Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

Kind of scratching my thinning thatch on this one ... ... mostly because I hadn't considered until now that they ARE a business, and businesses change their product lines ... I'll leave this to those who are younger, smarter and better lookin' than me to figure out. (Last I looked in the mirror, that might be a good percentage of the population!)

Thank you, Blackwater. Ye Weather Guessers are telling us we're in for snow here in a few days. As if lightning maps that looked like broad stripes of yellow weren't enough, as if a confirmed tornado wasn't enough! Now that I've hit my threescore and ten, I reckon it's time to adopt the philosophy of an old mountaineer who reached his nineties: when asked his secret to long life, he said quietly, "When it rains, I let it!'

A CONFESSION Abbott William leaned back, took a sip of cool, honey-sweetened, mint-spiced, tea. He closed his eyes, remembering New Orleans, remembering a young woman -- Susan, her name was -- and the crystal chandelier's delicate chiming as a stray night breeze swirled through the tall double doors of the mansion. She'd served him tea much like this, and they'd sipped it, there just inside the tall double doors. He was riding off to war, an idealistic young man, eager to serve the Confederate Cause: he kissed her knuckles, ever the gentleman: he'd stepped back, bowed gravely, turned, settled his pearl-grey hat on his head, and stepped into the saddle. He hadn't looked back. He didn't dare. The Abbott opened his eyes, slowly, still seeing stars, lamps, still feeling the mare under him, hearing night birds and laughter and music and smelling jasmine ... He took a long breath, closed his arms, set the tall, cool glass down, bowed his head. Another man set his down as well, careful to place it soundlessly on the table, not wishing to disturb his old friend's reverie. Abbott and Sheriff, each the authority in his own territory, looked at one another, shared the expression worn by men who've survived being refined as metal in the forge, and carried the scars-- visible and otherwise-- to prove it. The Abbott harrumphed quietly. "You know," he said, "I cannot break the Seal of the Confessional." Sheriff Linn Keller nodded, slowly, waited. "I can ... speak of ... things." The Sheriff's eyebrow raised a little, settled. The Abbott laughed, then sighed. "I saw you get a confession from a murderer with that eyebrow." Linn's eyes tightened at the corners, then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up, just a little. "What kind of things?" he asked quietly. The Abbott leaned back, considering, then gave the Sheriff a crooked grin -- that same devil-may-care look Linn remembered from that damned War, right after his discharge, when they met as men headed for home, instead of enemies on a battlefield. "Let's say," the Abbott said, "a man on the wrong side of the law had a case of the guilty conscience." "Let's say he did," Linn agreed quietly. "Let's not say who it was." Linn nodded again, that slow, patient nod he used in such moments. "Now let's say that his guilty conscience had something to do with his being scared half out of his skin." Linn regarded his old friend with what he intended to be an Innocent Expression. The Abbott laced sun-browned fingers together over his flat belly. "You might recognize who it was from what he told me." "Then why tell me?" "Because he's dead now." "Ah." Both men picked up their sweet, mint-infused tea, took a thoughtful sip, set their glasses down. "Padre," came the hoarse whisper from the other side of the confessional's latticework screen, I ain't confessed for some years now." "Go ahead, my son. Speak freely. You are safe here." He heard the agitated man shift uncomfortably, breathing the way a man will when he's remembering something he'd rather not. "He come out of the dark," he said, his voice lowering a little: the Abbott leaned closer to the grillwork, straining to hear. "He come silent, like a shadow, until he opened up on us." The man's hands closed into fists, his eyes wide, not seeing the quiet, shadowed interior of the Confessional. He saw a campfire, he saw shadows, he saw ... "Death," he whispered, his throat tight. "Death?" the Abbott echoed. "That damned pale eyed Sheriff," he husked, his words tight, as if his throat strained to utter the dread message. "Go on, my son." "He come at us a-firin' he had that damned rifle of his and he was ... he didn't miss none a'tall." "You are safe, my son, you are here and you are alive. What happened next?" "He'd ... we'd been a-runnin' for six days by then and we was all about played out. My horse went lame an' we allowed as we'd get us another come daylight so we found us a good place t'camp and ... and ... we made a little fire, least until Pete went out to check on Reuben." "Why did he check on Reuben?" the Abbott asked quietly. "Reuben was watchin' our back trail. They was only one good way anyone could come at us from an' he was watchin' that an' where we'd come from." "Did he find Reuben?" The man shivered -- the Abbott felt his tremors -- silence from the other side of the screen -- "My son?" "He found him." The Abbott had heard voices of all kind in Confession. He'd heard guilt, sorrow, anger, lust, he'd heard satisfaction and sorrow and grief, profound and deep. He heard something else in this man's voice. He heard raw, honest fear. "Reuben was dead." "How?" "He ... his ..." Three quick breaths, in the shadowed darkness, then: "His throat." "Cut?" "Clear to his back bone." The Abbott crossed himself. He knew what it was to slip up behind a man and cut his throat in that same manner. He'd done it, back during the War. "Pete he come a-runnin' in all wild eyed, he grabbed two dry tumble weeds an' throwed 'em on the fire an' he pulled his pistol an' he was lookin' around all wild eyed and he said Reuben's throat was cut an' not a sound for the doin' of it and everyone come into the firelight t' hear what he had t' say and that's when he come out of the dark with that damned Yankee rifle of his." "What happened, my son?" "He come at us, a-walkin'. Just a nice easy walk like he was a-strollin' down the street with his girl. He ... they was six of us when he started shootin'. "Me, I run, I got the hell out of there an' I didn't bother to grab no horse, I just high tailed it out int' th' dark and I kept on a-runnin' and I didn't stop until I just collapsed an' I laid there in the dark on m'back tryin' not to breathe loud and I looked up at them nice bright stars an' I waited f'r him t' come out of th' dark an' kill me too." "When was this?" "Yesterday. I seen th' town here once the sun come up an' ... I come here an' hid." "You're afraid he'll find you here." "You can't get away from that damned old lawman," came the bitter voice: "oncet he's on yer trail ye're a dead man. I don't know if he'll lay back an' kill me with that damned rifle of his, or if he'll slip up an' grab my chin an' twist m'neck around so he can cut me plumb to my neck bone, but he'll get me, ohhh, yes, he'll get me!" The Abbott was not at all surprised when the man thrust out of the confessional, slamming the door open: he heard running boot heels, heard another door hit hard, and he knew the man would not stop running again until he collapsed with exhaustion. "We found his body an hour later," the Abbott said quietly. The Sheriff nodded slowly. "To hear him tell it, you laid among them like Samson among the Philistines." "After what they done," the Sheriff said quietly, in a voice absolutely devoid of any regret whatsoever, "what I did to them was a kindness." The Abbott nodded thoughtfully: he knew the Sheriff to be a man of absolute fairness, but he also knew the Sheriff was a man of justice. "Did anyone else get away?" the Abbott asked. Linn smiled thinly. "Nope."

