70 Knock Knock Jokes That Are So Bad Jokes and Riddles

The human gazed at the aliens around him and knew, just knew, he was in a LOT of trouble.
They were not much to look at. Small. Furry. Possessing faintly rodent like features. Their powerful hindlegs had them leaping quite large distances. When humans first encountered this species their initial impression was of some kind of hybrid of Kangaroos, harvest mice and Hobbits.
Their gentle and passive nature and their habit of communal sleeping had led humans to call them ‘Dormice’ out of affection.
The human wanted, very much wanted, to go back home and inform his fellow humans that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
The Yucani did not appreciate the term. The Yucani did not appreciate a lot of things. Mostly, right now, this group of about 400 of them did not appreciate him.
Their angry chirps and trills grow in intensity as they hopped angrily around him. Younger males would seemingly leap towards him at high speed, before landing close with a furious hissing noise. While the human could speak Yucani, he could barely understand them as they trilled so quickly. He held up his hands in what he hoped was a universal sign of surrender.
The human may not have been an expert on Yucani culture, but he was fairly sure he knew what a lynch mob looked like. The mass of small creatures had cornered him against a wall and continued to gaze at him balefully. Each passing moment they seemed to increase in anger, in their aggression, in their potential for violence.
A stone slammed into the wall besides him.
Three things happened immediately. The human saw the stones arrival seemed to give the Yucani the idea that this was a brilliant innovation.
Oh crap! They are going to stone me!
The largest Yucani in the mob, stood about seven feet away from him, suddenly removed a vicious looking knife, with a long serrated edge.
It’s gonna stab me!
And a roar of a Yucani constabulary patrol ship suddenly was heard, its distinctive sound causing many of the small creatures at the back to turn their heads.
The police! They’re gonna save me!
As the vechicle moved closer, more and more of the mob heard it and the human was very relieved to see that they didn’t start picking up rocks and the one with a knife, his large brown eyes filled with fury and rage, slowly returned the knife back to his clothing.
The craft landed, and six Yucani got out; their green uniforms were armoured, which made them look actually impressive (the human had long ago realised that only the larger members of the race were ever chosen for their constabulary).
They slowly hopped towards the mob, who had now turned and were trilling and squeaking in high pitched tones towards the newly arrived officers.
The human gulped down a breath of air. The sense of relief and gratitude he felt was immense. He was saved. As the officers made their way towards him, the crowd parting, he felt his legs go weak. He wanted to collapse. But he managed to hold it together long enough, to offer a grateful smile as one finally made his way towards him, dividing his fellow Yuanci like the Moses before the Red Sea.
“I am very happy to see you,” says the human, smiling down at the Yucani constabulary officer. It responds by removing a short grey metallic pole and jabbing it into the humans leg.
Pain. SO much pain. A searing, agonising, exploding pain that begins in his leg and races through every single nerve cluster in his body. The human convulses and screams, his bladder empties and he almost instantly drops into unconsciousness from the agony. He falls into a crumpled heap against the wall. The Yucani officer, ignoring the little cheer that had began from his fellow species, gazed down at the human with contempt and spat.
Two months later…
The young human, manacled and bound is thrown into the small conference room the aliens had built for this meeting. His eyes glance up and fall upon the first human face he had seen in many weeks.
“Oh God, thank you. Are you here to save me?”
The other human was in his fifties; his eyes bore the look of a man who had seen many things, perhaps too many. His suit was well made, sensible, if not slightly on the conservative side.
In response to the question he smiles gently and says, “Kid, I’m fairly sure only God can save you. But I am here to try and help with the mess you are in.”
Relief, mixed with wild joy fill the prisoners face. The younger man spots a chair to sit in (the room had the familiar setting of two human shaped chairs and a desk between them), and falls into it in a heap, his manacled hands landing heavily upon the table.
“Oh, thank you! You need to get me off this planet. The conditions I’ve been kept in have been awful. I am totally isolated. A hole in the ground with a large vent in the ceiling. They throw food down to me. The place stinks.”
The older man raises an eyebrow, “That’s good. You getting off lightly.”
“Lightly? The entire thing stinks like a sewer.”
“That’s because it probably IS a sewer,” shrugs the older man, reaching for a briefcase by his side.
“What?”
“Yucani prisons. They don’t incarcerate anyone but worst offenders on their world. The closest they have to prisons are specially made sewers.”
“That’s…”
“Tell me, have random Yucani been coming along and urinating and crapping into your cell as they pass?”
“What? No. That’s horrible.”
As the older man places his briefcase upon the table between them, he smiles a cold, tight smile, “The Yucani word for ‘prisoner’ literally translates into English as ‘Eaters of Our Shit’. I think the fact that they are throwing you human food and not pissing on you qualifies as light treatment.”
The younger man’s jaw just drops. A stunned look of absolute horror crosses his face. The older human uses this as an excuse to open his briefcase, remove a heafty file in a manilla cover out (it lands on the table with a satisfying heavy sound), closes the briefcase and places it on the floor besides him.
“Are you from the Embassy?”
“No. I just arrived in-world an hour ago. Four days at warp. My guts feel mushy.”
“Oh. Are you a lawyer?”
“I afraid not. Formally the excuse the Embassy will give you is there are no humans conversant in the intricacies of Yucani jurisprudence to be able to offer effective advice. Off the record? No lawyer in the entire solar system would touch your case. So, they sent me. I’m a specialist.”
“What in?”
“Apparently being human,” says the older man, who opens the folder and begins scanning the pages underneath. The younger man is too confused to say anything which suits the older one just fine. He glances up into the scared eyes of the prisoner.
“Andrew Montgomery Eversham, born 2118, Britain. British? Should have figured. Father was an engineer on Ares station, mother was… French. Well that explains much.”
“What does my mother have to do with anything?”
The older man gazes him up and down and asks, “Only child huh?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Thought so. Right, Mr Eversham. Do you know what they are charging you with?”
“No one has told me anything at all. I was performing, and the next thing I know I was being chased by a mob of angry Dormice, and then one of their police…”
“Yucani. Not Dormice.”
“What?” Eversham’s eyes widen, and he nods, “Yes, right. I know. I figured that out. But you know its just us here.”
“Saying Dormouse to describe a Yucani is like being home and using the word ‘Kike’. It’s a derogative term. An insult. Maybe not enough to get you punched, but we don’t do that.”
“Alright. Yes. I understand. I will try. Good job you ain’t Jewish eh?”
“Bad news I’m afraid. I am.”
“Oh.”
The older man scans through the documents and frowns.
“You are charged with a multitude of offenses. The first of which is Causing Great Disgust of Public Morals; Crude and Offensive Language; Heresy towards the Gods of the Yucani; Causing a Disturbance of the Peace… what were you doing?”
“I was doing my routine.”
“Routine?”
“I’m a comedian. Stand up.”
There was a raised eyebrow.
“You are comedian?”
“Yes.”
“And you caused this reaction?”
“Apparently.”
“Gonna say Kid, I’d work on your act.”
Eversham blinks and his face contorts with frustration, “Are you here to help me or not?”
The older man however just gazes at the file before him, “As well as the above you are charged with Inciting a Yucani to Wish to Commit Violence- this is a serious offense by itself, but they have charged you with inciting every individual in the crowd who heard you. So that’s 496 separate charges. And given each one carries a possible death sentence…”
“Death sentence? I could die?”
The older man smiles coldly across the table, “And we haven’t even gotten onto the serious allegations yet. So far, its just been the warm up. Now it says here that you perform under a different name.”
“Yeah. Abe Froman.”
“What?”
“Abe Froman. You know from that old movie.”
“What old movie?”
“A 20th century classic. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. The character of Abe Froman- the Sausage King of Chicargo? You must have heard of it?”
The older human raises his eyebrows high.
“No ‘Abe’ I haven’t. Neither have the Yucani. Which means they arrested someone called Abe Froman, only then to discover his real name is Andrew Eversham.”
“It’s my stage name.”
“The Yuctani don’t have concepts for ‘stage names’. All they know is a human arrived on planet with one name and then started using another name once here. And THIS is why they have charged you with espionage.”
“ESPIONAGE!!?”
“Yes. Specifically, because of the two names thing. And THEN because they think you are some kind of human agent, but don’t know what exactly you could have been up to, they assume the worst and charged you with everything they think you COULD have been here to do. That’s what the rest of the folder is.”
Andrew gazes at the thick pages with a look of absolute terror. The older humans eyes begin scanning; “So, from the top, ‘Suspected of Wishing to Assassinate the Emperor of the Yucani; Suspected of wishing to Assassinate the Chancellor of the Emperor of the Yucani…”
He moves forward a few pages.
“Suspected of wishing to put poison in the water supply of the cities of Heshis and Jebin…”
“But I…”
The older man lifts up more pages and smiles, “Suspected of seeking to violate the sacred virginity of the High Priestess of Rho- that’s impressive.”
“Are you serious? This is a joke.”
“Deadly serious,” hisses the old man, who closes the file with a loud thump. He fixes Eversham with a fierce stare.
“I gotta tell you ‘Abe’- you are in so much trouble right now that EarthGov is an inch away from washing their hands of you, throwing you to the Yucani and letting them take dumps on your for the rest of your short life. I am, literally, the only hope in hell you have of surviving and if I’m being honest- it aint much of a hope.”
“But it was just a few jokes,” mews Eversham, his eyes welling up with tears.
“Who thought it would be a good idea to travel to another planet and do stand up comedy?”
“My agent.”
“Your agent? What did you do? Sleep with his wife?”
“No,” comes the panicked reply.
“Didn’t you even do some basic research on what the Yucani considered humour?”
“No. I thought it would be more interesting to just turn up and see how they reacted to human jokes… you know… see the raw reaction.”
The older man is briefly speechless. He takes a breath and says quietly, “Gotta admire your chutzpah Kid. Not smart but that’s a LOT of chutzpah…”
“Why would EarthGov throw me under the bus? I don’t understand. I screwed up sure, but…”
He stops as the older man just holds up a hand. He gazes into his eyes as the first human he has seen in months speaks very quietly.
“Here’s the deal. As far as we can tell, a couple of months ago, this young human leaves Earth and flies to Yucani homeworld. He passes customs, checks into a Yucani version of a hotel and asks if they have versions of ‘clubs’. He discovers that, being social creatures, Yucani do indeed have these places where they gather to be entertained. Brilliant says he. The human goes to one of these. This human, he is not entirely ignorant- he’s learned basic Yucani. Not much, but enough to converse conversationally.”
The older mans stare nails the young man to his chair.
“So he goes there and meets the Yucani in charge. Explains that he is a ‘human entertainer’. Asks if he can perform. The Yucani, like the rest of his species? They get on well with us. We share similar traits. We have had good relations since the Treaty of Commerce and Travel was signed fifteen years ago. Sure, he says. He announces this human. Who gets on stage. But does not sing. Doesn’t dance. He talks. He talks to them. He says some pretty damn insulting things about them. He ignores their obvious growls of displeasure.”
“I thought they were laughing!”
“You thought wrong kid. The crowd sat for about twenty minutes getting madder and then decides enough is enough. They chase him out of the club, across two streets and corner him outside of his hotel. Where he is arrested and not lynched because the club owner rang the constabulary. Have I missed anything out?”
“No,” says Eversham quietly.
“So the EarthGov embassy gets informed of all this and do what they do and move to smooth ruffled fur. It’s just a misunderstanding they say. It’s an easy mistake they say. Their records show he is JUST a comedian. But here’s the thing kid. Yucani don’t have comedians. They don’t get it. So the Ambassador tries to explain it to them. Which in turn leads to a discussion about a very unique trait we humans have that Yucani do NOT have. Know what that is?”
“A sense of humour?” Eversham says, literally unable to help himself. He is surprised at the response.
“Well spotted. They have one but it is nothing like our own. They became fascinated at our sense of humour and then in quick measure, horrified at it. They find the very essence of human humour to be offensive, aggressive, cruel and vicious. Their government is considering tearing up the Treaty between our two races. Literally, your little stunt has caused the MOTHER of all diplomatic incidents.”
“I… I had… no idea,” stammers the Englishman.
“That comes as no surprise to me whatsoever,” comes the hissed reply. The older man sighs and rubs his eyes and continues. “Now the GOOD news is, given the severity of the charges you face, the nature of the issue, and the sheer monumental insanity of this whole thing, the Yucani have decided to not bother with all the minor courts, judges, appleant proceadures. You are going to be tried by the top court on the planet. The Ultimate Court. One trial, one hearing, one.”
Eversham just nods.
“The bad news is, it won’t be you alone on trial. It will be the entire human species. And our sense of humour. Somehow, just somehow, we have to convince these creatures that actually our sense of humour isn’t just an awful trait that they find offensive. And that means somehow, just somehow, I’ve got to defend human comedy in front of a species who has no concept of comedy at all.”
The older man sighs.
“And I thought raising my eldest daughter was tough!”
There is a silence. The full weight of the moment clearly hits the young man. He lowers his head and fights back tears. Eventually, without looking up, he says quietly.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are kid.”
“I’ve been a fool.”
“This much EVERYONE can agree upon.”
“I never meant to cause this…”
The older man sighs again, “I know you didn’t kid. Everyone knows you didn’t MEAN it. Doesn’t make it any easier for folks back home.”
Andrew Eversham nods. Displaying the stoicism his nation was famed for, he remains very quiet. Tears drip off his nose but he makes no sound. The older man just looks at him, an iota of sympathy creeping into his sad eyes. Moments pass. Eversham finally speaks.
“It… maybe it would be better if everyone just wrote me off. Said I was insane. Aberrational. Throw me under the bus. Let everyone get on with it?”
A small sad smile crosses the older mans face.
“To be blunt, that is what a LOT wanted to do back in EarthGov. A lot still do. But it’s too late for that. The whole race is in the mix now. Like it or not, we gotta jump on this ride and see it through to the end. And this is why they sent me. Because some fool thinks that if anyone can win this, can somehow get you off, its me.”
“Are you a diplomat?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“So why did they send you?”
“Beats me kid. I mean I have a rough idea, but really? I think they sent me because they are desperate.”
“What do you do for a living?”
A smile.
“For my sins? I’m a Rabbi.”
Four Days Later; The Grand Chamber of the Yucani Ultimate Court
Rabbi Johnathan Cohen had to admit- it was impressive. For such a small race, the Yucani could do ‘grand’. As he looked around the chamber of the highest judiciary on their planet, he could imagine it being used for an equally impressive purpose back on Earth. Of course on Earth the décor and colour scheme would be a tad different. More imposing.
Regal even. This?
It reminded him of the garish interior of some Western Bordelo from the 1890’s if he was honest. Still, the gold and purples and reds didn’t distract from the gravitas of the assembly or the importance of the room.
Or the size of the crowd.
EarthGov told him it was going to be a big show. They were not kidding. The five judges (known as a ‘claw’ the standard designation in all Yucani trials apparently) were looking impressive in their yellow robes of office, but they were upstaged by everyone else. The importance of the nature of this trial had demanded that anyone who was anyone would be here.
Rabbi Cohen could see the heir to the Yucani Empire had arrived (representing his father and 83 siblings); the Minister for Relations With The Hairless Ones (the formal designation for the poor Yucani official who dealt with humans) was also there, talking to him in hurried trills.
There were delegations of all the great and the good of this species, including The High Matron of the Sacred Priestesses of Rho, whose arrival caused him to smile inwardly. And it wasn’t just the Yucani who were here.
The unique nature of the diplomatic spat had caused interest from a half dozen other species. He saw the Ambassador of the Tu-Kek sitting within a glass encased sphere; the Emissary of the Golden Hive, which sat unmoving upon a perch, witnessing all that it relayed to the collective hive mind of the crew of the colony/ship that had arrived in orbit a few days before.
There was even a Frosh there, hovering enigmatically in its encounter suit, and the Frosh didn’t seem interested in anything except fractal mathematical equations most of the time. None of the species knew a damn thing about them- highly advanced but utterly abstract.
And there were the other humans. The Ambassador was there looking nervous (he was partly to blame for messing up the aftermath of the event- his job was on the line); the Commodore of Human Forces in the nearest sector was to his right, looking bored (only here because EarthGov was slightly worried this could end in a war). The attractive secretary (who everyone whispered the Ambassdor was sleeping with), sat on the other side of the Commodore, his handsom eyes glancing at the proceedings nervously.
And this ignored the several hundred normal Yucani who had managed to gain attendance to the trial. Rabbi Cohen took a sip of water and muttered to himself, “No pressure then Johnathan…”
“What?”
