****
Can this really be the end? It seems like only yesterday, not September, that we embarked upon this odyssey together.
Well, it is the end both here and in Washington, D.C. At least, after reading this final instalment you won't have to worry about life imitating art. The real George W. isn't smart enough to emulate his fictional brother. He is slated to live a continued pointless life in his recently purchased, recently reduced-in-price 8500-square-foot split level in the Dallas suburbs.
May he re-discover the demon Rum. May Laura find a better man. May a plague of locusts descend upon his landscaping and may a swarm of locusts chomp away on his foundation. The man deserves nothing less.
As for our intrepid fictional characters and you, my most definitely non-fictional browsers, may you all live in peace. If you have time, drop me a line telling me what you thought about my literary endeavors.
****
After the Sheriff’s visit, the Captain and The Babe decided to stay overnight at the bisflats. They laid out sleeping bags next to a campfire.
It was a rare warm spring evening. The first flowers of the year scented the air with their perfume. The Hoot Owls announced their return upstate. The season’s first insects darted to and fro around the fire. Evenings like this produced a sense of contentment so intense and so similar in both the human and Avian minds that it must harken back to a common source in antediluvian times.
For the Captain it was a continuation of his recent camping experience up in Canada. The big difference was The Babe and the Birds were far better campfire companions than Big Al. They all lounged around the blaze, with the birds keeping a respectful distance because of the flying embers.
Lut was both fearful and fascinated about fire. He remembered his first year of migration flying over a wildfire on his way south. The updraft and smoke from the blaze forced him to take a long detour around it. It was twilight and the flames glowed orange on the horizon.
Sitting near the bislflats with the Captain and The Babe, he could now see how fire worked. He observed how the Captain gathered the tinder and wood, lit the match and watched in wonder as the small flame built itself into a roaring conflagration.
Lut was most impressed by how nonchalant human were around fire. They’d sit close to its edge, hold their hand out even closer to warm them, brush off sparks if they ever popped onto their clothes or even skin.
Yet he remembered that fire down south. He had heard about others that had gotten out of hand and burned huge tracts of land. What a remarkable phenomenon, fire could be, both your best friend and worst enemy.
The Babe was also enjoying herself; she was full of ideas about her institute.
“We could have courses on flying run by Swallows, how to prepare insects for sushi, ways in which the Five Precepts applied to the human world,” she rattled off one bright idea after another
“Is there any chance,” she asked the Captain, “of getting the Lord of the Black Flies down to teach? He must have some wonderful insights into inter-species behavior,” she said.
“Anything is possible,” the Captain said dreamily. He, too, would like to spend more time with the Lord. His Highness must have some fascinating tales to tell about life with the Black Flies.
The Captain was beginning to doze off. It certainly was not because of the conversation, which he found scintillating, but rather the early morning flight from Toronto, then the stress of the confrontation with the Sheriff. He was pooped.
A slumbering Captain Don heard the first warning just as Morpheus was wrapping him in his sweet embrace.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” the Birds were crying out.
“Of course, there’s a fire,” Captain Don mumbled to himself. “For heaven’s sake, go to sleep. That’s where I’m headed.”
“Fire! Fire!” The Babe picked up the chant. That brought the Captain to his senses.
His eyes opened wide, he stared into the campfire. It seemed much the same as before, albeit a little more subdued than before. However, behind him, on the inland side of the facility, there was now an orange glow as well, evidence of a much larger blaze.
“Oh my God, the woods are on fire,” the now fully awake Captain exclaimed.
He roused himself from his prone position and rushed to the security gate, where he instructed the guards to call the fire department and assemble all the shovels and rakes they could find.
The Captain rushed out of the fenced enclosure, running towards the woods.
Several minutes ahead of him were The Babe, Lut, Nafi, Hala and many of the other Swallows. The Birds had fought back their natural instincts to flee and instead had rushed towards the fire.
Without their assistance, the Captain would never have been able to collar the culprit and douse the blaze.
By the time the Captain reached the edge of the woods, Big Al was lying on the ground, still armed with his quart-size canisters of propane fuel sputtering into the ground. Several scorched Swallows lay nearby, burned to a crisp by Big Al’s wild flaming propane flailings.
The rest of the group, including our intrepid trio, were perched all over his body, holding him to the ground. The Babe was standing to the side, her hair singed, armed with a shovel, ready to use it again if the man on the ground attempted to get up.
Big Al — “Guide Extraordinaire,” “wilier than a Fox,” “no animal big or ornery enough could scare him” — had been subdued by a flock of Swallows and a woman with a shovel.
“Wait until all those Wolverines in Algonquin Park hear about this,” Captain Don said with more than a trace of irony in his voice.
Big Al was petrified with fear. During his long career, he had confronted marauding Bears, angry Skunks, pissed-off Porcupines, Moose in musth, but none of them had been as tough and persistent a foe as these Swallows and woman whose home and future home were threatened.
Big Al had tried to scare them away with preemptive fake charges, but they kept coming. He had tried to frighten them off with yells, but they kept coming. He had tried to flame them away with his propane torch, but they kept coming. Nothing could stop these determined Swallows and enraged woman.
“I knew it all along,” the Captain said as he looked down in contempt at his former guide who lay at his feet trembling with fear, his face raw with scratches. He was whimpering like a new born babe.
“You’re nothing but a big bully,” the Captain said.
To place their own exclamation point on that proclamation, Lut and Nafi both dropped their load right there on the newly christened “Lil Al.”
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Chapter 81: The War Peace Ceremony
After the botched Sheriff’s raid and Big Al’s failed attempt at intimidation that had resulted in only a few acres lost to flames, it was clear the Swallow team couldn’t be stopped. Norman remained incoherent, bubbling and mumbling, Big Al was deported back to Canada with his tail between his legs and Lisa, as Norman’s live-in/stand-in lover/leader, was simply in over her head.
The act of proclaiming the Scourge of the Swallows conflict at an end fell to Norman’s still official next of kin, The Babe, whose divorce papers weren’t yet final.
A Swallows War Peace Ceremony was held outside the Squires’ Boathouse where the troubles had begun more than a year ago. Part of The Babe’s divorce settlement would cede the cottage and Boathouse to her. She planned to invite the Swallows back and to restrict the structure’s deed to prevent any use other than as a Bird sanctuary.
Pastor Bendiks Barons gave the Invocation. He appeared in a flowing cassock with a brilliant red sash around his waist. He looked more like a Roman Catholic Cardinal than the defrocked Lutheran minister he was. Many said Bendiks’ words sounded more like an incantation than a prayer because of all the references to thunder, sky and water.
Then The Babe stepped up to the platform on the beach and began, “Words fail me at moments like this. However, someone needs to note the folly of it all, so I will try.”
Listening to her was a mix of media folks and townspeople, but not either Norman or Lisa. Many Birds were on hand, including the by now famous trinity of Lut, Hala and Nafi. They were perched on the new railing running around the roof of the Boathouse. Many were wearing little light-weight black wingbands fashioned by The Babe to honor the Swallows who had been incinerated by Big Al.
The Babe had hired the Captain to quickly re-build the railing since Norman had ordered its destruction last year. She knew it would be a perfect roost, especially during fledgling season. The Swallows were flanked on both sides by representatives from many major Avian groups. Thanks to some preliminary contacts made by The Babe’s institute, a few fish even showed up, poking their heads above water offshore. The solitary Woodchuck and cantankerous Muskrat both made brief appearances — one at the side of the cottage where The Babe had placed some strawberries and Shredded Wheat to gain his confidence, the other at the rear of the Boathouse — to see what all the fuss was about. Neither was aware of how close they had come to feeling Norman’s wrath.
Curiously, Captain Don didn’t seem to be in attendance.
The Babe continued, “Wars usually begin with a bang, but end with little contemplation about their causes. No one wants to remember the deaths, waste and destruction of this war, but remember, we must,” she said.
“We paid for this calamity with our blood, sweat and money. Don’t let the tears cloud our vision. If we remember anything, let it be the many mistakes on both sides so we don’t repeat them again.”
She paused for effect and also to get her emotions under control. “When Norman Squires declared victory by having the Swallows carted off to the detention center for further testing, I stood with him. That shows you we all made mistakes.”
“I don’t think I was a bad person then, only an inattentive one. Far too many of us weren’t paying attention. Far too many of us were letting others do our thinking.”
“Why is that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t a sound educational system liberate us from relying on others? Yet, ours doesn’t. It seems designed to prevent us from discovering the truth.”
The crowd gave her a warm round of applause.
“Improving the educational system will be my mission for the rest of my life. As you know, I have started the Swallow-Human Co-existence Institute for Training, SHCIT. I hope that will inculcate this life-long love of learning into every human and …,” she paused to turn to the Birds on the Boathouse railing “… every animal beginning with these lovely creatures assembled here today.”
A cheer went up from the gathering. Many of the Birds fluttered their wings while continuing to perch in place.
Nafi beamed at Hala while Lut let out a loud chirp.
The Babe raised her arms to quiet the crowd. She didn’t want it to get out of control before the surprise grand finale she and the Captain had planned.
“Friends, we can learn a lot from each other. All of us, humans and animals, have developed slightly different ways to deal with the same environment. I don’t care if you wear a baseball cap like an American, a turban like an Arab, or a headcrest like a Cockatoo, it doesn’t matter.
“What does matter is that this variety represents opportunity. It allows us to consider all possibilities before deciding on any course of action,” she said. “And, should we ever make a mistake, we must be willing to declare our errors to the world.
“Owning up is like bowing down,” she said with a quiver in her voice.
“Asking forgiveness is the most sacred, soul cleansing act of any religion,” she proclaimed with her eyes swelling up with tears of joy.
The Babe raised her arms again, this time not to quiet the crowd but to signal the triumphant end to her speech. Binging her hands together above her head, palm on palm, in a prayerful gesture, she twisted her body at her neck and waist into a classic three-curve tribhanga posture. Slowly, she pivoted to the ground with her head hung in humiliation. All of this was her elegant way of bowing down for the mistakes she and her ex-husband had made.
The crowd gave her a standing ovation, many yelling out, “We love you; you are The Babe.”
Off to the side, an aide pulled out a cell phone, punched in a number and said, “We’re ready.”
After a few moments, faint music could be heard up the lakeshore. As the applause died down, people and Birds became aware of the approaching sound of stirring classical music.
From their perch on high, the Birds were the first to catch sight of Captain Don’s barge laden with a small symphony orchestra. All of them, the Captain included, were wearing tuxedoes for the men and black ball gowns for the women. From the bow, the conductor waved his baton at the string, woodwind, brass and percussion sections. The Captain stood to the rear, next to the drums with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a tambourine.
The orchestra was playing Rimsky-Korsakoff’s “Flight of the Bumblebee.” The Captain contributed to the soaring music along with the rest of the percussionists.
Nafi was thrilled, “Ohmigod, that’s Swallow soul music; that’s how we fly,” he said, referring to the frantic rush of sixteenth notes in the score. Even though he was wrong about the animal being celebrated in the music, Nafi’s heart was in the right place. He was exhibiting lots of inter-species, Bird and bee and human-composer awareness. Perhaps there was hope for his cross species bonding potential after all.
Behind the boat streamed the largest collection of Avians anyone had ever witnessed. There were Sea Gulls, a long time Captain Don favorite, whose good behavior after their outbreak of violence had returned them to the his good graces. Many local Birds joined them: Swallows, naturally, Kingfishers, Wrens, Robins, Woodpeckers and a few escaped Canaries. Others rarely seen in these climes showed up: Pelicans, Parrots, Storks, an Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, thought to be extinct until recently discovered by a local university. There was even a Whooping Crane who was escorted by a manned ultra light aircraft, a testament to humans’ commitment not to lose another of these rare Birds, less than 500 of which still existed in the wild.
