Freida S. (check previous postings for her full last name--if that's what you're about) and her graduate assistant showed up twenty minutes early, her graduate assistant brimming with millennial confidence and carrying a briefcase full of what she would later claim to be "very damning documents, very damning indeed."*
The cranky retiree and his wife did make a short return appearance, despite the unimpeachable accuracy of Post #50, and demanded fresh fennel to show to the authorities because, as he claimed, "there's something fishy going on 'round here." When told the fennel had suffered from a poor growing season and was plowed under as a soil enhancer, the retiree let loose a tirade of expletives (which won't be printed here due to the sensitivity of some readers, but there was no doubt it was an extensive and cleverly arranged bunch of bad words, despite his wife's swatting him on the mouth in a failed attempt to get him to stop).
The neighbor and his wife showed up briefly with court documents and a wide assortment of weaponry. Additionally, the neighbor's wife had an extra shower towel slung over her right shoulder and a container of Prell shampoo in her left hand (those details may be relevant at some point, so it's probably wise to take notes).
Mr. Elsewhere surveilled the proceedings from the eastern most edge of the property. The former Head of Security was surveilling Mr. Elsewhere from just south of the lilac bush. And Kristina Von Matisse, new Head of Security, was surveilling the former Head of Security from a limb in a maple tree about ten yards away.
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| Lilac flowers--very common in this neck of the woods. They also smell like friendly neighbors (but not too friendly; nobody cares for that in these parts; we're Scandinavians, for God's sakes!). |
Vladimir Putin had not shown up as of yet.
Anise and Kookie arrived expecting a free jar of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, clearly not understanding the distribution strategies of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa business model (as explained in an earlier post, if you'd taken the time to read it).
The little dog showed up to lick Freida S.'s toes, but was distracted by traces of Poopsie's fading scent.
The three Canadians brought three more Canadians. All six were spoiling for a fight.
The newspaper reporter/head of the biker gang and her biker gang showed up with mufflers rumbling, tires squealing, and horns blaring (okay, that last part was made up).
Absinthe and Cliff were uncharacteristically secretive and plotting. What did they know? (And why has this blog not picked up where it left off on their parallel yet diverging narratives?)
Grace and Audrey were so unnerved by the unfolding events that they accidentally and unselfconsciously (yes, it's a word) held hands for seven straight (so to speak) minutes.
Still, the head of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa was nowhere to be found. The Eds, in fact, were at a loss to explain his whereabouts (even the Ed whose choppers had so consistently failed on him that management thought it wise to have a translator by his side at all times (see sample post illustrating the need for someone to translate Ed's comments--if you haven't already, that is (and you should have))).
Things weren't looking good.
*Though it would become apparent to everyone around the graduate assistant when her briefcase accidentally fell open and a peanut butter sandwich spilled out and nothing else, except for assorted seasonal napkins, there were no documents at all, much less "very damning documents, very damning indeed." Nevertheless, the graduate assistant did go on to receive her graduate degree before entering the highly prestigious Walmart midnight to eight freight unloading assignment, replete with differential pay for the less than optimal hours.
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