I learned the hard way not to be a trusting man. Yes I'm retired, yes I want to keep it that way, no I don't trust folks, and to that end I am keeping my professional licensures and certifications, current and valid. This requires Continuing Education Hours. Yesterday was six credit hours, which meant eight hours polishing my backside and staring at the laptop, and every fifteen minutes hitting the YES I'M HERE pop up button on the glowing screen. De Lawd was merciful -- we had considerable heavy rainfall and lightning, signal never wavered and power didn't go out (my router is plugged into a UPS against such moments) -- so I got through that two day Arse Grinder. Twelve hours in the books, the next session should be an in-person twelve-hour at my former employer's treatment plant, later this year. Nursing license is still paper study-and-test CEs. I'll tend those deeper into the year. Like I said, I'm not a trusting man. If I have to go back into the work force, I want current valid licensure or certification in my pocket. (Ohio Board of Nursing issues a license. Ohio EPA issues a certification. Potayto, pototto) In the meantime we've had better than an inch of rain so far, lightning storms were impressive, grateful for that new tin roof, my poor little basement sump pump is earning its pay ... pardon me, Paranoia prompts me to go check weather radar! Linn the Firm Believer in Aces Up the Sleeve!

LIGHTNINGHORSEN SCRUFFENGRABBER Michael Keller was white faced and shivering. Sweat was starting to bead out on his forehead. He lifted his black Stetson and swiped his tailored black coat sleeve across his forehead, settled the Stetson back in place. Victoria raised a cautioning hand to two nurses hovering close behind: her frown, her shake of the head, her upraised palm stopped them from intervening. Michael controlled his breathing: jaw set, he gripped the edge of the doorway, looked out across manicured grass, across meticulously contoured, swept walkways. A Fanghorn mare drowsed, bellied down on the grass: as he watched, she rolled over on her side, groaned with pleasure, basking in sunlight, eyes closed. Michael nodded, breathing through his mouth, expression grim. His prayer was wordless, silent, an intimate communication with the Eternal: he opened his eyes. The nurses saw his shoulders raise as he took a long breath, saw him square those strong young shoulders, saw him pace off on the left. Two Fanghorn colts quarreled happily, not far away, each snarling and squealing as if ready to rend the other into bloody gobbets: they thrust, they lunged, they bit: there were spectators, and not a few of them, for Lightning was known on the Worlds, her colts less so: a very few hardy souls advanced, perhaps intending to pet these strange, conical-bossed offspring of the now-famous Lightning, but all drew back when Fanghorn young bared fighting ivories and looked like they were going to eat the other alive. Quarreling and play-fighting ended abruptly. Two Fanghorn young swung their stout, muscled, surprisingly flexible necks toward Michael. Michael Keller's lips peeled back from even, white teeth. Victoria saw his hands close into fists, saw him crouch a little. For the first time in her young life, Victoria Keller, twin sister to Michael Keller, wished she'd exercised Diplomatic Prerogative and worn her heavy rifle at sling arms inside the hospital. They're going to ram me, Michael thought, remembering their rough play, remembering the times they'd greet him with a rush and a brush, with a hard shove: he'd been able to bulldog them to the ground when they were younger -- but now, with his healing back -- Something big, blond and lightning patterned, shot between Michael and the two charging Fanghorn colts. A head raised, drove down: Cyclone rolled over twice, knocked galley-west from the force of the collision. Thunder was pinned to the ground, Lightning's jaws wide open over his neck: her eyes were wide, red, and she was snarling -- a deep, almost feline, rumble. Victoria saw Michael's hands loosen, saw him start to move. He walked over to Lightning, laid a fearless hand on her neck. A very chastened Cyclone came head-bobbing up, laid her head against Lightning's neck, burbled a little, and Michael rubbed her ears. Neither the nurses nor the twin sister heard what Michael said. Very likely, what he said was in a whisper, or nearly so: that's how he talked to them, in moments like this. Lightning raised her head, jaws still open: Michael ran an arm under her throat, hugged her, laid his head against her, his Stetson falling unheeded to the ground. The Fanghorn laid her long, strong, bone-crushing jaw over his shoulder and rumbled quietly. Thunder rolled over, got his heavy-boned, stocky-muscled legs under him, almost crawled forward before running his nose between Michael's legs and then raising his nose in a rudely familiar greeting. Michael yelped as his feet came off the ground: his arm snapped over Lightning's neck and she raised him a little, lowered him, snarled at Thunder. Michael got his feet under him, turned, grabbed Thunder by one ear, shook his young fist menacingly at the young Fanghorn's bony forehead-boss. "You want I should THUMP YOU?" he shouted. Thunder danced on his forehooves as gracefully as a Caterpillar tractor driving hydraulic stands into the ground. "YOU WANT I SHOULD KNOCK YOU INTO THE MIDDLE OF NEXT WEEK?" Michael shouted again, thumping the heel of his fist on Thunder's conical boss. He didn't look, he thrust an open hand against the bridge of a rumbling Lightning's nose. "PICK A DAY, JACK! MIDDLE OF NEXT WEEK! WEDNESDAY OR THURSDAY!" Thunder, unabashed, nuzzled Michael's belly, snuffing loudly, his long, silky tail slashing enthusiastically. Victoria leaned against the door casing, folded her arms and sighed dramatically, shaking her head as she did. She looked at the two openly staring nurses, smiled. "Latin is the root language of medicine," she said quietly. "This was not a medical event, this was conflict. Perhaps German is more appropriate." She tilted her head speculatively. "Nurse Ragvndottr, how would you call this?" A pale skinned nurse with startling, Nordic-blue eyes stared at what had been her patient, feeding swirly-red-and-white peppermints to a creature that looked like it could casually bite a grown man in two. She remembered the strike as her open jaws drove down onto the colt's neck, absolutely flattening it before it could charge in and collide with the still-healing Michael. She considered for a moment, looked at her sister nurse, then at Victoria, and finally at the big Fanghorn, gone from a swift master of uncompromised justice to a lazy-blinking saddlehorse basking in the sun. "The ... big horse's name ... is Lightning?" she asked. Victoria nodded, arms crossed, ankles crossed, shoulder propping up the doorframe. "I would say," the nurse replied, commanding her near nonexistent command of her ancestral Germanic tongue, "from the way she kept the colt from running into Michael ..." She looked uncertainly at one Fanghorn colt rolling happily in the sun-warmed grass, another lipping peppermints off Michael's palm, at the big mare rolling over on her side with a contented groan. "I would say that would be Lightninghorsen Scruffengrabber!" Michael heard feminine laughter from the doorway: he rubbed Thunder's jaw, then sat, slowly, carefully, leaned back against Lightning's ribs, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Don't know what I did, he thought, but sounds like I made a donkey of myself for the ladies!

