The Virginia City Solution

By Jim Borer

Although not a “western” in that classical sense of the genre, “The Virginia City Solution” is a novel that has its setting in the west—Lake Tahoe, Carson City, Virginia City. It contains a quest for justice, combined with a time-travel element, and is intended to be of interest to an audience who appreciates the Poor Man vs. Rich Man angle along with those who enjoy having their imaginations tweaked.
The central character, Mark Nolan, is a craps dealer who, recently divorced, is focused on his love for his son. He works at the Tahoe casino of Harry's Hideaway Hotels and Casinos, Reno and Lake Tahoe. When the owner of this enterprise, Cyrus Harry—while driving drunk—is involved in an accident that takes the life of Nolan's ex-wife and child, and, due to his status in the area, is penalized with a mere slap-on-the-wrist, Nolan is incensed and vows to enhance that penalty with a punishment of his own devise.

Mark was so outraged that, at the end of the trial, he'd forced his way through the crowd up behind Harry and quietly said in his ear, “That's just your judge's penalty. I'll have one of my own for you. Look forward to it!” Then he turned and left the courtroom.

But after two failed attempts combined with his now unemployed poverty status, Nolan is forced to wait through the winter before trying again. In the spring, a neighbor offers Nolan an opportunity that will result in enough cash to at least get his old pickup truck into proper operating order again. This temporary job involves a trek on a mule from the outskirts of Carson City over a segment of the Virginia Range to near Virginia City where Nolan comes across a remote, hidden time portal that delivers him to the Comstock Lode area of 1859 just prior to the big strike.

That haze. It couldn't possibly have been some kind of time portal, could it? Although he still didn't believe it, he finally had to ask Virginny. “OK, Virginny, just play along with me here for a minute, will you? What's today's date?”
“Today's date?” Virginny looked puzzled. “Well, I don't know exactly. Near the end of April, but I don't know the exact date.”
“Well,” Mark knew it would sound weird, but he had to continue. “What is the year?”
“The year?!, ha, ha. Where the hell you been all this ti...” And then it dawned on him what Mark was getting at. “Ya mean... uh... well, it's 1859, o'course.”
Mark shook his head, reached over and picked up the bottle of whiskey and took a long pull. He handed it back to Virginny saying, “Here, finish it off. You're gonna need it.”

Nolan discovers a potential opportunity that could conceivably make him wealthy enough that, along with a disguise, could put him into a class which, back in his own time, would allow him access to his former boss. In the end, however, it is not Nolan's new-found wealth that provides this access, but Cyrus Harry's own addiction to exotic automobiles.

The chauffeur-disguised Mark Nolan offered the casino owner, “Would you like to take a turn at the wheel?”
Once again Harry was stunned. “Would I?! You might as well ask me if I'd like to die happy.”
“Hmm.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Borer
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370479979

Book preview

Prologue

THE V.C. MAN

He had finished his day's work and left the rocker right where he had quit. Although the few grains of gold before him were not approaching riches, there was more than enough to fill his present needs. He took a little pull on the nearly empty bottle of tarantula juice. Time to amble on over to Eilley's at Gold Hill and have a bite to eat. Then, next door to Dutch Nick's for an evening of drinking and socializing. Tomorrow he would take the day off and go hunting.

He had it all, everything he could ever hope for; whiskey, a good horse, hunting anytime he took the notion, and a little gold-dust to get along on.

In 1859, James Finney was a happy man.

1

TODAY

CRUNCH!

They were out there.

It was still too dark to see them, but he could tell they were out there by the crunching sound they made when they tore the grass out by the roots. Sometimes he swore he could even feel the vibrations through the floor.

It had been quite a novelty the first night in the new house—over five years ago, now—when he had looked out the patio doors—although there was not yet a patio poured—and noticed the pickup truck's headlights outlining a horse over by the sagebrush. Assuming a neighbor had lost his horse and wanting to be a good new neighbor, Mark Nolan had run out to see if he could be of any assistance. No, the man had told him, it wasn't his horse but one of the wild ones that sometimes roamed out here in the sagebrush. And the sagebrush was extensive. Mark's was the last house on the west side of the street. Then, nothing to the north but BLM land all the way to Virginia City.

Wow, Mark had thought, just imagine… A brand new house and wild horses, too.

But that had been over five years earlier when everything was shiny and new and the world was promising. Penny, his wife, was newly pregnant, they had a new home, and now mustangs practically in their back yard.

