Lili St. Crow's Blog, page 207

The Convalescence of Neo

It was one of the few times in my life when I wished I played some form of incredibly violent team sport. Not only could I have used, say, hockey armor or an American-football helmet, but I also could have used some backup.

After all, I was going into the garage.

When last we left him, Squirrel!Neo, stunned and possibly concussed (that's a word, right?), was curled in a cat carrier in my garage. He had a bowl of shelled peanuts, a bowl of fresh water, and I'd made sure the cage door was locked. I spent a restless night, hoping I wouldn't have to dispose of yet another rodent corpse come dawn. I was running out of room in the Squirl!Semetery. Though I wouldn't put it past another one of the little bastards to rise from the grave again.

So, the following fresh warm morning, I got up, nervously checked out the websites of a few sporting goods stores, and thought of dealing with the questions I would encounter if I went in and bought a whole set of hockey pads, helmet, greaves, the works. Kevlar seemed like a good option. Plus, a few hockey sticks would be a good addition to my Sekrit Weapon cache. Bonus if I could roll them in tar and ground glass.

Look, I was just being careful, okay?

But in the end, I decided that one wounded squirrel in a cat carrier was probably not going to require me dressing up like a modern-day secutor. I mean, Neo was probably feeling a bit under the weather, although I doubted even at that moment that he would be harboring so much as a tiny shred of gratitude toward the big pink monkey who had gotten him out of the road and shelled his fucking peanuts. Probably, I thought, he's sleeping.

That was my first mistake.

My car was in the garage, so I decided swinging a Sekrit Weapon around was not going to end well for anyone. Thus it was, that unarmed and foolish, I went where angels fear to tread. Miss B was clipped to the couch–no, I didn't staple her or anything. I just put her on a leash that has the other end below one of the couch legs. It's what we use to keep her from bolting over the pet fence and out the front door to catch, say, a tender, juicy UPS driver. Or a departing guest she likes too much to let leave. (Annie Wilkes has NOTHING on Miss B, let me tell you.)

Yeah, well, we're working on Miss B's impulse control. She's getting better.

At least I had the presence of mind to put her on the leash and give her a Dingo bone (there is very little she won't do for squeezy cheez or a Dingo bone; I like Cheetos so I figure we're about even) and tell her to stay. She obeyed me for a full five seconds before going to the very end of the leash and giving me the Puppy So Sad You're-Stepping-On-My-Tiny-Dreams Look.

I already felt like a jerk.

ANYWAY. So I bopped to the garage door, listened intently, and heard nothing. Which wasn't at all unusual. But I figured if Neo was afoot in my garage, there would be Noise Of An Incredible Nature. All seemed quiet. Peaceful, even.

I twisted the knob and sallied forth into my carhaven. I left the door open behind me. I had some hazy idea of always leaving myself one avenue of escape. (It works out well in other areas of my life, okay? DON'T JUDGE.) Around the end of the car, thankful that the windows were rolled up, because all I needed was a squirrel in my car while I was driving down the street. (Remind me to tell you about how I had to have my windshield replaced one time.) I took a deep breath, looked down at the cat carrier…

…and froze.

The steel-grill door to the cat carrier hung ajar, its hinges squeaking just a tiny bit to add dramatic tension to the moment. You could almost hear the horror-movie music swell. The towels were shredded, the peanuts were gone, and the water had been violently upset.

I guess King Neo had recovered.

Now seriously, Friends and Neighbors, I want to ask you: How is it even goddamn possible for a squirrel to open a cat carrier door with a spring-lock FROM THE FUCKING INSIDE? HOW? Because I DO NOT KNOW. It is one of those grand life mysteries, like where the other half of a pair of socks goes or how wire hangers mate.

"Madre de Dios," I breathed. "Neo, goddammit–"

"BANZAI!" he screamed, leaping from a pile of boxed foreign editions. "I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUU!"