The music was extraordinary. The Bumblebees gave way to Stravinsky’s “Fire Bird” which segued into Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain.” Yes, the Russian composers were much in evidence, but there was also a Captain Don favorite, “The Theme from Star Trek” by Courage, complete with a rare ondes martenot instrument to make the tune’s ethereal, swirly soprano sound. As the barge pulled into the beach by the Boathouse, the orchestra switched to a top-10 American band favorite, the national march, John Phillip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
No one even considered singing the composer’s official lyrics, even if they had known them, about “martial notes” and “freedom’s field and hopes.” No, this was a different day, with a different non-Rotarian crowd, with a different “Yes-We-Can” attitude. Everyone, including most of the Birds, automatically lapsed into the more familiar words of the march:
The act of proclaiming the Scourge of the Swallows conflict at an end fell to Norman’s still official next of kin, The Babe, whose divorce papers weren’t yet final.
A Swallows War Peace Ceremony was held outside the Squires’ Boathouse where the troubles had begun more than a year ago. Part of The Babe’s divorce settlement would cede the cottage and Boathouse to her. She planned to invite the Swallows back and to restrict the structure’s deed to prevent any use other than as a Bird sanctuary.
Pastor Bendiks Barons gave the Invocation. He appeared in a flowing cassock with a brilliant red sash around his waist. He looked more like a Roman Catholic Cardinal than the defrocked Lutheran minister he was. Many said Bendiks’ words sounded more like an incantation than a prayer because of all the references to thunder, sky and water.
Then The Babe stepped up to the platform on the beach and began, “Words fail me at moments like this. However, someone needs to note the folly of it all, so I will try.”
Listening to her was a mix of media folks and townspeople, but not either Norman or Lisa. Many Birds were on hand, including the by now famous trinity of Lut, Hala and Nafi. They were perched on the new railing running around the roof of the Boathouse. Many were wearing little light-weight black wingbands fashioned by The Babe to honor the Swallows who had been incinerated by Big Al.
The Babe had hired the Captain to quickly re-build the railing since Norman had ordered its destruction last year. She knew it would be a perfect roost, especially during fledgling season. The Swallows were flanked on both sides by representatives from many major Avian groups. Thanks to some preliminary contacts made by The Babe’s institute, a few fish even showed up, poking their heads above water offshore. The solitary Woodchuck and cantankerous Muskrat both made brief appearances — one at the side of the cottage where The Babe had placed some strawberries and Shredded Wheat to gain his confidence, the other at the rear of the Boathouse — to see what all the fuss was about. Neither was aware of how close they had come to feeling Norman’s wrath.
Curiously, Captain Don didn’t seem to be in attendance.
The Babe continued, “Wars usually begin with a bang, but end with little contemplation about their causes. No one wants to remember the deaths, waste and destruction of this war, but remember, we must,” she said.
“We paid for this calamity with our blood, sweat and money. Don’t let the tears cloud our vision. If we remember anything, let it be the many mistakes on both sides so we don’t repeat them again.”
She paused for effect and also to get her emotions under control. “When Norman Squires declared victory by having the Swallows carted off to the detention center for further testing, I stood with him. That shows you we all made mistakes.”
“I don’t think I was a bad person then, only an inattentive one. Far too many of us weren’t paying attention. Far too many of us were letting others do our thinking.”
“Why is that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t a sound educational system liberate us from relying on others? Yet, ours doesn’t. It seems designed to prevent us from discovering the truth.”
The crowd gave her a warm round of applause.
“Improving the educational system will be my mission for the rest of my life. As you know, I have started the Swallow-Human Co-existence Institute for Training, SHCIT. I hope that will inculcate this life-long love of learning into every human and …,” she paused to turn to the Birds on the Boathouse railing “… every animal beginning with these lovely creatures assembled here today.”
A cheer went up from the gathering. Many of the Birds fluttered their wings while continuing to perch in place.
Nafi beamed at Hala while Lut let out a loud chirp.
The Babe raised her arms to quiet the crowd. She didn’t want it to get out of control before the surprise grand finale she and the Captain had planned.
“Friends, we can learn a lot from each other. All of us, humans and animals, have developed slightly different ways to deal with the same environment. I don’t care if you wear a baseball cap like an American, a turban like an Arab, or a headcrest like a Cockatoo, it doesn’t matter.
“What does matter is that this variety represents opportunity. It allows us to consider all possibilities before deciding on any course of action,” she said. “And, should we ever make a mistake, we must be willing to declare our errors to the world.
“Owning up is like bowing down,” she said with a quiver in her voice.
“Asking forgiveness is the most sacred, soul cleansing act of any religion,” she proclaimed with her eyes swelling up with tears of joy.
The Babe raised her arms again, this time not to quiet the crowd but to signal the triumphant end to her speech. Binging her hands together above her head, palm on palm, in a prayerful gesture, she twisted her body at her neck and waist into a classic three-curve tribhanga posture. Slowly, she pivoted to the ground with her head hung in humiliation. All of this was her elegant way of bowing down for the mistakes she and her ex-husband had made.
The crowd gave her a standing ovation, many yelling out, “We love you; you are The Babe.”
Off to the side, an aide pulled out a cell phone, punched in a number and said, “We’re ready.”
After a few moments, faint music could be heard up the lakeshore. As the applause died down, people and Birds became aware of the approaching sound of stirring classical music.
From their perch on high, the Birds were the first to catch sight of Captain Don’s barge laden with a small symphony orchestra. All of them, the Captain included, were wearing tuxedoes for the men and black ball gowns for the women. From the bow, the conductor waved his baton at the string, woodwind, brass and percussion sections. The Captain stood to the rear, next to the drums with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a tambourine.
The orchestra was playing Rimsky-Korsakoff’s “Flight of the Bumblebee.” The Captain contributed to the soaring music along with the rest of the percussionists.
Nafi was thrilled, “Ohmigod, that’s Swallow soul music; that’s how we fly,” he said, referring to the frantic rush of sixteenth notes in the score. Even though he was wrong about the animal being celebrated in the music, Nafi’s heart was in the right place. He was exhibiting lots of inter-species, Bird and bee and human-composer awareness. Perhaps there was hope for his cross species bonding potential after all.
Behind the boat streamed the largest collection of Avians anyone had ever witnessed. There were Sea Gulls, a long time Captain Don favorite, whose good behavior after their outbreak of violence had returned them to the his good graces. Many local Birds joined them: Swallows, naturally, Kingfishers, Wrens, Robins, Woodpeckers and a few escaped Canaries. Others rarely seen in these climes showed up: Pelicans, Parrots, Storks, an Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, thought to be extinct until recently discovered by a local university. There was even a Whooping Crane who was escorted by a manned ultra light aircraft, a testament to humans’ commitment not to lose another of these rare Birds, less than 500 of which still existed in the wild.
The music was extraordinary. The Bumblebees gave way to Stravinsky’s “Fire Bird” which segued into Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain.” Yes, the Russian composers were much in evidence, but there was also a Captain Don favorite, “The Theme from Star Trek” by Courage, complete with a rare ondes martenot instrument to make the tune’s ethereal, swirly soprano sound. As the barge pulled into the beach by the Boathouse, the orchestra switched to a top-10 American band favorite, the national march, John Phillip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
No one even considered singing the composer’s official lyrics, even if they had known them, about “martial notes” and “freedom’s field and hopes.” No, this was a different day, with a different non-Rotarian crowd, with a different “Yes-We-Can” attitude. Everyone, including most of the Birds, automatically lapsed into the more familiar words of the march:
“Be kind to your web-footed friendsAt that propitious moment, Captain Don leaned back on his haunches and let out the loudest bellow he had ever uttered — yes, even louder than his greeting to the Lord of the Black Flies. Residents on the far shore claimed they were soon thereafter hit by a small tsunami.
For a duck may be somebody's mother
Be kind to your friends in the swamp
Where the weather is very, very ‘domp’
Now, you may think that this is the end...
WELL, IT IS!”
Chapter 82: Media Reactions
The media took notice of the peace, although in a much more subdued fashion than their coverage of the startup of hostilities. The New York Post ran a single-column story deep inside, with a redundant headline: “Bird Fray Unravels.”
Fox News declared the peace a victory for the evil Lord of the Black Flies. The network spent half its report congratulating itself for being the only news outlet to have provided advance information about the Dark One. The other half of the coverage was news the network was negotiating with the Lord himself for an exclusive Q & A session and a derogatory interview with Big Al in which Bill O’Reilly would constantly interrupt him. News of Al’s dastardly arsonist ways had become public and even Fox couldn’t abide such behavior, especially when the culprit was a Canadian torching American woodlands.
Fox teased its listeners all evening that it had discovered startling new developments in the case, which it finally revealed at 11 p.m. The news was about Norman’s middle name of “V.,” whose unabbreviated form he had always refused to disclose. Fox ballyhooed the fact “V” stood not for “Victory” or some other cool concept, but for “Vaughan.” That meant “little” in Welsh. His father had used it to reflect Norman’s junior status to himself. The network now revealed it to literally “belittle” its former hero. Such was the spiteful demeanor of this media giant. Before never mentioning him ever again, the network sent Norman to their version of hell to languish with Big Al and former 43rd President George W. in the Fox “Hall of Shame.”
Rush Limbaugh, coughing into his sleeve, began his radio report by saying he would not mention all the Russian music in evidence at the ceremony, then said, “See, I told you the liberals were going to let these commie Birds spread Avian Flu everywhere. God help us.” Then, he promptly forgot about the whole Swallows affair and set out to find new windmills against which he could tilt.
CBS, NBC and ABC used a pool camera service to save money for their ailing news divisions. All of them cut the 30 minutes of tape provided to 10 seconds in one instance, but no more than 30 seconds for the other two.
The F.B.I. was on hand filming the participants. No one could figure out why.
J.P. Winslow did not dispatch a VNR news team to cover the event because Norman was no longer paying the way.
Pulitzer Prize-winning political cartoonist Paul Conrad drew a disheveled Norman V. Squires, wearing just a burp bib and diaper, as a pooh-stained bronze statue in a public park. Birds were sitting all over his head and shoulders. One Bird turns to the other and says, “Do you suppose this guy did anything else in life besides provide us someplace to perch?”
Perhaps the most comprehensive coverage came from the British Broadcasting Company World Service. With no commercials, it had no sponsors to worry about offending. It only had to please its 180 million listeners tuned in to its 73 language services.
Local Channel 21 Eyewitness News gave the ceremony extensive coverage. The new, wet-behind-the-ears reporter — a dead ringer for Lisa Norstrom, who had been fired several months before when her dual affiliations were discovered — gushed at the historic nature of the ceremony. However, her mention of the role of Rotary in the conflict was stricken by her editor. She did manage to persuade him to retain the fact Lisa had once been an employee of the station.
The Hoover Institute at Stanford University, a right-wing think tank, announced it would create a task force to study the Swallows War. The Institute, which had hired former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld to study the second Iraq War, said it would look into such issues as terrorism, honor and duty. Its goal, as always, was to prepare America to meet future threats to its way of life and its world hegemony.
Parker Brothers, a subsidiary of Hasbro Inc, the nation’s second largest toymaker, announced the introduction of a new game called “Poop®.” Similar to its best-selling “Monopoly®,” the purpose was to roll dice and move Swallow game pieces of different colors around a board. Each player received six small “Birdpats of Poop®,” which, tiddlywink-like, must be popped into the air by the Swallow game pieces, which doubled as squidgers, or launchers. Points were awarded for any Pats that landed in a mahogany-colored, Chris Craft-look-alike container, called the “Norman®.” It was placed in an outlined area in the middle of the board, which was informally known as the “Boathouse.” Landing on certain squares could award or take away Birdpats; others would send you to jail or, worst of all, to Canada. Players must leave the game when they were “Too Pooped to Pop®,’ meaning they had exhausted their Birdpats of Poop®.