HELLO The Sheriff had several gaits, most of which were signals of one kind or another. This was one few had seen. The Sheriff was moving with utter silence, his bottom jaw thrust out: he moved like a panther, he moved like his joints were oiled, he moved like he was ready to flow like a greased shadow in moonlight so he could sneak up on someone and politely rip the head from their miserable carcass. He didn't do that, of course. What he did was to stop a fight, fast and wordlessly, by virtue of seizing one of the warring parties by the scruff of his shirt collar and yanking him to the ground while he reached out and seized the other warring party by his shirt front and threw him down as well. He turned, faster than men naturally turned -- the two had no time to react, respond nor roll -- hard hands drove down onto their breastbones, twisted up material and chest hairs, hauled them both off the ground: the world swung around them for a bright, startling moment, until they both SLAMMED against the stone front of a main street building -- the net effect that of dropping from a rooftop flat onto their backs. Hurried hands shoved open the man door beside the squad bay: a blueshirt medic spun out, hauling the door as far open as the heavy, old-fashioned slow-closer would allow, standing well out of the way as the wordless, grim-faced Sheriff brought two troublemaking customers inside. The Captain came back inside, letting the door shut behind him, staring as the Sheriff slow curled both guests well off their feet. He turned, eyes pale, glared at the Captain, then he dropped his twin burdens, turned, walked out without a word. Another blueshirt medic, a woman, watched through the man door's big window as the broad shoulders under that military-creased uniform shirt stride down the concrete apron and turned uphill, back toward the Sheriff's office. Shelly smiled quietly, the way a wife will when her husband does something of which she genuinely approves. She turned, walked over to their guests as they struggled to sit up. She looked down at the pair on the floor, folded her arms, patting her foot, looking for all the world like a schoolteacher who'd run out of patience. "Are you two going to behave yourselves," she asked quietly, "or do I need to have my husband come back and have another talk with you?" That night, Shelly had further occasion to regard the masculinity expressed by her husband. She went out to the barn. He bent a little, raised both hands, drove each down into a bale of hay: he crushed his hands shut around the strings, hauled two bales off the ground. His jaw was set, his expression was that of a man who most sincerely wished to lay hard hands on an enemy. Shelly watched as Linn twisted, threw one bale of hay over the high board fence, then twisted the other way and slung the other bale over -- throwing each bale, one handed. She watched, she waited, not wanting to interrupt his pique. He only did this when he was mad as hell, when he was frustrated at not being able to personally rip some deserving soul's guts out, kick their backside up between their shoulder blades, and then proceed to get mean with them. He stopped, closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, his mouth closed: he exhaled silently, then pulled off his gloves, turned to his wife as he stuffed them in a hip pocket. His pace was deliberate, his boot heels not loud, not really, but very distinct, as he paced over to his waiting wife. Linn took her hands, gently, raised one, then the other to his lips, kissed her knuckles: he hugged her carefully, as if she were delicate china, as if she were fragile, as if he was afraid he might break her. "Thank you," he whispered. Shelly laughed and hugged her husband, she looked up, she blinked innocently -- so that's where Victoria gets that look! he thought -- "What did I do this time, handsome?" He hugged her a little tighter, laid his cheek over on top of her head. She felt him take another long breath; she cuddled her ear into his breastbone, listened to the slow, powerful rhythm of that magnificent heart of his, running slow -- if I didn't know he was in such fantastic physical shape, I'd think he needed a pacemaker! she thought, smiling a little as she did. She looked up, he looked down: she saw his eyes change ... no longer ice, now a pale blue, that shade few saw, and only in intimate moments. "For bein' you," he whispered, and kissed her forehead. He released her, turned, snatched a saddle blanket off the side of the stall and draped it quickly over another bale of hay. Shelly knew the message. Sit, we need to talk. She sat. They sat in the barn, fragrant with the smell of horses and tractors, of saddle leather and straw. Linn leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. "Years ago," he said softly, "I read of a primitive tribe whose young men went out in the world to search out Death so they could kill it." Shelly waited, her thigh warm against his, her shoulder just touching his arm: she remembered his sculpted muscles, well defined, wet from the shower, and she felt her ears warming as her thoughts wandered to the not entirely pure. She felt him take another long breath. "I don't know if Death can be found as a corporeal being," he said slowly, "and I don't know if Misfortune walks beside him, and they toss a coin to see what they're going to do when they run into a mere mortal." His hands closed slowly, not completely into fists, but close. "Why Michael?" he asked softly. "Hasn't he hurt enough? Good God, that idiot soldier near to killed him, his spine was so damaged they had to grow him a new one -- that alone --" He took a deeper breath, blew it out, a harsh sound in the barn's stillness. Three heads raised at the sound -- one large, pure white and curious, two coal black, much smaller and no less inquisitive. Shelly laid a hand on his shoulder blade: she wasn't sure what to say, and so she said it with a wife's understanding hand on her husband's back. "Why Michael?" Linn whispered hoarsely, dropping his forehead into his hands. "Why not me?" Shelly patted his back. "You're not allowed survivor's guilt," she said softly. He turned his head, eyes veiled, looked at her sternly -- very little short of anger, she knew, but not anger at her. "They're my ghosts to carry," he said hoarsely, and Shelly blinked, bit her bottom lip. Linn looked away, looked across the cement floor, his expression almost lost. "He's my son," he said faintly. "I'm supposed to protect him." "He's growing up. You remember growing up. It's a wonder we survived childhood." Something round, black and curious came waddling over toward the pair, Snowdrift watching from her blanket lined nest behind another hay bale. Linn picked up the curly-furred Bear Killer pup, set it on his lap, grimaced happily as a pink tongue taste tested his cheeks, then his ears. He laughed, eyes and mouth closed, then the little furry Bear Killer pup turned around in his lap and dropped dramatically, gave a great sigh significantly larger than his short coupled carcass, and relaxed, safe between hard-muscled forearms and flannel shirtsleeves. Shelly looked speculatively at her husband as if to ask "Well?" He turned, looked at his wife. He didn't quite smile. He was close to it, though. His voice was quiet: his face might not be smiling, but his voice, was. "It's hard to be in a bad mood when a pup says hello."

Pat Riot, you are exactly RIGHT, in both your premise, and in your response! Well said!

I've been told air fryers are worthwhile. A correspondent was lamenting reheated pizza in the microwave is soggy, reheated on an oven rack heats the whole oven (and kitchen), not to mention dripping melted cheese on his disposable aluminum catch pan. He said reheating pizza in the air fryer brings the crust texture back to what it should be. I believe him when he tells me this, for he is notoriously hard to please!