I flinched and screamed like a little girl, falling back against the car and barking my hip a good one. The car rocked on its springs, but Neo wasn't aiming for me. He was aiming for the car's roof, and he streaked across it like he was on wheels. Another leap, of effortless flying authority, and he vaulted from the hood…and barreled in through the door.

The open door. The door I had left open.

Into my house.

Into my goddamn kitchen.

In the distance, the barking began.

…To be continued

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Follies Animaux
The Gaslighting of Neo

Shame On You, Topeka

Last night, the Topeka, Kansas, city council voted to decriminalize domestic violence.

I can't say it any better than Jim C. Hines does: "To the folks behind this mess, congratulations! You not only fail as decent human beings, you also suck at math."

As Erik Scott deBie remarked: To paraphrase Kansas govt: "Down with the wimmins! Yays for abusers! LOL!" http://bit.ly/pwZ1a4 #ugh #electricshockneeded

So, yeah. In Topeka, beating your spouse is okay. Unless someone will foot the legal bills, in which case, it's wrong.

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Quiet Again

Some tidbits for your consideration:

* Dina James's new book is out! Dina is my Evil #1 over at the ELEW, and a lovely person.

* A call to action against a serial plagiarist.

* Topeka, Kansas, is looking to decriminalize domestic violence. To, erm, save money. (If I halt to comment on this, there will be a whole day's worth of ranting. I'll just skip it, and you can fill in your own.)

The kids are at school, the houseguests are gone, my street is empty, and I can hear the ticking of the cat clocks on my wall. Archibald Clare has a man in knee-deep Londinium sewer water, and has a mouthful of blood besides. I can feel the rest of the book calling me. Plague pits, sorcery, potential zombies, and a mad art professor beckon, and the hunt is afoot again.

I'm swamped.

See you guys around…

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The Sea Came To Me

The Hedgewitch Queen, Bannon & Clare, And My Opinions

By now most of you have already heard of the e-book launch of the Hedgewitch Queen.

[image error] Vianne di Rocancheil is a lady waiting at the Court of Arquitaine, where she studies her books, watches for intrigue, and shepherds her foolhardy Princesse through the glittering whirl. Court is a sometimes-unpleasant waltz, especially for the unwary, but Vianne treads its measured steps well.

Yet the dance has changed. Treachery is afoot in gilded and velvet halls. A sorcerous conspiracy is unleashed, with blood, death, and warfare close behind. Vianne must flee, carrying the Great Seal of Arquitaine–the one thing the conspirators need to rule, and they will not rest until they have it. A life of dances, intrigues, and fashion has not prepared Vianne for this. Nor has it prepared her for Tristan d'Arcenne, Captain of the King's Guard and player in the most dangerous games conspiracy can devise. Yet to save her country and avenge her Princesse, Vianne will become what she must and do whatever is required.

A Queen can do no less.

It's up for preorder at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and will be released on pretty much all ebook platforms as well. I am incredibly excited about it, I love this story. It's very different than anything I've ever had published before.

There has been some…speculation, let's say, about why it's ebook-only. First of all, this doesn't mean it won't be in paper later–you can let the publisher know if you'd like that! They're listening, believe me. They chose this book to start their ebook only line for a variety of reasons, very few of which have been shared with me; your thoughts and opinions, dear Reader, are very important to them.

Second, this book is not being released in ebook-only because it's "unsellable." (To those who suggested it, well. Yeah. Whatever.) You have got to realize I have multiple series on the shelves as of this year, and at least as many unpublished manuscripts as published works. Five or six of the unpubs are trunk novels that nobody will ever see. The others haven't made it out because cannibalising my career by releasing a flood is so not in my best interests. So my agent tells me, and this is one of the things I trust her on.

Third, I'm getting asked, "But I thought you hated ebooks!" an awful lot. Guys, I don't hate e-books. I prefer paper, and will until the day I die. Perhaps I'm in a minority, but I don't think so, and it's too early to tell. But there is something I hate with a flaming, unholy passion.