The New York Times, as the nation’s paper of record, devoted almost 50 column-inches of space below the front-page fold to the conflict. The article quoted The Babe’s denunciation of the American educational system, but concluded that was an especially difficult problem, probably best left to be dealt with in other forums. The Times did elaborate on The Babe’s point that many people wanted to forget war, especially an unpopular conflict like this one. The newspaper said polls showed the majority of Americans had already dismissed it from their minds or couldn’t remember it in the first place.
The article pointed out that unintended consequences were often the most interesting details to emerge at the end of many wars. The Spanish-American War, begun to free Cubans and Filipinos, resulted in their subjugation by the victors. The American Civil War, begun partly to end slavery in the South, led to almost 100 years of segregation there as well as in the victorious North. The Second Iraq War, designed to rid the world of weapons of mass destruction that did not exist, ended in the diminution of the attacking nation and the strengthening of a neighboring nation, which very likely had dangerous weapons of mass destruction that did exist.
The article concluded by saying it was still too early to see what the consequences of the Swallows War would be.
A sidebar discussed the fate of Norman Vaughan Squires. It perceptively summed up the man whom it deemed “smaller than life.” It detailed how the brilliant J.P. Winslow had briefly turned a used car salesman into a national hero. Norman’s numerous verbal gaffes were recounted but dismissed as not indicative of any mental failings, just “a loose lip worried about sinking ships.”
The man of the hour, the article concluded, was a hometown hero, one of New York City’s former finest, Captain Don, who had never risen above the rank of Sergeant while on the police force, but whose “street smarts” were apparently more than enough to overcome the upstate bumpkin and Washington flack know-it-all. Overlooked, as usual, were the real heroes, the Swallows, who in the paper’s mind couldn’t make news nor purchase advertising. All they could do was suffer the consequences of a simple-minded man who, while wallowing in self pity, would claim in the end he was ruined by “intelligence failures” of all sorts, except his own.
Fox News declared the peace a victory for the evil Lord of the Black Flies. The network spent half its report congratulating itself for being the only news outlet to have provided advance information about the Dark One. The other half of the coverage was news the network was negotiating with the Lord himself for an exclusive Q & A session and a derogatory interview with Big Al in which Bill O’Reilly would constantly interrupt him. News of Al’s dastardly arsonist ways had become public and even Fox couldn’t abide such behavior, especially when the culprit was a Canadian torching American woodlands.
Fox teased its listeners all evening that it had discovered startling new developments in the case, which it finally revealed at 11 p.m. The news was about Norman’s middle name of “V.,” whose unabbreviated form he had always refused to disclose. Fox ballyhooed the fact “V” stood not for “Victory” or some other cool concept, but for “Vaughan.” That meant “little” in Welsh. His father had used it to reflect Norman’s junior status to himself. The network now revealed it to literally “belittle” its former hero. Such was the spiteful demeanor of this media giant. Before never mentioning him ever again, the network sent Norman to their version of hell to languish with Big Al and former 43rd President George W. in the Fox “Hall of Shame.”
Rush Limbaugh, coughing into his sleeve, began his radio report by saying he would not mention all the Russian music in evidence at the ceremony, then said, “See, I told you the liberals were going to let these commie Birds spread Avian Flu everywhere. God help us.” Then, he promptly forgot about the whole Swallows affair and set out to find new windmills against which he could tilt.
CBS, NBC and ABC used a pool camera service to save money for their ailing news divisions. All of them cut the 30 minutes of tape provided to 10 seconds in one instance, but no more than 30 seconds for the other two.
The F.B.I. was on hand filming the participants. No one could figure out why.
J.P. Winslow did not dispatch a VNR news team to cover the event because Norman was no longer paying the way.
Pulitzer Prize-winning political cartoonist Paul Conrad drew a disheveled Norman V. Squires, wearing just a burp bib and diaper, as a pooh-stained bronze statue in a public park. Birds were sitting all over his head and shoulders. One Bird turns to the other and says, “Do you suppose this guy did anything else in life besides provide us someplace to perch?”
Perhaps the most comprehensive coverage came from the British Broadcasting Company World Service. With no commercials, it had no sponsors to worry about offending. It only had to please its 180 million listeners tuned in to its 73 language services.
Local Channel 21 Eyewitness News gave the ceremony extensive coverage. The new, wet-behind-the-ears reporter — a dead ringer for Lisa Norstrom, who had been fired several months before when her dual affiliations were discovered — gushed at the historic nature of the ceremony. However, her mention of the role of Rotary in the conflict was stricken by her editor. She did manage to persuade him to retain the fact Lisa had once been an employee of the station.
The Hoover Institute at Stanford University, a right-wing think tank, announced it would create a task force to study the Swallows War. The Institute, which had hired former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld to study the second Iraq War, said it would look into such issues as terrorism, honor and duty. Its goal, as always, was to prepare America to meet future threats to its way of life and its world hegemony.
Parker Brothers, a subsidiary of Hasbro Inc, the nation’s second largest toymaker, announced the introduction of a new game called “Poop®.” Similar to its best-selling “Monopoly®,” the purpose was to roll dice and move Swallow game pieces of different colors around a board. Each player received six small “Birdpats of Poop®,” which, tiddlywink-like, must be popped into the air by the Swallow game pieces, which doubled as squidgers, or launchers. Points were awarded for any Pats that landed in a mahogany-colored, Chris Craft-look-alike container, called the “Norman®.” It was placed in an outlined area in the middle of the board, which was informally known as the “Boathouse.” Landing on certain squares could award or take away Birdpats; others would send you to jail or, worst of all, to Canada. Players must leave the game when they were “Too Pooped to Pop®,’ meaning they had exhausted their Birdpats of Poop®.
The New York Times, as the nation’s paper of record, devoted almost 50 column-inches of space below the front-page fold to the conflict. The article quoted The Babe’s denunciation of the American educational system, but concluded that was an especially difficult problem, probably best left to be dealt with in other forums. The Times did elaborate on The Babe’s point that many people wanted to forget war, especially an unpopular conflict like this one. The newspaper said polls showed the majority of Americans had already dismissed it from their minds or couldn’t remember it in the first place.
The article pointed out that unintended consequences were often the most interesting details to emerge at the end of many wars. The Spanish-American War, begun to free Cubans and Filipinos, resulted in their subjugation by the victors. The American Civil War, begun partly to end slavery in the South, led to almost 100 years of segregation there as well as in the victorious North. The Second Iraq War, designed to rid the world of weapons of mass destruction that did not exist, ended in the diminution of the attacking nation and the strengthening of a neighboring nation, which very likely had dangerous weapons of mass destruction that did exist.
The article concluded by saying it was still too early to see what the consequences of the Swallows War would be.
A sidebar discussed the fate of Norman Vaughan Squires. It perceptively summed up the man whom it deemed “smaller than life.” It detailed how the brilliant J.P. Winslow had briefly turned a used car salesman into a national hero. Norman’s numerous verbal gaffes were recounted but dismissed as not indicative of any mental failings, just “a loose lip worried about sinking ships.”
The man of the hour, the article concluded, was a hometown hero, one of New York City’s former finest, Captain Don, who had never risen above the rank of Sergeant while on the police force, but whose “street smarts” were apparently more than enough to overcome the upstate bumpkin and Washington flack know-it-all. Overlooked, as usual, were the real heroes, the Swallows, who in the paper’s mind couldn’t make news nor purchase advertising. All they could do was suffer the consequences of a simple-minded man who, while wallowing in self pity, would claim in the end he was ruined by “intelligence failures” of all sorts, except his own.
Chapter 83: That Dreadful Day After
Looking back on the War Peace Ceremony it could be seen now to have been the calm before the storm. Equality and justice seemed to have prevailed. Both sides in the bitter dispute seemed reconciled to letting bygones be bygones. Hopes for a bright new world seemed justified.
No one, especially Captain Don, could have suspected he was living out the final day of his brilliant halcyon career. As for Norman V. Squires, he didn’t have a childhood sled like Charles Foster Kane, nor a Crawford, Texas ranch like good ol’ Dubya to fall back upon. Norman’s only place of refuge was his Chris Craft mahogany runabout. That was where he was destined to spend his last sane moments on Earth.
These two men, who shared a love of boats, an upstate lake and strong opinions about Birds, one fair-minded, the other foul, shared a last beautiful morning together. It was the day after the peace ceremony, emotions still ran high. Where else would you be, but out on the water? That was where the Captain spotted Norman around 7:30 a.m. as the Chris Craft approached his barge at a fast clip. The Captain’s heart was as full of forgiveness this morning as Norman’s was hindered by hate. Yesterday’s classical uplifting melodies still echoed through Captain Don’s head while Norman hummed along to a Hitler favorite, The Badenweiler Marsch.
The Captain would never forget the thrill of ferrying that orchestra to the beach. The ode to joy reflected on humans’ and Birds’ faces, the regal elegance of the assembled plumage, the wonder of hearing the world’s first and finest musicians, the Birds, mingle their warbles with human voices in a chorus of love and hope that was indelibly embedded in his mind. Norman, by contrast, was contemplating the end of the world.
Norman’s boat, “Sweetie Pie,” pulled up alongside the Captain’s “Pile Driver.” “Permission to come aboard,” Norman yelled out pleasantly enough.
The Captain suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to his former foe since that winter season when he had worked on his Boathouse. Time can heal most wounds and the Captain was in a forgiving mood after yesterday’s festivities.
“Sure, come aboard,” he said, accepting Norman’s bow line which he attached to his cleat. He even extended his hand to pull Norman up the foot difference in the two boats’ heights.
“Mind the gap,” Captain Don said, using the British term for boarding the underground in London. Little did he know, today, the important gap was in Norman's mind.
Even though he was deeply disturbed, Norman managed to look pleased with the warm welcome. He hadn’t known what kind of reception he was going to receive, so had prepared for all possibilities.
On his face, he had plastered a false smile; in his back pocket, he had holstered a handgun.
When the smile waned, he would wave the weapon.
“Nice day,” Norman said, making a wide gesture with his arms.
It was only through an extraordinary exertion of willpower that Norman was able to pull off this display of normalcy. Up until two hours ago, he had been babbling and bubbling away incomprehensibly. He still wore the burp bib with “I Coo and Pooh, That’s All I Do” embroidered on it. That should have been a dead giveaway that something was amiss, but the Captain was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and guess he had merely overlooked removing it.
“It sure is a nice day,” the Captain readily agreed. “What brings you out here?”
“I had to move my boat to a new mooring,” Norman lied. Actually, thanks to a court order, a Sheriff’s deputy had moved the boat two days ago. This morning, Norman had snuck out of the rented cottage where both he and his boat were being institutionalized, leaving behind a sleeping Lisa and a nurse who had forgotten to give him his tranquilizer and OxyContin last night. Lisa had asked the doctor for the painkiller so Norman could share something with his hero, Rush Limbaugh.
The Captain was a bit surprised. Yesterday, he had correctly assumed the boat had already been moved. He waited for Norman to explain his sudden impulse to pay him a visit.
That was also strange; Norman premeditated everything. None of his actions were ever “sudden.” That way he would make no mistakes and never have to change his mind.
This morning’s actions had long been festering in Norman’s troubled mind. “A million Maggots” and “Kill Captain Don” had competed for his attention every minute of the last 48 hours. His presence on board the Captain’s barge showed he couldn’t do anything about the Maggots, but sure could about the Captain.
