Monday, July 28, 2014
Worse than squash bugs
Sunday morning was remarkably peaceful and quiet around the shed. Mallory and the Ripper had chartered a boat out of Belmar Beach and were presumably reeling in bluefish by the barrel even as Leatherface readied the kitchen to prepare a rare fish dinner. Vida G was at the gym, Milly in her own cottage.
Delacroix had taken a cross-dimensional wormhole shift to a place and time where the most powerful chemical explosives possible to create could be acquired if one had the proper skills. Farm Girl and Uncle Mac, flushed and somewhat winded from an epic bout of tomato-staking were enjoying coffee at the battered picnic table just inside the main door of the shed.
Agnes had said something about weeding.
A loud “WHUMP” announced the activation of one of the many wormholes which occupied a sort of non-space and un-time in and around the shed.
“Lacy, back so soon?” speculated Uncle Mac.
Farm Girl shrugged and was about to speak when the garden side door burst open and a ragged scarecrow of what presumably was a woman burst through it. She held a weeder in one hand, a can of Lone Star in the other. The dog-end of a rum crook protruded from her lips.
“Mrrphmple fud!” she mumbled, clarity of speech suffering equally from the presence of the dog-end and an absence of teeth. Hopping in her excitement she gesticulated towards the garden with the weeder.
“Furmimphle futter!” she amplified and bolted through the doorway to Millie's orchard.
“Did you catch that?” said Uncle M.
“That last bit sounded like 'My ankles sore' but I can't swear to it.” Didn't make the first part out at all.”
“Agnes was moving right sprightly for an old gal with a bad wheel”, said Uncle Mac, turning from the window, “and she cleared Millie's stone wall like an Olympic hurdler. Never spilled a drop, either.”
Farm Girl cracked the garden side portal and peered through it.
“Ahah! she said.
“Not 'ankles sore' “ said FG, “ankylosaur! There seems to be an ankylosaurus in the turnip patch.”
“Bloody hell. What's it doing?”
“Oh for the luvva Pete, if it isn't one damned thing, its another. And just when we got rid of the potato beetles.” said Uncle Mac, reaching for the 12 gauge.