But the problem had come to the front yard where the nice, lush bluegrass had been planted, the backyard of the half-acre lot being left to its original sand-and-sagebrush motif. And with the master bedroom located at the front of the house it wasn't long before the nightly Crunch of the horses' dining, just on the other side of the bedroom wall, came vibrating through Mark's sleep.

His first remedy attempt was to buy a BB gun. He didn't want to hurt the critters, only sting them enough to keep them away. Then, in the night when the crunching began, he'd sneak out the back door and get between the horses and the sagebrush. While keeping to the protection of the northeast corner of the house, he'd pepper away at the horses as they made a mad dash past him for their relative safety back in the bush. But that remedy failed miserably and immediately. His head would no sooner hit the pillow when…

Crunch!

His next effort, however, did the trick. He built a three foot high white picket fence around the new lawn. Although the horses could probably crush or step over it, their natural aversion to boundaries kept them out.

At any rate, too much had happened since then.

Mark had been dealing up at the lake at Harry's Hideaway Lake Tahoe Hotel/Casino for six years and, although he would have preferred to save himself the sixty mile round trip commute, he didn't want to give up what seniority he had acquired to change jobs to a local Carson City casino. And the limited available property on the Nevada side of the state line at the lake was just too expensive to consider. When Penny had quit work to deliver Davy, Mark had begun to work more and more overtime to try to stay up with the mounting bills. The couple began to lose communication. Mark was gone too much, Penny became bored being home with nothing to do and attempted to break the boredom by shopping. And the problem with shopping was, inevitably, there would be some buying, adding to the billowing bills. Naturally, increasing bills kept Mark working overtime just as long as they would allow him to stay, thereby adding to Penny's loneliness and boredom. They had no money and Mark had no time for the recreational activities Penny so craved. And as the badly needed communication always descended into argument, it was a vicious cycle with no end in sight.

Until…

After Davy was about a year and a half old and Penny might feel more comfortable leaving him with a sitter, she came up with the suggestion that she could go back to running cocktails—as she had been when Mark had met her at Harry's—weekends at one of the local Carson City casinos. And Sophie, the elderly widow next door, who was truly infatuated with the baby, would love to keep him weekends. At the time it had seemed like the perfect solution. It would break some of Penny's boredom and add to the family's upkeep.

It didn't work out that way.

Immediately, Penny fell in with the Gay Divorcee crowd and saw how much more fun it would be to be single and eligible again.

The marriage ended.

At her job, Penny got upgraded to full-time status and Mark moved back up to the lake into an apartment on the Nevada side of the state line about a mile from his job at Harry's. Over the next couple years, he got the bills paid down to where he had two days a week off again. Then, he would use one day for his upkeep—laundry, ironing, cleaning, shopping, etc.—and the other day he got to spend with Davy. The situation was about as well as he could hope for, given the circumstances.

At least until his boss, Cyrus Harry, owner of the Hideaway complex, put an end to it all.

And now, here he was back in the Carson City house, listening to the horses enjoy their nocturnal repast, crunching up his front lawn again. During the time he'd been living at the lake, maintenance on this house had gone the way of the marriage.

But this time he was the house's sole occupant. And the ghosts of the past were occasionally known to haunt. His third day back in the house he'd been preoccupied as he came out of the bedroom up the hall expecting to see Davy sitting on the living room floor among some of his toys. As he stepped into the empty living room, the present came rushing in with sledgehammer force. Davy would never be sitting there again.

Crunch!

Mark looked up through the dining room window that faced the front yard. Still dark. But just the faintest hint of gray outlined the roof of Willie and Sheryl Macon's house across the street. Occasionally one of the mustangs in Mark's yard would raise its head, outlining itself just above the Macon's roof line. As it grew lighter, the horses would saunter back to the safety of the sagebrush to spend the daylight hours grazing on patches of dry, wild grass.

Mark was beginning his eighth day of total sobriety after the months of drowning his sorrows at the loss of his son and frustrations at the failure to exact revenge on his former boss, Cyrus Harry. In the end, he found, he must go on, putting the revenge factor on a back burner to wait there for the opportunity, should it ever come. That compulsion for revenge had been the driving force that negated ending his sorrow with a suicidal act.

Penny had never gotten around to putting the house solely into her own name when the tragedy had occurred, so Mark had still been the legal owner after her death. For the next couple months, and being unemployed, he used up his meager savings to make the house payments. When the money had run out, he'd managed to sell all the furniture, tools, and anything else that would bring a buck to eke out one more payment. But that had been nearly three months ago and the mortgage wolves were howling at the door. Now, the only furniture items were this wobbly dinette set, an easy chair in the living room, and half an old bunk bed set all of which he had picked up in garage sales after the decent furniture had been sold. The easy chair had a small amount of stuffing showing and a couple of sawed off two-by-fours for a left front leg.