He turned to the rather pathetic figure of Andrew Eversham besides him. He wasn’t chained, and he had been issued new clothing, but his eyes were sunken and he looked the very image of a broken man.
“Nothing kid,” he says kindly, “you ready for this?”
“No,” comes the dispondant reply. For some reason Johnathan smiles at this.
“That’s the way. Honesty is always the best policy.”
The beating of a gavel is enough to start the proceedings. Ear pieces to allow fluent translations of all sides words are donned, and Rabbi Cohen takes a deep breath. Yucani trials followed a slightly differing format than humans- but the jist was roughly the same. The ‘prosecution’ he noticed was a grey furred alien, whose somewhat rotund body revealed him to be a corpulent and well fed member of his species. No doubt some great legal mind.
The trial passed quickly enough- the facts were not in dispute and indeed the defence case being as it was (the human in question was ignorant of any harm he could cause and meant no malice) was not even seriously contested by the state. No, in truth the real reckoning lay in the deeper issue of human sense of humour, and how in would colour future Human-Yucani relations.
Eventually, after about an hour, the rotund alien hopped back towards his table and began trilling in low, dark tones. In Cohen’s ear the translation came across clearly.
Which leads us, most supreme claw, to the crux of the issue. The human’s case rests upon a simple defense; he was innocent of any illwill towards our peoples, but sought to ‘entertain’ us with an example of human ‘humour’. This has led to our people investigating this aspect of the aliens personalities, and what we have found is disturbing indeed.
Johnathan watched closely as little creature trilled and squeaked in strong tones, his brown eyes forever gazing around him; while he was no expert on Yucani bodylanguage, Cohen knew showboating when he saw it. The little fat furball was playing to the crowd, playing upon the sensibilities of his race.
We have found humans delight in mockery; in lampooning; in deriding. They claim they do the same to themselves, as if this excuses them, as if it gives them the writ to inflict such things upon the rest of the galaxy. For a human, mockery of their institutions and their leaders is to be expected. But as we all KNOW- such things are anathema to we Yucani; where the familial bonds of love and honour are as natural to us as breathing…
The Rabbi tried hard not to roll his eyes. The prosecution was laying it on thick. Really thick. He watched as the creature hopped and trilled, waving its little arms about, modulating its voice expertly. He could see every Yucani in the room moved by this; their noses twitched, eyes welled up, their tails would go back and forth violently.
Carefully the Rabbi listened as the little creature moved onto the mainstay of his argument.
Is it not said by the Goddess Rho, that ‘all things shall be in its natural place, from star to planet, from ruler to bondman’; does not Rho teach us that there is only joy to be found in ‘careful appreciation of the natural order of all things’? Is it not said within our most sacred texts that ‘The ONLY path towards elevation of a soul, is through acceptance of its time within the body’? These are the foundations of our very society, our very civilisations…
The prosecution begins waxing lyrical about the virtues of the civilisation of the Yucani, but Johnathan was only half listening. There was a religious aspect to this after all?
As he mused on the sacred words of the Rho, part of him wondered if the wiley President of Earth was smarter than he liked to appear. Did the old guy KNOW this was going to be their approach? Is this why he sent him?
His thoughts are broken as the prosecution brings his long and somewhat vaudevillian diatribe to its conclusion…
…which bases itself upon mockery, and lampoon and cruelty towards living things are ideas we Yucani cannot afford to allow infect our civilisation. They gnaw at its roots. They will in time infest our nests. Supreme Claw, I must ask, no implore, no BEG of you, to issue an edict which petitions our Emperor to reconsider allowing these humans access to our world. Lest one night, one terrible night, the scenes we saw, where a single voice defiles the virtues of our culture are repeated… but this time by one of our own children.
Cohen takes a breath and smiles to himself. He glances over at the ambassador who looks back nervously. Besides him the quiet voice of Andrew Eversham says, “I really screwed this all up didn’t I?”
“Yes kid. But look on the bright side?”
“There’s a bright side?”
“It’s not everyday you get to be accused of defiling an entire civilisation. Think about how it will look on your CV?”
Rabbi Cohen stands as his opposing side sits down heavily. He picks up a small card wherein the correct honourifics needed to address the court are clearly printed and runs through the formalities quickly enough. That done he gazes at the five judges for a moment, and shrugs.
“The human sense of humour. Where do I, one of our species, even BEGIN to start describing this complex thing that lies at the heart of who we are, to your most Supreme Claw? There are great minds on Earth who have wondered about this for many centuries and reached no conclusion. And yet it is clear, I must. So let me try and break this down into a way I feel the Yucani can understand and I hope, accept it, for all its imperfections.”
“It is a question often asked by us humans- what makes us laugh? What is the source of our humour? The prosecution would have you believe it is cruelty and mockery. And from the surface it would appear so. But allow me to illustrate that human humour is complicated and made up of many levels.”
He strides out from behind his table, keeping his voice low and his eyes focused on the judges.
“The starting point is incongruity. We humans like you Yucanti had an issue with incongruity. Evolutionary speaking our ancestors, like yours, lived lives fearing predators; both our species in our ancient past? We would gaze, eyes to the horizon, forever searching for danger. We learned well the safety in patterns, the formal, fixed nature of our surroundings. Anything out of place, incongruous, we would be drawn to. It spelt danger, it spelt threat.”
“For my species, long after we had evolved past the need to spot such things, we had this trait inherent still within us. Why do I stress this? When humans spot an incongruity in nature, when it does not threaten us? We laugh. An exclamation of relief. Identical to what Yucani call the ‘musk of fear ending’. For your species it is natural and normal. Same with ours. Yours is scent. Ours is sound. Identical reactions. A thing we have in common yes?”
A few aliens nod at this. A good start.
“However this is not the full basis of our humour. Incongruity cannot be the full extent of our humour. If I was to find a shoe in a dishwasher, or you were to find Gurnix inside a Flubuton, that in itself would not be the cause of humour to us. It would be odd, but not humorous. The key for us humans is that incogurity has to be of a correct kind. For humans it has to involve a shift of perspective. The great human psychologist, Koestler, pointed out that for humans this shift is all important. An example would be…”
He nods to one of the technicians and displayed in the air in both languages are words.
When is a door not a door?
When it is a jar!
“This is an example of that type of humour. Incongruity presenting a perspective shift.”
There is utter silence from the audience and he scans the translation and smiles.
“Of course the joke does not translate at all to your race. The play on contexts and language is entirely lost to you. But notice how my fellow humans did not laugh either. Such things are primitive; plays on words, sudden perspective shifts. Proto-Jokes almost. I raise it to establish the baseline of our humour.”
“We humans have many of these jokes. We call them things like ‘knock-knock jokes’ and ‘lightbulb jokes’. They are not truly appealing to our humour, the highest compliment they can get is to be called clever, for you see they are missing a particular element of humour which the prosecution has done well to highlight.”
“What they miss, is a degree of cruelty.”
The little rotund advocate for the state stands and begins trilling in high pitched tones. Cohen waits for the translation to come through.
So you admit that humans revel in cruelty?
He smiles, “No.”
But you just said that your humour needs cruelty!
“A certain type, yes. But not the type you described.”
Semantics! Your supreme clawness, I urge you end this nonsense…
We will hear the human defence, intones the oldest, long whiskered judge, As we are curious as not how they will justify this.
“I thank the indulgence of the court,” smiles Cohen, and he takes a breath.
“There remains, there always will, an aspect of human behaviour that is mistaken for our humour but is not. This is how we humans use laughter. Laughter is a physical response to things. Mostly to humour yes, but also, and this is where the prosecution made their mistake, it can be a sound of triumph. At such times the sound is indeed dark and unmistakably cruel. Many have observed that for all the love we have of the sound of laughter it is by volume and in ferocity, an aggressive sound. And there exists many examples of our species using laughter when committing acts of cruelty.”
He shrugs, “It was only a few centruies ago that it became unfashionable to visit the places we kept our psychically and mentally disable for the purpose of laughing at them. We thought it good sport to look upon their pain. All of human history contains accounts of how public executions were raucous affairs, we would attend and celebrate the killing of one of our own, often with laughter as the guillotine came down upon them…”
Rabbi Cohen sighs heavily, “When I was younger I once saw a picture. Germany. The 1930’s. A small child, a Jewish boy, was being forced to clean the street on his hands and knees. Around him stood adults and they were laughing. This isn’t human humour, it’s cruelty. There are countless episodes of torturers laughing as they inflict pain. Of laughter being heard from mass shooters, from soldiers in war, at our most darkest moments. These things I do not refute. But point out a similarity of experience between our species.”
“Every species in the galaxy knows Yucani are fastidious in cleaning, how they value healthy and clean fur. No Yucani would ever dose another in urine for example. What then of your treatment of prisoners? Are we to take that as indicative of Yucani finding such things acceptable? Of course not. It is a certain, dark aspect of your society, misunderstood except BY your species. This is the same as using laughter by humans in moments of cruelty. It is separate FROM the debate about humour.”
He takes a breath and a sip of water before continuing.
“No, to say human humour is incognuity mixed with cruelty is too simplistic. It has to be the right type of cruelty…”
What do you mean the right type of cruelty? asks the supreme judge.
Johnathan Cohen thinks for a moment and smiles, “On Earth, a wise man called Mel Brooks once asked the question- what is the difference between tragedy and comedy?”
What was his answer?
“Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall down a manhole cover and die.”
The Ambassadors secretary bursts out laughing, the sound carries across the room, ALL eyes fall upon him. Hurridly he covers his mouth, going red in the process.
“And you see the very nature of it right there. A sudden juxtaposition of incongruity and a certain element of cruelty, producing an involuntary response. Laughter.”
He pauses for a moment and says quietly, “In our distant past, in the year 1991 of our calander, a human writer called David Barry said the following, “The most important humor truth of all is that to really see the humour in a situation, you have to have perspective. ‘Perspective’ is derived from two ancient Greek words: ‘persp’ meaning ‘something bad happens to someone else’ and ‘ective’ meaning ‘ideally someone like Donald Trump’.”
At this all the humans bursts out laughing and Rabbi Cohen holds up his hands, “Again- the involuntary reaction. I won’t bother to explain it your honours, just to say that last statement was a joke designed to highlight something.”
“The core cruelty here is that someone must lose dignity. As we humans say be brought down a peg or two, or be knocked off a pedestal. It can be used by the mob as a weapon, and YES, it does have a subversive power. One of our ancients, a man called Plato, thought humour was destabalsing to the state and should be banned from it, which for us humans? Tell us much about the kind of guy Plato actually was.”
See? This is my allegation Supreme Claw. The human ADMITS what I am saying is true…
“What we do you got right, WHY we do it you got wrong. I heard you speaking about how Rho says we must appreciate the time our souls connect with our bodies correct?”
The prosecution’s whiskers twitch a little, and carefully it says Yes
“Well, the most basic, the most universal, the most raw and successful brand of comedy, the one my clients version was but a verbal variation of, the one that transcends the many human languages, is humour based upon just that. The realisation that there is a split between the soul, the essence of a human, and these dull, mundane frail bodies we exist in. What a psychologist once called the ‘dualism of subtle mind and inert matter’. “
“We call that humour, slapstick.”
He grins to himself.
“The core of all slapstick is the ‘the blow and the fall’. It can be as simple as a human slipping on the skin of recently eaten fruit. Or elaborate and detailed, but at its core is something very important. We understand, totally, the immortality of the soul, what the Goddess Rho holds to essence of being, but we also recognise the limitations of the body. Your species finds solance in holding to the immutable structure of the universe to reconcile this correct? We reconcile it by finding humor when we are reminded that these frail bodies cannot match the perfection of what lies within.”
“All of this is just by way of explaining this…”
An image appears on screen. It is a small human infant, wearing a sundress, maybe aged about 2 or 3 years old. Walking towards them is an image of Rabbi Cohen. He smiles at the child, and walks towards her and then, suddenly, slips and lands on his backside, a look of mock shock on his face. And at that, the court room is filled with the sound of the small child laughing, laughing hard; uncontrollable laughter, a sound that makes every human in the room smile. The image ends.
“Your honours, THAT is the most beloved sound on my home planet. The sound of an innocent child laughing. It transcends cultures and languages, transcends time. It delights us like NO other sound. We can spend hours just trying to get children to make it.”
“Consider then what you just saw? An innocent- capable of no higher functions of thought; an infant. It’s reactions are primal. But what DID you see? An infant is able to identify itself as a being, and me as a separate being. It saw the classic imposition upon my being by this mundane body. I tripped and slipped on my tuchus. A sudden juxtaposition of incongruity. One second I am stood, the next I am not. Mixed with the RIGHT kind of cruelty. Misfortune happening to another. But notice my reaction- my mock smile? My grand daughter realises that it is not hurting me and responds with a spontainious reaction of laughter.”
“THIS is at its base, the core of ALL human comedy and humour; it is based on empathy, and innocence. Not for her convoluted explanations involving cruelty and mockery. Just instinct. As we grow we develop more sophisticated methods to find humour but at its core? That is it. Is that not a demonstration of how our humour is as identical as your veneration of the soul within the body? The acceptance of the duality of body and spirit?”
Rabbi Cohen smiles, gently and turns to the Judges.
“Your honours, I urge you to dismiss this case. And I urge you to do so because let me tell you what will happen to the defendant. He will be released. He will return home. And when he does? He will become the subject of many, many jokes. He bore no ill will in his heart towards your race- but he was a schmuck.”
What is a schmuck?
“It’s a certain type of human. For the Yucani? A schmuck will forever be my client.”
In his chair the stand up comedian opens his mouth and then closes it. Defeated.
“He will return home and we will make stories about what he did. We will laugh at his foolishness, his ignorance, his pride….”
And we so gonna have fun with you little fat gerbil, he thinks but does not say as he eyes the prosecutor.
“And our ambassador will sit down with the Crown Prince and they will add a provision to the Treaty of Trade and friendship that says, based on the psychological underpinnings of our two species, and given we recognise that we share in common a belief of the duality of our existence and indeed of the existence of the soul, that human humour is a natural byproduct of our evolution like musk scenting is part of yours. Neither of our species share these traits, so lets not inflict it upon the other huh?”
“That would seem to me to be a most equitable and fair solution.”
The judges consulte one another, the Yucani remove their translation devices, but Johnathan can see their chirpings are appreciative. He may not have convinced them humans are FUNNY… but he may have convinced them to let this slide. He sits down at his table, gathers up his case note and begins to place them inside his briefcase.
Besides him, the comedian gazes over and sees there, amidst the papers in the briefcase, a hard backed book… ‘On the origins of humor: why Neaderthals can’t take a joke’ by Dr Johnathan Cohen, and a sudden realisation crosses his mind and he whispers, “You wrote that?”
“When not studying the Torah, I dabble in evolutionary psychology. It pays the bills.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey kid, what we gonna do? Let aliens say we bad for liking to laugh? What’s next? We are sinful because we breath?”
As the court recesses, and the judges leave to make their judgement, Rabbi Cohen stands and turns to make his way over to the Ambassadour when he is stopped suddenly. There, before him, stands the representative of the Frosh. It’s towering form, its huge encounter suit, obscuring the being from within. It’s cold black visage, plain glass of some kind, looms balefully over him.
In all the hustle of the Yucani leaving, no one notices this member of the most elusive and obscure of all the alien species, make his way to stand before the human. Johnathan clears his throat and goes, “Hello?”
The alien just stands.
“Can I help you?”
The black screen suddenly flashes brief, fractal images upon it, who flare in and out of existing as quick as a human blink. At the same time a warbling high pitch noise emits from deep in the chest area.
The Rabbi blinks and says, “What?”
The images and the noise is repeated again. Realisation dawning, Rabbi Cohen places down his briefcase and picks up the translator device he was using back on the table.
“Say that again please?”
The images flash and the noise is made and two seconds later words form in the humans ear… a simple message…
Pull my finger.
There is a silence. Around them the Yucani chitter and trill but Johnathan Cohen begins to smile…