Ironically, both men’s attentions were diverted by a couple of pesky Black Flies.
“Damn Flies,” Norman said, swatting about his face, a gesture that accomplished little but to infuriate the Flies. Captain Don looked on serenely, more composed than his visitor. He still had some paternal feelings for the little buggers he had airlifted out of Canada. When they got too bothersome, the Captain did the humane thing and donned a Netsuit he had purchased up North.
“What can I do for you?” the Captain finally said to break the silence.
Norman’s pleasant smile dissolved into a sinister grin; a bubble formed at his mouth. He looked a lot like Uday Sadam Hussein al-Tikriti, the evil son of the Iraqi dictator.
“It’s a little late to be asking me that,” he said. “You’ve had your chances. Then you stole my Babe and made me a laughing stock of everyone and now look at me I babble all the time….” Norman said, his voice trailing off at the end like he didn’t know what to do next.
“Look here,” Captain Don said, “you started this whole mess.”
Norman actually did know what to do next. Now that his smile was gone, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his gun.
“Here’s Johnny!” he said, mimicking Jack Nicholson in his famous scene in the movie, The Shining, when he pokes his head through the ax-battered bathroom door to harangue his frightened wife with Ed McMahon’s famous greeting to Johnny Carson. Norman did not go to the movies. He had caught this scene once at the Mall when the local Blockbuster had screened it in its storefront window. The fact that it was totally inappropriate for this morning’s setting was lost on Norman. He didn’t watch TV either, so he didn’t know that much about the late night shows either.
The Captain was shocked to be looking into the eyes of a madman and down the barrel of his gun. In his mind, he was taken back to the streets of the city where he had faced such life-threatening situations before. The only problem was he had no back-up support out here in the middle of the lake.
Norman motioned for him to jump onto the Chris Craft. Norman followed after him with a surprisingly spry leap. Norman was feeling the restorative effects of his surging testosterone. So much of the hormone was pulsing in his veins that a six-lane freeway had to be built between his testicles and brain. He felt happy, realizing he was only moments away from fulfilling his fondest dream: he was going to rid himself of his arch nemesis.
“So long, Captain Don, we should do this more often,” he said with a crazy laugh as he tied the other man’s hands to a rope he had secured to the stern of his boat and forced the Captain to jump overboard. He started up his Chris Craft and pulled away from the barge.
The Captain floundered in the water, flailed behind the powerful Chris Craft. He vainly tried to keep his head above water as Norman, laughing wildly, steered his boat in ever widening circles around the lake. By Jove, in Norman’s addled mind, he was mighty Achilles towing the fallen Hector behind his chariot.
The Captain’s last words were a futile call for his only possible savior at this late moment. “Lut!!!!” he yelled, “Lut!!!” but to no avail. On any other day, the Swallows and Gulls, or any of his many Bird friends, would have been out and about and might have flown to the Captain’s rescue. Not today, they were still sleeping off the excesses of yesterday’s War Peace Ceremony.
Norman continued to haul the body all over the lake long after it was necessary. His last sane moment of clarity had vanished. For Norman, the prolonged flailing of the body represented the triumphant procession, the ticker tape parade that he had never received from the grateful nation for his glorious victory in the Swallows War.
For the last time in his life, he felt good.
With this savage attack, Norman Vaughan Squires joined James Earl Ray, Mark David Chapman and George Walker Bush to form the quartet of the “Three-Name Killers” who have deprived our country of those we value most (Author’s Note: There’s never been a killer with four-names like the author).
You just know wherever the Captain now resides, he is enjoying one of his grandest Zen moments as he punts on a placid pond, accompanied by Brother Martin, the Black man with a dream, the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and soldiers killed in that silly war and John Lennon, with his guitar, who is trying to “Imagine there's no heaven /It's easy if you try /No hell below us /Above us only sky.”
Meanwhile, somewhere else, a lot hotter, Norman has joined his brothers in crime — James, Mark and George — in their Sisyphean quest to scrape all the world’s excrement into ever neater, ever higher piles of shit.
This certainly was an inopportune and disagreeable way for Captain Don to die. He had so much to live for; he had so many plans for the future, so many more moments of Zen to share with his fellow men and animals. The only consolation was that, at least, his final resting place was in the liquid embrace of the one element he loved so much. After his funeral, his friends decided to return his body to where it was found that horrible morning: at the bottom of the lake, weighted down by Norman’s Chris-Craft anchor and by the Captain’s struggles to save the Birds he loved so much. Hermes, usually the messenger from the heavens, reversed his role to honor this mortal. With his winged shoes and rod, he conveyed Captain Don’s soul to the gods on high.
No one, especially Captain Don, could have suspected he was living out the final day of his brilliant halcyon career. As for Norman V. Squires, he didn’t have a childhood sled like Charles Foster Kane, nor a Crawford, Texas ranch like good ol’ Dubya to fall back upon. Norman’s only place of refuge was his Chris Craft mahogany runabout. That was where he was destined to spend his last sane moments on Earth.
These two men, who shared a love of boats, an upstate lake and strong opinions about Birds, one fair-minded, the other foul, shared a last beautiful morning together. It was the day after the peace ceremony, emotions still ran high. Where else would you be, but out on the water? That was where the Captain spotted Norman around 7:30 a.m. as the Chris Craft approached his barge at a fast clip. The Captain’s heart was as full of forgiveness this morning as Norman’s was hindered by hate. Yesterday’s classical uplifting melodies still echoed through Captain Don’s head while Norman hummed along to a Hitler favorite, The Badenweiler Marsch.
The Captain would never forget the thrill of ferrying that orchestra to the beach. The ode to joy reflected on humans’ and Birds’ faces, the regal elegance of the assembled plumage, the wonder of hearing the world’s first and finest musicians, the Birds, mingle their warbles with human voices in a chorus of love and hope that was indelibly embedded in his mind. Norman, by contrast, was contemplating the end of the world.
Norman’s boat, “Sweetie Pie,” pulled up alongside the Captain’s “Pile Driver.” “Permission to come aboard,” Norman yelled out pleasantly enough.
The Captain suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to his former foe since that winter season when he had worked on his Boathouse. Time can heal most wounds and the Captain was in a forgiving mood after yesterday’s festivities.
“Sure, come aboard,” he said, accepting Norman’s bow line which he attached to his cleat. He even extended his hand to pull Norman up the foot difference in the two boats’ heights.
“Mind the gap,” Captain Don said, using the British term for boarding the underground in London. Little did he know, today, the important gap was in Norman's mind.
Even though he was deeply disturbed, Norman managed to look pleased with the warm welcome. He hadn’t known what kind of reception he was going to receive, so had prepared for all possibilities.
On his face, he had plastered a false smile; in his back pocket, he had holstered a handgun.
When the smile waned, he would wave the weapon.
“Nice day,” Norman said, making a wide gesture with his arms.
It was only through an extraordinary exertion of willpower that Norman was able to pull off this display of normalcy. Up until two hours ago, he had been babbling and bubbling away incomprehensibly. He still wore the burp bib with “I Coo and Pooh, That’s All I Do” embroidered on it. That should have been a dead giveaway that something was amiss, but the Captain was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and guess he had merely overlooked removing it.
“It sure is a nice day,” the Captain readily agreed. “What brings you out here?”
“I had to move my boat to a new mooring,” Norman lied. Actually, thanks to a court order, a Sheriff’s deputy had moved the boat two days ago. This morning, Norman had snuck out of the rented cottage where both he and his boat were being institutionalized, leaving behind a sleeping Lisa and a nurse who had forgotten to give him his tranquilizer and OxyContin last night. Lisa had asked the doctor for the painkiller so Norman could share something with his hero, Rush Limbaugh.
The Captain was a bit surprised. Yesterday, he had correctly assumed the boat had already been moved. He waited for Norman to explain his sudden impulse to pay him a visit.
That was also strange; Norman premeditated everything. None of his actions were ever “sudden.” That way he would make no mistakes and never have to change his mind.
This morning’s actions had long been festering in Norman’s troubled mind. “A million Maggots” and “Kill Captain Don” had competed for his attention every minute of the last 48 hours. His presence on board the Captain’s barge showed he couldn’t do anything about the Maggots, but sure could about the Captain.
Ironically, both men’s attentions were diverted by a couple of pesky Black Flies.
“Damn Flies,” Norman said, swatting about his face, a gesture that accomplished little but to infuriate the Flies. Captain Don looked on serenely, more composed than his visitor. He still had some paternal feelings for the little buggers he had airlifted out of Canada. When they got too bothersome, the Captain did the humane thing and donned a Netsuit he had purchased up North.
“What can I do for you?” the Captain finally said to break the silence.
Norman’s pleasant smile dissolved into a sinister grin; a bubble formed at his mouth. He looked a lot like Uday Sadam Hussein al-Tikriti, the evil son of the Iraqi dictator.
“It’s a little late to be asking me that,” he said. “You’ve had your chances. Then you stole my Babe and made me a laughing stock of everyone and now look at me I babble all the time….” Norman said, his voice trailing off at the end like he didn’t know what to do next.
“Look here,” Captain Don said, “you started this whole mess.”
Norman actually did know what to do next. Now that his smile was gone, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his gun.
“Here’s Johnny!” he said, mimicking Jack Nicholson in his famous scene in the movie, The Shining, when he pokes his head through the ax-battered bathroom door to harangue his frightened wife with Ed McMahon’s famous greeting to Johnny Carson. Norman did not go to the movies. He had caught this scene once at the Mall when the local Blockbuster had screened it in its storefront window. The fact that it was totally inappropriate for this morning’s setting was lost on Norman. He didn’t watch TV either, so he didn’t know that much about the late night shows either.
The Captain was shocked to be looking into the eyes of a madman and down the barrel of his gun. In his mind, he was taken back to the streets of the city where he had faced such life-threatening situations before. The only problem was he had no back-up support out here in the middle of the lake.
Norman motioned for him to jump onto the Chris Craft. Norman followed after him with a surprisingly spry leap. Norman was feeling the restorative effects of his surging testosterone. So much of the hormone was pulsing in his veins that a six-lane freeway had to be built between his testicles and brain. He felt happy, realizing he was only moments away from fulfilling his fondest dream: he was going to rid himself of his arch nemesis.
“So long, Captain Don, we should do this more often,” he said with a crazy laugh as he tied the other man’s hands to a rope he had secured to the stern of his boat and forced the Captain to jump overboard. He started up his Chris Craft and pulled away from the barge.
The Captain floundered in the water, flailed behind the powerful Chris Craft. He vainly tried to keep his head above water as Norman, laughing wildly, steered his boat in ever widening circles around the lake. By Jove, in Norman’s addled mind, he was mighty Achilles towing the fallen Hector behind his chariot.
The Captain’s last words were a futile call for his only possible savior at this late moment. “Lut!!!!” he yelled, “Lut!!!” but to no avail. On any other day, the Swallows and Gulls, or any of his many Bird friends, would have been out and about and might have flown to the Captain’s rescue. Not today, they were still sleeping off the excesses of yesterday’s War Peace Ceremony.
Norman continued to haul the body all over the lake long after it was necessary. His last sane moment of clarity had vanished. For Norman, the prolonged flailing of the body represented the triumphant procession, the ticker tape parade that he had never received from the grateful nation for his glorious victory in the Swallows War.
For the last time in his life, he felt good.
With this savage attack, Norman Vaughan Squires joined James Earl Ray, Mark David Chapman and George Walker Bush to form the quartet of the “Three-Name Killers” who have deprived our country of those we value most (Author’s Note: There’s never been a killer with four-names like the author).
