windar
Teller of Tales
1.
“Tree,” I wrote. Yes, I was actually PMing Tree, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I’ve convinced Barb and Marcella to go hiking in NE New York, but I don’t think I can handle those two wildcats on my own. You have to join us.” I took a swig of Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale before I hit “Post Reply”.
“Shit, Windar, what would a redneck like me do in New York?” came the reply a few minutes later.
“Tree, this isn’t Manhattan or Brooklyn we’re talking about, this is the back woods. Mountains, rivers, mud, bears-you’ll feel just like you’re in the Ozarks. Besides, if you want, on the way, you can stop off in the city and stand in front of Trump Tower and kiss the sidewalk. But most importantly, it’s two hot CF girls. Are you a man or a mouse?”
“I’ve been asking myself that for 60 years and still don’t have an answer. How did you get them to agree to come anyway?
“I told Barb that we needed to work out some details on our next story up close and personal. She was a bit reluctant and muttered something under her breath about pigs flying, but I told her New York is a blue state. Of course I didn’t mention that up there in the Adirondacks is like a bit of Kentucky moved to the East Coast. Anyway, what can I say, she fell for my charm. I promised Marcella I’d crucify her out here in the woods, but you know I hate crucifixion and would never do that. So I’m in a bit of a pickle here.” Strangely I had a craving for a good old Brooklyn half sour. “Can you help an old enemy out? Besides, did I mention that these are two hot CF girls?” I could swear I had mentioned that.
“You know how far it is from Missouri to New York?” Tree asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gone on a road trip chasing after pussy.”
“Of course I have. Who hasn’t? Can I crucify them?”
I thought about this. Of course I wasn’t going to let Tree crucify these two hot women. That idiot redneck can’t think of anything better to do with two hot women, but I sure can. “Uh, sure,” I said, lying like a White House Press Secretary, “Of course you can.”
“Alright, my friend,” he replied. “I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll bring along Bull and Gunner to help hoist the girls up.”
“Are those your dogs?” I asked. “Because they’re strict about leash laws on the trails. I don’t want trouble with the Forest Rangers.”
“Don’t you read my stories?” Tree’s reply asked. I declined to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me. “They’re two large guys.”
“I was thinking with two women maybe we should keep it to just the two of us,” I replied.
The reply came back-“OK, it’s your show. Just me then.”
So it was a few days later that I was at the airport picking up Barb and Marcella, both of whom were looking quite lovely in their short shorts and tank tops. Like the gentleman I am, I helped them with their heavy backpacks and escorted them to my car, placing their gear in the trunk along with mine. We hit the road up to the mountains, arriving at the trailhead campground in the middle of the afternoon.
I selected a good site and set about putting up the two two-person tents I had brought. I noticed Barb and Marcella looking at me strangely, passing knowing looks between each other, as I used the large hammer to sink the metal stakes into the ground to hold the nylon down. Soon I had the two tents erect. Something else too. I figured when Tree arrived, we could draw lots to see which of us would share a tent with which of the girls.
“Speaking of Tree, where was he?” I wondered. I had given him very clear directions to the campground, ones I thought even a dolt like him could follow. But perhaps he had stopped at some roadhouse and overindulged and was asleep, his head resting in a pool of spilled beer on the bar. However, my worries were misplaced, as, soon, I heard an awful ruckus disturbing the peaceful silence of the ancient forest. The sound grew louder, until around the bend in the road came the sorriest looking jalopy of a pickup truck that I had ever seen, backfiring and spewing fumes and blaring heavy metal music. The driver honked the horn, and of course it played “Dixie”. As it pulled up in front of our tents, I stood up and walked over to get a closer look. NRA logo, Trump bumper sticker-Make America Grate Again-on one side and one that said “Gas, Grass or Ass-Nobody Rides for Free” on the other. That could only be one person.
And indeed, out stepped a tall thin man wearing a yellow cowboy hat and John Lennon granny glasses. He smelled of whisky and stale cigarettes and god knows what else. “Mr. Tree, I presume,” I said sticking out my hand.
“Is that you Windar?” he replied. “You look more ruggedly manly than you come across on CF.”
“Thanks, I think,” I replied. “Say hello to Barb and Marcella,” I said, indicating which one was which.
“Wow, I wouldn’t have recognized either of you from your avatars, but let me nail you to a cross and see,” Tree said.
“Now, now, none of that Tree,” I scolded him. As I did so, I sensed a presence behind me and turned slowly to see a distinguished looking man in a Forest Ranger’s uniform. His name tag said “Goldman”.
He squinted at Tree, looking like he was working on digesting a bad burrito. “I’m Ranger Stan Goldman,” he said. “Mr. Tree, your reputation has preceded you.” He pulled a thick booklet out of his pants pocket and thumbed through it until he found the page he was looking for.
He pointed to the page, holding the booklet so Tree could read it. “You see there, New York Code Section 102, Paragraph 4-‘No one shall conduct a crucifixion, hanging or any other execution without a valid New York State Execution license on pain of a sentence of 10 years in prison and a fine of $100,000’ You wouldn’t happen to have such a license, Mr. Tree, would you?”
Tree looked a bit nonplussed. “A license?” he asked. “Why in NW Arkansas, we just string ‘em up or nail ‘em up without worrying about such things.”
“Well, Mr. Tree,” Ranger Goldman replied, “This is New York and up here you need a license. I have my eye on you,” he warned. “Don’t test me.” He turned and walked away.