So another round one, chapter 90. Only 10 to go for the big number, this actually also marks 1000 novel size pages of story-making just over 277.000 words thus far O_o For comparison, the lord of the rings is 576.000 so damn near halfway there... Holy fuck that is a lot of writing in just over three months. To mark the occasion this one is a special one. at some point, during today's story, there is going to be a fade to black and a little link (If you are speed machines please have patients it's coming ASAP)
Now in there, you will find nothing but gratuitous pancake, this is so that you have the choice, you may skip the standalone chapter and I promise you are not missing any of the actual story, at least as little as I could manage. for the rest of you Enjoy,
With the semantics out of the way, I say we get on with the story,
ko-fi For having more pretty pictures commissioned.
Sapphire
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Chapter 90: A Bad Night
Luke had returned with a gaggle of kids, who all looked rather overwhelmed by what they saw coming out. There were a lot of them, Tom counted twelve in total. All of them rather young; he guessed the oldest one looked about nine.
“Look, dragon!” a young boy shouted, running over to Jarix with a few others on his heels. Some were looking around, clearly searching for people who might not be here anymore. Others stood staring at Tom.
The sight of other kids also caused a fair amount of excitement, Luke ushering the more timid kids towards the ones from Hylsdal.
Tom just stood there putting a hand around Jacky’s waist, looking at the best reason for doing all this. He chuckled as Jarix elevated his head just out of grabbing range as the more excitable of the kids tried to touch his face. He had a smile on though, even if he looked a little unsure of what to do. Zarko was on hand to help though, telling off the kids who tried to climb up the wounded dragon.
It took some coaxing, but in the end, most of the kids had been convinced to start playing with each other, though some were still around sitting either crying or just keeping to themselves. Lothal was doing his best to try and console his friends and doing a remarkably good job of it. Tom couldn't decide if he was proud or sad at seeing an eleven-year-old acting like an adult.
Dinner was nothing special, just some more of the stew from earlier with some rather stale tasting bread. Jacky, Tom, Zarko, and Unkai had sat together with the lady, Luke, Requi and the healer who was sort of conscious for the moment. She was apparently called Quin, at least for short. Unkai too was sitting rather slack-eared, clearly having been put to hard work already.
Jarix was given some cuts of cured meat. The lady had brought out both some decent ale and even some wine, which was passed around the table. Tom had never tried dragonette wine before, so, despite his reservations about mixing alcohol with blood loss, he poured a cup for himself. That was an old student tactic, after all, to donate blood before a night on the town. It made things a bit cheaper.
“We might not be able to put together a feast, but we can do this, a small token of thanks. Luke, if you wouldn’t mind,” The Lady went as she took her seat, Luke standing up raising a glass.
“To the heroes in our hour of need!”
Tom damn near stood up to join Luke, Zarko grabbing him by the shoulder to keep him seated. As the assembled dragonettes of the keep gave a toast. Tom didn’t really know if he felt proud or just uncomfortable at this point. On one hand, he could look around the room to see many faces, most of which appeared happy. On the other hand, many definitely weren’t: a lone wounded father with a sobbing kid; the kids from Hylsdal; the countless wounded, some looking like they might not fly or even walk properly again.
“To the crazy bastard who made it possible,” Jackalope went as she raised her cup looking at Tom, apparently figuring out what was being toasted.
“Hey!” Jarix let out, clearly trying to sound offended. “To the crazy bastards who made it possible,” Zarko corrected, raising her cup.
“To wiping those fuckers off the map,” Tom joined in, feeling a little left out.
“Cheers to that,” The silvered huntress replied without much enthusiasm, slamming her drink down in one go. She was joined by the others. Tom took his time with his wine though. As expected it was rather sweet, definitely not bad though. They hadn’t made a huge thing out of the meal, it was just stew and bread after all, even if their drinks were well above average.
It had been a rather awkward meal though. Jackalope couldn’t partake in the conversation unless Tom or someone else wrote down for her what was going on. They all did their best to avoid the more depressing subject matters, but it was pretty damn hard to avoid them in their current state. Quite a few of the others had taken to drinking rather heavily. Tom could hardly blame them, but he kept it mild for now. Jacky, though, did make a dent in the ale supply. She didn’t get piss drunk, but she was definitely inebriated by now.
“You know, I’ve never been called a hero before,” Jacky went, leaning on Tom after they had finished the meal. “You still got the ace though… You always get the ace… Why are you so damn good at killing?” She questioned hanging on his shoulders.
Tom didn’t really know how to answer her on that one. “You know what,” She went, pulling back and poking him in the chest with a finger. “You get to teach me how. You’re not getting the ace next time,” Tom pondered for a second if that was a smart thing to agree to. It was likely going to happen though, so why not.
“I guess that’s the smart part about being deaf, I can’t hear if you're protesting, so I’m just gonna say you agreed,” Jackalope continued before he managed to nod his reply. She poured a fresh mug for the both of them, snickering. Tom debated getting out the notepad to try and tell her he needed to be a little careful when it came to alcohol right now. She beat him to it though. “You’re not drinking like last time; afraid we might do something stupid?”
Unkai damn near choked at that one. Zarko just shook her head, looking a tad embarrassed. ’Remember the angry smith Tom, Remember the angry smith,’ he repeated to himself. He got out the notepad to write down a response. Tom made well sure no one else saw what he wrote as he showed it to Jacky.
“I’m wounded, also your mother,” she pulled back a bit, looking a little annoyed.
“She is not here nor will she be... Hey Unkai! Can you give him a check? He claims to be wounded; I don’t want him dying on me.” She went, sounding entirely inappropriate.
Even Zarko had to suppress a slight laugh at that, Unkai looking like a deer in the headlights as Jacky’s attention switched to him.
“I mean sure. I’ll just finish this,” the healer replied, gesturing at his cup.
“I can’t hear you,” Jackalope reiterated with a side to side head bob. Unkai looked very embarrassed, just giving her a thumbs up instead.
‘Oh boy,’ Tom thought to himself, shrinking down.
“I think he needs more liquid courage to handle me though. Watch closely Unkai, you might learn how to grow a spine. Even if it’s only for a bit,” Jackalope continued, laughing at her own joke as she poured another drink for herself and refilling Tom’s cup.
“The man who went toe to toe with a small army and he needs help to handle you. What does that tell you?” Zarko let out, looking at Tom, seeming very pleased with herself.
“Don’t let them get to you Tom, you're braver than her,” Jarix added, ensuring that everyone in the entire hall was now invested in the conversation.
Tom just picked up the mug of ale she had poured for him. Jackalope excitedly raised hers as they knocked them together. ‘May the hangover have mercy on my soul,’ Tom thought to himself. He had been saved after a few mugs by the lady declaring that they needed to save enough for a proper feast when they could manage it.
The result was a nice buzz and an even cockier Jackalope as they left the table. Perhaps it was her time for some healing following that whole shit show. He had never seen her as distraught as she was at Hylsdal. Not to mention the expression on her face when Zarko had carried the body of the dead girl away after they landed.
Apparently, alcohol had at the very least helped her think about something else, as she was spouting funny stories and, of course, boasting about how amazing she had been in the battle. That had led to a hasty explanation about how Tom had let her borrow some of his power during the battle. He wasn’t entirely sure if any of the locals bought it, but they were way too polite to question the explanation though. Or possibly scared, or just didn’t care, he wasn’t quite sure.
Unkai had gone over Jackalope first and deemed her as fixed as she could be right now; he didn't dare try to fix her ears, claiming that to be way beyond him. He sounded confident that Nunuk might be able to put them back together again though. Jackalope let out an annoyed sigh at the news, though the part about Nunuk did help.
It was clear Jacky and Tom had received priority when it came to getting fixed up after the battle. Unkai had put in some work on Tom, mainly putting his effort into the stinger wound on his side. Tom had him check his neck wound as thoroughly as he could manage. But Unkai claimed that was as good as it was going to get, though he recommended some resting time.
“Fuck, I took painkillers earlier,” Tom let out as Unkai touched the stinger wound, which didn’t hurt as much as it should have.
“Is that bad?” Unkai had questioned, looking at the wound.
“I drank alcohol too, you're not supposed to mix those.” Unkai looked at Tom as if he was expecting more than that.
“Well don’t look at me, I don’t know how they work,” he finally responded, Jackalope’s face growing worried at the exchange, her gaze breaking as she looked to Unkai.
“He’s fine, right? He’s been stung before. He’s tough on that front even if his skin is soft like a kid’s,” She asked with worry in her voice slurring slightly, Tom taking slight offense at the last part. Unkai turned to her, giving her a thumbs up and a smile before looking back at the wound.
“Anything we can do about it?” the healer questioned, clearly trying to not look worried this time, for Jacky’s sake.
“Don’t think so. I guess I’m just gonna cross my fingers and wait it out,” Tom answered truthfully. He had no clue what the actual effect of that might be. He felt fine though. He was a little weird in the head, but that was honestly to be expected in his current condition.
“Well I don’t think you’re gonna be sleeping alone anyway, but consider it medical advice to have someone look after you,” Unkai replied trying a sly smile, which just looked wrong on him.
“Tom the hot stone reporting for duty,” Tom joked back as Unkai went about reapplying the bandage to the wound. Jacky’s gaze switching back to Tom seemingly excited, the edges of her mouth curling into a slight smile.
The young woman who had washed his clothes earlier had shown them up to the bedrooms after the quick check-up.
“We have a few rooms which weren’t in use before, don’t worry it’s not… someones. I'm sorry if they are dirty, but you can have one each if you want.” She sounded really rather uncomfortable. Tom could get why. He could see the number of rooms and there had to be at least a few that had owners until recently.
“This is very kind of you. Thank you,” Tom replied, the woman giving a curtsy before making her way back down the stairs rather hurriedly. Tom got out the notepad to ask Jacky if she wanted to share a room. Thinking back, that wasn’t at all necessary; he just felt like it was the right thing to at least ask.
Jackalope though didn’t bother to ask him. Taking him by the wrist rather firmly, she led him into the first room the young woman had shown them.
​
The Pancake Chapter: Pancake!
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Balethon now safely in her grasp, Sapphire circled back the way she came. She almost wanted to tell him to enjoy this since she was likely not gonna be carrying him again, not to mention at night in nothing but her underwear. The dude had already had a remarkably shitty night though, so she refrained.
She spotted the large disorganized group which had been supposed to keep the tavern safe. They had set down in a square and were looking around confused as Sapphire came in to land. She was quickly greeted by a near-hysterical Haiko who looked ready to drop his mace as he nearly trod on Balethon in an attempt to hug her faster.
“You’re okay, right? Nothing wrong?”
“I’m fine, the bastards couldn’t shoot.”
“Oh thank whoever cared,” he let out, squeezing her tightly.
“Where is Dakota?” Sapphire squeaked out from his embrace. He let go of her taking a step back looking around.
“Not here. Neither is that Maiko guy, and he damn near caught up to you before you shot off into the darkness. You haven't gotten any slower, have you now?”
“Not by much, no,” she replied, looking down to her stricken cargo. “Let’s get him to sit up somewhere. Any of you got some water?” she questioned, looking to the other guards. Her eyes landed on someone being bound up. She assumed it was the mercenary who had tried to attack her. “You're a shit fighter, I hope you know that,” She shouted out, glaring at the arsehole, who just stared at her with clear contempt.
Draki had come over with a canteen of water, looking up to Sapphire and looking a bit strained in the face before he turned to Haiko.
“I owe you two silver, don’t I?” the diminutive guy asked, seeming rather annoyed.
“I told you, she’s the fastest woman you ever saw,” Haiko replied with a smile, trying to fold out Balethon, eventually giving up. “Grab on, let’s put him on that bench over there,” he went, grabbing Balethon by the legs, with Sapphire taking the shoulders as they carried him over. He was stiff as a board, though the panicked look in his eyes was at least sort of gone.
“You put a bet on me catching them?” Sapphire questioned as set him down. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or angry. Haiko held up his hands defensively, shaking his head.
“No no, Draki just didn’t believe all the stories, so I put two silver on the stories being true. Easiest bet ever.” That was more to Sapphire’s liking, and she gave him a slightly wicked smile. “You know we used to get a slice of the bets back then.”
“Hey, I got you your own personal protection service,” He replied, gesturing to the motley collection of dragonettes mulling about the square.
“That’s a word for it, I guess,” Sapphire replied, not overly impressed. It wasn’t like they had done much good tonight. “Take good care of him, I have some questions,” she went, leaving Haiko and going over to the now thoroughly tied up dragonette who had attacked her, the questioning already underway. Someone let out a suggestive growl as she walked by. The fact that she was wearing nothing but her underpants in the middle of the street dawning on her.
“Do that again and I’ll kill you,” she snarled, not sure who the offending member was, before turning her attention to the mercenary. “So… You thought kidnapping one of my friends was a good idea? How well would you say that went?” She questioned looking down at the piece of shit.
“Fucking brilliantly,” he responded angrily. “I ended up with a nice view if nothing else,” he continued with a shit-eating grin.
“How hard may I punch him?” She demanded, looking around at the guards. Most of them just looked confused at each other.
“As hard as I say so,” Maiko bellowed out, coming down alongside Dakota, who was carrying a very large unconscious female dragonette with an arrow sticking out of her back.
“Not your best shot, but it did the trick,” Dakota let out, unceremoniously dumping the dragonette on the ground before setting down. “Tie her up too, she won’t be out forever.”
After a bit they got the both of them tied up at about the same time as a contingent of city guards arrived, demanding to know what was going on. Sapphire cursed the fact she likely wouldn’t be allowed to beat the shit out of them now, as they began asking some very pointed questions.
“Oh yeah sure, a group of armed what was it... Tavern guards? Out at night with a pair of half-naked women and a dude who claims to be Royal Guard. And why has she been shot?!” the lead city guard questioned, looking around at them.
“Because she kidnapped him after stabbing him with vargulf poison,” Sapphire let out, wide armed. “How the fuck is that hard to understand!?”
“Calm down woman, who shot her?” the man questioned pointing at the female mercenary.
“I did and two other pieces of shit who tried to kill us!”
“Right, you're all coming with us. We need to know what happened here. Manacles,” the City Guard replied, snapping his fingers over his shoulder and receiving the item in question. Sapphire’s heart sank; she had never been arrested before. Closest she had ever gotten was being given a stern talking to for sneaking into the training fields.
Dakota looked ready with a reply, when Maiko beat her to it.
“Listen up you little shit-eating ground rat, see what this is?!” He went, holding up his sword, which true to form bore the royal insignia on the crossguard. “I will make a cape out of your fucking wings if you don’t man up and do your fucking job. These bastards attacked a tavern in the middle of the night, attempted murder, managed a kidnapping, then had a go at murder again during the desperate chase to catch them and your useless ass turns up just in time to insult the Royal Guard and be useless.”
“I’m gonna have to ask you to...” the city guard attempted to protest, though seemingly with a growing sense of apprehension.
“No, you may not. You are outranked! Or do I need to get the colonel to inform her the city guard is aiding an enemy of the crown? That would lead to some serious fucking cleansing of your unit, I can assure you of that!”
“In that case, I say we take you to the stockade and send for this colonel of yours, perhaps letting her know someone stole a blade from the Royal Guard armories.” Sapphire expected Maiko to explode at that insult, though he just pulled back with an evil smile.
“Very good sir, let’s go. Though I would appreciate the opportunity to get my uniform before appearing before my superior. You may escort me to the tavern in question if you wish.”
“That can be arranged, I assume you two wouldn’t mind getting dressed either, though I must insist on you accompanying us. Don’t we have a blanket or something?” he asked, looking back to his unit, eventually procuring a pair of thin woolen blankets.
“Bloody brilliant sir, how exactly do we fly with these?” Dakota questioned sounding very unimpressed.
“Uhm…”
As they were getting ready for takeoff Sapphire heard someone get a smack to the back of the head as she moved to check up on Balethon. Looking back, a slightly ashamed looking tavern guard was rubbing the back of his head, a very unimpressed woman standing next to him. ‘God fucking dammit’ she cursed to herself.
The ones who had woken up in the middle of the night broke off, going back to the tavern to get dressed in preparation for a long night. They wanted the bastards interrogated immediately anyway, even if getting interrogated themselves hadn't really been the plan. If this was the work of the Flaxens they would be doing their best to cover their tracks as soon as they learned of the mission's failure, so speed was of the essence.
“Why can’t we just be left in peace!” Dakota snapped as they were getting dressed. “Please let it just be the Flaxens so we can get them dealt with already.”
“Of course it’s them, who else could it be?” Sapphire dismissed her as she strapped on her greaves. Sapphire had a feeling Colonel Hashaw would not take kindly to this attack so she was bound to be there, therefore she needed to look proper in case they got fine company at the stockade.
Maiko had gone on to the Hashaw Estate to report back on the evening’s activities and hopefully convince Victoria to make an appearance. So Sapphire and Dakota found themselves standing in front of the stockade with a city guard escort.
It was a large, ugly building, looking like a place you wanted to avoid at all costs with its rough grey stone and metal barred cell windows lining the walls. “May they rot in here forever,” Sapphire let out as they were shown inside. She and Dakota were taken to different interrogation rooms. They were civil about it though, not even tying her up like she had feared.
The guy who had ‘caught them’ as he claimed was apparently in charge of this case. He formally introduced himself as Sergeant Lanok and set about asking questions, not many of which were intelligent. Where they were from, what they were doing here, why they had an armed escort in the middle of the night despite not even being properly dressed at the time.
He of course didn't believe most of the answers he was getting. Especially the part about being in the employ of the king at the moment, nor the whole Flaxen situation.
“What? You claim to be the target of a kidnapping attempt by a noble family, one on the council at that?! Give me a break,” Sapphire had to fight really hard not to slap him, but she didn’t want to end up in manacles, so she just stared at him contemptuously. Then there was a deep thunk that shook the building followed by creaking wood from above.
“This should be good,” Sapphire let out, leaning back with a smirk, relishing in the confusion on the guy’s face.
It took a bit longer than Sapphire had anticipated, as she refused to answer further questions, but there was eventually a knock on the door, Sergeant Lanok getting up to answer it. He was confronted by a very pissed looking Colonel Hashaw in formal uniform, Maiko and Yilditz at her back.
“You seem to have attempted to arrest one of my men and two people you really shouldn’t have. Not to mention waking both me and a decidedly grumpy 10 ton black dragon currently on your roof.”
‘So it wasn’t Baron then,’ Sapphire concluded. She doubted very much he could have been roused for this anyway, it also made sense to bring a black, they liked the night anyway. Maiko had been decent at laying out a string of insults, but Hashaw was clearly the source of his talent, as she chewed out not only the sergeant but anyone dumb enough to make an objection or not make themselves as small as they could including the captain of the Stockade much to Sapphire's horror.
It definitely helped that she was flanked by Ylditz, the person who had been tasked with finding out who the mercenaries were, as well as a few other family members. The dragon in question was apparently Tiguan, one of Jarix's training buddies. Sapphire guessed he was here just as much for a bit of experience then.
“Is there anyone dumb or useless enough in here to have anything more to say...? Very good. Where are the two who ‘actually’ need questioning?”
The tavern guards had been allowed to go, though Haiko had stuck around. The Sergeant was now looking very small as he took them to the room where the one who hadn’t been shot was sitting. The woman who had been carrying Balethon currently being treated.
“Do you have even the slightest idea how much you fucked up tonight?” Hashaw asked as she strode in the door, the sergeant holding it open for her.
“Pretty fucking badly I presume, but what the hell are you gonna do, huh? Gonna execute me, perhaps clip my wings? Doesn't matter if you’re Royal Guard or tavern guard the punishment is the same. So you don’t scare me woman or should I say… oh, Colonel, wow I really did fuck up, huh?” Well, Sapphire had to give it to him, he was taking the news that he was likely done for rather well, or perhaps he was just in denial about the whole thing.
“Oh, I can do worse than that I think. Sapphire, you wouldn’t happen to have learned a thing or two from our friend?”
“Might have done,” she admitted, thinking back to what she could remember of Tom’s escapades.
“Sergeant, what is the punishment for his crimes?”
“Well, he failed to kill anyone, hence he is charged with attempted murder and attempted kidnapping. So indentured servitude for quite a while. Unless he could pay for a prison sentence of course.”
“Right then, how about this? Tell me who sent you and I will pay for your prison time,” the colonel then went, looking to the perp. “I know you were hired to do this, so while you may be a piece of shit it’s not you that I want. Alternatively, I could start pulling strings until we get some alone time with you and make your life really fucking unpleasant.”
Sapphire looked slightly nervously to the sergeant, but he was still cowering, so she guessed Hashaw got away with threatening to break the law inside the stockade. It was a generous offer too. If this guy was going away for a long time, paying for it wasn’t gonna be cheap.
“You know my choice is death or slavery here. You can’t be dumb enough to believe they will let me live if I talk.”
“That depends on who sent you, because if it is who I think it is they won't be around to send someone to kill you after this.” Again Sapphire was fairly sure they couldn't condemn the entire Flaxen family for something like this, but hey if it works it works.
“You seriously think we take jobs directly? It’s not the client that will kill me dipshit. My boss would.” Hashaw was very clearly not pleased with that answer, as she turned to the sergeant.
“Would you agree this man is guilty, on the word of both independent tavern guards, the Royal Guard, and our two huntresses of the noble Bizmati Keep? Or do you insist on a mock trial for this piece of shit?”
The sergeant looked a tad bewildered for a second before nodding. “Yes ma’am. I’ll have him sent off to the deepest mine I can find tomorrow.”
“No, I want him handed over to the Royal Guard so we may question him as an enemy combatant.”
“You cannot do that and you know it,” the sergeant replied, finally standing up for himself. Clearly to Hashaw’s great annoyance.
“Then I want you to get me a telepath. Am I correct in assuming his rights on that matter are no longer in place even if I can’t pull his claws out?”
“Yes, but we don’t have one, ma’am. You must understand, a criminal’s mind is not exactly the kindest place to be.”
“Weak-minded cowards,” Hashaw cursed, looking away pondering. “Fine keep him here, you may continue with your excuse for questioning. I’ll be back, luckily not everyone is as weak of spine.”
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So then We have prisoners to work with once again. hopefully, they will fare a little better than the last one. then again... Maybe not. As always do let me know what you thought down below be it good bad or just generally hilarious.
until next time, have an awesome day.
​
ko-fi For having more pretty pictures commissioned.
Sapphire
Wiki Discord
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Just in case you missed it, the pancake chapter: Pancake!