I hate e-piracy. (This is not news.) That was one of my reservations about accepting the offer to have Vianne and Tristan's stories published in this manner. Thankfully, I've reached a point in my career where I could take a chance. Frankly, I'm not depending on Hedgewitch to pay my bills. (Other books, please God please, can do that.) A lot of authors do not have that luxury. This is why e-piracy means less of those things you love–because when an artist starts taking a look at the risks involved in that platform, they may choose not to go there.

All that aside, I'm very, very excited and happy. I'm glad to be able to offer my Readers a little something different, and I hope they like it.

Also, did you see the projected cover for The Iron Wyrm Affair, due out in early 2013? It's not final yet, mind you. But here. Feast thine eyes, my chickadees.

[image error] Archibald Clare is a detective of truly uncanny abilities—a mentath, capable of feats of deduction and logic that border on the supernatural. He is also abruptly, uniquely, the only unregistered mentath left alive in Londoninium. Someone has murdered the others and, if not for the timely intervention of the Prime sorceress Emma Bannon, there would have been no one left to stop… whatever is coming.

Mentaths and sorcerers are dying—or worse, being seduced into betraying Queen and Country. Bannon and Clare must uncover treachery, conspiracy, and sorcery of the blackest hue. And in a Britannia where magic has turned the Industrial Revolution on its head, time is short.

The game is afoot…

Guys, I love this book. I had such an incredibly fun time writing it–muttering about clockwork rats, logic engines, and Victoriana until everyone was ready to heave an antique or two at me. Again, it's something new and different, and I'm hoping you guys will like it.

Book two of Bannon & Clare is bubbling in my brainpan as I type. (Along with the head cold, but that's another blog post.) Incidentally, since I am currently suffering the last vestiges of a Cold From Hell, now would be a really good time for the Fairy of Website Work to come fluttering down and update my Books pages for me…

…oh, wait, there is no Fairy of Website Work.

Damn. Guess I'll have to do it myself.

Tune in next week for the continuing tale of Squirrel!Neo, plus the exciting saga of Phred and Miss B!

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Strawberry Autumn
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Question Day!

Have a question you've been dying to ask me?

Well, head over to the Deadline Dames today and let loose. While you're there, look at the giveaways, prizes, and writing advice we've got up.

Because Dames rule.

See you there!

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Input and Output

It's another edition of Random Things Lili Thinks About, For She Does Not Have An Idea Worthy Of A Long Blog Post.

* Why the hell is Glitch so addictive? You'd think a game where you squeeze chickens, nibble and pet pigs, and make gardens would be boring. Instead, I can't stay away. It gives me a glow of accomplishment. Man, I'm boring.

* Boring isn't so bad. I've had enough excitement in my life that I can stand a LOT of boring. Like, until I croak. Because boring is safe, boring is predictable, and boring does not lead to bleeding, screaming, or pain. Well, at least, not my kind of boring. I'm pretty sure there's tortuous boredom out there that will make one scream and bleed. I am happy to avoid that.

* On the other hand, I am rarely bored. Apparently I am easily amused, and can amuse myself for long periods of time. This is not a bad thing.

* When I run, music often plays in my head. I don't use my IPod unless I'm on the treadmill; it's just too much of a hazard. My brain, however, apparently requires music, so it gives me a selection of hits. This morning it was Phantom of the Opera (in particular, Prima Donna and Notes; God, I love Minnie Driver even though the singing in that version is…meh, I mean, really, Gerard, did you have bad dental work? The lisp, my man, it's gotta go) and, of all things, AC/DC's Back in Black. (Which happens to be Graves's theme music near the end of the Strange Angels; he starts out with Chris Isaak's Let Me Down Easy and AC/DC's Highway to Hell.) I'm pleased to report Andrew Lloyd Webber and AC/DC go together rather well while I'm running in the dark.

* Oh, look, a Sekrit Hideout has been discovered. The story possibilities are endless.