You just know wherever the Captain now resides, he is enjoying one of his grandest Zen moments as he punts on a placid pond, accompanied by Brother Martin, the Black man with a dream, the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and soldiers killed in that silly war and John Lennon, with his guitar, who is trying to “Imagine there's no heaven /It's easy if you try /No hell below us /Above us only sky.”
Meanwhile, somewhere else, a lot hotter, Norman has joined his brothers in crime — James, Mark and George — in their Sisyphean quest to scrape all the world’s excrement into ever neater, ever higher piles of shit.
This certainly was an inopportune and disagreeable way for Captain Don to die. He had so much to live for; he had so many plans for the future, so many more moments of Zen to share with his fellow men and animals. The only consolation was that, at least, his final resting place was in the liquid embrace of the one element he loved so much. After his funeral, his friends decided to return his body to where it was found that horrible morning: at the bottom of the lake, weighted down by Norman’s Chris-Craft anchor and by the Captain’s struggles to save the Birds he loved so much. Hermes, usually the messenger from the heavens, reversed his role to honor this mortal. With his winged shoes and rod, he conveyed Captain Don’s soul to the gods on high.
Chapter 84: Epilogue
Captain Don’s death is the most momentous development since the war ended three years ago. Gone too are Lut, Hala and Nafi. Such are the vicissitudes of existence. The three Swallows lived out their natural life spans; Captain Don did not.
Lut and Nafi died during a migration north. One can assume the two were listening to their inner music, pushing themselves hard to be among the first to arrive at the Boathouse. Their hearts gave out near a nondescript exit off Interstate 95 in South Carolina. A waitress from the local Waffle House found them. Saying a little prayer, she wrapped their tiny bodies in maple-syrup-stained placemats before tossing them in a dumpster. Hala died that same spring. Some say she expired of a broken heart, having learned only the week before that both Lut and Nafi hadn’t completed the migration north.
The Captain’s death touched the hearts of many people and Birds. His casket was borne on his barge around the lake with The Babe at the helm. His body was later re-interred in the lake, sunk again to the bottom by Norman’s anchor. The cortège was almost a quarter mile long if you counted all the Birds trailing off the stern. People lined the shore to witness the procession. Many of them whooped as loud as they could to honor the fallen warrior. Needless to say, none of their yells even rippled the lake’s calm surface.
The massive manhunt for Captain Don’s murderer, Norman Vaughan Squires, shut down the entire upstate area for weeks as everyone took off from work or played hooky from school. Many Birds joined in, providing valuable aerial surveillance as well as ground coverage of the more remote areas. That was where a pair of sharp-eyed Grouse found Norman huddled in a hole in the woods.
The judge who sentenced Norman to life imprisonment was himself a Rotarian. He had attended that very luncheon session in which Norman had made his denunciations of the Swallows. He was a fellow boat owner and had been on Norman’s original steering committee to contain the Swallows. He had once come close to, as the kid’s say, “hooking up” with Lisa Norstrom. During sentencing, he smiled at her sitting in the courtroom, but frowned at Norman, reprimanding him for the dastardly way he had killed the Captain.
“Premeditated murder is bad enough, even though your outrage was understandable,” the Judge said from the bench. “But to subject your fine old Chris Craft to such stress by tying the victim behind and tweaking the boat’s frame by flailing the body as long as you did is reprehensible.” Ownership of the Chris Craft reverted to The Babe who still motors about the lake in it today.
Norman is currently serving a life sentence at Sing Sing Correctional Facility. Since he was already upstate, “He was sold down the river!” as Norman’s few remaining supporters, all three of them, liked to say. Little is known about his existence there, but it can be assumed he won’t be following in the footsteps of another famous federal prisoner, Charles Stroud, the “Birdman of Alcatraz.”
Thanks to numerous books like this one and others that have detailed the Swallow’s dramatic story, many of the characters, fictional and not, have become staples of the popular imagination.
The Babe, in her acclaimed study of the war, cites some of these as examples of why Norman failed. “While it certainly helps to have big dumb guys like Angler the Perch to do your dirty work, clever tacticians like Ferdie the Firefly to run your daily affairs, supposed strategists like Rummy the Fiddler Crab to plan your operations and self-serving commentators like the Zebra Mussels to comment on everything — they are not enough.”
“True freedom fighters, like Captain Don and the Swallows, will always prevail when up against people like Norman V. Squires, who is not too smart and is simply trying hard to avoid failure, and J.P. Winslow, who is squeezing truth, like lemons, into his tart version of how things should be. Only by zealously pursuing total mobilization of your forces and seeking annihilation of the enemy, something difficult to do in a democracy, can you achieve victory. Even then, you’ve got to be darn lucky as well.”
J.P Winslow’s doctors, by the way, report he is doing a little better. His demented visions of grandeur have subdued to a point where his chiaroscuro view of the world has been replaced by a gray palette. Some days, he is almost coherent. Doctors believe he eventually will be able to re-enter society, but probably never practice public relations again.
The original Boathouse remains a Swallow sanctuary. Lut’s, Hala’s and Nafi’s nest enjoys a prominent spot on the wall where it is still used by some of their descendants. One branch of the family moved there while the other remained at SCRWU. Captain Don’s plaque marking Mooring Number One remained at the bisflats wall even though Lut’s childhood nest was moved back to the Boathouse in a special ceremony attended by the new President and other dignitaries. CNN and Fox were both there, live. The Birds have vowed to maintain the nest by diligently patrolling for mites and by laminating the sides with their collective saliva. However, when it does fall of the wall, which it ultimately will, it will be allowed to sink to the bottom of the lake. Unlike humans, Swallows know everything has a natural cycle. To mis-quote a long-time closet Trans Species-ist, Yogi Berra, “’It’s over when it's over.”
The Sheriff ran for and won re-election. Voters appreciated his restraint in dealing with the Swallows after they were let out of jail. Of late, he has been seen frequently in the company of Lisa Norstrom. Rumors are rife about their intentions. She has intimated to friends she wouldn’t mind an upgrade in her “gravitas” by being called “Mrs. Sheriff” if she ever does tie the knot.
To honor the Captain, The Babe renamed her institute after him: The Captain Don Institute for Human-Animal Co-Existence (CDIHAC). The Babe thought it was just as well that the new acronym lacked the zing of the former because the old one was an attractive nuisance.
“Kids were forever stealing the old “SHCIT” signs,” she explained.
The Institute’s long-term survival has been ensured thanks to a generous grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which, having eradicated malaria, has now vowed to eliminate “all inter-species disharmony” in the world.
Some of Gates’ money was used to augment funds pledged by public subscription drives to construct the award-winning Institute buildings near the SCRWU facility. There architect Frank Gehry created one of his outstanding “deconstructivist” buildings. This one evokes images of his titanium-clad Bilbao museum, but demands its own identity with a set of wing-like roof structures appended to its barge-like lower floors. To honor the Captain, the words “Pile Driver,” four feet high, are inscribed on the building’s stern.
The building features the world’s first Wiccan Human-Animal Church, presided over by Pastor Bendiks Barons who resigned his post at the Lutheran Church.
“Who was I kidding? I’ve always been drawn to the natural pagan world. Luther and Bach are yesterday’s news and my Lutheran parishioners were straight out of The Saturday Evening Post. Nothing against Norman Rockwell, but I’d rather hang with “illiterati,” like the Swallows. They really appreciate my music,” he said.
Babe used what was left of Mrs. Stavros’ million-dollar donation to purchase the failing Bird and Shotgun museum, whose attendance had dwindled when it was removed from the AAA list of recommended attractions due to pressure from Bird lovers. Babe moved it out to her institute, re-wrote its mission to be more Bird-friendly and less dead-Bird oriented and it soon regained its popularity with both the auto association and tourists.
The shotgun is now portrayed in the museum along the lines of the 1918 Spanish Flu Pandemic as one of the greatest killers in history. Its status as “collateral damage-proof” is mentioned in the exhibit, but only as an example of the militaristic rantings that used to dominate the country. All things related to the military have taken a decided downward spin in the public’s mind, just like the lull after the Viet Nam War that lasted until the start of the next great American misadventure abroad.
In the lobby of the institute is housed Norman V. Squires’ Handy Dandy Planner Notebook behind bulletproof glass. Each night, an ingenious pulley system lowers it to a fireproof vault below ground for protection. Each morning, as it is being brought up, an articulated arm flip flops it to a new page to reveal yet another one of his whacky ideas. Witnessing this “tricky” bit of engineering has become almost as popular as reading its entries Visiting classes of school kids are advised to start with the notebok, so that, as with a good speech, their tour can begin with a few good laughs.
The Captain Don Institute’s current lineup of courses features the popular “To Bee or Not to Bee,” a seminar for humans who want to examine the limits of exploring their social sides.
There’s also “The Raw and the Cooked,” a new look at Claude Levi Strauss’ classic theory in light of insights provided by the Birds’ diets. In a similar vein, “Insect Sushi” provides practical tips on how to enjoy that perennially classic cuisine.
Dr. Cleodis T. Cunningham has started a summer symposium at the institute for the world’s leading biologists. They are searching for ways to take the wallop out of the Black Flies’ bite. Even though they consult Dr. Jarda Jirasek on a regular basis on how to maintain the “integrity” of the Black Fly’s genome coding, there are persistent rumors about a possible blow up between the two groups.
Lisa Norstrom’s “Birdbrain Ideas” class always reaches its quota early with a look at seemingly “crazy ideas” that good public relations has sold.
The Lord of the Black Flies continues to pack them in with a number of courses in his Department of Trans Species Studies. He is also a hugely popular after-dinner speaker on the banquet circuit.
Two of Lut’s offspring have taken over his “Swallow Flying Techniques” course, always a good draw for the younger Avian and human Jet Set.
“Twice Told ‘Tails’ ” teaches storytelling skills for females of all species. Originated by Hala before her death, it is currently seeking a replacement teacher.
Up north, Canadian officials have cut a new road into Algonquin Park and renovated the Lord of the Black Fly’s house. For the sake of re-creating the most convenient viewing experience for the most people, the dioramas that depict the Lord’s efforts have been rendered as if he worked fulltime above ground in the house. A small placard near the entrance apologizes for the historical inaccuracy of the displays.
Rumors have it an underground boat ride, á la Disney World’s “Pirates of the Caribbean,” is planned in the Lord’s actual former underground lair in the near future. It will reportedly be called “Journey on the River Styx” even though that theme has nothing at all to do with the Lord of the Black Flies. Recent advances in animatronics have allowed ever smaller robotic creatures. This ride will feature electronic, non-biting Black Flies instead of Lightning Bugs.
The Lord has moved his actual operations south to the upstate area where he has become head of the Department of Trans Species Studies at The Babe’s Institute. Besides finding a cure for cancer with his updated Maggot therapy, he has successfully bred a “Flosquito.”
Unfortunately for the Lord and the insect, but just as well for everyone else, except the Birds, it has proven to be too delectable for its own good. Plans are to cross breed it with a Stinkbug to improve its longevity.
Big Al, proving scoundrels sometimes succeed, was awarded the concession to run the Lord’s Algonquin house despite a long letter from The Babe that detailed his role in starting the wildfire outside her institute and requesting he not be rewarded for his actions. The Canuck Minister of the Interior denied her request by saying he had read a pre-publication copy of The Boathouse and did not appreciate its many scurrilous remarks about Canada. He also upbraided the Babe for suggesting Americans wear a Canadian flag on their backpack trips through Europe. “While that isn’t necessarily illegal, it certainly would be unethical and could subject Canadians to terror best reserved for Americans alone,” he wrote. “Don’t expect any help at our European consulates.”