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"He's trying to get behind us, get on him, Mal-Kar, get on him!" I yelled, my face pressed tight to the worn and flattened foam surrounding my gunner's sight, welding my helmet's visor to it.
"I'm trying," Mal-Kar snarled, his feet moving as he shifted the balance of the fans to slide us to the side harder.
One of the Precursor's companion vessels got a clear shot at us as we slid past a pile of rubble that had been a furniture store. The heavy graser shot caught us a glancing blow, collapsing the starboard battlescreen. The trees we had strapped to the side exploded outward, the violent blast sending burning and charred chunks of wood fountaining into the sky.
But the armor held.
Mal-Kar's maneuvers knocked down several of the smaller units, smaller than a Telkan female, and the tank's weight crushed them. There was some clattering noises as one of them hung up on a fan, but the pitch changed and I knew the fan was still running.
"Almoooost," I crooned, my foot above the firing lever.
Another Precursor machine fired, taking advantage of Feelmeenta rotating up and powering new battlescreen projector cores. The lighter machines, that we were in the middle off, were ripping at us with lasers too weak to do anything more than light up the air between us.
The sandbags that were hit by the heavy laser sagged slightly, pebbles of glass falling from the charred bags, but nothing else. The lasers concentrated on that supposed weakness, but nothing happened.
Mal-Kar found a little bit of speed and my sight slid over the massive Precursor, the size of two double decker buses end to end. The tank rocked as we ran over something slightly larger, bobbling my sight, but it leveled out at just the right time.
"SHOT OUT!" I stomped the lever and the plasma gun roared, heat backwashing into the crew compartment. Even though my Terran made armor I could feel the heat rise.
The plasma shot, the "Enhanced Lanaktallan Plasma Cannon Round Mark IV", hit square where the two articulated body sections met. The ravening psuedo-matter detonated on the armor, caving it in.
"SHOT OUT!" I fired into the hellish flames of the first shot.
The Precursor machine kept turning, but the weapons stopped firing, the battlescreens collapsed. It began crushing its own smaller brethren.
One of its two companions fired at our back deck, but we were past, the shot streaming past us to hit the dead one even as Mal-Kar spun us in place, dragging the front right nacelle to pull us around faster than we would have normally been able to move.
The one that had just fired came into my sights just as the third, fired again. The cupola rang, but the armor held.
"SHOT OUT!" I stomped the bar and the Precursor fired.
Our forward battlescreen collapsed. The wood on the front of the tank exploded, blinding me for a second, but my sight cleared and I stomped the bar again. "SHOT OUT!"
The second one exploded in place as Feelmeenta cried out in victory. The battlescreen on the port side spun up even as she rotated up a new set of cores for the forward screen and Mal-Kar slid us forward even as we rotated.
The third one fired at the exact same time as I stomped the bar.
"SHO-" I started, my durachrome hoof stomping down on the bar.
My shot hit it before it could withdraw its missile launchers, the plasma hitting perfectly. The missile bay was suddenly filled with the stuff that makes up stars, even as it started to reload from automated systems.
The Precursor exploded as its missile stores detonated.
Then it was our turn.
The missiles screamed in, almost two thirds of them picked off by our point defense. Twenty got through, impacting against the remaining logs and the sandbags. Burning wood exploded from the front of our tanks, dirt and sand blew out in a cone. The lasers played over the armor, seeking anyplace that the superconductor layer didn't dissipate heat fast enough. The two heavy mass drivers fired, one ripping off all the sandbags from the top of the cupola and snapping off the TC's weapon. The other hit the forward glacis of the turret square, most of the energy directed away by the slant of the armor.
For the most part, the armor held.
For the most part.
The front panels inside the crew cab exploded. A bright lance went through the crew compartment and Feelmeenta screamed. Mal-Kar cried out to his digital savior. I cried out in pain and terror. Lu'ucilu'u screamed from her EW panel as it exploded in her face. Karelesh howled in agony. Shrapenl scythed through the cab panels exploded, screens imploded, and part of the armor detonated into the cab. Flames roared up around us even as I heard two fans go dead. The internal fire suppression system went off, filling the cab with inert noble gas in a sudden rush even as the ventilation system suddenly cut off.
The hull rang on the port side as munitions got through the battlescreen and impacted against the wood and sandbags, but the inner lining held.
Mal-Kar kept us moving, cursing, snarling, biting off the words savagery as he steered us.
"Cycling up projectors," Feelmeenta gagged.
I could see dull red light of the burning city streaming through the hole in the cupola big enough for a Telkan to crawl through.
The last one slid into sight.
"SHOT OUT!" I yelled, and stamped the bar.
All I got back was beeping, barely audible over the wailing alarms.
The gun was empty.
A look showed me that there were still twenty-two rounds in the ammo locker.
I stomped the loading pedal.
It beeped back.
The Precursor fired again, the missiles slicing out. Point defense got all but two and those exploded against the battlescreen that had just started to spin up. I changed my grip, grabbing the controls for the coax, opening fire with the Terran 20mm autocannon.
The whole cab was full of smoke and white mist, but a glance showed me that the majority of my crew's vitals were yellow and green.
Karelesh's was flashing red.
Not X'd out.
Just flashing red.
I filed away the data as I hammered the Precursor vehicle with heavy kinetic rounds so favored by the Terran Confederacy. Another shot hit and the hull next to me suddenly acquired a slide down it a good half meter wide and two meters long.
My suit's medical alarms started wailing.
"HERE COMES THE RAIN!" Feelmeenta yelled out over our datalinks. The tank's commo system was dead.
Karelesh regained consciousness, shaking his head. He slapped the controls and the hatch for his gunner's assistant seat popped open. He grabbed the bag of antimatter grenades from the floor where they thankfully still sat undetonated as the seat rose up.
"Transponder squawking!" Lu'ucilu'u called out from the EW station.
The tank was showering sparks, the ass end dragging as I kept up the fire from the coax. The Terran rounds were shredding the armor, blowing huge craters in it, ripping it away.
To reveal more armor.
"Back, pull back," Karelesh coughed as his seat lifted him high enough to grab one of the secondary guns. It was dead, local control only, the computer linkage cut.
Mal-Kar threw the tank in reverse, ignoring that the hoverskirts of the rear plenum chambers folded back and shredded even as he applied full power to lift us up far enough to move.
Computer guided terminal guidance artillery rounds began raining down, hitting the smaller machines that my tank had been able to ignore. Huge fountains of alloys, ceracrete, ferrocrete, dirt, and burning rubble fountained into the air as the thermobaric rounds detonated.
Karelesh reached into the bag with both hands, did something, then slung the bag overhand, at the Precursor vehicle.
It landed between us even as I raked its forward sensors.
Karelesh grabbed the handle of the hatch, yanking it down after him as he dropped into the tank.
One of the return shots hit the hatch before it got closed, snatching it from his hand, hitting the twisted and wrecked missile pod and blowing it apart.
Shrapnel howled through the cab, clanking off metal.
Karelesh fell to the floor, limp, his icon burning a steady red.
But no X.
The Precursor machine rushed forward, through the falling artillery shells that were detonation around us, the terminal guidance systems IDing our transponder and steering the rounds away from us. Feelmeenta gave another cry of victory and I saw our forward battlescreen spin up as I kept raking the forward glacis of the precursor machine as it rushed us even as Mal-Kar sped us backwards.
The grenades detonated under the Precursor machine, breaking it in half, the white flare of antimatter snapping out again and again as they went off beneath the weakest point of the armor.
Mal-Kar dropped the tank onto the ground and Feelmeenta ramped up the battlescreens. We turtled up in the artillery rain, the battlescreens snarling from the blooms of plasma, the shockwaves of superheated air, and the shrapnel.
But the battlescreens held.
I coughed and looked around.
The tank was finished.
Feelmeenta had the medical kit opened and she unbuckled from the seat, half falling, kneeling next to Karelesh. She ran the scanner over him and started pulling out syringes based on the color coding and markings.
Lu'ucilu'u pinged me and I opened the channel.
"Got a SAR team coming in. My board is all over me. I'm injured, Most High," she said.
"How badly?" I asked her.
"I fear I may have to wipe my ass with a hook," she said, bitter humor in her voice.
"Do so gingerly," I advised.
She snorted as I changed the channels. "Mal-Kar, status?"
"The tank is..." he started.
"To the Digital Garbage Pile with the tank. What is your status?" I snapped.
"Hard to breathe, but the suit's medical kit is keeping me from being in pain," he said.
"No missing limbs? No missing tail? All of your eyes there?" I asked.
"No, Most High. My suit is telling me I have broken chest rings, that is all," he said.
"Relax, Mal-Kar. I do not believe our tank will be going anywhere," I told him.
The datalink pinged as I switched.
"Feelmeenta, how is he?" I asked.
"Bad. He's stable right now, thank the Digital Omnimessiah for the Terran medical kits that the Matron insisted we take," Feelmeenta said. "He lost a hand and part of his forearm, internal injuries. His armor held though."
"And you?" I asked.
"I will miss my tail," she said softly.
"Very well. SAR is on the way," I told them. I clicked through channels until I got to the recovery vehicle. "Vul'Krit, this is Ha'almo'or, do you read? Over."
"I read you, Most High," the N'Karooan said. "We're on our way, a half mile out if your transponder is still attached to your tank."
I chuckled. "I believe it is. Ha'almo'or, out."
We sat in the dark tank as the breeze moved through it. The black rain dripped in through the gaps and there was a faint flash followed by a rumble.
I heard impacts on the ground and there came a knocking at the hull.
"13th Evac SAR," came the loudspeaker projected voice.
"We are here," I called back. "We have wounded. One badly."
"The loading ramp's jammed, we'll have to pry it open," the speaker said.
"I do not think it will matter much in the grand scheme of things," I told the speaker.
Heavy gauntlets pushed through the gap, the battlesteel flexing and bending away. The hands pulled open the back loading deck, where it fell to the ground with a crash.
The logs covering it were smoking from a hit we'd taken and not even realized.
The armors looked fearsome, despite the fact they were silver.
They took Mal-Kar and Karelesh first, hurrying them out on grav-stretchers. I watched as they loaded Feelmeenta and Lu'ucilu'u onto stretchers and carried them out.
One of the armored medics knelt down next to me, looking me over.
"Are you just trapped or is your armor breached?" He asked, playing a white light over the anti-spalling liner that had curled over my rear legs.
"Trapped, I believe," I told him. "I have been holding still and trying not to give into panic."
The face shield nodded. "All right. Let's cut this away."
I held still while the heavy fusion torch built into the medic's armor cut away the liner. It fell to the floor and the pressure over my rear legs eased.
"Don't move yet," the medic told me. He scanned me again. There was a beep and he put his scanner down where my abdomen met my lower torso. "No cardiac events. Your heart was beating pretty hard, but that's to be expected in combat."
He shook his head. "You should still be in recovery, with how recent that cardiac cybernetic implant is."
"This is the duty I must perform," I said stiffly.
"I getcha. All right, let's get you out of here," he said. He cut through the jammed arm rests and helped me out of the seat. I trotted down the ramp just as the recovery vehicle pushed its way through the wreckage, backing up. Vul'Krit was half out of the driver's hatch, waving at me, as he slowly came to a stop.
The medivac striker lifted off, my loyal crew out of the fight, and I sat down on the ramp. I popped open my face shield and slowly unwrapped a Goody Yum Yum Bar, the Matron smiling at me. There was a joke printed on the inside of the wrapper.
One cannibal looks at the other and says "Does this comedian taste funny?"
The crude, horrific joke made me bray out laughter as I sat on the loading ramp, surrounded by destroyed Precursor machines. Vul-Krit moved up to me and patted my shoulder.
"How are you holding up, Most High?" He asked me.
"Much better now," I said, holding up the bar. The sweet doughy outside was delicious, and the berry gelatin interior was crisp tasting and delicious.
"Those bars are the best," he agreed. He waved his hands. "All right, crew, let's hook up the Most High's tank!"
Three hulking Tukna'rn adults exited the vehicle, two grabbing the heavy cables and pulling them along. The third carried heavy graviton lifters over to magnetically attach them to my tank.
"These guys were maintenance workers at one of the factories. I kinda told them they work for me now," the N'Karooan rubbed the top of his head where short fur was growing in. "I needed crewmen."
"I approve," I told him. I took another bite and held it in my mouth, touching it with my feeding tendrils, absorbing the taste and texture. I closed my eyes, even my two cybereyes, and relished the sensation.
"Hooked up, boss," the Tukna'rn said, slapping his hands together. I opened my eyes and saw that another one was bringing over a pack of brown bottles that I recognized as narcobrew. Vul'Krit grabbed one, opened it, handed it to me, then grabbed one for himself. The three Tukna'rn each grabbed a bottle, cracking them open with the sharp fizz of good quality narcobrew.
We sat on the back deck, drinking the thick beer, as strikers roared by overhead. Four times there was the faint flash of far away atomic blasts.
"Those Terrans can fight, boss," one of the Tukna'rn rumbled. "Never seen anyone got at the Precursors like that."
Vul'Krit nodded. "Dam crazy lemurs, but they make good food bars and narcobrew."
We fell back to silence until the narcobrews were done.
"I think I will sit on my tank," I said.
"Sure thing, boss. Be about an hour drive back anyway," Vul'Krit said. He tossed me the last narcobrew. "Drink up, boss."
I climbed clumsily around to the front of my tank, my cybernetic hoof clunking on the damaged battlesteel. I sat down and cracked open the bottle, staring at the wreckage around me as Vul'Krit began towing my tank back to the base.
Time flowed by slowly and I avoided thinking by staring at the surroundings but actually looking at nothing. I finished the narcobrew and threw the bottle into the ruins, seeing it bounce twice before shattering.