Crunch!

He'd even sold the small white picket fence to a neighbor down the street.

The refrigerator was gone, but the range was a built-in that nobody seemed interested enough to bother with. The electric company had not yet shut off his power and Mark still had a tin kettle to heat water and most of a jar of instant coffee, the brand with the flavor buds. The coffee, a box of little instant soup noodle packages (just add hot water), and a few small boxes of instant-type macaroni and cheese had been the mainstay of his diet the last few days. Interesting how, through all the months of heavy drinking, he'd still managed to eat. The booze/food calorie combination, combined with the lack of physical activity, had added almost twenty pounds of dead weight, this to a person who had never had a weight problem in the past. Now, at five-eleven, he weighed a hundred and ninety pounds, too much for a thirty-four year-old, he figured.

Mark got up and went to the stove. The empty refrigerator gap yawned at him accusingly. He refilled his mug, sprinkled in a few more flavor buds and resumed his vigil.

Crunch!

Apparently the last crunch of the night. The false dawn had provided enough light to make the horses antsy. The sun would soon be showing over Willie Macon's roof. Mark could see, now, that the herd was split, some on his front lawn, some at Willie's across the street, over a dozen totaled up. The apparent leader, a large gray standing just off Mark's window, had had enough of civilization for one night. He raised his head, muttered something in horsese, and started sauntering north toward the sagebrush, the others following.

2

WILLIE MACON

JUST AT THAT moment across the street, Willie Macon's unneeded front porch light came on and his door opened. The horses picked up their pace and were soon lost in the deep sagebrush as Willie stepped out on his porch and watched them go. Then he glanced over at Mark's and spotted him sitting in the window. He raised a tentative hand and Mark motioned him over. Willie picked his morning newspaper off the lawn, tossed it inside his door and started toward Mark's front door. Mark got up, pulled his other mug from the cupboard, and started putting another cup of coffee together. The front door was located next to the kitchen and as Willie stuck his head in he said, Can I come in? Or should I throw my hat in first?

What're you talking about?

Willie stepped in. The last time I tried to be sociable, I thought you were gonna pick me up and throw me back across the street.

This was ridiculous. Willie Macon stood six-two with at least two hundred fifty pounds, very little of which was dead weight. He could more than likely handle Mark with one hand. Yet, his size notwithstanding, Willie had a nature that was pure sweetness. As long as there were any other possible options available, he wouldn't harm a soul.

You're not making any sense, said Mark, I don't follow.

A coupla weeks ago when I came over, you chased me out when I tried to talk you out of the booze.

Oh, no, Mark was even more disgusted with himself. I don't remember it. Willie, you're the best friend a person could ever hope for. I am so sorry. Not to mention ashamed.

Aw, forget it, Mark,. You weren't yourself. But you let me in now. Does this mean you've taken the cure?

Mark handed Willie the coffee mug. They sat at the table, Mark still surprised that the rickety chair held his neighbor without collapsing, although it did groan a bit.

Haven't touched the jug in about a week. Funny, too, it doesn't seem to bother me now. I thought maybe I'd become an alcoholic. But, the first few days were a real bitch while my nervous system retooled itself.

DTs?

And how! About the second day I was sitting in that ratty old chair in the living room, just staring out the patio doors, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted the biggest spider I'd ever seen come boogyin' out on the carpet. My heart did a flip, at first. Then it occurred to me that it was just hallucination, my nervous system getting some payback for the mistreatment I'd been giving it. I got up and went into the can. It was a good thing, too, 'cause when I came back, Moby Spider was still there. When I went toward it to make it disappear, it moved again. I hadn't been hallucinating. IT WAS REAL! If I hadn't just been in the bathroom, I have no doubt I'd've shit my pants right then and there.

Whoa! What did you do?

I just stood there, frozen, 'til I got the shaking under control. Then I went out into the garage, got a chunk of scrap lumber, came in and punished him for being so big and real, and gave him his eviction notice. He's out back, now, coping with a terminal case of Excedrin Headache number two-by-four.

Willie shook his head. Hey, I'm surprised that didn't send you right back into the jug.

"I gotta admit I was tempted. But the next time, the spiders, real or imagined, would probably have evicted me. And I didn't want to go through that kind of crap anymore. Real or unreal, I've had my fill of weirdness. I haven't sworn off drinking. I'm just not gonna make a career of it, anymore."

Great. So what happens now? What are you gonna do?

