Leaderboard

MEANWHILE, IN PEDIATRICS Sheriff Linn Keller took point. He had no idea what in two hells was going on, but when the hospital called and said they had a situation in Pediatrics and two women had been knifed and were bleeding, he did not tell his troops to go handle the situation. He reached up behind his desk and pulled down a double barrel shotgun and roared "FOLLOW ME!" When a long tall Sheriff comes storming through the main entrance at the point of a flying wedge of armed deputies, grim faced and obviously going to war, people tended to get out of the way, and fast. When a lawman's hip drove into the square door-open switch button and his deputies stacked up behind him, ready to assault into the Pediatric Unit, when the doors swung open, the Sheriff and his deputies alike stopped and stared in open admiration. Nurses in this modern day and age all wore the more practical scrub uniforms. Most of them wore the ugly as sin but supremely comfortable backless clogs -- the kind that could be easily washed off. One, and only one, nurse in ... well, probably in the entire state ... wore the white uniform dress and white stockings and white thick-soled shoes and the white winged cap of generations before, and that was the Sheriff's sweet little blue eyed daughter Angela. Angela Keller, in her white nurse's cap, in a white uniform dress and stockings and thick-soled shoes, neatly parried a knife with the barrel of an Ithaca shotgun, drove the butt of the gun into a woman's face, kicked the other in the stomach and gave her a face full of rubber recoil pad as well. Both women were, cut, both were bleeding, one knife was on the floor before the doors swung open, and one was only just dropped clattering to the blood-smeared tiles. Security was on the floor, doubled up in a pool of his own blood, holding his gut -- two nurses were on him, staunching the bleeding until they could get him to ER -- another nurse was holding a blood-dripping forearm, the others were shrunk back, arms out to the sides, a last layer of protection between the warring women and their young patients. The two intruding women were cut and bleeding; they were staggered by a full powered gun butt to the face: one sagged, then face planted on the bloody tile, the other tried to come up, grasping for her dropped knife, until Angela drove her Ithaca's butt into her again, this time across the forehead. This time the combatant went down, and stayed down. Angela glared at her pale eyed Daddy. "Well, don't just stand there," she snapped, "get 'em in irons!" The Ambassador looked over at Marnie. The only time she leaned closer to the screen was when there was news from home, news that concerned family. The only time her face grew pale, the only time her flesh grew taut over her cheekbones, was when news concerning family was not good. The Ambassador discreetly tapped a pad, entered a brief message. He knew he could not really feel the ship pick up speed -- it moved in an envelope of energies, some said its own bubble universe -- all he knew was, it worked, and it worked well. He fancied he could feel the ship come about, and his imagination more than his senses told him they were accelerating in another direction. An hour, and they would be parked invisibly in Earth orbit, unless they needed to make planetfall. Captain Crane was like anyone else in his position: he took real world experience and trained accordingly, and when his ear inclined itself to the Sheriff's radio traffic, when he found that two women got into some dispute or another in the hospital's pediatrics ward, when he found both women were cut, Security was sliced across the belly and a nurse took a