VULCAN, I NEED YOUR HELP It used to be a hardware store sledge hammer, at least until Kid Mike bought it. He smiled a little as he picked it up -- it looked like a toy in his callused, knuckle-scarred hands -- he took it home, he gripped it not far from its head, frowned, slid his hand down a little more, nodded. A few strokes with the crosscut saw and what the local hardware sold as a two-hand sledge hammer was now Mike's new, one-hand, blacksmith's Single Jack. Most Single Jacks swung back when Fireland was young, were lighter than this, but still substantially heavier than most one hand hammers: they were used to drive a star drill, to drill holes to place shots of powder, or later, of that new-fangled waxy-stick dynamite stuff. The principle remained the same, though: this modern day blacksmith needed a hammer that hit with both control and with authority. Kid Mike he was known to certain women with pale eyes -- he'd been called that by a laughing Sheriff who taught him that yes, he can actually dance (though she had to wear her highest heels!), and since then, more pretty women with pale eyes danced with him in the big round barn under the granite cliff's overhang. Mike withdrew his work from the forge, gauged the color, set to work with a steady rhythm: he'd started with three ceremonial taps on the anvil, something his father did, and his grandfather before him: it was Willamina -- or maybe Marnie -- who taught him this was to chase out any evil spirits that may be lurking in the iron, three strikes for the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, three strikes for the three leaves of the Shamrock: she'd tilted her head and folded her arms and smiled up at him with those lovely, barely-light-blue eyes and said, "And if it's good enough for Granddad, it's good enough for me!" Mike raised his hammer and began his work. Michael adjusted the hover-screen where he could see it best, smiled a little as his Big Sis stepped out from behind her desk and addressed the class. "This is an in-service," she said, "you're all on shift so I won't take long. The best presentation I ever sat through was also the briefest. This might not be the best, but it'll be in the top ten." Michael saw appreciative looks from the class: he recognized two nurses who'd taken care of him earlier this same morning. Most, he knew, were new students, though his pale eyes picked out the six armed blue stars that marked the medics among them. "This is my friend Mike," Angela said, smiling, her voice pitched to be heard to the back row of the lecture hall. She ran her arm around the man's waist and hugged into him, and the visual was almost that of a little girl playing nurse hugging her big strong Daddy. If Angela wore her highest heels, she would have looked Kid Mike square in the collar bone. It's not that she was that tiny. It's that Mike was just plainly that big. Angela released her one-armed hug, drew back, looked up, smiled. "Mike, hold out your arm." Mike raised a muscled arm -- bigger in circumference that most of the ladies' thighs -- he extended it like an ancient, twisted, very solid oak branch, horizontal above the winged white cap she wore. "Mike is a blacksmith," Angela said, "and a damned good one. There are good blacksmiths, Mike is damned good!" She smiled up at the man and saw his ears were reddening. She looked back at the class. "Today's subject is Therapeutic Communication, and Mike here has helped me make a very important point in the past, so here it is." She stepped to the side and said "You can relax now, I'm almost done embarrassing you." Mike grinned like an unabashed schoolboy. Angela gave the roomful of assessing femininity a knowing look and said, "Sorry, ladies, he's married." A hand rose in the back and a voice called hopefully, "Yes, but is he happily married?" -- to the quiet laughter of the rest of the nurses, and the red-faced grin of the bashful-looking blacksmith. Angela raised a teaching finger. "Here's my point," she said, then pulled up a chair, stood on it, laid a hand on Kid Mike's sculpted shoulder. "If I look at Mike here, if I clap my hand on his shoulder, if I give him a grin and a wink and a laugh and I tell him 'Mike, that hat looks awful, I'd ought to knock it off your head and stomp it into the ground,' he knows from the wink and the grin and the hand on the shoulder, he knows from the laugh and the bantering tone of voice, what I'm really saying is, 'Mike, that's a good looking hat and I wish I had one just like it!" Angela paused, looking around, her face going from cheerful to serious. "If I send Mike an e-mail or an IM or a text or a note and he reads, 'I oughta knock that hat off your head and stomp it into the ground!' -- without the wink, or the grin, or the hand on his shoulder -- why, that's an invitation to a young war!" Angela ran her hands around his elbow, pulled his arm up level, slid his short shirt sleeve back to show the phenomenal, sculpted muscular hypertrophy that is part and parcel of a blacksmith's visual signature -- "Just look at this arm! In case of a tie, Mike here is NOT coming out in second place!" Angela pulled his arm down, patted his shoulder, murmured "Thanks, Mike," and stepped off the chair. "So here's the lesson and we're almost done. "Ninety percent of communication is nonverbal. "Ninety percent." She let the words hang. "The words you use are only ten percent of the message. We think of a phone call as efficient. It's not as good as face to face. A written note, a text, an E-mail, is stripped even further of the valuable clues and cues that signal what is actually being said." She looked up at Vulcan, folding his arms across his broad chest. "If you doubt that, just send Mike a note about his hat."