Every summer, Big Al regales hundred of thousands of visitors to the Algonquin house with stories about the Captain’s and his heroic confrontation with the Lord. On weekend evenings, he entertains many more with his “Canoe Antics” followed by stories told around the campfire. He never tells tales, tall or short, about Swallows. In fact, he has never mentioned them ever again.
The toxic fiberfill in the Swallows’ Simul Nests created a mutation in Hala’s first brood of her last productive year. Two of her chicks were born with a distinctive hue, a kandy-kolored, tangerine-flaked coat of feathers. Since they were presumed not to be Lut’s creations, these psychedelic aberrations and their subsequent similarly colored offspring became known throughout the Swallow world as “Nafi’s Kids.”
The New York Times still has to pronounce judgment on the consequences of the War of the Swallows. Some historians, however, are already routinely referring to it as the “dumbest” war ever. J.P. Winslow, if he were coherent, would certainly argue with that characterization. Even with the boss unavailable for consultation, J.P.’s old firm is still waging a number of dumb conflicts elsewhere. “We have to stay involved,” a spokesperson.said. “People don’t know how to start wars on their own anymore.”
J.P.’s embedded “Young Jornos” did win an Emmy for “Outstanding Reality Competition, Handheld Cinematography,” but since it was in the “Creative Arts,” not “Primetime” category, J.P.’s spokesperson never got to accept the award on TV. Some Internet sites said rumors about the Jornos’ Swallow egg-eating experiment had led to the lesser award.
Black Flies continue to plague the upstate region. People complain all the time about them. Some even use the Captain’s name as an expletive when they are beset by an especially large number of Flies.
“Captain Don it, Captain Don it!” they curse.
It is instructive to note that most people never swear that way in polite company or around children. Of late, savvy teenagers have begun to use the expression “Hot Don!” when they see an attractive person or an object they admire. Norman V. Squires, on the other hand, has become a term of derision, uttered whenever someone tries to do something especially stupid.
Finally, the existence of what was long assumed to be mythical, the Fab Five Swallows, has been confirmed on camera. The video of the ethereal five white Swallows emerging from the mist was captured by a production company headed by Lisa Norstrom. In her narration voiceover, she exclaims, in a voice laced with Charlton-Heston sincerity, that the largest of them all, the Grand Preordinator, bears a striking resemblance to our very own Lut. Coming from such an unimpeachable authority as Lisa, you just gotta’ believe it’s true.
Lut and Nafi died during a migration north. One can assume the two were listening to their inner music, pushing themselves hard to be among the first to arrive at the Boathouse. Their hearts gave out near a nondescript exit off Interstate 95 in South Carolina. A waitress from the local Waffle House found them. Saying a little prayer, she wrapped their tiny bodies in maple-syrup-stained placemats before tossing them in a dumpster. Hala died that same spring. Some say she expired of a broken heart, having learned only the week before that both Lut and Nafi hadn’t completed the migration north.
The Captain’s death touched the hearts of many people and Birds. His casket was borne on his barge around the lake with The Babe at the helm. His body was later re-interred in the lake, sunk again to the bottom by Norman’s anchor. The cortège was almost a quarter mile long if you counted all the Birds trailing off the stern. People lined the shore to witness the procession. Many of them whooped as loud as they could to honor the fallen warrior. Needless to say, none of their yells even rippled the lake’s calm surface.
The massive manhunt for Captain Don’s murderer, Norman Vaughan Squires, shut down the entire upstate area for weeks as everyone took off from work or played hooky from school. Many Birds joined in, providing valuable aerial surveillance as well as ground coverage of the more remote areas. That was where a pair of sharp-eyed Grouse found Norman huddled in a hole in the woods.
The judge who sentenced Norman to life imprisonment was himself a Rotarian. He had attended that very luncheon session in which Norman had made his denunciations of the Swallows. He was a fellow boat owner and had been on Norman’s original steering committee to contain the Swallows. He had once come close to, as the kid’s say, “hooking up” with Lisa Norstrom. During sentencing, he smiled at her sitting in the courtroom, but frowned at Norman, reprimanding him for the dastardly way he had killed the Captain.
“Premeditated murder is bad enough, even though your outrage was understandable,” the Judge said from the bench. “But to subject your fine old Chris Craft to such stress by tying the victim behind and tweaking the boat’s frame by flailing the body as long as you did is reprehensible.” Ownership of the Chris Craft reverted to The Babe who still motors about the lake in it today.
Norman is currently serving a life sentence at Sing Sing Correctional Facility. Since he was already upstate, “He was sold down the river!” as Norman’s few remaining supporters, all three of them, liked to say. Little is known about his existence there, but it can be assumed he won’t be following in the footsteps of another famous federal prisoner, Charles Stroud, the “Birdman of Alcatraz.”
Thanks to numerous books like this one and others that have detailed the Swallow’s dramatic story, many of the characters, fictional and not, have become staples of the popular imagination.
The Babe, in her acclaimed study of the war, cites some of these as examples of why Norman failed. “While it certainly helps to have big dumb guys like Angler the Perch to do your dirty work, clever tacticians like Ferdie the Firefly to run your daily affairs, supposed strategists like Rummy the Fiddler Crab to plan your operations and self-serving commentators like the Zebra Mussels to comment on everything — they are not enough.”
“True freedom fighters, like Captain Don and the Swallows, will always prevail when up against people like Norman V. Squires, who is not too smart and is simply trying hard to avoid failure, and J.P. Winslow, who is squeezing truth, like lemons, into his tart version of how things should be. Only by zealously pursuing total mobilization of your forces and seeking annihilation of the enemy, something difficult to do in a democracy, can you achieve victory. Even then, you’ve got to be darn lucky as well.”
J.P Winslow’s doctors, by the way, report he is doing a little better. His demented visions of grandeur have subdued to a point where his chiaroscuro view of the world has been replaced by a gray palette. Some days, he is almost coherent. Doctors believe he eventually will be able to re-enter society, but probably never practice public relations again.
The original Boathouse remains a Swallow sanctuary. Lut’s, Hala’s and Nafi’s nest enjoys a prominent spot on the wall where it is still used by some of their descendants. One branch of the family moved there while the other remained at SCRWU. Captain Don’s plaque marking Mooring Number One remained at the bisflats wall even though Lut’s childhood nest was moved back to the Boathouse in a special ceremony attended by the new President and other dignitaries. CNN and Fox were both there, live. The Birds have vowed to maintain the nest by diligently patrolling for mites and by laminating the sides with their collective saliva. However, when it does fall of the wall, which it ultimately will, it will be allowed to sink to the bottom of the lake. Unlike humans, Swallows know everything has a natural cycle. To mis-quote a long-time closet Trans Species-ist, Yogi Berra, “’It’s over when it's over.”
The Sheriff ran for and won re-election. Voters appreciated his restraint in dealing with the Swallows after they were let out of jail. Of late, he has been seen frequently in the company of Lisa Norstrom. Rumors are rife about their intentions. She has intimated to friends she wouldn’t mind an upgrade in her “gravitas” by being called “Mrs. Sheriff” if she ever does tie the knot.
To honor the Captain, The Babe renamed her institute after him: The Captain Don Institute for Human-Animal Co-Existence (CDIHAC). The Babe thought it was just as well that the new acronym lacked the zing of the former because the old one was an attractive nuisance.
“Kids were forever stealing the old “SHCIT” signs,” she explained.
The Institute’s long-term survival has been ensured thanks to a generous grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which, having eradicated malaria, has now vowed to eliminate “all inter-species disharmony” in the world.
Some of Gates’ money was used to augment funds pledged by public subscription drives to construct the award-winning Institute buildings near the SCRWU facility. There architect Frank Gehry created one of his outstanding “deconstructivist” buildings. This one evokes images of his titanium-clad Bilbao museum, but demands its own identity with a set of wing-like roof structures appended to its barge-like lower floors. To honor the Captain, the words “Pile Driver,” four feet high, are inscribed on the building’s stern.
The building features the world’s first Wiccan Human-Animal Church, presided over by Pastor Bendiks Barons who resigned his post at the Lutheran Church.
“Who was I kidding? I’ve always been drawn to the natural pagan world. Luther and Bach are yesterday’s news and my Lutheran parishioners were straight out of The Saturday Evening Post. Nothing against Norman Rockwell, but I’d rather hang with “illiterati,” like the Swallows. They really appreciate my music,” he said.
Babe used what was left of Mrs. Stavros’ million-dollar donation to purchase the failing Bird and Shotgun museum, whose attendance had dwindled when it was removed from the AAA list of recommended attractions due to pressure from Bird lovers. Babe moved it out to her institute, re-wrote its mission to be more Bird-friendly and less dead-Bird oriented and it soon regained its popularity with both the auto association and tourists.
The shotgun is now portrayed in the museum along the lines of the 1918 Spanish Flu Pandemic as one of the greatest killers in history. Its status as “collateral damage-proof” is mentioned in the exhibit, but only as an example of the militaristic rantings that used to dominate the country. All things related to the military have taken a decided downward spin in the public’s mind, just like the lull after the Viet Nam War that lasted until the start of the next great American misadventure abroad.
In the lobby of the institute is housed Norman V. Squires’ Handy Dandy Planner Notebook behind bulletproof glass. Each night, an ingenious pulley system lowers it to a fireproof vault below ground for protection. Each morning, as it is being brought up, an articulated arm flip flops it to a new page to reveal yet another one of his whacky ideas. Witnessing this “tricky” bit of engineering has become almost as popular as reading its entries Visiting classes of school kids are advised to start with the notebok, so that, as with a good speech, their tour can begin with a few good laughs.
The Captain Don Institute’s current lineup of courses features the popular “To Bee or Not to Bee,” a seminar for humans who want to examine the limits of exploring their social sides.
There’s also “The Raw and the Cooked,” a new look at Claude Levi Strauss’ classic theory in light of insights provided by the Birds’ diets. In a similar vein, “Insect Sushi” provides practical tips on how to enjoy that perennially classic cuisine.
Dr. Cleodis T. Cunningham has started a summer symposium at the institute for the world’s leading biologists. They are searching for ways to take the wallop out of the Black Flies’ bite. Even though they consult Dr. Jarda Jirasek on a regular basis on how to maintain the “integrity” of the Black Fly’s genome coding, there are persistent rumors about a possible blow up between the two groups.
Lisa Norstrom’s “Birdbrain Ideas” class always reaches its quota early with a look at seemingly “crazy ideas” that good public relations has sold.
The Lord of the Black Flies continues to pack them in with a number of courses in his Department of Trans Species Studies. He is also a hugely popular after-dinner speaker on the banquet circuit.
Two of Lut’s offspring have taken over his “Swallow Flying Techniques” course, always a good draw for the younger Avian and human Jet Set.
“Twice Told ‘Tails’ ” teaches storytelling skills for females of all species. Originated by Hala before her death, it is currently seeking a replacement teacher.
Up north, Canadian officials have cut a new road into Algonquin Park and renovated the Lord of the Black Fly’s house. For the sake of re-creating the most convenient viewing experience for the most people, the dioramas that depict the Lord’s efforts have been rendered as if he worked fulltime above ground in the house. A small placard near the entrance apologizes for the historical inaccuracy of the displays.
Rumors have it an underground boat ride, á la Disney World’s “Pirates of the Caribbean,” is planned in the Lord’s actual former underground lair in the near future. It will reportedly be called “Journey on the River Styx” even though that theme has nothing at all to do with the Lord of the Black Flies. Recent advances in animatronics have allowed ever smaller robotic creatures. This ride will feature electronic, non-biting Black Flies instead of Lightning Bugs.
The Lord has moved his actual operations south to the upstate area where he has become head of the Department of Trans Species Studies at The Babe’s Institute. Besides finding a cure for cancer with his updated Maggot therapy, he has successfully bred a “Flosquito.”