long cut to her forearm, he sat down with his daughter and reviewed the pertinent anatomies, treatment modalities, procedures: that afternoon, the Irish Brigade, for their training session, practiced using the newest generation of torniquets, and the Captain and Shelly ran inventory on both their squad an the rescue, which served as second-out squad, to ensure they had ABDs -- abdominal bandage units -- and plenty of sterile saline, in case they had to handle a belly wound. The unit supervisor was still white-faced and shaking when she drew Angela aside and said quietly, "I'm glad you were here today." The nursing supervisor was not quite as charitable. A nurse with a shotgun was something that could not be countenanced, it was an immediate firing offense: Angela listened calmly to the nursing supervisor's scathing comments, then she politely backhanded the woman and told her that if she were fired, the entire nursing staff of the entire hospital would walk out, and they'd make sure the world at large knew why. Angela walked out of the nursing supervisor's office and into the chief surgeon's office. The hospital's CEO, the chief surgeon and chief of staff were all prior military. The nursing supervisor was not. The hospital's CEO, the chief surgeon and chief of staff met less than an hour later. The hospital's CEO, the chief surgeon and chief of staff called the nursing supervisor in for a meeting. The hospital's CEO, the chief surgeon and chief of staff advised the nursing supervisor that Angela would receive a commendation and not a dismissal. The nursing supervisor threatened further action. The hospital's legal counsel advised her that any action she took would be a violation of the Whistleblower Statutes, and would be considered retaliation, and that would look very bad to anyone thinking of hiring her, wouldn't it? Angela Keller, the pretty blue-eyed daughter of that long tall pale eyed Sheriff, spun and drove her thick, white sole -- actually her heel -- into the sparring dummy's middle: it was a perfect side-snap-kick, followed by a slash across the face with the muzzle of a Mosin-Nagant, then a butt stroke, then she drove the rifle's butt into the dummy's face hard enough to knock it almost level. Her phone rang as the dummy was wobbling back upright. Angela Keller, the pretty blue-eyed daughter of that long tall pale eyed Sheriff, was still in her white nurse's uniform, working off her aggravation in her Daddy's barn, practicing with a rifle the way her Gammaw used to practice, the way her big sis Marnie used to practice: when her phone, out of reach on top of a convenient hay bale, rang, a feminine hand picked it up, answered it. "Hello? I'm sorry, Doctor, she's busy at the moment, may I take a message?" Angela turned as Marnie smiled and said, "I will let her know. Thank you, Doctor." Marnie tapped the screen, set the phone down, tilted her head a little and smiled at her little sister. "That looks like Gammaw's dress." "I patterned it after the one she gave me." "That fits you nicely." Marnie smiled as Angela parked her rifle against the nearest stall, came skipping over to hug her big sis. "I understand you've been raising Hell," Marnie said with a mischievous look. "Can I play too?" "I might have a nursing supervisor you can work on." Marnie made a face and waved her emerald glove as if at a bad odor. "Ugh, those! -- oh, the Doctor said you're not fired, and if the nursing supervisor gives you any grief of any kind, you're to tell him right away." Angela nodded. "Thank you." "So tell me," Marnie said frankly, "what has you so aggravated that you're going all Willamina on a sparring dummy while you're in full uniform?"