I opened up another Goody Yum Yum Bar.
Why can't you trust atoms? They make up everything.
That got another braying laugh from me.
We were moving through a section of the city that I had cleared days before, the habs all collapsed, when I spotted her.
She ran out into the street, waving a cloth, stumbling and almost falling as she chased after us.
"Vul'Krit, stop the vehicle," I ordered, standing up. I jumped down, almost collapsing from the shock of jumping from such a hieght, and trotted up to her.
I held my rifle in my hands and watched around myself with all six eyes.
"Please, help us! She can't move any more and won't wake up," the little immature female Cemtrary cried out as I got close. "She's too heavy for us to move!"
I could see her fur was singed and blood stained. She had bandages and what looked like medical gel on her in patches.
"Please, Overseer, help us," she cried out.
"Lead me to 'her', little one," I ordered.
"We covered her up with the hood of a car," she told me.
I kept close watch around us. I would not be fooled. There was the wreckage of many Precursor infantry robots around, even three of the heavier combat machines burning nearby.
It looked like they had put the hood of a vehicle over the top part of a robot. Massively thick legs stuck out from under the hood. Powerful hands, one holding a heavy thick stubber with a bird of prey done up in burning gold on the side. Around the covered prone figure were two dozen Cemtrary females, most of them holding tiny versions of themselves.
I grabbed the hood and threw it to the side.
Her face was severe, pale, I could see her skull where three heavy divots had blown bone out in a crater. I could not see her brain, but the divots blown out of her skull probably did not mean anything good for her. She had long flowing blonde hair. Her eyes were closed, blue around the corners of her mouth and nose, but she was still breathing heavily. Blood was running from her nose.
"We can't pull her, Overseer, she's too heavy," one of the Cemtrary girls said.
It was a Terran over three meters tall, entirely clad in heavy thick plates of armor. There was a bird of prey on the chest, just as it was on the weapon, the warsteel smouldering white in silent fury. She had a torch on each shoulder, the torches smouldering, and what looked like some kind of ejector system on her hip.
"I'll bet she is," I said softly. I turned on my datalink. "Vul'Krit, get a grav-dolly and a power lifter. We've got a Terran heavy power armor troop down and unconscious."
"All right, boss," Vul'Krit answered.
I knelt down, staring at the Terran. She was beautiful, in a coldly angry kind of way. She faintly smelled of incense and scorched warsteel.
The two Tukna'rn came through rubble, pulling the grav-dolly with the power-lifter on one end.
"What is that?" one of them asked.
"It's a SHE, not a WHAT," one of the Cemtrary snapped.
"Yeah," one of the smaller ones holding tight to her back added.
"A Terran," I said.
"Huh. OK, boss," one said.
"Be careful with her," another Cemtrary female added.
They carefully moved her onto the dolly. She was too heavy for the two muscular Tukna'rn to move by themselves, so they used the lifter system. I glanced at the gauge and saw that she weighed just over two tons.
"Follow me," I ordered. I pushed the grav-dolly myself, my prosthetic hoof striking sparks as I walked.
"What happened to your foot, Overseer?" one asked.
"Precursor blew it off," I told her. "I am no-one's Overseer. Call me Ha'almo'or, little one."
"Oh," she said.
I watched as the little ones climbed into the recovery vehicle, then took a hooked chain and attached the grav-dolly to my tank so we could tow the wounded Terran. One of the Tukna'rn came around to help me and hand me another nacrobrew.
I sat back on the front armor, took out another Goody Yum Yum bar and began to eat, sipping at the narcobrew as I read the wrapper.
Why was the burglar so emotional? He took things personally.
I brayed laughter as the black rain fell around me.
--Excerpt From: We Were the Lanaktallan of the Atomic Hooves, a Memoir.
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Things have been busy so, I apologize for the delay. I know lots of you love these stories.
Last Friday night...Yeah, I think we broke the law...Always say we're gonna stop, whoa
Friday, or in the alternative: What part of call me was not clear?
I get to my desk at the usual time and deal with the usual bullshit. I got a SCAR 16s here on consignment because a customer of mine bought them from dealers that were less than reputable and lied about the condition of/country of origin of their merchandise. And they swapped sku's and other bullshit gun dealer things.
Trying to be a nice guy, I can charge the guy to box and ship everything back or roll them at top dollar and give him a big stack of blue stripe benjamins. I tell him I'll try and sell them for him and take my cut off the top so we're both making money. He thinks this is a great idea and manages to line up a buyer on his own. I just need to do the 4473 and cut him a check. No big deal, I don't have a problem doing a little extra work for him versus the standard dealer to customer transfer. The guy he sold it to is a semi regular customer of mine and he comes in, bangs out the 4473 and it's about a 90 minute wait on transaction time.
No big deal. Instead of packing up for the gun show, I'm selling other peoples guns. I'll pack up for the gun show tonight and get everything ready when I get home. I need to be up super early and on the road.
I get everything squared off, customer comes in to get his money and drops off ANOTHER SCAR 16s to sell because the dealer pulled a con job. Okay, I can haul it to the show in the AM. I have a SCAR 16s in FDE from him. I have a 5.7 in FDE on the arm from a buddy of mine and a 509 FDE. I'll make a package deal, FDE FN Friday all FN time. Things are looking up!
I clear off all the 4473's for the week and do an audit and I'm down about 75% inventory wise from last year. Things are tight but stuff is trickling in in drips and drabs. Hit the chickfila on my way home for a sandwich and milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard. I'm done eating and getting ready to leave when I get the call.
ring ring
FC: go for FC
1: Mr Hayden sir, can I ask a favor of you?
FC: What up?
1: Got a guy who wants my scar 16 lined up but he has to pay on a credit card. Can you run it for me? You can take a card and cut me a check?
(It's 7PM on a friday night. I still need to pack for the show. By the time I get back it will be 9PM and I still need to shower and get a decent nights sleep. I'm a glutton for punishment)
FC: If you want to get it done tonight, have the guy call me. I'm eating dinner now and I'll head back if he calls me.
1: roger that, I'll pass along your info right now and let him know.
I do a few more emails from the laptop and say hi to the chickfila owner who was friends with my dad and buys guns from me. We chat for a bit and my phone does not ring. Now, gentle readers - I offered to head back at 730PM on a friday to get something done for someone as a favor to them. That should be worthy of "holy shit you are the man for coming back on your own time!" but this was not the case. No phone call means I didn't head back.
I head home, no phone call. Phone about to die. Plug it in and go into my garage and get all my gun show stuff sorted and loaded and organized. My normal display is 3 tables of merchandise stacked and racked on 2 tables. This show it's 1.5 tables of merchandise stretched out on 2 tables. Not good. My back is killing me. I get some ibuprofen and take a hot shower. Grab my phone off the charger. Bunch of missed calls, one email one VM. I return the VM.
1: Hey you must be having a good dinner at chickfila, we've been waiting here in the parking lot for the last hour!
FC: You have? Well, I didn't get a phone call. I'm home and in pajamas.
1: What? He didn't call you?
FC: Nope
1: HEY! YOU DIDN'T CALL HIM? Oh he says he just figured......
FC: No phone call means no turning around to go back to work. We'll deal with it next week.
1: Okay I'll tell him.
I'm a pretty easy to get along with guy. If you ask me a favor, I'll likely do it if it does not interfere with my life too badly. But if you ask me for a favor and you can't follow simple instructions, well then you're wasting your own time. That's no skin off my hide. Failure to follow simple directions on your part does not warrant my bad back bending over backwards to make it right. I climb into bed, I have to be up at 5AM to tank up at the truck stop, grab breakfast on the run and get to this show on the road.
Saturday, in the park. I think it was the fourth of july. People dancing, people laughing. A man selling ice cream. Singing Italian songs....
Showtime Saturday.
My back is stiffer than I'd like. I get down to the show and get loaded in and everything is set up looking spiffy. Not in my normal spot right by the loading dock, much to my chagrin. There's a line that's 1/4 mile long to get into the building. This shit is looking crazy.
Here's the deal, folks. The 4473 isn't hard. It does require attention to detail. Being in therapy with Dr Kaplan, I've learned a few things.
Old FC: Here's the clipboard, call me when you're done.
New FC: Here's the form, I'm guessing you haven't filled this out before. Start on line 9, read this carefully, 18A and 18B are two separate questions that both require answers, 21 L 2 is tricky, you need to read it ALL THE WAY TO THE END before you answer. Sign on 22, today's date on 23. STOP THERE.
With the new spiel, of the 7 forms I was handed on Saturday before noon - guess how many were filled out correctly? I'll make a break here to talk about the bullshit I had to do.
Show Hustler #1: I had a consignment mossberg built in new haven pre 1968. A guy wants to buy it and he's friends with Ray Dalio. Yes, the Ray Dalio. He tries getting me to knock $100 off but I tell him he's nuts. If he's FRIENDS WITH A BILLIONAIRE and lives in GREENWICH fucking Connecticut, you can pay my very fair asking price of about $350 on it. He relents and I give him a small discount and I give him the clipboard.
Show Hustler #2: I got a guy wanting to trade me a 44 Mag Black Desert Eagle for a Colt 1911 I have on the table. Prices are about the same. I tell him I'm not doing the work of selling two guns for the profit of one gun. He tells me I'm not selling two guns, I'm trading one and selling one. That's selling one gun! I explain two entries in my A/D book means I sell two guns, and it's easier for me to sell a NIB Colt than it is for me to sell a used Desert Eagle. Well the DE isn't used! It's unfired! It's brand new! If I didn't get it from a wholesaler, it's used. He says for me to think about it and he'll be at the show. I tell him I thought about it. He says yeah, ready to do an even trade? I say no, now I want your gun plus $1000. He calls me a clown and walks away.
Show Hustler #3: Over the road truck driver wants the FN 5.7 in FDE I have on consignment. Asks for a truck driver discount. He wants it for $1200. I've got it tagged at $1350. I tell him if he can fill out the form straight, no errors I write it at 1200. If there's an error, I write it for $1350. He says he just bought a brand new freightliner cascadia and money is tight. I tell him well we got a bet or what? He nods, I book the action.
Show Hustler #4: Guy wants my 509C. He wants to trade me for a NIB glock even up. I tell him there's no money to be made and selling a used glock gets me less money. BUT ITS NOT USED! ITS BRAND NEW! We go back and forth 9 times about how new does not mean what he thinks it means. I offer him $350 on his trade as credit knowing that $650 on a used glock in 45ACP is all the money right now. He calls me a cocksucker and walks away.
Okay, so 7 form 4473's with an explanation as to all the problem areas before noon on Saturday.....how many were filled out correctly?
If you answered zero, you are right! That means I won the 4473 bet. The 5.7 goes out at top dollar. Winner winner chicken dinner!
I head home and count my money. I need 9 more shows like this and I might finally be able to retire. On the way home I check web orders. Three guys in arkansas have ordered $900 22LR off my website at $150 a brick. I joke about my stash of 22LR being a brand new F350 platinum but at $150/brick that's rapidly becoming a reality.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Sunday is day 2 of the show. I stop at a local diner and grab corned beef hash and a short stack of pancakes for breakfast. Want to know how good a diner is? If there's real butter with the pancakes and not that bullshit country crock/margarine spread, you know things will be good.
There's butter. It's good.
A very nice Sig 229 in stainless in 9mm comes by from a guy who did business with me years ago. He traded me a Wilson CQB pistol for a Sig 226 and a Springfield Range Officer even up. I had maybe $1600 into that Wilson, I sold it for $2500 a few months later and tucked the money away. When my brother got married, our fucking gigantic family got together the night before the wedding and had dinner. I told him I'd cover it and he's like "are you sure?" and I said, how bad could it be? Not realizing his wife's family is a bunch of hungry alcoholics from cape cod who have never seen an open bar before and are total gluttons when someone else is buying. As it turns out, $2500 covered about half of the F&B, but he seemed appreciative.
Anyhow.
I sell nothing at the show all day and talk with the other dealers and swap stupid customer stories. I pack and head home and I've sold a good bit of stuff of mine and consignments. As I'm making my way out of the building, the wheel comes off the wagon.
This is not a euphemism. https://imgur.com/a/KY5vLCl
I pay off all my friends for their sales, and in the zelle memo field, I break down the transactions as such:
$69.69 - Anal Hook
$350 - Loch Ness Monster Poster
(whatever the balance was after bullshit, I can't remember) - this is from your real dad
I have lots of fun at this job sometimes.
It's just another manic Monday. I wish it was Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day.
Monday morning I get an email from the fellow who spent his friday night in the parking lot waiting for me. His email address leads me to believe he spent some time at Parris Island or San Diego, because who else uses semper fi in an email address name? He says he can be in after work at 1645 hours sharp and is just down the road. I tell him I'll get everything squared away for him, and I prep the 4473's on a clipboard and get everything set up.
Cleaning up files from the show, closing out 4473's. Down to 249 items in stock. 150 of them are lowers. This is not good. Must strike while irons are hot though. Gotta shear all the sheep while the wool is ready to harvest and prices are high. I have a bunch of personal ammo that will hit the market one POTUS says something stupid. That's not an if, that's a when.
Bunch of phone calls from people seeking 380 and cheap 9mm. I do my best charles bronson impression. "No dice." The emails accusing me of price gouging are fantastic. There's some other idiocy too. I won't post the whole ones but here's a few snippets from the butthurt and the unprepared as well as the idiotic.