* I'm told (hi, TP!) I must have a very sharp sense of smell, because of how I write. I don't think I do, but I do think I pay a great deal of attention to olfactory input. I am constantly aware of the smellscape around me. (When one has kids, it's always best, don't you think?) If I come down with a cold and a stuffed nose, I feel half-blind. There's also the funny things I call "misfires" or "auras"–that's when my brain doesn't know quite how to handle the input it's getting, so it gives me a smell/sound/taste/sight that cannot possibly be. Usually this shocks me into paying attention to something I wouldn't normally have taken a second look at; it seems to mostly be a way for my subconscious to warn me of possible danger. Most of the synesthesia I suffer is of this sort. (The rest of it seems to be excess energy in my neurons just slopping around.)

* I can finally listen to music with words again. Recently, finishing three zero drafts basically at once, I had retreated into classical and ambient music. Lyrics just scraped the inside of my head raw and irritated me right between the shoulderblades. Thankfully, the sensitivity retreated as it always does. It's funny, when I'm writing something dire I want bright pop music, when I'm writing something mannered and precise and historical I want punk or hard rock, when I'm writing romance I want angry music. It's as if the aural stim needs to be a balance to the weight on a certain set of creative muscles.

* I might–might, mind you–be reaching the end of my reading on the Eastern Front of WWII. If this is so I'm going to have to find another historical oddity to stripmine, since my tastes in fiction have also retreated like bruised anemones . I'm beginning to be unable to read in the genre I'm writing, or at least, not comfortably. It's hard to read for joy anymore, I'm so used to revision-reading. The nonfiction gives my brain a chance to spool down. Plus, it's a relief to read something I won't ever write about, almost (dare I say it) restful. Since rest is always in short supply, it's nice to find a few moments of it here and there.

Eh. I, I, I, me, me, me. Booooor-ing. I'd write the next chapter of the Squirrel!Terror saga, but all my focus is taken up with revising. Eh.

Over and out.

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Strawberry Autumn

This morning's run was wonderful. I felt like I had little wings on my feet. Every once in a while, everything clicks and a good run comes along. It's like a perfect day of writing. It keeps you coming back for more and enduring the days when it feels like peeling one's own skin off in strips.

I am full of pleasant thoughts today. You've been warned.

However, the predawn was incredibly foggy, which made me think of Stephen King's Strawberry Spring. Which led me to thinking about Springheel Jack. Along with plague pits, you can tell I'm working on the next Bannon & Clare. (Their first adventure, The Iron Wyrm Affair, is in revision now.)

I was planning what I'd do if Springheel Jack suddenly appeared in the fog, and perhaps that gave me some extra speed. "Be prepared" is not just a Boy Scout motto.

Let's see, what else? I'm glad you guys are enjoying the Squirrel!Terror serial. When Neo recovered, things got incredibly interesting, but I am not going to write that for a little while. Here, instead you can have a peek at the first chapter of Reckoning, which is due out soon. I am excited and sad all at once–excited to share the culmination of Dru's story, and sad to say goodbye to her.

I'm incredibly interested in and excited about Glitch right now. It's sort of like Animal Crossing for grownups. (Although Animal Crossing is nice too.) It's like WoW without killing, which can be a relief. (Sometimes, though, I just want to get a glass of wine and murder some pixels.) I like the idea of a game where you water plants, pet animals, build and cook things, and basically learn to be cooperative. It balances out my antisocial tendencies. *snort*

I'm very boring right now. I had some unpleasant news that knocked the wind out of me not too long ago; my writing partner, who is always full of good advice, has been reminding me to plan for what I'm frightened of instead of just thrashing about in fear. The planning certainly seems a more productive use of one's time, plus it provides an feeling of control. That feeling may be illusory, but it certainly helps. So I'm retreating into my shell for a wee bit, a process that is probably helped by the fact that a nice cool autumn is setting in and spending time curled up in the house is not only soothing but pleasant. I tend to be a winter writer, anyway–my most productive seasons are the ones with filthy weather.