THE BALD MAN’S OPINION Fitz raised his chin. Shelly folded her polishing rag, placed it on the back bumper of the squad, walked curiously over to the Chief. “Thank you,” Chief Fitzgerald said quietly. “Forrrrr …?” Fitz took Shelly’s arm, turned toward the kitchen deck: they climbed the three steps to the upper level, and Shelly knew the Chief had something more on his mind than just a quick complement. When he steered someone toward the coffee pot, first, it meant he was not going to put denture prints on their hip pockets, and second, it meant he wasn’t quite sure how to put what he wanted to say, and coffee was a grand way to help him arrange his thoughts. Shelly waited until they had steaming hot mugs of coffee drawn, until they each drizzled the Lactic Sacrament into their payloads, until they were set down at the end of the long table. Fitz hunched over his coffee, both elbows on the table, frowning at the tablecloth: he glared at the empty table, as if his authoritative scowl could magically conjure a plate of doughnuts. It didn’t work. Shelly blew delicately across her coffee, took a tentative sip. “Angela came to say hello,” Fitz said quietly. “Oh?” Fitz nodded. “I remember …” His eyes shifted toward the equipment bay, swung toward shining red Kenworth apparatus, his expression softening a little as he remembered a happy, laughing little girl skipping into the firehouse, all sunshine and blond hair and a smile that could melt the heart of a cold stone statue. “I remember how Angela could come in an’ ‘twas like she brought the sun in with her,” he said softly. Shelly tilted her head, regarded the man with a quiet smile. “You’re not the first man to tell me that.” “She was in yesterday.” Shelly took another careful sip of her scalding drink. Fitz sighed, lowered his mug. “I know what it is t’ bury m’ wife,” he said slowly, “and … my own little girl is grown an’ gone, an’ …” He frowned and dropped his head, his jaw shoving forward as he glared at his untasted coffee, then he looked up at Shelly. “Your Angela.” Shelly raised her eyebrows, looked very directly at the Chief. “Your daughter is very much the Lady.” “I should hope so,” Shelly murmured. “I’ve tried to teach her!” “Shelly –” Fitz stopped, frowned, pressed his lips together, then turned his face away, took a long breath, blew it out. “Dammit, I know what I want t’ say,” he muttered. “Then say it.” “Yer daughter’s a perfect lady an’ there’s only one place she could’a learned that an’ thank you for carin’ enough about bein’ a lady t’ be a lady!” He leaned back suddenly, hands flat on the tablecloth, looking like he’d just thrown a punch and he was watching for the counterpunch. Shelly blinked a few times, then set her mug down, carefully, and laid her hand on the back of Fitz’s flattened out mitt. “Chief,” she said quietly, “that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me!” “Besides sayin’ ye cut a fine figure in a dress an’ ye’ve got nice legs?” Fitz said ruefully, his ears reddening at the memory of an incautious moment, many years before. Shelly laughed, quietly, patted his hand. “Every woman should be told she looks really good in a dress,” she said softly. “It’s good for a woman’s self-esteem.” “Yeah, well, I can’t issue uniform skirts without providin’ ‘em f’r everyone,” Fitz muttered. “Discrimination an’ all that.” “My old squad partner, years ago, said his company was going to issue miniskirts for male and female alike, mandatory wear.” Fitz raised an eyebrow, looked at her skeptically. “Oh, yes. He also said they were going to issue bright screaming blaze orange underwear. He said this right before he taught lifting techniques – back when we still used the Ferno Type 30 ambulance cot. You know, the Backbreaker.” “Aye, I remember,” Fitz snarled quietly. “I remember damn few veteran medics that don’t have a bad back as a result!” “Why do you think I was so happy we got hydraulic lifts on ours?” Shelly murmured, leaning closer as she did. “So yer partner said everyone was wearin’ bright orange underwear and mini skirts?” “He was teaching lifting techniques. He demonstrated – back straight, squat, grip the bottom bar and spread your hands wide as they’ll go, lift on three MY COUNT, and when you lift” – she raised a teaching finger and imitated an annoying, high-pitched, nasal voice – “Remember what yer Mama taught youse an’ never, never, never show yer underpants! Lift with yer legs, not with yer backs, now TUCK YER BUTTS AND LIFT!” Fitz stared at her for a long moment, then a slow grin claimed his face and he shook his head. “It worked,” Shelly said quietly. “We were the only ambulance company in the state that had no back injuries from lifting those damned cots!” Fitz chuckled, his head down, wagging his nose back and forth in the warm column steaming up from his coffee mug: he lifted his mug, took a noisy slurp, swallowed, chuckled, looked at his favorite medic. “He really said that.” Shelly looked at him innocently. “Um-hmm,” she affirmed, then took another sip of coffee. Fitz tilted his mug up, took three long swallows, set his down, frowned. “Shelly, you’re a damned good medic an’ I thank God Almighty you never did become a nurse. We need you here. “You’re a damned good mother an’ you make the Sheriff a happy man. “I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier but I’m not stupid. “Ye’re doin’ it right an’ if th’ word of a balding old Chief means anything, thank you.” Fitz stood suddenly and went quickly to the sink, rinsed out his coffee mug and stacked it in the drain rack, then turned and walked quickly back to his office, muttering something about making a damned fool of himself again and why’d he think he could make sense of somethin’ like that an’ you’d think he was old enough t’ know better. Shelly sat and blinked a few times, considering what-all just happened, and she smiled a little as she did. It felt pretty good to be told she was doing something right.