I’m just looking for fmj for target practice. Nothing fancy. If you could do them for $400 a case of 1000 I can talk.

FC: I can get you $400/case on 1000 but it'll be foreign made non brass 9mm ammo.

Pretty much what your saying is no matter how much money I try to spend, you’re continuing your get rich quick prices. People like you are direct part of the problem. It’s one thing to make money and it’s another to try to high way rob people. Hope you’re proud of yourself.

FC: I can assure you that this isn't a get rich quick situation. I spent plenty of money investing in half a million rounds of ammo about FOUR years ago during the Trump slump and I'm just getting around to realizing profits now. I am not getting rich, nor am I doing it quickly. I hardly think that any investment that takes 4 years to realize a gain is quick.
(No response back)
Subject: Used Ruger 10/22
Message: I’ll give you 175 for it.
FC: Deal. Can you come by today?
(new message, no subject)
Message: I can come by Tomorrow or Thursday.
(I try calling him. VM box is full)
FC: Great! Lets get it done. Your VM box is full. Tomorrow is better.
(new message, no subject)
Message: I can come tomorrow but I only have 150 I can spend at the moment so I’ll probably wait a few days.
FC: What happened to " I’ll give you 175 for it." a few hours ago?
(new message, no subject)
Message: My bad dude. I have a kid I don’t know what to tell you. And I’m pretty sure I said Wednesday or Thursday. If you really want it gone that bad I don’t see what the big deal is.
FC: I was just expecting you to have $175 ready if you said you wanted to deal......So, will Wednesday or Thursday work this week? Bring me cash and your concealed.
(new message, no subject)
Message: No cwl. But you don’t need one for a private sale. I can have your cash.
FC: No CWL no sale.
(new message, no subject)
Message: Yeah I’ll pass. Good luck. You totally should have mentioned that at the start of negotiations.
FC: What part of my ad that said cash and concealed required was unclear?
Yeah. Fucking mondays.
1630 rolls around and our scar loving jarhead walks in. With his wife. And his children. Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR little munchkins. All without an ipad and disney + streaming to keep them occupied. They're not bad kids, just curious at all the little things I have lying around like lower parts kits, magazines, AAC 51T mounts, stuff like that.
He hands over his ID. I look at the address. It's a city two and a half hours away.
FC: Uh, you're a long way from home.
USMC: Yeah I just moved. I'm putting my new address on this form if that's okay.
FC: You have anything with your new address on it? I can't do anything with ID that's not current.
USMC: It's not expired, it's current.
FC: Where do you live?
USMC: (names address locally)
FC: Then this is no longer current. I need something with your new local address on it.
USMC: Oh then I'll just use the old address on this form then.
FC: That's not acceptable. I need a current government document with your new address.
USMC: Here, I have activation orders and training orders from the army.
FC: That won't work. Government document with your new address.
USMC: Here's my W2 from the DOD.
FC: That's not a government document.
USMC: But the DOD gave it to me! It's FROM the department of defense, which is the government!
(Editors note: Did I mention that I hate mondays?)
sigh
FC: I can call ATF and ask......
USMC: Please do!
(I phone the ATF area supervisor on his cellular device)
ATF: Mr Hayden, how can I help you today?
FC: Barry, I got a funny one. Guy wants to use his DOD W2/activation orders to get his gun since that has his current address.
ATF: Why? Is there a reason he's unable to get an updated drivers license?
FC: That's a good question Barry, let me find out.
(FC puts ATF on speakerphone)
FC: Hey private first class, ATF wants to know why you didn't update your license
USMC: Uh because I've been busy
ATF: Sir, that's not an answer. I was in the military too and I had to change ID's just like you. If I can had to do it you have to do it.
(Barry was a very long time ago a RIO on the F4 Phantom)
USMC: But I have activation orders! and training orders! and a W2!
ATF: Get your license changed over or produce another document for the licensee to process your transaction.
FC: Thanks barry!
I hang up and tell him that's the area supervisor and I'm playing this one the way he tells me. He needs to produce a document compliant with ATF regulations for me to release this firearm.
USMC: Oh by the way there's a guy with my same name that robbed a bank in Detroit last year, I always get delayed anyways.
(sigh)
I type his stuff into the computer and I get a thumbs up from the computer instantly much to his amazement. I fire off a quick email to the guy who owns the scar
Subject: No current ID
Message: your jarhead friend who wants the scar does not have current ID

No deal? Or what's the plan?

My reply is interrupted. Their oldest child admires the batman dollar on my safe. The youngest child is incessantly clicking a spare pilot G2 pen I had on my desk.
Mother: If you click that pen ONE MORE TIME, you are WALKING HOME.
(kid puts the pen down)
Me, whispering to the kid: It's not that far.
(kid picks the pen back up)
Mother scowls at both of us.
I giggle.
I get back to email.
FC: Lets put it this way. You're gonna owe me for this one. Big time.
His wife starts pulling out auto registrations, USAA insurance cards, cable bills, etc with their new address - NONE of which are useful because none of them are government issued. She updates his and her drivers licenses online at the state website and gives me a voter registration printout confirming the update, but that's not a workable document since it's an informational update and not an actual registration.
Customer that owns the scar walks in and witnesses the flurry of kids playing with gun stuff and two grown ass adults trying to make it all work.
It's been 45 minutes of this.
The guy finally gives up and goes on the state website and gets a fishing license and emails it to me. Stacks a big stack of SCAR magazines that NOBODY has in stock to the order and I charge it onto his USAA mastercard. Had I returned to work on a Friday after hours to get an ID that wasn't current, I would have been apoplectic. Now, I'm just mildly annoyed. I can assure you that anyone who has walked through the hallowed halls of MCRD Parris Island should know to have their shit together. This just seemed like some hybrid of cluelessness more than it was an issue of stolen valor. Gun and mags go out the door.
My customer sits down and starts laughing. I look at him totally nonplussed.
1: That was easy, right?
(FC looks nonplussed)
1: An hour worth of work, for $50! That's good! you should do a few of those a day!
(FC looks nonplussed)
1: Really?
FC: You owe me.
I cut him his check and I'm done for the night. I head home.
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too....
Tuesday
Another day, another box of 9mm at $75 each heading out the door.....I'm down to my last 15,000 rds of 9mm. I sold my entire personal stash of Remington UMC at $67 a box. Now that we're into the Federal American Eagle, it's up to $75. People are thanking me for having it available because they've called everywhere.
This morning's "no I don't have it" calls: 380ACP, 30-40 Krag, 6.5 CM, Grendel and Swede, 2.5" .410 slugs, 3 or 3.5" shells and turkey loads.
Now, for the uninitiated: Turkey season is around the corner. ALL the ammo for turkey loads have been purchased by new shooters looking for home defense ammo since last year. Why turkey loads for self defense? That's all the cabelas had....
Come season, there will be lots of very disappointed hunters who were unprepared. Those with ammo will hunt, those without ammo will hunt for ammo, and they will not be successful given the state of the ammunition markets. There is far more money to be made cranking out buckshot and slugs than there are turkey shells.
Package comes in for transfer. Guy has a NJ license. He's just moved here. Has NOTHING with his new address. This is basically a repeat of Monday's SCAR sale. The guy here is ADAMANT that he's bought a home here and he can purchase a firearm without being a state resident.
He's technically right. HOWEVER this is why dealers hate doing things: The gun and sale have to follow both the laws of the state he's in AND the state of New jersey. Now I have to run down all the bullshit that is NJ published ordnances to ensure that this gun is Phil Murphy(TM) approved. For the price of a transfer. BUT WAIT THERES MORE!
The gun is for a BUDDY of his he's giving it to him as a gift when he's down here for a fishing trip in a few days.
https://imgur.com/0cqL7vX
Read that last line.
Yeah. I tell him that it's unlawful for him to dispose of a firearm to a non resident. He's wondering what the fuck to do. He insists on taking delivery. I tell him I need to run it down with the address and everything since his NJ license isn't technically valid since HE NO LONGER LIVES THERE.
The guy bought a double wide trailer here, the trailer park handles all the water, the power, the etc - he does not have any REAL property here. He's insistent that he has a deed for his house. He's holding a bill of sale for a mobile home.
sigh
I tell him we should just get things sent to his friend via an FFL in his state. The guy lines up an FFL and I fedex the gun to the dealer up there. We need ONE UNIFORM SET OF COHESIVE COMMON SENSE GUN LAWS, not one federal set and 50+ subsections on a state level plus NY State HOME RULE BULLSHIT.
I head home early, telemedicine with Dr Kaplan. He's impressed with my progress. I'm not.
There are no songs that have Wednesday that I can think of here
Wednesday, Hump Day
I decide to work from home today. I can take all the phone calls and tell people no I don't have anything from home. I decide to do some early spring cleaning. It's a BEA-U-TIFUL day. The sun is out, nice weather means I can work in the garage for once. I start a load of laundry. Everything starts off fine. I'm sorting through old shot show HK posters when I can smell burning. There's no smoke but I do smell burning. Am I having a stroke? I can't figure it out and I get a load of laundry processed through my carbon neutral solar powered clothes drying system. I start another batch of laundry and hear a massive grinding noise when I should hear the washing machine washing. That burning smell? That was the timer burning up. And I have a full tub of underwear that needs to get done since I'm nearly out. Fuck.
My dad's old toolbox is in disarray. Mine isn't. I quickly grab a few tools. A snap on general service kit is totally overkill, but it's super nice to have EVERYTHING in one spot ready to go. My 1/4 drive ratchet takes apart my washing machine panel with ease. I unplug the timer and hit the electronic bay for a replacement. I find one 2 hours away and they say they can ship immediately on my fedex account. I can get it here tomorrow if they fedex ground it on todays truck. Deal, here's my amex. Email me tracking when it's sent.
One problem arisen, one problem in progress of being fixed. Not bad for before noon.
I get a bunch of stuff stacked up and straightened up and I throw a ton of stuff on facebook marketplace. Old Glock signs and point of sale merchandise like hanging ceiling mobiles, glock pencils, FN pads, FN hats, Daniel Defense stickers and patches, HK pistol racks, some old Colt and Beretta Blue boxes, all that stuff.
People message me about the Colt box. WHATS IN THE BOX they ask.
Well it's an empty fucking box. I made that VERY clear in the description. So what's my witty rejoinder? A youtube link to the scene from Seven with Brad Pitt yelling at Morgan Freeman "WHATS IN THE BOX? WHATS IN THE BOX?!?!!?!"
They are not amused. I think it's brilliant. They ask me what gun is for sale. I tell them it's just an empty box but if they want a gun, here's my info and call me at work during business hours. I'm then told that people selling empty boxes on facebook aren't selling empty boxes, they're selling guns.
This, I did not know.
Armed with this newfound information, I proceed to post more random stuff from my garage for sale in front of a pile of 20,000 rds of 9mm. An old kegerator and some bar equipment my dad had, a Miller Genuine Draft neon sign backdropped with 5 cases of Winchester Q4170 45ACP and 5 cases of CCI Lawman 147gr 9mm. The messages flood in looking to buy my stuff cheap. But I know what I got.
My favorite interaction:
1: hey man, you got anything else for sale?
FC: Tons of stuff for sale!
1: I'm looking for pews.
FC: I got pews, you want to stop by and check out my pews? I got some real nice ones, super nice. Only used on sunday!
1: Yeah man I'm leaving for lunch in 10 min, give me your address
FC: Sure thing! Here's me, be here in 30 minutes!
I continue to clean up my garage and I pull out some of my dad's old auction finds. Under about 200 old polynesian tiki mugs, I dust off some white oak church pews and pull them into the driveway. The guy tells me he wants to see the pews I got, and I point them out to him in the driveway. White oak, great shape - just needs some lemon pledge and they'll be good as new. He calls me a clown, gets in his car and drives off.
What's wrong with these people?
I return to find 254 facebook marketplace messages for people asking me to sell/ship them guns and ammo to all sorts of places and that facebook has suspended my account for violations of their marketplace terms. The offending item? An old Sig Sauer binder that has a P226 exploded diagram on the front. Because firearm parts are not allowed.
I manage to sell on facebook marketplace an old surefire incandescent rifle light, a blue colt mustang box, a few tin winchester ammo signs, some beer neons that belonged to my dad and some soft pistol rugs that I ordered from RSR on clearance. A productive wednesday. My haul nets me after facebook marketplace fees and shipping about $54 on the shipped items and a few hundred bucks in miscellany. I give my business cards to all the folks looking for gun stuff and they seem surprised that I still have ammo and that they've never heard of me. They do all their ammo and gun shopping online and don't do B&M. That's the way things will be in the future.
I head to the tex mex joint for dinner. I chat it up with a very cute blonde that is the manager. She's just moved into a new place after her man chated on her and she ditched that zero. I offer her my stack of bed bath and beyond coupons.
FC: Starting over is expensive. Maybe this will make it a little bit cheaper.
1: Oh my gosh this will save me a bunch of money! Here, your dinner is on me.
FC: It's been a long time since a woman has bought me dinner. Perhaps I should return that favor. Do you like firefighters?
(she cracks a big smile under the mask)
1: I do, but I'm talking to someone right now.
FC: I can see you ditched the zero, but if it does not work out and you want to get yourself a hero - I'm here pretty often. Just ask and I'll take you to dinner at your favorite place.
I manage to get rejected by a woman at the same time she bought me dinner.
That takes talent. I head home, pop some ibuprofen and head to bed. I check my email in bed. There's a tracking number.
PICKUP OCCOURED AFTER FEDEX CUTOFF FOR TODAY, PACKAGE WILL BE TENDERED THE NEXT BUSINESS DAY
You fucking clowns. You had one job. I call fedex and ask them to hold it at the facility 2 hours away. I'll grab it in the AM. They can't even find it. Fuck it. Leave it. I'll deal with it later.
Thursday, I don't care about you
Thursday, or FC makes a new friend!
I head into work a bit early today, as I'm driving down my street, I round the corner and see an older fellow wheeling his trash to the curb. This guy had a '99 Ford F250 extended cab 4x4 with the venerable 7.3 navistar in MINT condition for sale. 129,000 miles, parked in a garage 10 months out of the year. He wanted $16k for this truck and I figured he got tired of tire kickers and lowballs and kept it. I messaged him 3 days after the post went up and I never followed up, I knew the house since I've literally been driving past it MY ENTIRE LIFE on the way to elementary, middle, high school, college and now work.
My passenger window rolls down as I stop right next to the mailbox.
FC: You still got your F250?
1: No! That thing sold in one hour! To a dealer!
FC: Son of a bitch! I wanted that truck, I didn't even know you were selling!
1: Dealer came over in one hour, took a look at it, put cash on the hood, slapped a dealer tag on it and drove it out of here!
FC: Damn! I wish you put a sign on it and I would have stopped.
1: I told my wife I didn't want to sell it to a dealer but my garage isn't big enough!
FC: No kidding. Say, you still got your T bird?
1: My thunderbird? How'd you know I have a thunderbird?
FC: I grew up here! When I was in grade school I'd ride by and you were wrenching on it, when I was in high school, I'd see you wrenching on it from the bus and when I was in college I'd see you wrenching on it on my way home from class!
1: I spent 20 years building that car 2 weeks at a time! You wanna see it?
FC: Well, when you put it that way....
I pull off into the grass. He's got a detached 3500 square foot garage with Snap On's Mr Big not 1 but 2 ben pearson four post lifts. He shows me his thunderbird he's been working on for two decades. We get to talking. He's a commercial alaskan fisherman and he spends 10 months of the year in alaska and seattle running boats. Super nice guy. He asks me what I do for work, and I tell him. He tells me all his friends are scrambling for ammo and he didn't think it was that bad. I tell him it's been that way for about a year. He needs 00 buckshot, 8 or 9 pellet. I just got a small delivery. I tell him I can get him some. I give him my card and tell him call me this afternoon and I'll throw a few boxes in my briefcase and I'll deliver them on my way home. I'm asked about my watch, he's apparently a GMT man as well. We both like fords and stainless GMT's. Nice. He tells me the story about how he accidentally welded the band to his boat in the bering sea while doing repairs with a stick welder.
FC: What do you catch?
1: Pollock, cod
FC: long line?
1: No, trawler..... You know your commercial fishing.
FC: I know my customers.
Impressed at my substantial seafood knowledge, he tells me he'll call me after he checks his safe. I head into work and get some more stuff done.
I get a call from a referral. This guy was busted for selling pot and spent 8 months in miltary prison at Leavenworth. He's wondering if he can still own or have a gun with a bad conduct discharge. I'm not sure. I call my retinue and we agree that it's worthy of research and we should do a bar journal article about it. I love it when a plan comes together.
Doctor lady and her husband come in and their attorney has told them that without a trust, their silencer order will need to be approved by the CLEO of the region. This is why people hate lawyers. I get all their stuff drawn up as they requested with two trusts and interlocking responsible parties. Double the prints and plenty of passport photos all around.
Dead Air is behind on pistons and mounts, as usual but I'm assured by the big man in charge that they will be at wholesalers shortly. I'm so scrambled that I forget to charge her for two cans. No big deal, I'll email her and deal with it when I get her the mounts.
I have a facebook marketplace post up for an old Glock brand Pistol case and some glock brand ear pro. Here's the message:

Hi Will it's John from facebook marketplace I was looking at the glock bb gun and head phones will you show me a pic of the actually glock and does it have a clip and a slide,,??¿?? My old one did but I left it at my apartment I was sharing with friends but I miss having it lmk asap please and thanks sincerely Jeff K.

FC: Lets start here. 1. I don't sell Glock BB guns. 2. I don't have head phones. Were you only interested in BB guns?

Ya I was on Facebook marketplace looking for BB c02 pistols

sigh
I go truck shopping online. A guy has a 2011 F250 diesel for $24k. Except it's not a 2011. It's a 2001. I don't know what's more absurd, a 2011 at $24k, when average retail is a shade under $20k or a 20 year old truck selling for half of MSRP.
I'm ready to give up on this. Truck prices are stupid. I check my email. Timer in transit, Fedex has it en route.
I head home and pop a flexiril and head to sleep. The flexeril isn't fixing any of my muscles but manages to knock me the fuck out quite nicely. I need to be up early.
Just got paid, Friday night....
Friday, or FC vs The Washing Machine
As a kid, I always played with my dads toolbox. I took apart tons of stuff and had no idea how to put it back together. Some kids when they're in the tender years made birdhouses and small woodworking projects and it was super fun for them to pretend. Me? I took apart a 1 horse GE electric blower motor my dad short circuited on accident and made a pretend General Electric first generation boiling water nuclear reactor. Which was not really easy to do given the fact that the internet didn't exist in the early 90's. You had to have some modicum of imagination, and in that case your design was neither right nor wrong because nobody could easily prove your design accurate or otherwise. I had effectively built Schrodinger's BWR. I used different colored and sized tapcons and red heads for fuel/control rods if anyone was wondering. I think I can handle the washing machine. Just for good measure I put on my Cal Tech shirt.
As I warm up breakfast, I get an email from a guy named Eddie. He wants to see some 40S&W pistols. I tell him I have a busy morning. I can find some time for him around 10AM if he wants to stop by and I'll have what he's looking for ready.
My fedex guy stops at the Boeing facility first thing in the morning to drop off parts at the loading dock, I know his schedule so I pull up to the dock and hang out there waiting for him. Jeff is right on time and I snag my washer timer. No email back from Eddie so time to head back home to put everything back together. I'm in the middle of buttoning it up when I get a call.
Eddie is standing in my parking lot wanting to check out some 40S&W pistols I have in stock. I tell him all my available inventory on the website and that if he wanted me to have everything ready for him at 10AM, he should have given me an affirmative reply or a phone call. Right now, clean underwear is a priority and Eddie seems to understand this and he says he will chat with me later.
I head back to work. The entire parking lot smells like weed. There's a VW microbus parked on the far side of the lot and I'm downwind of it.
This is not a coincidence.
Wholesale rep tries to sell me $700 complete andersons again with a min order of 50. Pass.
I get a bunch of messages from other dealers looking to buy ammo off me and resell it to their customers at "reasonable" prices and I tell them they are fools for selling stuff cheap. They just don't get it and they'll be out of business soon.
I get a call from a guy wanting ammo. He wants all my 22LR. I tell him the price and he says "I can't make a profit selling it at those prices!"
This is the reason regular people can't buy ammo just FYI.
It's Friday again. I've got another gun show to prep for. New product just rolls in on the UPS truck. A few glocks, a few shields, and for some reason the rep sent me 5 sets of rear MBUS sights instead of 5 front and 5 rear. Ugh. I manage to get a small allocation of 9mm in on this truck as well as 11 boxes of 10mm! This year is looking better by the week!
I get several calls for AAC mounts that nobody has in stock and the owners are totally confused. One guy had a can and was selling a rifle and sold the ONLY mount he owned for that can to the guy buying his rifle for $200.
He was under the impression that you could just call AAC and order another mount for $112. I tell him if I can find what he's looking for, I'll need to buy it for $250 from someone and that it will sell for $350-500 by the time I mark it up. He's super confused as to why everyone is running out and buying AAC mounts and why they can't be ordered. I explain AAC/Remington's two bankruptices in 5 years. He is even more confused. I finally blurt it out.
You had ONE mount for your can. You sold it. There are no other mounts. You have paid a tax stamp for and own a can that YOU CAN NO LONGER MOUNT because you sold them. He now realizes the error of his ways. Nothing I can do about that.
Second guy tells me he sees I have AAC mounts. He needs one for his can. I ask him what model he has. He has to crack open the safe.
1: It's an Advanced Armament Corp Norcross Georgia
FC: That's the manufacturer......
1: It's a.........ZERO ENNN DASH ZERO EFFF EFFF
FC: It's a what?
1: It says on the side ZERO ENNN DASH ZERO EFFFF EFFFF
(Editors note: https://www.advanced-armament.com/assets/products/762-SDN-6.png )
FC: That's not the model.
1: It's not? Then what did I read to you?
FC: That's not a zero. That's the letter O.

1. The number O?

FC: O. As in Oh. ENNNN. Dash. Oh. EFFF EFF.
1: I'm confused.
FC: You just read the directions to take the can ON or OFF.
1: Huh that would explain the arrows wouldn't it......
FC: Yeah. What model do you have?
1: It's an MK13-SD!
FC: You need a 90T ratchet mount.
1: Great! You stock em, right?
FC: Nope.
1: But your website has some, those will work right?
FC: Unless you need 51T mounts, I can't help you.
1: Can you suggest someone that can? I need mounts.
FC: AAC is gone, these mounts may never be made again.
1: Shit.
Not to be out done, I get one more phone call.
1: hey this is brent, I need an AAC mount
FC: What model you got?
1: 7.62
FC: Right, thats the caliber.
1: RS7!
FC: SR7?
1: That's the one! I need an SR 7 mount in 5.56, the one I have is in 7.62
FC: Got four here. $400.
1: I just need one.
FC: That is for one.
1: WHAT? FOR ONE? Why's it so expensive?
FC: Remington went under. These may never be made again. I've been buying up everything I've been able to find so I can run the table.
1: That's a good business move.
FC: Not my first rodeo.
1: Well for $400 I'll just take a mount off a rifle I'm not using and I'll set that up. Thanks anyways.
(90 minutes later, my door swings open)
FC: What can I do for you?
1: I'm brent, we talked about that RS7 mount.
FC: SR7.
1: Whatever. I got this here and it does not even fit! It's for the wrong rifle! I need the right mount, this one is in 5.56 I need the one for the 7.62
FC: Lemme see what you got.
(Looks at package. AAC 90T TAPER MOUNT FH SR-5 5.56 1/2x28)
FC: What are you mounting this to?
1: AR15 in 223
FC: This is the correct mount.
1: No it's not! It does not fit!
FC: Does not fit barrel or can?
1: The can! I mounted it to the barrel and the can won't work! Need the one for the RS7!
FC: SR7
1: Whatever! I have a 7.62 can, this mount is for 5.56 and it's the wrong one.
FC: Who sold you this mount?
1: The gun store across the street from my house.
FC: You live an hour away, why didn't you go there?
1: I did, they don't have this mount in 7.62, I went there first.
FC: And they didn't explain this to you?
1: What is there to explain? This mount is marked 5.56. My can isn't 5.56. It's 7.62.
FC: Oh, so you want the one marked 7.62 in 1/2x28.
1: Exactly!
FC: 7.62 mounts aren't made in 1/2x28, all the 90T mounts are 90T exterior and the threading internally is different.
1: You're wrong.
FC: Please, argue with the guy wearing a caltech shirt.....
1: Prove it.
(I open his package and I grab an SR7 out of the safe. I press the latch down and thread it on)
1: You son of a bitch.
FC: You want to argue with me some more?
1: So what mount do I need?
(I pull out one of my mounts and show him side by side they're exactly the same)
1: Hmmmm. Okay. I must have done something wrong.
FC: There's not a lot of ways to do this wrong, but you found one. Go try it again.
(90 minutes later he calls back and tells me I was right)
What the fuck is with all the AAC people this week that are totally clueless?
But hey, at least I have clean underwear.