I'M GLAD YOU'RE HERE Victoria and Michael were twins. Victoria was still slender and girlish, with the suggestions of contours that meant Daddy's Little Girl wasn't going to be so little much longer. Michael was growing in height. He was not yet sprouting chin whiskers, and likely would not for a few years, but damned few, if his pale-eyed Pa was any judge. Consciousness returned to Michael's system with all the subtlety of a slammed door: his eyes snapped open, his hand tightened a little -- even in the induced relaxation of a painkill field, the feel of a warm, strong hand in his was a comfort. Michael's eyes snapped open. He was flat on his back -- he was carefully positioned, with rolled material bracing under his knees, under his ankles. His hand tightened a little on his Pa's and he swallowed. No boy wants to look vulnerable in front of his Pa, but Michael could not help it: he'd known pain that absolutely destroyed his reserves, and this most recent recurrence shattered the reserves he'd built against that particular, very personal betrayal in front of the Grand Old Man. "Sir," he whispered, swallowing again, "I'm glad you're here." Linn's hand tightened a little on his son's, his other hand lowering, sandwiching Michael's hand between both of his. "I won't ask how you feel," Linn said quietly. "They showed me your pain index. I doubt if I could have taken that level of pain." "Warn't good," Michael gasped, making a very small, experimental move, shifting his hips ever so slightly. "What happened, Michael?" Michael's eyes ranged across the ceiling of his hospital room, he blinked twice, then looked at his Pa. "The cats," he whispered, and Linn felt his son's hand tighten again with the memory. "Sir, the cats -- they hunt in packs, they bite through the back of the skull --" Linn shifted a little, turning to look very directly into his son's face. He nodded, once. "Go on." "Sir, it's my fault. I let my mind wander." Linn considered this, frowned a little. "Looked to me like you did quite a bit right." "I was careless," Michael almost spat, his voice bitter. "You handled a hot potato someone dropped right in your lap. Tell me how it started." Michael hesitated. "I felt Lightning," he said, his voice distant. "I felt her and I knew something was not right. I bent and leaned back and shucked out my rifle." He looked up at his father. "That didn't hurt, sir." "What happened next, Michael?" "Something hit her in the hind quarters. I felt the claws dig into me -- into her --" Michael's eyes were confused. "I didn't get clawed, sir, I -- she --" "I know. What did you do next?" "It was Lightning," Michael whispered. "I felt her -- I felt the cat dig into her -- I twisted around and drove the muzzle --" His voice trailed off as his eyes grew distant, looking at the memory. "You stopped the threat," Linn said quietly. "Yes, sir, that's when I realized I'd hurt myself, a-twistin' like that." "What do you remember next?" "I doubled over, sir. It hurt too much to do aught else." "Marnie said you called for backup. That was sensible." "Yes, sir." "Do you remember making the call?" "No, sir," Michael admitted. "All I can recall is grippin' the saddle horn and Lightning was landin' hard and it hurt ..." Memory leaked, hot and wet from the corners of his eyes: he squeezed his eyes shut, tight, turned his head away, started to raise his arm. Something soft laid against the side of his face and he stopped his arm before he could lay it across his eyes. His Pa was pressing a kerchief against the corners of his eyes, one side, the other. His folded hankie was warm and smelled of clean laundry, of home. "I'm sorry," Michael hissed through clenched teeth. "Michael," Linn said, his voice quiet: Michael felt the bed creak as his Pa's weight came on the shining-steel siderail, as the older man leaned over, closer to his son. "You've nothing to be sorry about," Linn said, his voice deep, gentle, reassuring. "You got hit with more pain than a grown man can take. You nailed a mountain cat before it could swarm up and bite you through the back of your skull. You kept Lightning alive. Victoria already took care of the claw-digs on Lightning's hinder, but she said Lightning didn't much like it." "Victoria," Michael whispered, his eyes opening, almost panicked. "Sis, is Sissy okay?" Linn grinned, then laughed. "Victoria had her belly down so she could reach the cat digs. She cleaned 'em out, she poured in some peroxide and she wiped some ackumpuck into 'em so they'd not infect." "How'd Lightning take it?" "She stuck her neck out and screamed like someone goosed a steam whistle." Michael chuckled through his distress. "I've got her and her colts at home. They still don't like molasses twist." "I'm sorry, sir." Linn grinned, squeezed his son's hand again. "Don't be. It's given Victoria an excuse to spoil 'em." Linn straightened a little, looked over, hooked a rolling steel stool with the toe of a boot. He released the siderail latch, one-handed, eased it down, sat, never releasing his son's grip. "Sir?" "Yes, Michael?" Michael turned his head a little, looked at his father. "I'm glad you're here."

