Dirty Tricks

 I'm in real trouble. C.W. stayed up late and created this meme that he posted on the internet so my wife could see it first thing. I'm hiding from her and he is hiding from me.

Have A Good Week

 He walked through this morning while I was half asleep. I think he intended to be a newscaster but I wasn't sure.

"What kind of week do you plan for this week," he said. "Inquiring minds want to know."

I tried to ignore him.

"Shall I report, 'No comment?'"

"What the godalmighty hell are you talking about?"

"Well," he said, "Week before last you were saying that they may have hit bottom."

"And?"

"Last week you said you didn't think there was a bottom."

"Coffee," I said.

DAILY NEWS

 C.W. came by this morning. I hadn't seen him in ages. He had worried about Covid and hasn't been around much. Anyway, today he looked a lot like I imagine Charles Darwin might have looked.

"What's up?" he said.

"Where have you been?"

"Somewhere safe, watching," he said.

"To what do I owe the  pleasure?"

"Does your species understand natural selection?"

I thought. "Some do. Many don't."

"The species may get hit by it, and not in a pleasant way."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Remember that the role of a male is to impregnate as many females as he can to propagate a species much like himself."

"Yes."

"And remember that the role of a female is to propagate wisely, as with most things. That's why we don't understand why they aren't the rulers."

"So. Do you have a point?"

"Yes. What happens if they aren't allowed to choose wisely."

"What do you mean?"

"What if rapist and child-molesters decide to develop a dominant species by spreading their seeds abundantly and pervasively?"

A crack appeared in the clouds of my thinking and a shaft of light emerged.

"And what if the results of their base decision were now protected by your laws so propagation would prove inevitable?"

"You mean the products of wickedness might be protected by the courts?

"I mean floods of mutants infiltrating your species. Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Did you come back after all these years just to make me feel worse than I already do?"

Deliverance

This morning I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed into my room. I saw a familiar sight and spun around to leave. Too late.

“Come in my child.”

There at my computer was The Galilean, one of the favorite shapes of the Alien C.W. my more or less permanent houseguest. I dreaded our conversations like a prostitute dreads a police interview.

“Come and sit.”

What could I do? I sat. “What the hell are you up to?” I wasn’t going to go gently into this good fight.”

“Be calm,” he said. “Have you said your morning prayers, yet?”

Let me explain. The figure before me had long, greasy black hair, a stringy beard, glassy black eyes and robe that smelled of long days’ wear. And he was quizzing me on prayer.

“No,” I said. “You know I quit praying while I was still in high school.”

His dark eyes bore into me and I shivered. “Tell me, exactly what did you pray for then?”

I knew he wouldn’t stop, so I might as well go along. “I prayed to be tall enough and big enough to be a football player.”

“And what exactly happened?”

“Nothing. I walked through graduation at five-foot-ten and 130 pounds.”

“And for that you quit praying?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you have?”

He ignored me. “How much do you know about prayer, my son?”

Oh crap. Here we would go. “Just that it didn’t work for me.”

“Is there what you call a … ,” He paused and I heard his Galactic Universal Translator hum. He studied some notes he had on my desk, “a ‘statute of limitations’ on prayer?”

“A what?”

“Do your entreaties and pleas evaporate over time like a thin fog on a spring morning?”

I hate it when he gets poetical. “How the hell should I know?”

“Don’t blaspheme, my child. Think of what I asked. It may be hard, but think.”

He resorted to one of his favorite tricks, a challenge tinged with an insult. “Okay, I’m thinking.”

“If faith is eternal, shouldn’t the requests of faith-based prayers be eternal?”

“Beats me.”

“Let me answer. Yes, my child. Prayers are eternal. There are no expiration dates for them.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But we’re talking about you.” He paused, for dramatic effect as much as anything. “Not tell me how tall you are this morning and how much you weigh.”

I heard the trap door slamming shut and didn’t answer.

“I know the facts anyway,” he said. “Now aren’t you as tall and large as many successful football players?”

“But I’m …,” I began. He cut me off.

“A prayer response delayed is not a prayer request unanswered.”

My mind twirled and a bell rang in my head. “But what about the few in Germany in the 1930s who prayed to avoid war?”

He grimaced. His GUT hummed. It was his turn to stammer. “Is there any more of that coffee?” he asked.

FAIR AND BALANCED

 There was a loud, “Achtung” and I heard a hand slap on a table. I had to check it out. Went in and who should be all outfitted with lederhosen and other accoutrements than C.W. in a perfect imitation of the WWII German Minister for Armaments and War Production Albert Speer. He was busily pounding my laptop.

“What the …?”

“Shhh, he said. “Have a paying job going on.”

“A what?”

“A paying assignment. For money. Just for writing a novel.” I heard a hum. "Mucho Dinero."

“A novel? Who’s paying you for writing a novel?”

“A state government. This,” he pointed at the computer,” will be required reading for every student in the state.”

“What state government would pay you to write a novel?”

“Not at liberty,” he said, “but tell me something.”

“What?”

“What would be a good name for a beautiful commandant of women at a Nurture Center for displaced war refugees during World War Two? She’s a little bit headstrong but well-intentioned and basically loving. The men all chase after her. The women there all adore her, except for the other commandants. They are jealous of her.”

“At what kind of center?”

“You know. Where they keep abandoned women until they are … until their families unite with them.”

“Where are these centers?”

“Mostly in Poland. Some in Germany.”

“And the centers are designed for care and protection?”

“Yes. Our heroine watches over her charges with the assistance of a portly, but kind-hearted assistant named Oma-Greta. She’s always telling our heroine ‘Nicht Richtig’ when our heroin does something untoward.” He grimaced. “Wait a moment,” he said. “My Galactic Universal Translator is acting up.”

I waited. In a moment, he said, “Nicht Richtig: That means ‘It isn’t acceptable,’ or ‘It’s not proper,’ or ….”

“Tain't Fittin’?”

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know what my GUT was telling me?”

“Guessed. Are you writing a novel about Nazi Germany?”

“We don’t call it that.”

“What do you call it?”

“Gutemenschenland.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“The ones who hired me say it means ‘holy’ or ‘righteous’ depending on the context.

“What does your GUT tell you?”

“I haven’t consulted it yet. Anyway, sometimes my GUT misleads me.”

“Tell me,” I said. “How is this novel going to end?”

“Our heroine, I’m thinking of calling her Scharlachrot Harren, her boyfriend Rolf Spieler, and Oma-Greta lead all the inmates of the Nurture Center safely back to their homes amidst great rejoicing. There well be this grand scene at a trainyard where they all unite. And they all live happily ever after.”

“You’re not going to tell me who’s paying you to write this?”

He looked around as if to see if anyone was listening. “Let’s just say, in your parlance and between you and me, it’s from somewhere people are large with cash but a little lacking on other things.”