Unfortunately for the Lord and the insect, but just as well for everyone else, except the Birds, it has proven to be too delectable for its own good. Plans are to cross breed it with a Stinkbug to improve its longevity.
Big Al, proving scoundrels sometimes succeed, was awarded the concession to run the Lord’s Algonquin house despite a long letter from The Babe that detailed his role in starting the wildfire outside her institute and requesting he not be rewarded for his actions. The Canuck Minister of the Interior denied her request by saying he had read a pre-publication copy of The Boathouse and did not appreciate its many scurrilous remarks about Canada. He also upbraided the Babe for suggesting Americans wear a Canadian flag on their backpack trips through Europe. “While that isn’t necessarily illegal, it certainly would be unethical and could subject Canadians to terror best reserved for Americans alone,” he wrote. “Don’t expect any help at our European consulates.”
Every summer, Big Al regales hundred of thousands of visitors to the Algonquin house with stories about the Captain’s and his heroic confrontation with the Lord. On weekend evenings, he entertains many more with his “Canoe Antics” followed by stories told around the campfire. He never tells tales, tall or short, about Swallows. In fact, he has never mentioned them ever again.
The toxic fiberfill in the Swallows’ Simul Nests created a mutation in Hala’s first brood of her last productive year. Two of her chicks were born with a distinctive hue, a kandy-kolored, tangerine-flaked coat of feathers. Since they were presumed not to be Lut’s creations, these psychedelic aberrations and their subsequent similarly colored offspring became known throughout the Swallow world as “Nafi’s Kids.”
The New York Times still has to pronounce judgment on the consequences of the War of the Swallows. Some historians, however, are already routinely referring to it as the “dumbest” war ever. J.P. Winslow, if he were coherent, would certainly argue with that characterization. Even with the boss unavailable for consultation, J.P.’s old firm is still waging a number of dumb conflicts elsewhere. “We have to stay involved,” a spokesperson.said. “People don’t know how to start wars on their own anymore.”
J.P.’s embedded “Young Jornos” did win an Emmy for “Outstanding Reality Competition, Handheld Cinematography,” but since it was in the “Creative Arts,” not “Primetime” category, J.P.’s spokesperson never got to accept the award on TV. Some Internet sites said rumors about the Jornos’ Swallow egg-eating experiment had led to the lesser award.
Black Flies continue to plague the upstate region. People complain all the time about them. Some even use the Captain’s name as an expletive when they are beset by an especially large number of Flies.
“Captain Don it, Captain Don it!” they curse.
It is instructive to note that most people never swear that way in polite company or around children. Of late, savvy teenagers have begun to use the expression “Hot Don!” when they see an attractive person or an object they admire. Norman V. Squires, on the other hand, has become a term of derision, uttered whenever someone tries to do something especially stupid.
Finally, the existence of what was long assumed to be mythical, the Fab Five Swallows, has been confirmed on camera. The video of the ethereal five white Swallows emerging from the mist was captured by a production company headed by Lisa Norstrom. In her narration voiceover, she exclaims, in a voice laced with Charlton-Heston sincerity, that the largest of them all, the Grand Preordinator, bears a striking resemblance to our very own Lut. Coming from such an unimpeachable authority as Lisa, you just gotta’ believe it’s true.
The End
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Chapter 75: Strapping Maggots on Backs
The Canadian Geese landed in the same precise wedge-formations they had flown the many hundreds of miles from their upstate home. One by one, they glided to a stop on the calm Canoe Lake. With the tourists still away and Mother’s Day, when the Black Fly season would begin, still a week off, the Lord had risked bringing his Maggots down close to the park headquarters.
Geese sure knew how to fly long distances.
The ones at the tip of each V-formation provided uplift for those in the rear, increasing their flight range up to 70 percent. All the honking was encouragement from those in the rear to those in front to keep going. Leaders rotated throughout the journey, moving backwards to rest in flight. Should any Goose develop a sore throat from too exuberant honking or a weak wing from too excessive flapping, and have to temporarily drop out, two others always accompanied it down to stand guard while on the ground.
Big Al’s trigger finger was itching with delight at the sight of so many fat, succulent butter balls. There were enough to last him a lifetime of Boxing Day Goose dinners. Only the fact he had not yet been paid by the Captain for services rendered prevented him from taking a few pot shots.
The Captain was happy for a different reason. He was relieved so many of his transport brigade had made the trip. Reinforcements were landing by the minute. The more flamboyant flocks first made a wide sweep of the lake, wheeled and then dove to a smooth landing. These antics set off a honking hootenanny by those already in the water.
Geese sure knew how to have fun.
On shore, the proud “poppa,” the Lord of the Black Flies, sporting a pair of sunglasses borrowed from the Captain to ward off the midday sun, looked on, like a dapper Don, as his offspring were readied for shipment. He was a big booster of the amazing properties of the larval stage of Flies. Maggots ate only dead tissue, a most fortunate attribute for cleansing wounds in any animal. At The Babe’s urging, the Lord would eventually found a whole new branch of medicine that would lead to the eradication of cancer.
The logistics of strapping a million Maggots to the backs of God knows how many Geese was daunting, to say the least.
The Babe described this tremendous undertaking in her treatise on war. “There was so much to calculate and so little to reference. How much did a Maggot weigh? How much could a Goose transport? How much more could a Gander carry than a Hen?” She went on to list a host of other incredibly difficult considerations.
“This was research of the most basic kind,” she wrote. “Most of the decisions made by the Captain on that desolate Canadian lake would set the standard for years to come.”
The Babe compared the Maggot Airlift with other great materiel movements of the past, like the American Lend-Lease deals with Great Britain and Russia in World War II, the Berlin Airlift at the outset of the Cold War, and the Second Iraq invasion in 2003 (but not the mismanaged pullout decades later).
While lauding the Captain for his organizing efforts, she assigned much of the credit to the Geese themselves. “Not only did they have to fly hundreds of miles with cumbersome knapsacks on their backs, but they had to do it while conveying squirmy, gooey living things,” she wrote.
The Babe couldn’t help but drift off course for a short aside. “Had Swallows been big enough to carry the weight, they easily could have handled the Maggots. Then, the problem would have been too much attraction, not revulsion, to the cargo. Unscheduled lunch breaks with one Swallow lightening the load of another by eating the contents of his pack could have been a major stumbling block,” she wrote.
“The Geese had precisely the opposite problem,” she said. “As herbivores, they could barely countenance carrying these grotesque, in their eyes, at least, creatures on their backs. More than one Goose that day had to be calmed when they were initially loaded up. The unrelenting wriggling of the Maggots and their reputation for being parasitic were just too, too disconcerting. Many Geese were so upset it took them three or four attempts to get off the ground,” The Babe wrote.
“Once airborne, the Maggots didn’t have enough sense to settle down. Geese were anal retentive anyway. Even when not carrying cargo, they always religiously defecated before taking off and assiduously strove to maintain a proper trim while in flight,” The Babe wrote.
‘Now, with the added burden of Maggots, the Geese’s precise V–formation devolved into a scrawled series of ‘Ws’ as each honker struggled with the wriggling mass on its back. This was embarrassing for the usually punctilious Geese,” The Babe wrote.
By the end of the day, all the Maggots had been dispatched south. The Captain bid the Lord farewell and he headed off with Big Al for a short paddle back to his car and an eventual flight to the upstate area. There, he would meet with the Geese and arrange for the dispersal of the Maggots.
Taking his leave, the Captain thanked Big Al for all his efforts, paid him — even reluctantly tipping him despite all the trouble he had caused — and politely promised to meet again.
“We definitely haven’t seen the last of each other, ehhh?,” Big Al said in parting.
Geese sure knew how to fly long distances.
The ones at the tip of each V-formation provided uplift for those in the rear, increasing their flight range up to 70 percent. All the honking was encouragement from those in the rear to those in front to keep going. Leaders rotated throughout the journey, moving backwards to rest in flight. Should any Goose develop a sore throat from too exuberant honking or a weak wing from too excessive flapping, and have to temporarily drop out, two others always accompanied it down to stand guard while on the ground.
Big Al’s trigger finger was itching with delight at the sight of so many fat, succulent butter balls. There were enough to last him a lifetime of Boxing Day Goose dinners. Only the fact he had not yet been paid by the Captain for services rendered prevented him from taking a few pot shots.
The Captain was happy for a different reason. He was relieved so many of his transport brigade had made the trip. Reinforcements were landing by the minute. The more flamboyant flocks first made a wide sweep of the lake, wheeled and then dove to a smooth landing. These antics set off a honking hootenanny by those already in the water.
Geese sure knew how to have fun.
On shore, the proud “poppa,” the Lord of the Black Flies, sporting a pair of sunglasses borrowed from the Captain to ward off the midday sun, looked on, like a dapper Don, as his offspring were readied for shipment. He was a big booster of the amazing properties of the larval stage of Flies. Maggots ate only dead tissue, a most fortunate attribute for cleansing wounds in any animal. At The Babe’s urging, the Lord would eventually found a whole new branch of medicine that would lead to the eradication of cancer.
The logistics of strapping a million Maggots to the backs of God knows how many Geese was daunting, to say the least.
The Babe described this tremendous undertaking in her treatise on war. “There was so much to calculate and so little to reference. How much did a Maggot weigh? How much could a Goose transport? How much more could a Gander carry than a Hen?” She went on to list a host of other incredibly difficult considerations.
“This was research of the most basic kind,” she wrote. “Most of the decisions made by the Captain on that desolate Canadian lake would set the standard for years to come.”
The Babe compared the Maggot Airlift with other great materiel movements of the past, like the American Lend-Lease deals with Great Britain and Russia in World War II, the Berlin Airlift at the outset of the Cold War, and the Second Iraq invasion in 2003 (but not the mismanaged pullout decades later).
While lauding the Captain for his organizing efforts, she assigned much of the credit to the Geese themselves. “Not only did they have to fly hundreds of miles with cumbersome knapsacks on their backs, but they had to do it while conveying squirmy, gooey living things,” she wrote.
The Babe couldn’t help but drift off course for a short aside. “Had Swallows been big enough to carry the weight, they easily could have handled the Maggots. Then, the problem would have been too much attraction, not revulsion, to the cargo. Unscheduled lunch breaks with one Swallow lightening the load of another by eating the contents of his pack could have been a major stumbling block,” she wrote.
“The Geese had precisely the opposite problem,” she said. “As herbivores, they could barely countenance carrying these grotesque, in their eyes, at least, creatures on their backs. More than one Goose that day had to be calmed when they were initially loaded up. The unrelenting wriggling of the Maggots and their reputation for being parasitic were just too, too disconcerting. Many Geese were so upset it took them three or four attempts to get off the ground,” The Babe wrote.
“Once airborne, the Maggots didn’t have enough sense to settle down. Geese were anal retentive anyway. Even when not carrying cargo, they always religiously defecated before taking off and assiduously strove to maintain a proper trim while in flight,” The Babe wrote.
‘Now, with the added burden of Maggots, the Geese’s precise V–formation devolved into a scrawled series of ‘Ws’ as each honker struggled with the wriggling mass on its back. This was embarrassing for the usually punctilious Geese,” The Babe wrote.
By the end of the day, all the Maggots had been dispatched south. The Captain bid the Lord farewell and he headed off with Big Al for a short paddle back to his car and an eventual flight to the upstate area. There, he would meet with the Geese and arrange for the dispersal of the Maggots.
Taking his leave, the Captain thanked Big Al for all his efforts, paid him — even reluctantly tipping him despite all the trouble he had caused — and politely promised to meet again.