Ach, I'm nattering on. It's Wednesday. I seem to have lost the knack of Wednesdays.

Over and out.

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A Grave And A Bed

The combatants lay on the road under a curtain of rain. Lightning flashed again. The water coming from the sky was blood-warm, each quarter-sized drop sending up a puff of dust where it hit the tired, dry ground, a sheen of dust and oil soon floating on a thin scrim of rain.

When we left off, Jerkass Redtruck had decided cowardice was the better part of valor and peeled away from the scene of the crime. Miss B was still crashing around and barking hysterically, apparently having worked off her concussion. My M*A*S*H T-shirt was soon sticking to me, and my bare feet were soaked by the time I reached the road at the bottom of my driveway. I was still clutching the Sekrit Weapon, and my hair was starting to drip in my face. Holding my breath, I approached the two sodden lumps of fur.

Blinking furiously, I could not figure out why my eyes were burning. There was another photoflash of lightning, and I saw what was what.

It wasn't pretty.

He lay on his back, guts actually spilling out of his exploded belly and his face turned up to the rain. His claws were outstretched, and already–how do they do this?–a fly had found him. Thunder rattled, and even Yours Truly felt a little queasy. It's not every day I get so close to roadkill.

I held my breath, and looked at the other squirrel.

He appeared whole. His paws twitched a little. Maybe he was just dazed. I stood there for a second, in the rain, with the golf club, and thought it over. The rain intensified, and thunder boomed again. The law of first responding is to care for the living, right?

Inside the house, the thunder was muted but the rattling of rain on the roof was loud. Miss B was hysterical. "WHAT'S GOING ON? YOU'RE ALL WET! YOU SMELL WEIRD! WHAT HAPPENED? MY HEAD HURTS! WHEN'S DINNER? DO I GET A TREAT?" I got the front door closed and leaned against it for a second, then slowly put the golf club away. I petted Miss B absently on my way to the garage. The sound of the big garage door opening was lost in the rain, and the a burst of fresh-washed wind tiptoed around my car. Miss B, left inside, scratched at the door, but I did not want her getting a snootful of dead squirrel. I spent about thirty seconds getting everything set up, then I turned toward the back corner.

It was time for the Shovel.

Now, as I've explained, the Shovel is a serious piece of work. It's flat, and red, and heavy–ideal for home defense. It was kind of ironic that now, when everything was said and done, I was better-armed. I trudged down my driveway and stood looking at the mess in the road.

"Shit," I muttered, and set to work.

Getting the dazed squirrel onto the shovel was kind of nerve-wracking. I mean, I expected him to shake off his torpor at any moment and decide I was a threat. He was heavier than you'd think–deadweight, I thought, and flinched as he twitched again. Up the driveway and into the garage, where the sudden cessation of rain didn't wake him up either. His eyelids flickered and his wet furry sides heaved.

I settled him in the cat carrier, on top of the torn towel I was gonna get rid of anyway. I crouched there, the Shovel still at hand, and peered into the depths of the carrier. "I don't like you," I said quietly. "I've never liked you. But I am going to trust you not to destroy my goddamn garage while I get his grave done up. Then we'll talk."

Out into the rain again. My shirt was sticking to me like I was going to win a contest, my hair plastered to my head, and the thunder was getting closer. It would just cap the whole goddamn thing if I got hit by lightning while burying a goddamn rodent, I thought, and picked up the pace a little. The squashed squirrel wasn't looking any better, but I got most of him scraped up into the shovel. He was heavier than you'd think too, deadweight for real. Along the side of the house to the back gate, my face squinched up and dead squirrel held in front of me, I got the gate open and got through, closed it behind me. I headed for the back corner and the Headless Squirrel's grave.