Mark looked out the window, shook his head. Yeah, that's the question, isn't it? More than likely I'll try for a job at one of the casinos here in Carson, although I can't expect a really great reference from Harry's after the way I left. At any rate, it's too late to save the house. Isn't it three months they give ya until they demand full payment?

I dunno, something like that.

Well, I only got a few more days 'til I'm into my fourth month and they'll probably be demanding the whole balance. Not enough time to sneak in a quick payment to stave them off for another month.

Willie stirred his coffee, even though it had no cream or sugar. Thinking. Speaking purely selfishly, he said, I'd really hate to have to break in another across-the-street neighbor. Why not borrow what you need from me and pay me back when you get around to it? Somehow, I've managed to make it faster than Sheryl can spend it. Willie owned a fleet of six dump trucks that he kept in his huge back yard. Five large diesels and—the one he got started with—a small Chevy he'd affectionately named, Sugar Truck. His business was slow through the winter months, but any day now, he and his drivers would be working nearly eight days a week trying to keep up with the building contracts that had been coming in over the winter. Willie didn't drive much anymore, instead doing all the maintenance and repair in a large garage-like structure he'd built out in back of his house. When he wasn't working on the trucks, most of his time was taken up with the paperwork, bidding estimates, etc. On rare occasions, he'd help out the other drivers using the smaller Sugar Truck.

Yeah, that'd look pretty good to your drivers, wouldn't it, with most of them drawing unemployment and you throwing your money at me?

Well, its none of their business. There's no reason why they'd have to even know about it. Just between you and me.

Oh, hey! I didn't tell you, Mark suddenly remembered. I may have a job for the next day or two. I was out back at the burning-barrel recycling trash yesterday and Butch called me over. Butch Collins owned the property adjoining Mark's back yard, fronting on the only residential street, other than Mark's, in that part of Eagle Valley that abruptly ended at the BLM sagebrush. But his property, although no deeper than Mark's, extended all the way back down that entire street. Directly across that street was more BLM land, so Butch had the street solely to himself. His was an older property and Butch had lived there alone for many years. He needed the land for the very special Appaloosas, both regular sized and the rare miniatures—under three feet tall—that he bred and raised. These wild horses have been driving his stock nuts, apparently, Mark continued. He offered me two hundred to run them back out of the area. I'm not sure what he has in mind. He couldn't talk then, said we'd talk tomorrow… today, now. I told him he didn't have to pay me, that you and I wanted to be rid of them, too. But, you know how Butch is. Said if I wouldn't take the money, he'd find someone who would. So, when I see him today, I'll find out more what he's got in mind.

3

BUTCH COLLINS

THREE OF THE Appaloosas over in a corner of the corral eyed Mark warily as he squeezed between the heavy treated crossbars and headed for the barn. Butch Collins' entire property was corralled with these crossbars, narrower gaps in the sections where the mini-Appies were kept, supported by heavily creosoted railroad-tie posts. Each corral was equipped with a shelter. The main barn, however, looked very unbarn like. Although it was huge, it resembled more a warehouse; nearly as tall as a standard barn but covering a lot of area.

Mark had already spotted Butch earlier, but when he yelled over to him, Butch had called back, 'Bout an hour. Talk to you then.

Now, as Mark approached the barn, the smaller people door, as Butch referred to it, opened and he stepped out and saw Mark. Ah, there ya are, said the rancher. C'mon in the house and swill some coffee while I explain what I need, here.

Butch Collins stood about five-nine, couldn't have weighed more than one-forty, but just had the appearance of youthful strength and vitality. Obviously a hard worker. His straw hat mostly covered a thatch of thick iron gray hair. Then, with what seemed like a perpetual week's worth of growth of gray beard, his age was deceiving. He might have been fifty or seventy.

They entered the back door of the two bedroom ranch style house into the kitchen. Butch motioned Mark to the kitchen table and went to the counter for the coffee mugs. Although, Mark noticed, the furnishings were somewhat spartan everything that a single man needed was here. No frills, just the necessities.

As Butch set the coffee mugs down he said, We've never had much chance to talk, you and me. On those rare occasions when you were around before, we were always too busy with our own doings. Then, you was gone for a couple, three years. Now you're back and unemployed. I read in the paper about your wife and child. Just wanna say I'm real sorry.

As Butch joined him at the table, Mark accepted the coffee mug and said, Thanks, Butch. Actually, by that time Penny was my ex-wife. Still a tragedy, though. But, the worst of it was losing Davy. I doubt I'll ever get over that.

No reason why you should. Parents should never outlive their children. Its just not the way the system's been set up.