JUST ANOTHER DAY The Bear Killer rolled over on his back. Under other conditions, his rippling black lips, the exposing of ivory canines, the deep rumbling growl, would give pause for consideration and perhaps a re-evaluation of certain life choices. At least in the sane, rational, adult mind. This ... didn't happen. As a matter of fact, when The Bear Killer's voice raised a little, from that deep, chest-echoing, primal snarl that originated somewhere millennia ago when lupine ancestors were among Earth's apex predators, the behaviors that started this unmistakable vocalization only increased. The Bear Killer lay on his back, happily thwapping his thick, plumed tail on the floor, while eager, giggling schoolchildren massaged his chest and his belly, looking at one another with expressions of absolute, utter delight. Michael sat cross legged, grinning, a book open on his lap. He hadn't intended to read for this schoolhouse full of children. He'd intended to deliver a stack of books, he'd intended to touch his hat brim in deferential respect to the schoolmarm, he'd intended to saddle up. That's all he'd intended to do. The Bear Killer came along with him, for no particular reason; Lightning and Cyclone, of course, flanked him as he rode, and although the schoolhouse full of children knew what the Fanghorn was, although they'd seen Michael riding in, although they saw the smaller Fanghorns flanking, none of them knew what The Bear Killer was. This world never evolved lupines, nor any of their kin. Children and dogs have a natural affinity for one another, and when The Bear Killer trotted happily up to them, tail swinging and mouth open in a doggy smile, children -- especially the youngest children -- did what children always do. They reached out, and they giggled, and soon Michael was sitting cross legged with a big idiot grin on his face. Cyclone and Thunder begged for attention as well, finding it with the older students. Dignity was cast to the winds. A truly huge mountain Mastiff was on his back, reveling in all this attention, two juvenile Fanghorn rolled over on their backs, heavy hooves pawing happily at distant clouds overhead: a schoolmarm leaned against the frame of their one room schoolhouse, hiding her smile behind a hand, even white teeth biting her knuckle lightly to keep from giggling. She ended up bringing Michael one of the books he'd brought. Michael turned so his shadow cast on the page -- he'd no wish to barbecue his eyeballs, reading from white paper in direct sunlight -- the schoolmarm asked Michael in a gentle voice if he'd read to the students. Cyclone rolled over, shook herself, stuck her neck out and belched, then came over beside Michael and folded her legs. Thunder got up, shook, trotted around his dam and over behind Michael, slipped easily between wide-eyed, marveling schoolchildren, and settled down opposite his sibling. Michael looked up, grinned. "This book," he said, "was written by a fellow named Mark Twain. That means riverboats and steam engines and that's for another time." He held the book up, showed the cover, turning as he did. "This one is Tom Sawyer, and I particularly like it!" Michael Keller worked his bony backside a little, getting comfortable, sitting cross legged on the ground: he opened the book, he began to read. Children listened with wide and marveling eyes, young hands resting in curly black fur, or the fine, silky fur of two quietly-snoring Fanghorn colts. Next day, another world: Michael was riding through a pass not unlike many of the passes back home, when Lightning whipped end-for-end, snarling. The Bear Killer was not with him. Cyclone and Thunder were already facing their back trail, then they turned, one facing left, the other right. Michael felt Lightning's warning rumble -- it was an impressive thing, forking a horse that made his Gammaw's Frisian look small, and feeling that deep, feral snarl he'd heard before, that snarl that meant blood was about to be shed. Michael reached back and down and gripped his rifle's checkered wrist, brought it free. Something landed on Lightning's hind quarters: Michael twisted, his back screaming at him for his foolishness. Michael drove the gunmuzzle into a tawny skull, jerked the trigger: he turned to face forward, teeth set against his spine's agonies: he jacked the lever as Lightning