“We definitely haven’t seen the last of each other, ehhh?,” Big Al said in parting.
Chapter 76: Tap-Dancing Homunculus
“Norman, that ‘Capistranian’ guy is here,” Lisa whispered in his slumbering ear. Norman’s head was still spinning because he had been watching Fox News before falling asleep on the couch.
Norman’s grogginess made him think Lisa had said, “The Captain.”
“You dunderhead,” he shouted out, half asleep.
“Hold on, partner,” Big Al said. “You don’t even know me, ehhh?”
Norman glared at Lisa and apologized to the Canadian.
Lisa tried to calm Norman down. He never liked to be abruptly awakened. “Norman, Al here…”
“Call me ‘Big Al’,” Big Al interrupted her.
“All right,” Lisa said. “Big Al has driven all night to be here this morning.”
Norman was still waking up and didn’t know what to think. “Where did you come from. Mr. Big Al?” he asked.
“Call me just ‘Big Al.’ I came from Algonquin Park. That’s in Canada,” he said.
“Oh, you’re Canadian?” Lisa said defensively. Like her fellow Americans, she didn’t know much about that breed of people, except their capital city was in Toronto, or some place like that.
“Yesterday, I saw the Captain load a million Maggots on the backs of thousands of Geese to be shipped down here,” Big Al said.
Norman looked puzzled, “What should I do about that?” he said.
Big Al was disappointed. Perhaps the Captain had rated his opponent too highly. “What should you do?” Big Al said, more as a statement than a question. “What should you do,” he said again for emphasis.
“If it was me, I’d make sure he didn’t broadcast those Maggots all over the place. If he does, you’re going to be doing a whole lot of swatting,” Big Al said.
Lisa had returned with a cup of coffee for their visitor. She had heard most of what he said.
“What are we going to do about it, dear?” she said to Norman.
Big Al sat across from Norman and, balancing the coffee cup on his knee, was looking expectantly at him.
Norman was stunned by the news. He felt 10 times worse than last year when that Bird had defecated all over his boat. First, a sneak attack from the sky; now, a nasty ground incursion. His head hurt.
The lines from an old Alka Seltzer commercial inexplicably effervesced in his head. “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.”
Over and over again.
“Dear, what’s wrong!” Lisa exclaimed. “You look awful. You’re frothing at the mouth.”
Norman just stared straight ahead. He, alone, knew the homunculus Speedy Alka Seltzer was tap dancing on his teeth. His mind had snapped and he had reverted to a long forgotten but suddenly vivid scene from his childhood at bedtime. He could hear Speedy’s high squeaky voice singing the commercial on his family’s DuMont TV Set in the downstairs living room as his Scottish grandfather tucked him in by reciting the poet, Bobbie Burns, “/The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men /Gang aft a-gley.”
Norman’s plans had indeed gone astray. And the reason was “A million Maggots,” he repeated over and over again, while his brain dissolved, like a giant bi-carbonate tablet, into bubbles that flowed from his mouth and cascaded off his chin. It was a classic case of catatonic stupor abetted by echolalia, all attributable to a surfeit of Alka Seltzer commercials as a youth.
Big Al had forgotten about his coffee for the time being. He was kneeling at Norman’s side, like a hunter examining his fallen prey.
“I’ve seen lots of animals play dead like this,” Big Al said. “It’s their response to some overwhelming situation. They’ve lost control of everything and playing possum is all they can do,” he said.
“But, in my whole cotton-picking hunting and trapping life, I’ve never seen anything like this foaming of the mouth,” he added. “Do you suppose he’s rabid?”
“Oh my,” was all Lisa could say.
An hour later, she temporarily, she mistakenly thought, assumed control of the S.O.B. campaign. With Big Al standing by, she called J.P. to figure out what to do next.
Norman’s grogginess made him think Lisa had said, “The Captain.”
“You dunderhead,” he shouted out, half asleep.
“Hold on, partner,” Big Al said. “You don’t even know me, ehhh?”
Norman glared at Lisa and apologized to the Canadian.
Lisa tried to calm Norman down. He never liked to be abruptly awakened. “Norman, Al here…”
“Call me ‘Big Al’,” Big Al interrupted her.
“All right,” Lisa said. “Big Al has driven all night to be here this morning.”
Norman was still waking up and didn’t know what to think. “Where did you come from. Mr. Big Al?” he asked.
“Call me just ‘Big Al.’ I came from Algonquin Park. That’s in Canada,” he said.
“Oh, you’re Canadian?” Lisa said defensively. Like her fellow Americans, she didn’t know much about that breed of people, except their capital city was in Toronto, or some place like that.
“Yesterday, I saw the Captain load a million Maggots on the backs of thousands of Geese to be shipped down here,” Big Al said.
Norman looked puzzled, “What should I do about that?” he said.
Big Al was disappointed. Perhaps the Captain had rated his opponent too highly. “What should you do?” Big Al said, more as a statement than a question. “What should you do,” he said again for emphasis.
“If it was me, I’d make sure he didn’t broadcast those Maggots all over the place. If he does, you’re going to be doing a whole lot of swatting,” Big Al said.
Lisa had returned with a cup of coffee for their visitor. She had heard most of what he said.
“What are we going to do about it, dear?” she said to Norman.
Big Al sat across from Norman and, balancing the coffee cup on his knee, was looking expectantly at him.
Norman was stunned by the news. He felt 10 times worse than last year when that Bird had defecated all over his boat. First, a sneak attack from the sky; now, a nasty ground incursion. His head hurt.
The lines from an old Alka Seltzer commercial inexplicably effervesced in his head. “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.”
Over and over again.
“Dear, what’s wrong!” Lisa exclaimed. “You look awful. You’re frothing at the mouth.”
Norman just stared straight ahead. He, alone, knew the homunculus Speedy Alka Seltzer was tap dancing on his teeth. His mind had snapped and he had reverted to a long forgotten but suddenly vivid scene from his childhood at bedtime. He could hear Speedy’s high squeaky voice singing the commercial on his family’s DuMont TV Set in the downstairs living room as his Scottish grandfather tucked him in by reciting the poet, Bobbie Burns, “/The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men /Gang aft a-gley.”
Norman’s plans had indeed gone astray. And the reason was “A million Maggots,” he repeated over and over again, while his brain dissolved, like a giant bi-carbonate tablet, into bubbles that flowed from his mouth and cascaded off his chin. It was a classic case of catatonic stupor abetted by echolalia, all attributable to a surfeit of Alka Seltzer commercials as a youth.
Big Al had forgotten about his coffee for the time being. He was kneeling at Norman’s side, like a hunter examining his fallen prey.
“I’ve seen lots of animals play dead like this,” Big Al said. “It’s their response to some overwhelming situation. They’ve lost control of everything and playing possum is all they can do,” he said.
“But, in my whole cotton-picking hunting and trapping life, I’ve never seen anything like this foaming of the mouth,” he added. “Do you suppose he’s rabid?”
“Oh my,” was all Lisa could say.
An hour later, she temporarily, she mistakenly thought, assumed control of the S.O.B. campaign. With Big Al standing by, she called J.P. to figure out what to do next.
Chapter 77: Distributing the Load
The day after leaving Canada, the Geese were home again. The lagoon in front of the SCRWU facility was filled with Birds of every kind. Word had gone out to the local Avian community about the incoming cargo and the need to redistribute the 1oad.
Lut was stage center. He flew back and forth trying to instill a little order in the wild Avian menagerie.
“Hey, you Hummingbirds, stop skittering all over the place. I know you’re eager to get started, but be patient,” Lut pleaded.
He wasn’t sure the Hummers could do much good anyways because each one, with a mighty effort, could heft only one Maggot.
Lut had more confidence in the bigger Sea Gulls, Hawks and their fellow raptors. They were languidly circling overhead, surveying the confusion below.
“Why are you big guys staying so high?” Lut flew up to ask them. They cringed as he neared them.
It turned out they felt vulnerable at lower elevations to attacks from smaller, more mobile Birds. It took repeated assurances from Lut, some Sparrows and a few Black-Capped Chickadees to persuade them to descend when it was time to pick up their allotment of Maggots.
In the middle of it all rested the Canadian Geese floating on the water after their long journey. Most still carried their knapsack load of Maggots on their backs. In a case of what’s good for the Goose, but not for the Gander, some of the female Geese had grown a little maternal about their load, but they all, male and female, were looking forward to being relieved of their burden. They were tres fatigue.
Captain Don had arrived on the morning flight from Toronto. He had just enough time to greet Lut and The Babe, who had showed up to help, before launching into the next phase of the operation. He knew time was of the essence.
His greatest concern was the safety of the Maggots. Too many of the assembled Birds were insectivores not to be worried.
“Please resist the temptation to gobble up this tiny larvae?” Captain Don counseled everyone, holding one of the Maggots aloft. “The plan is to plant them so they grow into juicy Flies.” He left out the bit about their biting and blood sucking, so as not to alarm anyone.
The Birds seemed to understand. Ever since Norman had launched his crazy war on the Swallows, most Birds had banded together in ways impossible to fathom before.
For example, Owls had woken up early to attend this gathering. Eagles had sworn off assaulting smaller Birds for the duration. Blue Jays had vowed to cease their aggressive behavior and petty thievery. Cowbirds had agreed to suspend their anti-social habit of planting their egg in other Birds’ nests. Even though there was scarcely a rock n’ roll musician in sight, this gathering would one day be likened to the Woodstock of yore when the rising generation had shown it could gather in great numbers, have fun and, with a few exceptions, behave responsibly.
Lut was stage center. He flew back and forth trying to instill a little order in the wild Avian menagerie.
“Hey, you Hummingbirds, stop skittering all over the place. I know you’re eager to get started, but be patient,” Lut pleaded.
He wasn’t sure the Hummers could do much good anyways because each one, with a mighty effort, could heft only one Maggot.
Lut had more confidence in the bigger Sea Gulls, Hawks and their fellow raptors. They were languidly circling overhead, surveying the confusion below.
“Why are you big guys staying so high?” Lut flew up to ask them. They cringed as he neared them.
It turned out they felt vulnerable at lower elevations to attacks from smaller, more mobile Birds. It took repeated assurances from Lut, some Sparrows and a few Black-Capped Chickadees to persuade them to descend when it was time to pick up their allotment of Maggots.
In the middle of it all rested the Canadian Geese floating on the water after their long journey. Most still carried their knapsack load of Maggots on their backs. In a case of what’s good for the Goose, but not for the Gander, some of the female Geese had grown a little maternal about their load, but they all, male and female, were looking forward to being relieved of their burden. They were tres fatigue.
Captain Don had arrived on the morning flight from Toronto. He had just enough time to greet Lut and The Babe, who had showed up to help, before launching into the next phase of the operation. He knew time was of the essence.
His greatest concern was the safety of the Maggots. Too many of the assembled Birds were insectivores not to be worried.
“Please resist the temptation to gobble up this tiny larvae?” Captain Don counseled everyone, holding one of the Maggots aloft. “The plan is to plant them so they grow into juicy Flies.” He left out the bit about their biting and blood sucking, so as not to alarm anyone.
The Birds seemed to understand. Ever since Norman had launched his crazy war on the Swallows, most Birds had banded together in ways impossible to fathom before.
For example, Owls had woken up early to attend this gathering. Eagles had sworn off assaulting smaller Birds for the duration. Blue Jays had vowed to cease their aggressive behavior and petty thievery. Cowbirds had agreed to suspend their anti-social habit of planting their egg in other Birds’ nests. Even though there was scarcely a rock n’ roll musician in sight, this gathering would one day be likened to the Woodstock of yore when the rising generation had shown it could gather in great numbers, have fun and, with a few exceptions, behave responsibly.
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