“Tree,” I wrote. Yes, I was actually PMing Tree, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I’ve convinced Barb and Marcella to go hiking in NE New York, but I don’t think I can handle those two wildcats on my own. You have to join us.” I took a swig of Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale before I hit “Post Reply”.
“Shit, Windar, what would a redneck like me do in New York?” came the reply a few minutes later.
“Tree, this isn’t Manhattan or Brooklyn we’re talking about, this is the back woods. Mountains, rivers, mud, bears-you’ll feel just like you’re in the Ozarks. Besides, if you want, on the way, you can stop off in the city and stand in front of Trump Tower and kiss the sidewalk. But most importantly, it’s two hot CF girls. Are you a man or a mouse?”
“I’ve been asking myself that for 60 years and still don’t have an answer. How did you get them to agree to come anyway?
“I told Barb that we needed to work out some details on our next story up close and personal. She was a bit reluctant and muttered something under her breath about pigs flying, but I told her New York is a blue state. Of course I didn’t mention that up there in the Adirondacks is like a bit of Kentucky moved to the East Coast. Anyway, what can I say, she fell for my charm. I promised Marcella I’d crucify her out here in the woods, but you know I hate crucifixion and would never do that. So I’m in a bit of a pickle here.” Strangely I had a craving for a good old Brooklyn half sour. “Can you help an old enemy out? Besides, did I mention that these are two hot CF girls?” I could swear I had mentioned that.
“You know how far it is from Missouri to New York?” Tree asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gone on a road trip chasing after pussy.”
“Of course I have. Who hasn’t? Can I crucify them?”
I thought about this. Of course I wasn’t going to let Tree crucify these two hot women. That idiot redneck can’t think of anything better to do with two hot women, but I sure can. “Uh, sure,” I said, lying like a White House Press Secretary, “Of course you can.”
“Alright, my friend,” he replied. “I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll bring along Bull and Gunner to help hoist the girls up.”
“Are those your dogs?” I asked. “Because they’re strict about leash laws on the trails. I don’t want trouble with the Forest Rangers.”
“Don’t you read my stories?” Tree’s reply asked. I declined to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me. “They’re two large guys.”
“I was thinking with two women maybe we should keep it to just the two of us,” I replied.
The reply came back-“OK, it’s your show. Just me then.”
So it was a few days later that I was at the airport picking up Barb and Marcella, both of whom were looking quite lovely in their short shorts and tank tops. Like the gentleman I am, I helped them with their heavy backpacks and escorted them to my car, placing their gear in the trunk along with mine. We hit the road up to the mountains, arriving at the trailhead campground in the middle of the afternoon.
I selected a good site and set about putting up the two two-person tents I had brought. I noticed Barb and Marcella looking at me strangely, passing knowing looks between each other, as I used the large hammer to sink the metal stakes into the ground to hold the nylon down. Soon I had the two tents erect. Something else too. I figured when Tree arrived, we could draw lots to see which of us would share a tent with which of the girls.
“Speaking of Tree, where was he?” I wondered. I had given him very clear directions to the campground, ones I thought even a dolt like him could follow. But perhaps he had stopped at some roadhouse and overindulged and was asleep, his head resting in a pool of spilled beer on the bar. However, my worries were misplaced, as, soon, I heard an awful ruckus disturbing the peaceful silence of the ancient forest. The sound grew louder, until around the bend in the road came the sorriest looking jalopy of a pickup truck that I had ever seen, backfiring and spewing fumes and blaring heavy metal music. The driver honked the horn, and of course it played “Dixie”. As it pulled up in front of our tents, I stood up and walked over to get a closer look. NRA logo, Trump bumper sticker-Make America Grate Again-on one side and one that said “Gas, Grass or Ass-Nobody Rides for Free” on the other. That could only be one person.
And indeed, out stepped a tall thin man wearing a yellow cowboy hat and John Lennon granny glasses. He smelled of whisky and stale cigarettes and god knows what else. “Mr. Tree, I presume,” I said sticking out my hand.
“Is that you Windar?” he replied. “You look more ruggedly manly than you come across on CF.”
“Thanks, I think,” I replied. “Say hello to Barb and Marcella,” I said, indicating which one was which.
“Wow, I wouldn’t have recognized either of you from your avatars, but let me nail you to a cross and see,” Tree said.
“Now, now, none of that Tree,” I scolded him. As I did so, I sensed a presence behind me and turned slowly to see a distinguished looking man in a Forest Ranger’s uniform. His name tag said “Goldman”.
He squinted at Tree, looking like he was working on digesting a bad burrito. “I’m Ranger Stan Goldman,” he said. “Mr. Tree, your reputation has preceded you.” He pulled a thick booklet out of his pants pocket and thumbed through it until he found the page he was looking for.
He pointed to the page, holding the booklet so Tree could read it. “You see there, New York Code Section 102, Paragraph 4-‘No one shall conduct a crucifixion, hanging or any other execution without a valid New York State Execution license on pain of a sentence of 10 years in prison and a fine of $100,000’ You wouldn’t happen to have such a license, Mr. Tree, would you?”
Tree looked a bit nonplussed. “A license?” he asked. “Why in NW Arkansas, we just string ‘em up or nail ‘em up without worrying about such things.”
“Well, Mr. Tree,” Ranger Goldman replied, “This is New York and up here you need a license. I have my eye on you,” he warned. “Don’t test me.” He turned and walked away.
.
