks ago because he got lost. He said he was putting in ten extra sockets and a special breaker for the garage for that house. At the time, I didn’t think anything about it. I just thought they were trying to add something to that house to resell it. But, after you called, I became uneasy. I did some digging. I found out that Rachael owns a deep freezer business.” Cindy’s voice trailed off. Nina asked, “Are you saying that the deep freezers are in the garage of that house?” Cindy said, “I don’t know. I went over there, and a strange man in medical scrubs told me Racheal was out for the day. She called me back and denied that the house is even rented. There’s not much more I can do on my end.” Nina knew that if she was going to get to the bottom of this, she was going to have to find a way into that garage.
That night, promptly at 10:00 pm, Nina rode her trike down the alley behind that house. She carefully switched off her light and quietly peeked through the fence. The kitchen light was on, but no one was in it. There were now only three old people in the living room and one in the dining room. What is going on. Nina wondered. She knew that she had to see into the garage. The garage door had three windows at the top, but they were too high for her to reach. She rolled her trike up to it, looked around to make sure no one saw her, locked the wheel, and climbed up on the seat. She stood precariously on the trike seat and peeked into the window. The chilling sight nearly unbalanced her. Elderly people, dead, were laid out on long tables. The creepy medical scrub workers were surgically dissecting the bodies and removing hearts, lungs, livers, and other body parts. They were putting them in containers, then, into freezers against the wall of the garage. Nina let out a scream when she saw the horrific sight, but luckily, the workers didn’t hear her. They all wore earphones and must have been listening to music.
Nina’s heart pounded as she rode home quickly. She nervously unlocked the door of her home, yelling to her husband, “Dan! We need to call the police.” Dan stumbled out of the bedroom, blurry-eyed. Nina explained the entire story. They called the police who went blaring by their home five minutes later. Dan and Nina joined all the other neighbors who were standing outside that house. The police arrested the creepy medical staff. The coroner took out body after body in bags. Cindy showed up in her car and spoke with the police.
The months that followed revealed very little except that the old people were being murdered for their body parts, which were being sold on the black market. Racheal got off – somehow. The creepy staff all had previous convictions for various crimes of theft, drugs, etc. They were blamed for everything, and all went to prison. No one knew anything about a man named, Tom. Dan decided to divorce Nina. He left her the house and Mushymoto.
Nina continued to ride her trike at 6:00pm past that house. It had a ‘for sale’ sign and, strangely, quickly sold. The house was beautifully renovated. Nina heard from a neighbor that a family from out of state moved into it. They had two small children. It was rumored that they were desperate for a home, and they just didn’t care what had happened in that house. Also rumored around the neighborhood was that Jill’s uncle lived for a brief time in that house. And, Jill’s husband had an affair with one of the female nurses who took care of her uncle. Fortunately, the uncle was taken in by a distant relative.
Nina turned onto her street and saw a man riding a blue tricycle. He looked oddly familiar. As she got closer, she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Tom!” She exclaimed. “Where have you been!” Tom laughed. “Sorry about that. Well, I need to be honest with you. I was Pete’s friend, and I really did move into that house, but when I noticed they were drugging me by overdosing my medications, I escaped in the middle of the night. I contacted the police, who put a surveillance on that house. I wanted to call you so badly, but it would jeopardize the case.” Nina was so happy to see him that she jumped off her trike and hugged Tom. “Where are you living?” Tom smiled, “Well, I was put up for a long time in a police protection location, but now that is over. So, I’m currently looking for a place.” Nina smiled, “Well, Tom. I’m divorced. Dan left me. So, how about renting a room from me?”
About Mortimer
Mortimer, a witch's cat, comes to the aid of Narice, a woman who is being severely abused by her husband. When she wishes her husband dead, she gets more than she bargained for. BUY NOW or listen to Carol Mays read an excerpt.
Chapter One
“Nar-ese, where the hell are you!”
Narice Whiteworth knew all the different tones of her husband, Gunner Whiteworth, and this one meant he might hit her. “Asshole,” she muttered under her breath.
“Nar-ese!! Don’t make me call you again! Come a-runnin’!”
Narice knew from all her miserable years of marriage that she would suffer if she didn’t answer his call by the third holler. Suffering could be simple, like the silent treatment. It could also be broken bones, missing teeth, and bruises lasting months. The emotional scars would last a lifetime.
She had been ironing the bed sheets and knew this could take a while, so she yanked the cord out of the wall. Nervously, she shut the blinds to darken the room. She peaked through the keyhole to see if he was in the hall.
No, he wasn’t there.
She clasped the doorknob with one hand and braced her other hand against the wall. The settling house caused the door to jam. It scraped open. Baptized by bits of sawdust, she scurried down the stairs as if she were still twenty-four years old.
“Nar-ese!” Asshole’s voice echoed in the small, closet-sized bathroom at the foot of the stairs.
Her voice used to be sweet and cheerful when she was younger; now, it was just flat. “What do you need?”
He answered sharply, “I’m out of toilet paper! Why can’t you keep this bathroom stocked?!”
Gunner went through toilet paper like a drug addict with an expensive habit. In three steps and three seconds, Narice darted ten feet to a small cupboard and retrieved two rolls of extra-soft toilet paper, lightly woodsy scented, from the mammoth-sized package.