twisted, reared. Michael was almost blind with pain. He laid down over Lightning's neck, willing himself to silence, jaw locked against his internal agonies. Lightning's head snapped to the left -- fast -- she reared, she came down hard -- Michael gripped his saddle horn left handed, his rifle across the saddlebow, he blinked stinging eyes, then hissed as Lightning came off the ground, came down, hooves bunched: Michael shoved his pain aside, looked over to where Lightning was driving a forehoof into something tan and furry. Michael could not straighten up, and every time Lightning came down on something, it drove an explosion of utter agony up his backbone. He didn't raise his wrist to his lips. He was bent over already. All he had to do was gasp a few words. Victoria came out of an Iris on her Daddy's Appaloosa, Angela came out, threw her cruiser broad side of the road, skidding up dirt, lights spitting alarm. Marnie appeared behind with four lean young men with shotguns and irritated expressions. Angela came around the front of the cruiser, sizing up the situation: her eyes went for the trees on the uphill side of the road, her shotgun's muzzle following her eyes. Marnie's shotgun spoke, then Angela's: Victoria faced the opposite direction, eyes busy, scanning the trees. Cyclone and Thunder were busy driving bloodied muzzles into something that was apparently edible. One large and very hard hoof held what was left of a crushed skull down while they took turns gorging on the remains of a tawny cat of some kind. Lightning was growling -- Angela blinked, then laughed -- she'd heard saddlehorses make noises of many kinds, but she'd never heard one growl -- that chest-deep, menacing, I'm-going-to-eat-you-and-your-entire-family sound a predator makes when they are a mile and a half past unhappy. There honestly wasn't enough left under Lightning's broad, rocklike hooves, to eat: she'd very efficiently turned something that might have been a big cat of some kind, into furry paste. She walked fearlessly, patted the muttering Fanghorn's neck, looked up at Michael. "You okay?" she asked, then she saw Michael's face and knew that no, he was not okay. Feminine hands coaxed the Fanghorn ahead, away from the bloody, greasy patch in the hard packed roadway. Angela patted Lightning's thick foreleg: "Down, girl," she murmured, and Lightning, sounding like a distant thunderstorm had taken residence in her chest cavity, folded her thick legs and bellied down. Thunder and Cyclone looked around, disinterested: a nearby stream claimed their attention, and they went to wash their faces and their palates in clean running water. "I turned too fast," Michael hissed between clenched teeth. He felt the too-familiar pressure of a scanner easing down the curve of his back bone. Angela looked across Lightning's back at her sister, her expression serious, then raised her wrist-unit to her lips. "This is Angel One," she said quietly. "Diplomatic priority, requesting injured Diplomatic staff transport direct to Central Medical." Michael was still doubled over, not daring to move. "All I wanted was to deliver some books," he gasped. Angela reached back, pressed on the saddlebags -- empty -- "Did you deliver already?" Michael tried nodding, grimaced as he realized that was a supremely bad idea. An Iris opened in the roadway. Angela caressed Lightning's neck, then her jaw. "Up, girl," she whispered, and Lightning turned her bone-bossed head, one eye regarding Angela -- she wasn't sure what Lightning's expression was -- the big Fanghorn rose, easily, smoothly, as if realizing movement was a bad thing for her rider. Victoria held out a hand, made a kissing sound. "Here, kitty, kitty," she called, riding her Daddy's saddlehorse forward and into the Iris. Horse, rider, Fanghorn and colts all disappeared into the black void of the Iris: Angela skipped around it, jumped into her cruiser, pulled through it -- she didn't understand what little she knew about Iris technology, but she knew she could drive through it from its back side like a bead curtain, and did. Marnie and four Confederate guards climbed in. Angela eased the shifter into reverse, left her red-and-blues on, and backed through the Iris. "Do you suppose the Sheriff will object to your being out of the county?" Marnie asked quietly. Angela swatted her on the arm and laughed.