Now, there was a dilemma. I didn't want squirrel guts getting all over everything while I dug the grave for the bits that remained. (Get it? Remaining remains? I kill me. Uh. Yeah.) Fortunately, I had Planned Ahead, and brought a big black rubbish bag. I got the remains unloaded onto it and began digging.

And then, I realized that in all the excitement, I'd forgotten to close the back door.

Miss B had her nose in the squirrel before I could yell. "JESUS CHRIST, THAT'S DEAD, LEAVE IT ALONE!" I screamed, and she jumped, guiltily. I weighed the likelihood of getting her inside, tried to catch her collar, and found out she thought this was some sort of game. "Oh, for fucksake, this couldn't be EASY, could it! Fine! Just stay out of the guts, okay?"

She was really interested, but she decided the corpse belonged to the alpha, so she'd wait for her bits like a good submissive pack member. I got the shovel worked into the dirt and began digging my second squirrel grave.

In the rain.

Again.

"DIGGING?" Miss B was beside herself. "OH PLEASE OH PLEASE, ME TOO! ME TOO!"

I'll gloss over that part. Suffice to say it was interesting, and I used language that would have scorched the ears off my sainted grandmother if she was still alive to hear me.

When it was deep enough to suit me, I folded up the wet rubbish bag, and interred him with as much care as I could muster. Miss B had finally given up and cavorted in the rain, unable to understand what I was doing but distracted by WATER! OMG! FROMTHESKY! I filled in the grave, but there were no words of farewell. It was just raining too damn hard, and the flashes of lightning were getting closer together. I tamped the grave down, hoped it would be deep enough to keep Miss B out, and flat-out dragged my dog and the Shovel inside. The Shovel went in the sunroom, because dammit, i was going to dry off before dealing with this any further.

So it was that ten minutes later, I was sitting grimly at my kitchen table, shelling peanuts. (The Princess likes them, okay? There's no other use for them. NONE. I SWEAR.) I got a good bowl of them together and a bowl of water too while Miss B pounced on her rawhide in the living room, teaching it a lesson. "MY HEAD HURTS," she would remark occasionally. "TREAT? TREAT? FOOD FOR THE DOG?"

She'd already forgotten the excitement. A Zen creature of the Now, that's my Aussie. She didn't even protest when I gave her a sharp "No!" as she tried to follow me into the garage.

The driveway was a river. The rain came down in rippling sheets and lightning crashed, followed a bare two seconds later by thunder. I was a little more sanguine about my chances now, though.

I half expected the cat carrier to be empty. But apparently he had some sense, because when I cautiously crouched and peered in there he was. He'd moved, curling up in the back as far away from the wire door as he could get. I saw the gleam of one beady eye.

So he's still kind of ambulatory. Okay.

"You'd better not have rabies," I breathed, and very slowly, very gently, slid the bowl of water in. The bowl of peanuts was next, and I closed the door as quietly as I could. The spring locks made more noise than I liked, but I wasn't taking any chances. Then I sat back on my heels and realized what I'd just done.

"Don't get too comfortable," I said. "I'll check on you, and as soon as you're dead or recovered you're out of here. This doesn't mean I like you, and it doesn't mean we're friends. It just means I didn't leave you in the goddamn road."

I waited, but he said nothing. I hauled myself up and went inside, closing the garage door…

…leaving Squirrel!Neo alone to convalesce.

When he got better, things got interesting.

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Jackass Redtruck And The Squirrel!Showdown

The Old Squirrel King and the Traitor rolled out into the road. Thunder muttered, and an engine revved.