I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE IT Sheriff Jacob Keller glared at his pale eyed sister. Sheriff Emeritus Marnie Keller, Ambassador-at-Large, pretended not to notice. Jacob's eyes swung to the framed portrait of their pale eyed ancestress, then looked back at Marnie. "You said she went all Willamina on them." Marnie looked at her brother, long lashes sweeping through the air: her expression was all innocence and sincerity, and Jacob was having none of it. Jacob opened his mouth, closed it, frowned: he opened his mouth again, frowned harder, closed his mouth, looked away, looked back, his jaw shoved forward -- just like his father! Marnie thought with a quiet smile, carefully hiding her expression behind her delicate, bone-china teacup. Jacob's wife Ruth looked from one to the other, hiding her amusement behind a carefully impassive face: these sparring matches between two evenly matched opponents fascinated her. Jacob's wife Ruth grew up a child of gentility, an observant young lady who'd observed many vigorous skirmishes, carefully disguised behind genteel manners and carefully-spoken words. "Sis, you and I were both trained to take out a knife fast, hard and nasty. You don't block a knife, you shoot them. You don't use a baton, you shoot them. You don't use an empty hand technique or bug spray, you shoot them." Marnie sipped delicately at choice oolong. "You're telling me Angela pulled a shotgun out of a dimensional pocket and she --" Jacob snapped his jaw shut, frowned, looked away, looked back. "Sis, I wasn't there and --" Marnie waited for Jacob's Ship of Indignation to ground itself on the rocks of his own reasoning. "Okay. Pediatric unit. But good God, Sis, I know how fast a knife will --" Marnie lifted her pale eyes from her teacup and looked very directly, but very neutrally, at her pale eyed brother. Jacob swore. "So she spared them the concussion of one, maybe two gunshots in an enclosed ward. I get that. That's a malpractice case for each staff member and each patient from hearing damage alone. Overpenetration could be a concern. She used the French Foreign Legion tactics Gammaw taught her -- taught us -- at a tender age." "Gammaw never taught her that," Marnie said in a gentle voice. "I did." "I watched the video," Jacob grunted. "You taught her well." "Thank you." Marnie smiled. "I understand you used the same technique last week." "Yeah," Jacob grunted. "I fabricated Uncle Will's Garand." "You didn't," Marnie groaned. Jacob looked surprised. "I sure as hell did." "Oh, Jacob," Marnie sighed, "that's the rifle that took the thousand yard trophy twice at Camp Perry!" "No it's not. I didn't fabricate that one. I have it scanned in and I can make as many of it as I want. 'Twas the other one, the rebuilt." "So you're allowed to go all Willamina and Angela isn't." "Marnie --" Jacob stopped, turned his hands palms-up. "Marnie, when it's killin' time, you take 'em out as fast as possible. When there's more than one you're even faster. I had to learn that the hard way. If it's only one, yeah, you can try a take-away, but --" "But you weren't there, Jacob. You weren't the one who was confident enough to parry the knife and cold-cock the knife fighter. You have to learn to trust your people, Jacob. She's trained and believe me, she's deadly!" "SHE'S ALSO MY BABY SIS!" Jacob's voice was low, intense, menacing: he was leaned forward a little, his spine stiff, one fist pushing down on the table, looking like he was ready to launch from his chair and put his fist through the nearest wall. "I'm clear the hell and gone up here and she's home, she's faced with two women who both want to claim a sick baby and they get into it, they cut a nurse and try to gut Security and --" Jacob shook his head, snapped his jaw shut, looked at his Gammaw's framed portrait. Ruth waited, watching her husband with assessing eyes. Moments like this, she well knew, were instructive, and she was learning more about her husband by simply listening, by simply watching: she sipped her tea and rocked a little, grateful that Jacob brought her a rocking chair as soon as he found she was with child. Jacob looked at Marnie. "You're right," he said finally. "She was there and I wasn't. She handled it and she handled it well." Marnie waited. She knew her brother wasn't finished. She was right. Jacob shoved his hands in his hip pockets, frowned, nodding a little. He looked at his pale eyed sister and smiled with half his mouth. "This," he said finally, "does not mean I have to like it!"

