Incoherency
Jul. 13th, 2007 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hafoc
This is Steve. He hates me.
I don't know why, exactly. There's that thing about the Volvo, but that was long ago. Besides, nobody got hurt and the price didn't amount to much. Pumpkin-colored sneakers, maybe. He took exception to my comment about them.
He lives in Washington State. It rains a lot tehre, they say. I wouldn't know, myself. We get snow instead, and we have no mountains. I've never had a home in the mountains, but I'm homesick for them anyway. Every time I go to the mountains, I don't know why I should leave.
I don't think Steve hates me because of mountains. Nor do I think battlecruisers have anything to do with it.
I admit I do have a thing about battlecruisers and small, scrappy redheads. Both of these keep popping up in my stories. I can't explain the redheads, except that I have known two women with Attitude, and both were small redheads. I know one man who is a small redhead, but long ago he went past Attitude, did a hard right at Asshat and kept going. Maybe it's too much Heinlein. That's another reason.
The battlecruisers are easier to explain. They're all blood and smoke and thunder, and flags snapping in the breeze. If Richard Wagner had ever designed a warship, it would have been a battlecruiser. They're just dramatic. What would-be writer wouldn't love them for that?
But Steve is angry that I include them in the stories. He points out, quite rightly, that they had this distressing habit of exploding. He acts as if by writing of them I'm going to mislead the youth of today, get them to build steam-powered late-Victorian Ultimate Weapons, send them out on the oceans and get them all detonated. "You shouldn't promote those ships. They're deathtraps," he sneers. "It's an affront to the soldiers, sailors, and Marines who protect this great country." Myself, I think nobody's likely to build those things any more, and especially not just because I put them in a story. But you never know, of course. There's always that thing with Delores to consider.
Steve acts as if he knows a lot about the military, but he won't tell me about his background. On the other hand, he has many sets of 20-sided dice.
Delores had never met Steve until after the accident. She came from Oklahoma, I think. I have the impression it was somewhere near Tulsa, but I can't remember where I heard that. If I ever did.
Her dad was one of these malignant bible-thumpers, the God-Hates-Fags sort. He spent all his time teaching us how to hate, and telling God who He could or could not hear, love, or save. He was of the kind who seem to have come to the conclusion that God will forgive everything in the end anyway, so, in for a penny, in for a pound-- they might as well run up a big tab here and now.
Somehow she got ahold of a Furby. Dad found it and burned it at the stake in the front yard, since it talked (and not about Jesus) so it must be demon-possessed. Voices coming out of dead objects were unnatural, but he listened to the radio all the time, so I don't know.
Anyway, as the Furby melted the voice got deeper and more demon-like, and about the time he thought he could see the form of the beast rising in the smoke the cops came and told him to put the fire out, and he started screaming fire and brimstone at them, and toppled over dead right there. And that was the end of his plans to get J.C. to forgive his big bar tab before it all came due. No joke. That's an urban legend, but it really did happen to Delores's father. I've heard of it before. It must happen all the time. You wouldn't think so, would you? But there it is.
After that she thought it might be a good idea to get out of town. So she got a bus ticket and headed out. She didn't head west at first, though.
I don't know why, exactly. There's that thing about the Volvo, but that was long ago. Besides, nobody got hurt and the price didn't amount to much. Pumpkin-colored sneakers, maybe. He took exception to my comment about them.
He lives in Washington State. It rains a lot tehre, they say. I wouldn't know, myself. We get snow instead, and we have no mountains. I've never had a home in the mountains, but I'm homesick for them anyway. Every time I go to the mountains, I don't know why I should leave.
I don't think Steve hates me because of mountains. Nor do I think battlecruisers have anything to do with it.
I admit I do have a thing about battlecruisers and small, scrappy redheads. Both of these keep popping up in my stories. I can't explain the redheads, except that I have known two women with Attitude, and both were small redheads. I know one man who is a small redhead, but long ago he went past Attitude, did a hard right at Asshat and kept going. Maybe it's too much Heinlein. That's another reason.
The battlecruisers are easier to explain. They're all blood and smoke and thunder, and flags snapping in the breeze. If Richard Wagner had ever designed a warship, it would have been a battlecruiser. They're just dramatic. What would-be writer wouldn't love them for that?
But Steve is angry that I include them in the stories. He points out, quite rightly, that they had this distressing habit of exploding. He acts as if by writing of them I'm going to mislead the youth of today, get them to build steam-powered late-Victorian Ultimate Weapons, send them out on the oceans and get them all detonated. "You shouldn't promote those ships. They're deathtraps," he sneers. "It's an affront to the soldiers, sailors, and Marines who protect this great country." Myself, I think nobody's likely to build those things any more, and especially not just because I put them in a story. But you never know, of course. There's always that thing with Delores to consider.
Steve acts as if he knows a lot about the military, but he won't tell me about his background. On the other hand, he has many sets of 20-sided dice.
Delores had never met Steve until after the accident. She came from Oklahoma, I think. I have the impression it was somewhere near Tulsa, but I can't remember where I heard that. If I ever did.
Her dad was one of these malignant bible-thumpers, the God-Hates-Fags sort. He spent all his time teaching us how to hate, and telling God who He could or could not hear, love, or save. He was of the kind who seem to have come to the conclusion that God will forgive everything in the end anyway, so, in for a penny, in for a pound-- they might as well run up a big tab here and now.
Somehow she got ahold of a Furby. Dad found it and burned it at the stake in the front yard, since it talked (and not about Jesus) so it must be demon-possessed. Voices coming out of dead objects were unnatural, but he listened to the radio all the time, so I don't know.
Anyway, as the Furby melted the voice got deeper and more demon-like, and about the time he thought he could see the form of the beast rising in the smoke the cops came and told him to put the fire out, and he started screaming fire and brimstone at them, and toppled over dead right there. And that was the end of his plans to get J.C. to forgive his big bar tab before it all came due. No joke. That's an urban legend, but it really did happen to Delores's father. I've heard of it before. It must happen all the time. You wouldn't think so, would you? But there it is.
After that she thought it might be a good idea to get out of town. So she got a bus ticket and headed out. She didn't head west at first, though.