Seated on the toilet, Gunner slid the pocket door open with one arm stretched to the side. A sewer-like stench wafted through the air, and Narice gagged audibly.
“What’s your problem? It’s not that bad!”
Narice knew when to keep silent. She handed him the two rolls. He slammed the door shut with a THUD!
She waited dutifully outside the bathroom. The sound of water splashing against the walls signaled that he was finally done. He opened the door, brushed past her, and darted upstairs to his office, where he conducted his kingly business affairs. Narice, from day one of their marriage, was never allowed to be privy to the bills or any financial decisions. That was her first mistake, she realized as she entered the bathroom and cleaned up after Asshole.
She flicked on the fan, which was no match for Asshole’s bowels. She poured bleach down the toilet. Her life sucked! Like so many women, she married the wrong man, going from her father’s house to her husband’s house at the age of twenty-four. She dutifully raised and homeschooled two children who grew up and became well-paid professionals who never visited. And now, at fifty-seven years old, Narice was continuing her life without parole in the church’s prison known as Marriage, maximum security—cell block: the suburbs in the southern part of the United States: Texas.
After disinfecting the toilet and sink for the millionth time, she imagined she had a different life. She often fantasized, but this vision felt remarkably different. She owned an old, abandoned house in the middle of a freezing -cold – nowhere. But happiness resided in her heart – not pain and misery. A talking black cat accompanied her by a warm, peaceful fireplace.
The doorbell wrecked her daydream. It rang aggressively three times in a row.
“Git the door!” Asshole yelled from upstairs. Narice dried her hands and peeked out the window, although she knew who it was.
The sun shone brightly through the trees. She sighed at the beauty. Then she saw Asshole’s cousin, Bullet Whiteworth, whom she thought of as “Dumbass.” He had his own key to let himself in, but he liked to make Narice work.
She opened the door and plastered the best smile she could. Gunner and Bullet looked alike. Both had straight hair, now balding everywhere, brown eyes, a beer gut, and stood about five foot nine. Asshole, once handsome when he was younger, now existed as an abusive, privileged, white male lump of dough. Dumbass always carried a stupid expression that now made him look like a wanted serial killer.
Bullet pushed her aside and darted upstairs. “Hey, cusin! What’s new? Haven’t seen you since, ahh, hmm. Let me think. Yesterday, at the Christian Brothers’ Breakfast!”
They both laughed. Narice thought their laughter sounded evil.
“Let’s go downstairs!” Gunner said. “We can watch Conservative U News!” They stomped down the bare wooden stairs with Gunner leading the way as he always did. “You ready for that Lock and Load meeting?” he asked over his shoulder.
Bullet furrowed his eyebrows. Dumbass’s normal state: confused. “What?”
“You know. The Pioneers’ Meeting about gun-rights preservation. It’s on Thursday.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. I’ll be there. We can’t have the liberals taking away our guns. It’s Un-American!”
Narice’s stomach churned, and she went to the kitchen because she knew what Gunner’s next demand would be.
“Nah-ree-se!” Git us a B—”
Before he could say, ‘beer,’ Narice stood in front of them with two opened, ice-cold bottles. They grabbed them roughly from her hands without saying a word. Asshole nestled snuggly in his camouflage recliner while Bullet tried to get comfortable on the old, worn brown couch.
On the television, police clubbed long-haired protesters. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Gunner said. “Get those liberals.”
“This was on TV at the feed store,” Bullet said. “I was in the checkout line when I saw it. You remember Tyler, Charlie’s son? Well, he mounted a TV to the wall over the cash register. It’s tuned to only Christian conservative news stations so that the customers will get the truth about what’s going on.”
Gunner grunted. “That boy is a genius.” He looked at Bullet, who was still trying to get comfortable on the couch. “Go ahead, make yourself at home.”
Bullet leaned back and propped his muddy boots on the coffee table. Narice muttered under her breath when she was safely out of their hearing range, “great! Another thing for me to clean.” Truck and beer commercials zipped quickly one after another. ‘Then the station’s 1940’S style theme song played: “red, white, and blue and conservative you!”
A tall, sixty- year- old, blue-eyed, blond-haired man came on screen. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and American flag tie. He stood in front of the White House. His voice shook with excitement.
“Good afternoon, Conservative U viewers! We have some late-breaking news! The Republicans, with the help of the Supreme Court, have just made it illegal to have an abortion anywhere in the United States. There will be no exceptions of any kind! Women or girls are expected to give birth no matter the circumstances. If their life is in danger, it is better to die than have an abortion.”
“Now that is good news!” Gunner said between gulps of beer. Bullet nodded and belched. “Well, I better git back to the ranch. Just wanted to stop by and brighten your day.”
He got up and left, slamming the door shut.
“Git, me another beer! I’m celebratin’!” Asshole’s voice echoed throughout the house. Narice looked in the fridge.
Empty. This was bad. Very bad.
“You just remember how I told you to vote, Narice! Good girls always vote Republican! Hey! Where’s that beer!”
He jumped out of his recliner and sprinted into the kitchen. Few things motivated him to move so quickly.
Shaking, Narice broke the news. “We’re out.”
Asshole slapped her so hard she lost her balance and hit her head on the steel double-door refrigerator. She was out - colder than the beer she had just served.
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