To explain this, I should tell you that people tear down our quiet little street all the time. You see, our street–all two and a half blocks of it–runs parallel to the main road coming into the neighborhood, but the main road has speed bumps. So, various idiots (usually angry soccer mums in minivans or overcompensating jackwads in BEEEG trucks) turn off the main road, turn onto our street, rev up to about forty miles per, just get up to speed when they have to brake and turn again…and stop at the stop sign, where they turn back onto the main road. It doesn't save them any time, nor does it help them get where they're going. I suppose they just feel like they've gotten one over on the Man, or something. Who knows? Some poor soul–probably a kid–is going to get run over one of these days, and maybe the city will put speed bumps in on our street too. *sigh*

Anyway. Bleeding and battered and slowing down–for he was no spring chicken in squirrel years, our Neo, and he had already held off three jays and a crazed herding dog–the Old King had the Traitor flat on the pavement, and was beating the living hell out of him. "THROW SHIT AT ME, WILL YOU? TRY IT NOW! TRY IT NOW! I KNOW KUUUUUUUNG FUUUUUU!"

And Steerpike!Squirrel, still laughing that crazy high-pitched maniacal laughter, had lost all his discretion. "I'M GONNA HAVE BETTINA, AND THE BACKYARD TOO! HAHAHAHAHA!"

Then there was Yours Truly, standing there barefoot with a golf club and an open mouth, the yellowgreen bruiselight of an approaching storm falling over the entire scene with heavy sticky oppressive heat. Sweat trickled down my back, and the bright idea–I could get the hose to calm them both down, I guess, that's what you're supposed to do for dogs, right?–had just wandered through my stunned brain. (Look, I had just hit myself on the head with my own door, all right? YOU try thinking clearly in This Sort Of Situation, goddamit. I dare you.)

The engine growl became a screech, and it barreled past in a streak of candy-apple red. It was the jerkass in the red truck–every afternoon, bass thumping and meaty arm hanging out the window, this balding asshole races down our street. He doesn't content himself with going forty, like all the other jerkholes who zoom down our quiet little street. No, this former football star (you can just TELL he had his glory days in high school and hasn't forgotten them, you know the type) guns it around the corner, almost swiping whoever's waiting to turn left to get to the grocery (yes, that was me more than once) and floors it, trying to achieve sixty before he has to snap on his brakes. I don't know how many tons his truck is (it's got to be at least half to haul his huge ass around) but I know he probably has an itty-bitty weiner he is very sensitive about.

Like I said, you can just tell. ANYWAY.

I actually screamed. Yes, my chickadees, I let forth a Vader "NOOOOOOOO!" I don't remember moving, but I was at the end of my driveway, pavement burning my feet, the golf club suddenly raised. Jackass Redtruck (for such I have dubbed him, and such will be the name called at the trump of Judgment when he is cast unto a fiery pit, and not a moment too soon please God) smashed his brakes. There was an unearthly screech–did I mention he has this truck that looks really shiny, but obviously he doesn't take care of it?–and smear-scream of rubber laid down.

I would like you, dear Reader, to imagine this. One wild-haired, sweating writer in jeans and a M*A*S*H T-shirt, waving a golf club, running down the street as a spear of lightning flashes, drenching the road with unholy white brilliance. Jackass Redtruck has his door half open and half his copious acres of ass out; I don't know if he or was stopping to scoop up whatever had been in his way so he could take it home and stuff it, or what.

Thunder crackled. I realized what I was screaming. At the top of my lungs. As I ran down the road.

With the golf club.

"YOU SONOFABITCH, YOU KILLED MY SQUUUUUUIRREL!"

I think I saw him mouth one wondering "Holyshit!" before Jackass Redtruck piled back in, slammed the door, and gunned his engine. He raced around the corner and was gone, leaving me to put my own brakes on and stop, sides heaving and feet burning, shaking the club as the rain began pattering down in quarter-sized drops.

Still screaming.

"THAT WAS NEO, YOU SONOFAHONKEYTONK WHOREMONGERING BASTARD! YOU KILLED MY SQUUUUUIIRREL!"

Thunder rattled again. There was another flash of lightning in the distance. Well, great, I thought. Oh, great. Dead squirrels and my God, the neighbors probably knew I was crazy, but this is just too much. Why me? Why can't I have normal wildlife around my house? Jesus.

Then I realized something.

