Stuck on Chaos
Chapter 3

Copyright© 2018 by Old Man with a Pen

“My boat,” I sobbed. “The bastards stole my boat!”

“Do you really care?” asked the cook.

“Not really,” I said. “But I had to say something.” I chuckled.

One thing you must understand: A chuckle is NOT a giggle. I can’t stand giggling girls. It reminds me of head table girls at lunch in high school. Stuck up bitches. Got it?

The cook ... her name was Francine ... Fran ... understood the difference.

“Whose Cat?” she asked.

Cats don’t belong to people ... they are NOT dogs. Cats exist to boss people. And I knew that ... worse ... the cat knew it too. But just to keep the argument to a dull roar...”Mine.”

The look I got from the cat was indignant.

“What’s it’s name?”

So I picked him up and she rolled over. He’s have different equipment

“Oh ... sorry,” I said. “Butch won’t fit will it?”

There are purrs ... and then there are purrs. I learned that in school ... but I can’t tell her that.

“I don’t know,” I confessed.

“Don’t know?”

“Cats tend to name themselves,” I said.

“This is true,” said Fran.

“For an example,” I began. “My last cat was called feral cat. Until I realized that every time I called him that, he spoke ... Did you know that cats make or have made more than 990 distinct sounds ... just an aside. Every time I called him ‘Feral,” he replied with a unique sound. ‘Nang.’” He would say ‘Nang’ and butt my hand. It only took him three months before I got the idea. He would come ... like a dog ... ouch!” I looked at the cat. “That’s gonna bleed.”

It did ... almost needed stitches ... but not quite. The kitten proceeded to rid the island of ninety-nine percent of the rodent population. It took Murr-an-da three years, seven or eight boyfriends and twelve batches of kittens but she got it done. Just in case you weren’t paying attention ... three years ... hint-hint-hint.

We called her profific...”Miranda! That’s gonna leave a scar!”

Seriously ... she said Murr- ... so many times ... we added the and duh. For awhile we thought she was saying Murder because she only said it when she deposited dead rats on the kitchen floor. We were properly in awe of her skill. Buttermilk ... you bet.

By the time David showed up, our militia had successfully repelled three invasions by pirates and two incursions by gangs.

The first gang was a joke ... six guys with swords and crossbows never made it to the beach ... but that gave us a knarr and a rowboat ... two vessel Navy ... The knarr was handy when we chased down the first batch of pirates. That increased our fleet to two knarrs and six rowboats. Fisher’s Harbor got a new banker ... twice ... before they realized I could keep my own set of books.

Yes ... three years ... However.

David claimed it only took him a week before he went back to Crossroads.

So ... David aged two weeks getting to me ... Val wasn’t to be put off and David said he’d refused all rescues until the Powers that Be told the ceiling to “get my young ass” to Chaos and bring me home to mom.

“She has Church Camp, Get her back.”

So David went to the Bank in Fisher’s Harbor. The bank wasn’t the same. The banker and teller were polite. There weren’t even any swordsmen causing trouble. He stopped at the harbor gate to check with William. Lo and behold, Bill recognized him.

“Hero David,” he said. “There’s a rowboat with your name on it down at the harbor ... or so Mayor Grace said.”

The lookout called down that a rowboat was approaching. “One man in it ... he looks tired out.”

I was waiting on the sand. Me and four of my militia.

“It’s about time, David.”

“What? Two weeks?”

“Three years, David. I’ve been here three years! Offer me one ... no two ... yeah. Two good reasons why I shouldn’t kick your ass. How is mom taking it?”

“She thinks you went to camp early.”

 
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