Zombie playdate.

I think I saw them coming up the road, just past the post office. Did you see them, too? No? Maybe I’m imagining things. Or …. maybe you’re gaslighting me! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE! SPEAK!

Oh … hello, readers. We were just, um … going over the household accounts. Seems the electric bill is overdue again. Just like last month … and the 120 months before that. (Maybe that’s why the lights are off.) Okay, I will own up to the fact that we are getting a little squirrel-y here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that we’ve been ordered to shelter in place. Actually, the order doesn’t apply to us because, well … we’re not supposed to be living here, but what the law doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Still, in these plague times, it’s best to heed the warnings of public health officials. We’re masking up, donning the rubber gloves, and eating out of an autoclave.

Now, I’m not super fond of hoarders. That said, one of our number, and I’m not saying who (ahem … anti-Lincoln), came home with a boatload of canned soup, pasta, and toilet paper this past Tuesday. I know you’re going to tell me that he’s doing it for our own good, but you are so wrong, my friend – he’s keeping it all for himself. Anti-Lincoln has essentially walled himself off in the east wing of the hammer mill, cloistered in with his cache precious supplies, cackling through the brick walls at our hunger and privation. It’s not for nothing that he’s the anti-matter doppelganger of old honest Abe. I mean, think about it – would the great emancipator ever act in such a selfish way? Even when he was running for re-election?


As the COVID-19 pestilence has closed in on our forgotten corner of the world, people appear to be heading for the hills. Our nasty upstairs neighbors lit out this week, lugging their high explosives and trained pole cats with them. Meanwhile, people from the low country who consider this “the hills” keep showing up at our door, seeking shelter. Some of them appear to think this is some kind of country estate, like in Boccaccio’s Decameron, where they can ride out the pestilence. They march out of the woods like zombies, hoping for a playdate, at least, if no apocalypse presents itself. We’ve stationed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) out in front of the mill as a sentry. Thus far, he has neither stopped any intruders nor invited anyone in, so on balance, I’d call that a success. (He did lose his balance once. Those gimbals need adjusting.)

Okay, well … back to the accounts. WHERE ARE YOU, YOU MISERABLE GUTTER SNIPE! I’VE GOT AN ACCOUNT TO SETTLE WITH YOU!