Welcome to your latest 90 Day Fiancé re-crap, where THIRTY MINUTES of fresh content is taffy-pulled into almost two hours, burdening shopkeepers, street artists, and apartment buildings everywhere.
BUT FIRST! Let’s take a moment to revisit this amazing line from Julia:“Fucking cute animals? I hate you.”
With that feeling in mind, Brandon’s parents have just called to order the last meeting of the Rational People’s Club, since their membership will be revoked the minute Brandon’s mom stops crying.
“Honestly, I don’t know how they got membership,” Colt is wearing his lanyard and adjusting his glasses. “They’re really out of control. Someone should call the police. Or find a new Brazilian girlfriend. That was a joke. It’s okay for you to laugh.”
Debbie doesn’t need a lanyard, because she’s clinging to Colt’s. “Do you think there will be a sMother boss fight? What are my chances, Colt?”
“You’ve got this mom,” Colt knows things. “You never even needed backup.”
Both parents order troughs of meat, and dad asks the waitress to make sure there’s not a single goddamn vegetable on that plate or he’s burning that fucking restaurant down to the sign, and then he’s dragging that sign into the fucking desert where he’ll shoot it to death and shit on the embers. The waitress runs, nearly smacking into Brandon as he joins mom and dad on their triad date.
“Did you say triad?” Settle down, Tarik.
Brandon doesn’t bother ordering, because he’s going to have to keep his stomach light if he’s going to outrun his mother. Mom asks if he wants a disposable placemat to color, while dad signals the waitress to bring the kids’ menu. Brandon asks them to pump the brakes, because he’s got some bad news: he’s an adult. That means he needs to set up a love nest for himself and Julia, far, far away from the family’s forced-labor camp.
“No no no no no!” Mom falls to her knees and screams at the sky, prompting the waitress to hustle over with a cold glass of water to throw in her face. “Whyyyyyyyy God and Jesus and dirt worshipper heathen things? Why does my precious pampered baby boy want to waddle out of the tight fist of our love? WINDS! WIIIIIIIINDS!”
The bar patrons scatter, and the waitress scrambles for the bar’s only Thorazine shot.
“Don’t you want a big wedding? Don’t you want to save for a house?” Mom outlines her plans for him to live at home for the next ten years.
Brandon says that part of the problem is the aforementioned cute fucking animals, and the rest is his mother, who insists breast feeding doesn’t have an age limit. Dad is disappointed to not be included in the ultimatum, so he throws a tantrum of his own, rerunning the “pass down the farm for generations” statement, because it’s important to make decisions for your family beyond the grave.
“He has to take control, and give it back to us!” Dad rages. “How about you can’t afford this?”
Brandon: I actually have a job, you guys. Like, besides the farm. Which, have I mentioned, is not my fucking dream?
Mom: I feel like he has to choose between us and her, because we made it that way!
Dad: You’re the man of the house! If I can’t manipulate you into staying with the words “stupid” and “right thing”, I’m going right for your masculinity!
Mom: If I cry enough, will you consider staying if we let you bang one out with Julia under our roof?
Dad: No! Absolutely not! You’re going to have to move out.
Brandon: Ah yes, a return to the beginning of our conversation. I like how you’re thinking, dad.
Dad: No, you’re the head of the house! Agree with me! Agree with me!
Mom: Okay, I’m going to touch the shoulder of the head of the household to indicate I’m about to do whatever the fuck I want.
The parents still don’t have any friends willing to step forward and tell them how batshit bananas they are, so dad has to yell in the parking lot about how Julia shouldn’t get away with being a person, not on his watch, and mom whispers that they just need to go to the compound and recalibrate, because there’s got to be a Stephen King novel with a solution.
Later on, Brandon snaps off Julia’s house arrest bracelet and they leave unsupervised. Julia declares that she likes the bar Brandon’s chosen, and how it’s all there and not outside or at his parent’s house, and she’s eager to learn to play pool. Over a little stick handling, Brandon shares the news that his mom said they could share a room, and Julia won’t have to work on the farm. Julia has met Betty before, and isn’t buying that this is a solution she embraces.
“No way,” Julia declares. “Your mom is like obsess with genitals. She put condom on bedroom door. Covers whole thing, you see, top to bottom. Then she stuff inside of door condom with crickets. CRICKETS. STAY. KITCHEN.”
“Don’t worry,” Brandon assures her. “Once mom starts crying, we’re one confrontation away from a new car.”
“She no say I’m bad girl stealing son? Because other day, I go to bathroom, and there was 200 post-its, all say, ‘Julia bad bad bad bad bad bad bad steal son’. What you think meaning with this?”
“She didn’t say you were a bad girl,” Brandon uses a direct quote loophole.
Julia knows these are her pending in-laws, and it’s really complicated filing a restraining order before citizenship, so she agrees to try this “little fix” short-term. Then she koalas onto Brandon’s body so they can dry hump all the way through the threshold of his childhood bedroom for two.
Big Mike is relieved the visit with mom went well, and mom is relieved that she’s leaving. Mike asks what she thinks of the woman he’d rather not think about, and mom carefully responds,“She tries very hard”. Then she questions whether they want the same things, and hey, how about a sprinkling of green card suspicion?
“Yes. Green card,” Natalie sighs. “I am here for isolation, and $30K in debt.”
Natalie is sad to see her therapist leave, and worries Mike won’t be nice to her the way he is when mom is translating. Later on she wants to pray over dinner, and Mke surrenders.
“Are you there no-god? It’s me, Mike. Please send a comet with a trailing banner explaining my atheism. Shout out to our alien overlords. Check out my cat photos. Click the subscribe button down below. Anemone.”
Natalie is anxious, battling low self-esteem, and grappling with having no one to interact with except for Mike and his closet smell. She tells Mike that everyone is asking about the status of her third wedding, and Mike says that status is that the budget is $27.50, and people should plan to BYOEverything. Mike is eager to escape this revolving door conversation that leaves them marooned in talking about their relationship more than they actually relate.
They head out for a woodsy walk, and as they drive there Mike discover his inner Jovi, and criticizes Natalie’s pre-hike makeup application.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’d be the first person to say she ‘looks tired’ if she wasn’t wearing any makeup,” Mike stereotypes. “She should just know it’s always too much and not enough.”
“My dick is taller than you,”the tree interrupts.
“For you I have embrace!” Natalie hugs the tree, and I’m sorry, this is normal out here. Have you seen PacNW trees? Half of them look like they’re wearing green sweaters. There are Ewoks hiding around here somewhere. She’d better hug that tree.
“Noice,” the tree is into it. “Give my branch a knock and wake up the faeries, if you would.”
“Oh yes very much cat scratch on tree. Meow noises,” Natalie has ideas. “Mike, can you flip me?”
“Like...I do around my dick?”
“Yes, but with clothes.”
Mike gives her a flip, and did I mention this shit should have been lost behind a delete key? Why, 90DF?
“What’s going on in Natalie’s head?” The producers really want to push this “bitches be cray” storyline. “Do you think she’s fucking crazy? What do you think they’re diagnosing her with on Reddit?”
“I don’t know,” Mike says, because he never asks, and can’t check Reddit while his truck is in motion.
The venture to a shop that follows is so exhausting and predictable, I’m just going to make some shit up.
Mike: My balls itch.
Natalie: Do you have smell for balls?
Shopkeeper: Are we talking unclean balls, everyday sweaty balls, or something more moist and jock-itchy?
Natalie: Michael won’t give me ring.
Shopkeeper: So alcoholic balls, got it. Let’s look at this spray called GetOffMy, for Testicles.
Natalie: I will walk into scent cloud. Hmmm. Menthol cigarettes in yellowed paperback. I like your style.
Mike: Do you have anything in sour cream and onion?
Shopkeeper: No.
Mike: How about ranch? You’ve gotta have ranch.
Natalie: What is ranch. Like with horses?
Mike: Yeah, but in a bottle.
Natalie: I do not understand this. I think is beer.
Mike: Goddammit even in this made up shit I can’t escape it.
Natalie: Hello, I am Mike, I want attractive Ukrainian girl who is also not person. Also, bring me all meat in restaurant and 10 alcohols for heart attack.
Shopkeeper: Where are you from?
Natalie: I think she asks me this because of my heavy accent.
Hermione Granger: Who called me here for this?
Mike: Wizards? Oh thank fuck.
Gandalf: Look to the east on the fifth day.
Mike: This is fucking awesome.
Natalie: Michael. Michael. Michael. Wouldn’t wizard look nice at wedding table?
Mike: Dude, did you bring dragons up in this bitch?
Hagrid: Will I do?
Mike: Can you shoot fire? I can’t even remember if you lived or died in the series.
Hagrid: That’s a touch harsh, Harry.
Mike: My name isn’t Harry. What the fuck is going on?
Natalie: Two fancy bottles, he has, for alcohol. Then he wonders why wizards are here.
Tree: Oh, there are wizards here? Let me know which one I’m supposed to trap.
Natalie: Mr. Tree, is like he doesn’t want wedding.
Melanie: Are you interested in a career as a PI, by any chance?
Speaking of booze, Jovi says it’s normal for him to want to have a drink when he’s awake, and hopes to soon be drunk enough to discover the hidden sliver of kindness hiding somewhere in his body. They wander through a street fair, and Yara declares that New Orleans’ street art is tacky, and doesn’t match her refined Pottery Barn and J. Crew taste. She sits down to get some henna, and after a few swirls Yara asks Jovi if he likes it.
“It’s different.” Jovi says, using the secret word for dislike.
“Interesting,” Yara retorts, using the secret word for stupid. Then she says she has something to tell him.
“What, you want to buy something?” Please, Jovi, stop selling yourself so hard.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
“No you’re not.” Ah, what every woman longs to hear.
Through it all, the brave henna artist carries on with her craft. Way to keep it together when the douchebag levy is about to break. Yara frets that she thought he would be happy about this news, since he was so enthusiastically resigned about it last time.
“I thought I might have children one day. But not with the person I plan to marry.” Okay, Jovi.
“You know, every once in awhile I say that Eminem is the greatest rapper alive, just because,” Jovi wants us to know what he’s about. “No, I don’t listen to any other music. Why would I need other music? I also make fun of drug addicts while I’m drunk, because I’m just That Guy. Have you seen this video where this guy is talking about how he’s on a boat? Soooo funny.”
“I mean, will the real slim shady please stand up, amirite?” Looks like Colt got out of his cage.
“Did someone say prison?” Brandon’s dad isn’t done. “DON’T LET HER PLAY A BARGAINING CHIP.”
Jovi says that his muted enthusiasm stems from Yara’s habit of faking pregnancy. Yara says he’s exaggerating this, and that she did this like only once and confessed after ten minutes. I feel like these two crazy kids are really gonna make it.
Jovi insists Yara take another pregnancy test while she gives him a golden shower. After doing so she runs the test under water, in case it got extra baby on it. When the test comes out negative, Yara is upset because she knows she’s pregnant, because she remembers the feeling. Jovi is too busy feeling relieved and freshly urinated upon, and then Yara says she wants to take a third test. Back into the bathroom they go, Jovi closely monitoring urine transfer, and this test comes out positive. Faced with 2/3 evidence, Jovi is ready to offer a half-assed apology and the same level of enthusiasm often found in a jury duty room. Jovi shrugs, and kicks sand in a toddler’s face.
“I like to remind people why the North won the war,” he says, answering the lingering question.
Yara doesn’t know what this means for their future and wonders about his job, and Jovi insists there’s “no reason to think ahead,” which fits a lot of seasons of Love After Lockup. Yara admits she isn’t ready, but it’s already in her stomach, and abortion doesn’t exist on television.
Ryan and Stephanie are together for the first time in 10 months, and Steph is eager to make Ryan wish it were 10 months longer. Steph is concerned that her dick-on-demand didn’t immediately drop trou and salute her arrival. She insists that this isn’t to underscore what she believes he owes her, but for “bonding”.
“You could have just like, had sex with me for two or three minutes,” The intro of this R&B song is a little weird. “I wouldn’t even mind a quickie. For the bonding.”
“You keep saying you’re not into bondage,” Ryan tries to get on the same page. “But if you’ve changed your mind, here’s a nice ball gag for you to try on...”
“I mean, it was four times a night when I was here almost a year ago, and nothing changes,” Steph has so many concerns.
“She just wants her seks,” Danielle, OG 90DF cougar, answering the call.
If you’ve made it this far into the recap without suffering contact embarrassment, you didn’t read the Jovi section closely enough. But Steph is done drinking the blood of virgins and is ready to draw a dramatic reaction out of Ryan by looking back on the time she fucked his cousin.
“Sometimes you throw the grenade. Other times you pull the pins from all the grenades in your vest and run at your relationshit,” Ryan breaks it down. “For us, Stephanie is the grenade, and I’m bored. So I’m just going to lay here and disassociate while she smolders.”
“He offered to come over cause I was crying so hard,” Steph blubbers. “And he said he could offer up his dick for the bonding moment. You know how I feel about bonding.”
“Yeah, I already knew that shit,” Ryan briefly checks in as he remembers why he checked out. “And I never bonded that hard with anyone else. Not a true bond.”
Steph is flabbergasted, since she clearly thought this would be the high octane meltdown of her dreams. I mean, this is the part of the romance novel where they break up, but do they? Do they really? Ryan says that he’s over it when it comes to Stephanie, and that his cousin is dead to him, which he emphasizes when it’s obvious she gets a boner from his anger. Ryan requests they close the issue, but Steph insists he’s holding something back, because she really wants him to be the Edward.
The gods gave Amira beauty and the price was luck, obviously. Andrew’s too distracted to talk to Amira about her experience, and when he calls he makes a point of telling her he’s having a kick-ass time, parasailing and doing backflips off the balcony into the pool. Amira thinks that this might be an inappropriate response while your fiancé is suffering, but Andrew tries not to let societal pressures get to him.
Andrew could have addressed their visa issues by getting Amira out of detention, or putting another plan in motion immediately, but that would interrupt his vacation, and his concern is only performative. He gifts Amira concerned face, and tells her that the last idea he had that didn’t work is the only idea he has, except this time 4chan is recommending Serbia. Of course, Andrew won’t be going, because there aren’t any beach resorts in Serbia. Amira says she’s going to think about it, because she hasn’t spent enough time in America to know the phrase ‘go fuck yourself’ yet.
“I fell like it is endless,” Amira says. “It will never stop. But I don’t want to lose Andrew.”
“Hello Amira, I see you are brown girl,” Look at you, Hazel! “Yes, this is my type. Would you like to be best friends, sisters, and lovers?”
“What is happening? I have a shock,” Amira better get used to that.
“I’m gonna take a lot of pictures, so I can make a slide show of all the things you missed. Bye!” Andrew signs out.
Later on she meets up with her friend Xavier, who is as concerned about Amira as all of us at home. He manages to hold on to a straight face while she reports that Andrew continues to enjoy himself in Mexico, in what was supposed to be a 14 day quarantine, and is now a super-spreader event.
“It’s an abomination, really,” Amira’s friend Xavier speaks for all of us.
Amira knows she should move on, but it’s her dream to go to America. She says that the people who support her relationship with Andrew now number zero, and she’s not sure a green card is enough to justify that math.
Zied has been stateside for a few days, and he and Rebecca are settling in, trying to decide when to trot out the manufactured drama of living in the only apartment building in Georgia. The wait is over, as former boss Melanie arrives to demonstrate what happens when haircuts come alive.
“Melanie, Head PI, Karen Division,” she introduces the shit out of herself. “Not to be racist, but Rebecca’s ex = all brown men. If I have to repeat myself twice to your foreign ass, my tone will change from rogue PTA president to mall security guard. Like that.” She tries to snap her fingers, but her sweaty palms make her fingers slip, and Melanie blames the invading immigrant hoarde.
Melanie asks WTF Zied has been doing with his time during the three fucking days he dare set foot on American soil. Zied reports that they watched a movie, got their fuck on, and hey, he’s been there three days. This is overachieving in pandemic times.
“You’re not here for vacation, this is it! If I went to a foreign I’d bootstraps ball running flag freedom, USA. I’ll complain about you stealing a job from a real American later,” Melanie PI, Immigration Expert.
“He can’t work for 90 days. That makes hitting the ground running a little pointless,” Rebecca is going to try to logic this, but that didn’t work out well with her family, either.
“I’m not allowed to rational anymore, but I still like yelling,” Dad has escaped the Brandon compound.“I mean, come on, Zied! YOU’RE THE MAN OF THE HOUSE.”
“Maybe I like to take care of my man,” Rebecca is really just talking to herself here.
“Weren’t you in the apartment down the hall?” Melanie dramas. Whomp-whomp.
Zied is confused by this, and Rebecca is upset, and starts crying because all her friends suck, and Zied worries and comforts her. This presentation of affection isn’t enough to destroy Melanie. Zied, however, is done. “I don’t care if ex Rebecca stay here before. I’m with Rebecca, this is my time. Fuck everything.” There you go, Zied.
Melanie explains that she just has her guard up for the relationship she doesn’t know and isn’t a part of, so that’s a way to pass the time. Rebecca hugs Melanie, and says her behavior is “bordering” on disrespectful, if by border you mean a shitty fence. Melanie gives Zied a half-assed apology, and he disappears to shower her scent away.
“Being a private investigator for the google, I know some red flags,” Melanie can’t stop won’t stop. “The biggest red flag is happiness. It’s gonna take the full three months for me to realize they don’t care about my opinion,”
Tarik gets a notification that the governor has shut down Virginia, and the producer screams “RUN!” and everyone falls all over the boom mics to reach the van first, the gaffer rolling across the hood and the camera person clinging to the roof, before they peal away, leaving the producer behind. Later, the crew returns to filming, and Tarik brings Hazel to his bedroom to discuss the many different cultures he’s fetishized, and how they can get their triad popping again. Hazel says that growing up she had to hide her preferences, especially after her sister (who is also bi) came out of the closet. Her parents are pissed, but Hazel is feeling kinda free, and ready to resume hunting for a girlfriend.
They go online lady shopping based on body type and physical appearance, and Hazel insists that she be his type, because let’s face it, Minty was for Tarik. Tarik says his only request is for his daughter to remain isolated from their lifestyle, which Hazel is good with, and they upload their profile, and wait.
Next time: Andrew details his tropical suffering, a younger woman tests the red in Rebecca’s hair, Hazel talks to her son, Mike reluctantly goes to counseling to report he never lets anything go, Jovi can’t stop sucking or he’ll drown, and his friends are exactly as attractive as he is, and Steph is so salty about being denied theater that she’s ready to trot out the job sponsor nugget on the back of a psychic.
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