SHORT, FAT, AND SLOW Victoria Keller had the marvelous ability to look like ... well, whatever she chose to look like. She'd grown up reading about the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna, who learned the art of the Quick Change from modeling her Mama's fashions for the San Frisco buyers, and from haunting the theaters, next door and elsewhere: she'd learned tricks of presentation, not only foundations and face paint and wigs and costumes, but how to stand, how to move, how to project not just the voice, but the personality as well. Victoria Keller read of the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna's physical attributes -- not her stature, not her build, but rather her ability to become instantly, brutally, unexpectedly, violent. Victoria had not the childhood traumas that burned Sarah Lynne McKenna's soul into a hard, charred knot, that made her hard and vicious and brutal and merciless and utterly, completely, absolutely, without a conscience -- when it suited her. Victoria decided there were facets of this personality she should adopt. To that end, she selected one of the fuzzy pups Snowdrift watched and herded and taught and nursed, and Victoria hauled buckets of steaming-hot water to a small galvanized tub out in the barn, knowing it would cool off, and cool quickly, being poured in a cold tin tub set on a cold concrete floor. By the time she added soap and changed into a rain jacket, her hand thrust in the water told her it was just right, and so she picked up her selection from the fuzzy black litter and dunked it in the tub. Victoria's hands were careful, Victoria's hands were firm: she worked soapy water into the pup's curly black fir, carefully gave this smaller, shining-black version of her Mama a bath. Sarah Lynne McKenna used to do this with The Bear Killer, back in her day. Victoria concentrated on her work, even going so far as to pile soap suds atop this little Bear Killer's head like a bubbly crown. This lasted about three and a half seconds, until a vigorous shaking prompted Victoria's squint and turn-away, grateful that she'd worn the rain jacket. Satisfied, she brought the pup out, dunked it in a galvanized bucket of clean, warm water, used a paper cup to carefully rinse soap suds down off the head and ears and down the back bone. This, of course, prompted its own cascade of vigorously slung water. Once Victoria got the pup rinsed off and toweled down, this little ball of soaky-wet, gleaming-back wiggle and grunt, closed its eyes and sneezed vigorously -- once, twice -- Victoria transferred it to a big fluffy bath towel, and sat down on a hay bale and brought the pup up onto her lap and dried it the rest of the way with careful, almost delicate attention. Pups, little boys and pale eyed Daddies all share a common characteristic, one that Victoria, for her few years, knew well. This little black furred fellow blinked as he was dried off; he'd filled his belly; warmed from bathwater and from being wrapped in a fresh, dry towel, held on Victoria's lap, he stood on wobbly legs, then fell over with a dramatic sigh, and was instantly asleep. You're just like an old bear, she thought, remembering her Daddy's words on the subject. You get your belly full, you get warm, you fall asleep! Victoria slipped a collar around the pup's neck, drew it carefully snug. It had the usual vaccination tags, owner's name and phone number, and the pup's name. "Hello, my name is 45. If I'm lost, I belong to the Sheriff," and a phone number. Victoria remembered talking about naming this pup with her Daddy. "He'll become Bear Killer when he's big," she said, her voice serious, "but right now he's 45." Linn looked at her curiously, smiled a little. "He's ... 45?" Victoria blinked, giving her big strong Daddy her Very Best Surprised Little Girl look: she wasn't a little girl anymore, she was starting to look womanly, but Victoria practiced being who she wanted to appear to be, and at the moment, she knew, she was better served by appearing to be, Daddy's Little Girl. She gave her Daddy those big lovely eyes and said in a little girl's voice, "Daddy, you said the .45 Automatic is short, fat and slow, and it gets the job done." Victoria held up the pup she was cuddling, still nested in the towel, still muzzle-thrust out over her forearm, and still sound asleep. "I think this one fits that description!"

Sometimes that heartfelt primal scream is necessary to keep from putting your fist through a wall (or some idiot's face) Especially after a day like yours!

😆😆😆 Oh dear God, I am HOWLING!!! 😁😁 I kid thee not, my face is the color of a rotten strawberry and mirth and merriment are both leaking in saltwater streaks down into my somewhat lopsided mustache!

Nor I. They're usually left outdoors; in SE Ohio's hill country, you have high humidity, tree pollen, coal smoke, dust, dirt ... they get filthy, fast, they have to be washed down before use, not to mention the underside of the seat providing fine nesting territory for paper wasps, hornets and the like. Then there's birds that like to land on it and dump ballast before launch. Like anything else, "You pays-a you money and takes-a you choice," but as for me ... ... no thank you ...