My enemies--and legion they are--will resort to any tool at their disposal in order to find out what I have planned. My closest compatriots need to help me keep things sub rosa, until I am ready for things to be otherwise.
My son Jörg is a superior specimen in so many respects. But he has one formidable weakness. As shown by Luisa's ability to gull him with the crude façade of a lie detector, he is susceptible to manipulation through guilt and shame. Most parents might find this reassuring. I am not most parents.
No, Jörg's psychic defenses must be reinforced. A three day course of hallucinogens may open his floodgates, force him to confront his false morality. For now, there is nothing but to laugh.
Believe it or not, the Wild Turkey has an animal cunning rarely seen among creatures of the foothills. It chooses the most capricious times to fly--yes, fly--and keeps predators off-balance. These birds are sufficiently intelligent that eating them feels a little like cannibalism. And a lot like being reborn into the world, but that's a long story.
It has been pointed out to me that I have something in common with the late M. Bonaparte. (A relative amateur in the art of conquest, one with little sense of the long game.) Yes, I too am low to the ground. One sees much that way.
Does my stature hurt my billiard game. A fair if rude question. The truth is, I have been known to throw games. I find that final clattering victory has more of an impact if it is in doubt. As well, it puts opponents at ease, and one must have willing opponents. It has become nearly impossible to scare up a ping pong match.
One final note. I often receive questions regarding LVN and the schoolteacher, Madame Prunelly. Are they in fact the same woman? For now I will only reply that there is a reason every deck of cards has two jokers.
A forceful denial is required. It is absolutely untrue that I--or anyone in my employ--laces the county's fish and game birds with mind controlling substances. I have moral standards, although they are not immediately apparent to the layman. And while the citizens of Hootin' Holler do--unlike bass and chickens--have functioning minds, my sense is that controlling these minds would prove more trouble than it is worth.
Now, powerful halluninogens are another story. On occasion, these elixirs may find their way into the food supply. Not en masse, but enough to trigger "mystical" insights in some. One should never underestimate a hillbilly on a vision quest.
From the notebooks of Lucas Morrison The city has its beautiful women and its nocturnal degenerates.
The countryside has its rustic pleasures and dangerous animals.
No place I have known has another Elviney (my pet name for Colonel LVN). And yet she combines qualities from each category. And so living with her requires me to draw on all my experiences. It is an exhilirating ordeal, one not for all men.
Oh, some may grouse "mental cruelty" and "gaslighting." I'll have none of it. They have never been married. Least of all have they been married to a rival in the service of Smith's vision.
"Bothered by the sight of blood"? I should hope not, my jovial bear of a man! After all, it is lovely to be able to evade violence. One always hopes that one's adversaries will take the functionality of the laser cannon on faith. And when proactive force is required, more sophisticated weapons are pleasant. Still, at times one must pick up the scimitar and get one's hands dirty, if only to prove one can.
Interesting story with the good doctor here. He was employed by... someone, who I believe I know but won't name now. Engaged in staged cattle mutilations and the abduction of cornpone hillbillies, he almost faced his capture without showing fear. Almost. I was impressed with the skill he showed in his hands, and was amused by the thought of keeping him and his Dartmouth elocution here. As predicted, he has picked up on the ways and talk of the plain folk of theses parts.
The old man circled our encampment numerous times, near-empty canteen hanging from his neck. Luisa wanted to find a deep ditch in which his body could rot. I was tempted, but his orange eyebrows and high-pitched ranting made him too conspicuous. There was just that chance that he'd be missed, even that he was the black sheep of a wealthy family.
No, better to bring him in, somehow. But he wasn't strong. Wasn't good with weapons. Nor should he be allowed within thirty yards of a sterile lab.
In the end, we gave him a broad straw hat and a shiny preacher's suit. We've given him the duties of arbitration and ritual. The wonderful thing is that it doesn't matter if he's any good at it. His presence lets my people know that I care. And that one way or another, I am always watching.
You may think me unduly harsh with my son. Well, go ahead and think that. I need not justify my actions to anyone.
But perhaps your perception and appreciation may yet grow. A child growing to maturity needs a little of his father's vinegar as well as mother's milk. A boy destined to lead a squadron of supermen may need an extra dose once in a while. Among other ingredients.
Thankfully, Jörg has not let me down. Yes, I have faith that the boy and his compatriots will make short work of the hausfrau's clayware. And between the two of us, I've requested that he grind the Dukes of Hazard memorial set. That popinjay Tom Wopat will pay for his insolence.
From Luisa's log. We lie to the world. We lie to each other. Our relationship is based on deceit, aimed towards a goal most would call mad. Horrific even. And somehow, the ever-present spectre of betrayal brings us closer together. For the mask, the kill, the cover-up: that is who we are.
I think Snuffy would like sweet potato pie tonight. I truly think he would.
To be absolutely clear, my fretting over who takes over as "leader" of the "free world" would be a foolish waste of time and energy. The president, whoever he or she might be, will answer to me when he or she learns of something I have in store. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but let's say it rhymes with "tidal agitator." To micromanage would squander the great advantage--aside from my intellect--that I have: time.
Luisa will, of course, write in "Felix the Cat." Oh my, she'll be giggling all night.
From the journal of LVN, educational minister The girl, the one with the red ribbon and the raven black hair. Do I see something of myself in her? Yes, I certainly do. As a girl, a flowered slip of a thing. Yes, before the battle scars and the lessons that so few women survive. Before I knew what commitment was, and who was worthy of mine. So young! So raw!
My instruction of these young women is far from complete. They must learn. The sexual instinct is a great and powerful thing. You must make it your servant and not your master. You must make men your servants. They'll be only too happy to make you the fools they are.
And most especially, be cautious around boys like Smith's spawn, Jörg. Because of his blood, he thinks himself special. Well, special he may be. Time will tell. But he will be humbled and will learn to learn the hard way if Ms... If I have anything to say it. No special treatment from the girl children on my watch.