Damn Polly and her cracker lust

The best thing about parrots is their preternatural memory for simple phrases.

The worst thing about parrots is their preternatural memory for simple phrases. And their weakness for showing off.

I, Ezekiel Smith, am here to tell you that there is nothing cute about being partnered with a yappy avian that tells everyone with a gentle hand about all your secret codes and assignation spots. Not when it results it forces you to jump off a gunrunning vessel into the icy Arctic waters.

This is not the bird with which I have such a dire history. There is a family resemblance, however. I will not be keeping this specimen. He would, however, make an ideal gift for a prying law-enforcement man I know of in Frankfort. Yes, when life gives one parrots, one is best off converting them into parrot-ade.

The musical question "Do you know who I am?"

They thought they could break me in the Albanian prson camp. The solitary. The beatings on the soles of the feet. Hard labor as the harsh winds tore into our flesh.

In my fitlth-strewn cell I kept my sanity by whistling Bach's Fourth Brandenberg Concerto in G major, from beginning to end. And after I made contact with my handler, before I was airlifted out, I recorded my rendition in the commanders office. It was the one thing I left in the splinters of his desk.

The same tune I whistle now in the presence of the current sheriff. Just on the off chance that he should forget which of us is master.

The ssssssssss code

No fool I, and no blind man.

There was considerable overlap between the Eastern European sojourns of Agent LVN and the woman we call "Dinah." In those days she was known as Diana of the Bloody Star.

She was the mistress of a high-placed NKVD officer. Well, this same man was eventually found, tongue missing, in a Bucharest brothel. The doctor who prepared the body (a long and grueling job) for his Soviet state funeral swore that despite the missing appendage, the kamrad had died smiling. Joyful and... excited.

Interesting tidbit: the madam of this house of ill-repute spent little time there, as she needed to keep an eye on her husband so that he would not drink away all their black market profits. Her understudy, as it were, handled the day to day business. That girl? None other than LVN.

I have gradually learned to decipher this sibilant language of theirs. There's "No, that's not the antidote to the nerve toxin." And also, "Keep your pet junkies away from my herb garden." Most exchanges, though, are recriminations over the end of their lesbian affair.

It is my bidness to know these things.

Marksmanship: The truest sign of love

I pride myself on the maintenance and upkeep of my targets. Well, up until that final point, of course.

My innovation--shared with only a handful of others--is to fill my clay pigeons with ketchup and hot sauce packets from those sleepless eateries by the highway. Yes, viscous fluid is an essential factor. When one's shot hits home, one must be prepared to dodge the spatter. To avoid it outright, if possible. If you can wear white with confidence, you have made the grade as an assassin.

Luisa knows this. She is one of those for whom hitting the target is the easy part. Now the noise needn't bother her. She's got ear-plugs molded to her own shape. I should know, as they are of my own making. But the discharge of firearms always gets her hot and bothered, unleashing the kinds of appetites that may overwhelm even the sturdiest of husbands.

Yee-ha!

Well, "trout" is one descriptor, certainly. Perhaps not the most accurate, but it will do. Saves us the effort of saying "homeostatic fish hybrid with ultraviolet vision and the intelligence of a Tulane graduate student." That's one particular graduate student, a doctoral candidate who volunteered for the experiment for a laugh. I'm assuming he got it.

As to "the one that got away" why yes, it did. And as it escaped, it looked to be in a mood to settle scores with all our race. This should upset me, as the--ahem--trout's rebelliousness is a reminder that I lost control of the game, if only for a few minutes. But the presence of this piscine schemer complicates and fruetrates all plans, not just my own. So hesh up, boy.

The past is not truly past

Farnam?

Would the kindly agent of the county's law be referring to Christopher Deacon "Deke" Farnam? He of the nine toes and two faces?

Oh yes, I know Farnam well. We were both traveling with some Caucasian tribesmen, routine stuff. They needed skilled labor for alunite extraction, we needed money. Well, Deke also enhanced his income by taking part in the opium market. His choice, of course, except that someone tipped the Russian authorities off and led them to me.

I'll say nothing of my imprisonment there, except to point out that the Hootin' Holler holding cell is a relative Capella resort.

Oh yes, I will help to corner Farnam. For old times' sake, shall we say. Although if the sheriff would like to give me a pull on his whiskey whusky, I'll accept it. I could use something to cool my rage until the time comes.

Book larnin'

Handout provided to all members of the Hootin' Holler Book Club

Titles planned for this quarter:

Advanced Microbiology and Germ Warfare
Assassination Etiquette
How to Change Your Identity and Your Adversary's as Well
Chairman Smith's Little Tobacco Brown Book
The Care and Feeding of Secret Armies (Recommended by Luisa Smith)
Surgery With Half the Ethics and None of the Paperwork (Recommended by Agent LVN)
How Stella Got Her Groove Back (Recommended by both)

Jail and how to live it

Will this waddling walrus in the blue vest retain his ornaments. At this juncture, probably, yes. There are others who have expressed interest--unsubtle interest--in the position. None have made a compelling case that they'd be more useful to me in uniform, and all seem to be serving their own pompous self-regard.