Male Bovine Excrement. If Its clean and dry in a bowl or on a plate it will just slide in. Put oil on it and bits and pieces cling to the plate or bowl and then you have an oily bowl or plate to wahs. If the kale is plain you can get by with a quick rinse in hot water.

And some different Johnny Cash

Now that's a winning find. I'll smile for you!

A nice place for a long winters nap.

ONE, AND ONE ONLY Sheriff Linn Keller stared at the framed portrait of a woman and a horse. The woman was truly beautiful; the horse, truly huge. Part of his mind considered the superiority of these old glass plate photographs to modern photography: Bruce Jones explained some time ago, in a presentation for the Ladies' Tea Society, the thick emulsions, the long exposure times, the rich and fantastic detail such photography could produce: enlargements could be made from these old images, clear enlargements not possible with modern photographic methods. The young woman in the portrait wore a shimmering gown that he knew to be a rich, luxurious, emerald green: he knew the jewel at her throat was a square-cut ruby, with a diamond at each corner, and he knew the slight change in her skirts' drape, high up, hid a concealed Bulldog revolver. He also knew there were various other Implements of Less than Gentle Persuasion, hidden about her person. The subject of the photographer's attention was looking very directly into the camera, looking very directly at every viewer of her image, and she was looking with a set of strikingly pale eyes. He turned and looked at a truly beautiful young woman standing in his office, a woman in a rich, shimmering green gown, a woman with a square-cut ruby at the hollow of her throat. She had not been there fifteen seconds earlier. To his credit, the Sheriff did not flinch, nor did he betray any surprise. "I knew your Iris was silent," he said, "and I know you can move like a wisp of fog." There was the slightest tightening of the corners of his eyes. Father and daughter embraced, and Sheriff Marnie Keller, safe once again in her big strong Daddy's arms, hugged him with the fierceness of a little girl who was very happy to see her Daddy. Sheriff Linn Keller picked her up, just a little, gave her a little shake: he felt as much as heard a rippling cluster of dull, popping noises, as her spine let go of its tensions, as she groaned "Ow, that hurts so good" -- her words muffled into his shirt front -- and he eased her carefully back down onto her toes. Linn looked seriously into his daughter's eyes. "You're a diplomat," he said quietly. "I thought diplomats spoke softly and avoided conflict." Marnie smiled, patted her Daddy's shirt front the way she'd seen her Mama do in such moments. "When a fringe group wants to kidnap and ransom an easy mark," she smiled, "the wise diplomat will say no in a way they can understand." Marnie's eyes widened a little as she saw disappointment in her father's face, and then a deep sadness. "Marnie," he whispered, "I know what it is to bury family. I don't want to bury you too." "You won't have to." She slid her hands over to his coat sleeves, gripped his muscled arms through the tailored material. "My carcass will be run into a Recyclo and my component atoms will be reassembled into materials the Colony needs -- food, water, the air they breathe." Linn hugged his daughter again, laid his head over on top of her head. "Don't die on me, darlin'," he whispered. "There's only one of you has ever been. In all of eternity, all of infinity, all of Creation itself, there's only one of you." Marnie hugged her Daddy right back, and he heard her choked whisper, "Oh, Daddy," and she rubbed her face in his shirt front again, the way she did as a little girl when she wanted to dry unwanted tears without letting anyone see them. Linn waited several long moments before slacking his embrace, before leaning back a little, before looking at his daughter, before raising an eyebrow. Marnie knew this meant a question was coming. "You have your Uncle's .357, you have your old duty sidearm, you've got your choice of weaponry from knuckles to field howitzers, and you pull out a black powder Navy Colt?" Marnie laughed quietly, batting her long lashes at him: she was doing her best to assume an Innocent Expression, and succeeding marvelously. "Of all people, Daddy, I thought you would appreciate a traditional approach! Besides --" Her innocence dissolved and became very serious. "There is nothing like that low frequency concussion of a black powder pistol, up close. Nobody will ever forget that yellow finger of judgement squirting through the evening's shadow, and absolutely nobody will ever forget the smell of sulfur, the whiff of the hell that awaits their corroded souls for trying to put the bag on me!" Marnie reached up and caressed her Daddy's clean-shaven jaw with gentle, emerald-gloved fingers. "I just put the fear of God Almighty into them, and the word will spread, and they'll be that much less likely to try again in future. The investigation is ongoing but so far it looks like a splinter group with very few members." Linn's eyes were veiled, but Marnie saw the muscles bulge a little as his jaw slid out just a little, and a daughter saw a father's protective nature come to the fore. She saw a deep and abiding anger in her Daddy's pale eyes, and she considered that it's probably a good thing he hadn't been there that night. Few things will provoke a father to violence faster than violence done his young.

I’m finally ready for some good Christmas music…

Thankss Thanks Randy!