I hadn't actually seen Jackass Redtruck hit them, and the truck was jacked up pretty high. Maybe, just maybe…

I turned, very slowly, and looked down my street. And I saw…

…to be continued

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Brain Needs Solids, Thanks

Squirrel!Showdown Weather

So there I was, in my driveway, waving a golf club and staring in openmouthed wonder.

When last we saw Squirrel!Neo, he had streaked between the fence and the garage after his little, um, psychotic break and the melee that followed. Behind him capered Steerpike!Squirrel, whose dastardly plan's culmination had exceeded his wildest hopes. Miss B was shaking off her concussion, the jays were screaming, and the rest of the squirrels had taken refuge in my neighbor's tall pine trees among the mourning doves, who immediately started gossiping softly about this turn of events. Worse than old ladies at a back fence, those doves. ANYWAY.

The day was still hot and sticky. Faraway thunder rumbled. Dark, stacked clouds were massing, but not nearly quickly enough. It was the kind of afternoon where people get drunk and angry, where it shades into an evening of more of the same and a night full of screams and punches.

In other words, it was showdown weather.

I managed to run through the house without tripping on anything, hit myself on the shins with my Sekrit Weapon, cleared the pet gate with a leap I am still proud of, whacked myself on the shins again, ran into my front door, twisted the knob, ran into it again (this was not my finest moment), finally figured out how to work my own goddamn door, piled out onto my front walk, and skidded to a stop, my jaw dropping.

Apparently I'd missed something while I was clocking myself on the head with my own front door; Neo had put two and two together and come up with Steerpike.

"YOU!" Squirrel!Neo bellowed. He'd lost a chunk of fur over his right shoulder, and blood striped his muzzle. But his crooked tail was high. "TRAITOR! THIEF! MONGREL! IMMA BEAT YO ASS!"

Steerpike!Squirrel grinned, panting. "BRING IT, OLD MAN. THERE'S A NEW KING IN TOWN."

Well, those were fightin' words. The duelists closed in a flurry of teeth and claws, and I was wondering if they both had rabies. I also had figured out I was barefoot, since I'd just been standing watching Miss B do her business. I also realized I was brandishing the Sekrit Weapon, and lowered the golf club somewhat sheepishly. I would have liked to wade in and give Steerpike a solid thump to his little rodent skull, but the chance of hitting Neo was too great. Plus, they were rolling all over my driveway.

Neo: THAT SOUND

Steerpike: "HAHAHAHA, YOU CAN'T CATCH ME, YOU CAN'T–" Bam. "DIDN'T HURT! YOU'RE TOO WEAK!"

Neo: THAT SOUND

Steerpike: "AND I'M GONNA LIKE BEING BETTINA'S SQUIRRELMAN, YOU KNOW." Whap. Thud. Tearing noise.

Neo: Dead silence.

The sudden quiet was eerie. Steerpike's only hope was his agility, and he kept dancing out of reach, darting in to smack or claw at Neo, who was like a damaged engine–terrible, but slow. Barking and crashing from the house behind me; Miss B had gotten over her head trauma, I guess, and found her way inside. I should have been hoping the pet gate would still be a deterrent. I should have been thinking about going back to close the front door, which was no doubt letting in a bunch of sticky air and nasty bugs. I should have been going to get the hose to separate the combatants–hey, it works for dogs, right?

Instead, I just stood, and stared, my shins throbbing. The incipient thunderstorm had just crept in front of the sun, eerie yellowgreen stormlight filling every crack and crevice with odd shadows. Steerpike twisted, meaning to hop away. I don't know what he had planned, but it failed, because Neo jerk-twisted…and caught him.

In fact, Neo hit him so hard I heard the crunch at the top of the driveway, and they rolled out into the road.

In the distance, under a mutter of thunder, an engine growled.

…to be continued

Related posts:Squirrel!Terror, Melee Edition
Introducing Steerpike!Squirrel
Trouble in the Land of Backyard