What's that? I thought not.

Now I did briefly consider promoting Lucas--in my roundabout way--to the sheriff's office. But he has his hands full with the Missouri Border Raiding Party. And with being married to LVN, of course.

So, my ever-perspiring friend, your badge is safe for now. Know, though, that it can be taken from you at any time. As can your name, and either or both kidneys.

My salad days

From the private Journal of Luisa Smith
Ach! My younger days when I was--how you say?--svelte. Hitching rides under trucks. Scaling public buildings on a slim nylon rope. Ah, and when was the last time I gave a man his last surprise after rising from his crawlspace?

Oh, but I can comfort myself in knowing that these memories likely did not exist before I volunteered for the psychoactive drug tests.

Drollery: I just can't get arrested in this town

My updates to this journal have been scarce of late. Well, there is a reason for that. I've been inside Hootin' Holler's justice system. Deep inside. A quill pen and leather-bound diary tend to be conspicuous in such a setting.

Why am I in jail? The answer is simple. I am scouting new talent. While unquestioning thugs and desperate alcoholics cause trouble if their concentration grows too great, the truth is that every organization needs a few. The hard-luck drifter found walking along the highway with a car door in his hand may have skills that will be needed later. Or at least a pliable rashness.

Mind you, it has become somewhat difficult to get sentenced, or even detained by the sheriff's office. I seem to have acquired a reputation. Yes, it's true. Victims of petty crime are reluctant to even report me. I stole four chickens from four barns in a week's time. Each time the farmer saw the formidable Ezekiel Smith absconding with his poultry, and each time he kowtowed and begged off. The last time I released the chicken in disgust. It was only by scaling the outside of a family home that I got to this point. It was the wee hours of the morning, and the mistress of the house complained of suspicious noise in the night.

I don't need my boy joining me in here just now. When you're attempting to hire muscle, you need to keep your personal life separate. If this tag-ripping was indeed illegal, someone will have to be paid off.

His coin, my realm

Ah, I beg to differ, Parson. Life is the root of all evil. To reject evil is to turn in fear from both life and death. Such is the conclusion I reached after my near-fatal brush with the Marburg virus.

Oh yes, I give. Tourists have been known to give me valuable trinkets during my summer wilderness jaunts. And they had better, if they want to reach their motels in one piece. So I've handed a few treasures to the church. But to be honest, the loyalty of a holy man is not the most precious thing to me. Give me the courage of a sinful woman.

Luisa, I've been looking all over for you.

The law is an ass!

I grow impatient with the impatience of youth.

Yes, of course, Jörg would prefer horsepower to donkey power. I understand the instinct. I understand all instincts, when it comes down to it.

Someday, perhaps someday soon, I will introduce the lad to the '67 Dart I have squirreled away in Louisville. And from there hovercraft? Tanks? Mechanical spiders? Don't put ideas in his head, not just now. Luisa and I are still determining his motor reflexes. He's gotten quite proficient at catching shot glasses in midair, but nothing has been decided yet.

For the present, we have the beasts of the hills. Untraceable and they live off the land. An example all my soldiers can admire.

A revelation on the dinner table

Oh, the poor naive lamb of a minister!

He must have thought he was dining--had dined--on the ill-got gains of my barn raids. Ah, not this time. No, this bird was born and raised on my property. Although its parents may have come from elsewhere.

Well, that's a certainty, in the case of the "father." And "bird" might not be strictly speaking the right term either. But the taste is essentially that of chicken, with a twist.

Is there a law against crossbreeding ground fowl with octopi? Let's just say that a dozen or so corporations wince to know that I beat them to the punch on this discovery. Let us also say that they are not above using the USDA as a stalking horse.

Yes, eat up, Parson. Me, I've got to go dispose of some feathery ink sacs.

How I keep my balance

sigh.

If you must know, the salt in my diet chiefly comes from the blood of the star-nosed mole. Well-placed field agents in Canada have reported beneficial effects in the area of tactile sensitivity. Such a talent has its drawbacks, certainly, but in short bursts will be vital for my upcoming plan. And at any rate, I am a superior man. I have no reason to fear the results, the knowledge.

In order to dispel morning grogginess, I've been downing two or three handfuls of Skittles per day. Hence the sweet.

Luisa has missed the act of cooking for me, but science must advance.

The truth shall set us back

This is not good.

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.

And gobble gobble to you

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.

Am I snookered?

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.

Yes, about the fish...

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.

The psychic war at home

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.

Life as a liquid/Hemoglobin is power

"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.