A short span of awkward silence. Then Butch changed the subject. You ever do much riding?

You mean on horses? No, not much. Some when I was a kid at my grandfather's farm. But, its easily over twenty years since I've been on a horse. Even back then, it was just mostly a huge old nag that he used rarely. Mostly it'd become the farm pet.

Well, here's the problem, said Butch. "These wild horses have been hanging around—and coming around—in all the years I've been here. They get my Appies all excited, normally not a problem. I just let 'em be. But, every once in a while it'll happen at a touchy time, like when one of my mares is in foal. These Appaloosas I raise are worth a fortune, their blood lines and all. I got ads in the trades and have built a strong reputation among the buyers, both collectors and breeders. On those occasions when it could affect one of the mares in foal, I can't have that mare disturbed, so I've run the mustangs back over the hills where they come from. But, in the past, I always had enough gap before the mare's foaling time that it was no problem to take a coupla days away from here to run the mustangs off. But, not this time. And that's what makes it critical.

This time I got two mares, a big one and a mini, both ready to foal any day, now. I can't leave and I can't have these wild ones around here shaking up these mares. I really need someone, you, to run those others off to the other side of the hills. I could hire a pro, but it would cost more than it would cost to have a non-pro, you, do it. You're unemployed and I have a need. So you're elected. If you want to, that is. Its a simple job. All ya gotta do is go for a ride for a couple, three days. Those mustangs know their way back where they came from. Ya just gotta trail along behind to make sure they go there. What do you say?

Well, yeah, sure. I wanna do anything I can to help. But you indicated I'd be spending a couple of nights out there and I'm just not equipped…

No, no. You don't hafta be 'equipped'. I'm providing everything, just as though I was going myself. I even got a mummy-bag fresh back from the cleaners. Although the days are okay, its still as chilly as an ex-wife's welcome out there at night and you'll need it. The mummy-bag's guaranteed to keep you warm and toasty on the coldest night you can imagine.

OK, I'll do it, Mark grinned. When do you want me to start?

Butch looked at his watch. Well, its too late in the day to start now. You want to get them over McClellan Peak before nightfall or they'll just wander back down this side of the mountain in the night. How's first thing in the morning sound? I really gotta get them away from here. You get over here just before sunrise and when the mustangs start back toward the sagebrush, you'll be right behind them. This herd isn't very big, fourteen, including foals. Should be a cinch.

OK, I'll be… Mark had started to rise, then abruptly sat down, again. Hey, wait a minute! You're not gonna let one of your expensive Appaloosas go out there, and with a novice, are you? What the hell am I gonna be riding on?

Gotcha covered, and how! answered Butch as he stood up from the table. C'mon out to the barn and I'll show ya.

• • •

As they entered the barn, Mark noticed a closed door on his left with a sole thumbtack in the center at eye level. He asked, What's in there?

Butch snorted. That should be obvious even to a novice. Can't ya see the tack? Its the tack room, saddles, bridles… horse stuff.

Ah.

Although the roof of the barn had a shallow peak, there was still room in the rafters for hay bales. There were several stalls, one of which had an Appaloosa looking out at them as they entered. That's the big mare that's fixin' to foal, Butch pointed out. The other ones a coupla stalls down, a mini. He walked down to one of the opposing stalls, Mark on his heels, and stopped. He motioned to the stall and said, Mark, meet Hector. He'll be your guide on the tour.

Butch hadn't turned on the overhead lights so it was still a bit dim in the barn. Mark looked in the stall and saw a large pair of unconcerned—almost bored—eyes gazing back at him. He looked closer.

But, tha… that's a… a…

Mule, finished Butch. Not to be confused with a hinny.

A hinny… Of course. It would take a real stupid to confuse a mule with… What the hell's a hinny? And why… Am I to ride a mule all the way over McClellan? Mark stammered.

"OK, first things first. A hinny has a donkey for a mama. They're a bit smaller, but excellent for packing. Hector's bigger, had a full grown horse for a mama. And, yeah, you'll be riding Hector. And ya couldn't do no better. Certainly not with a horse. Me'n Hector have run those mustangs over the hill many times. He knows the way. Its second nature to him.

Oh, and one other thing… He likes it. He loves getting out in the sagebrush. A hell of a lot more than just lolling around this dump. You'll see. As soon as you get out there, he's the best friend you could possibly have.

Mark slapped his head with the heel of his hand in disbelief. But, I always heard that mules were stubborn, hard to handle. Remember, I'm no cowboy. I haven't had a lot of experience with horses, er, mules. Hell, I haven't had any experience with mules.

Butch extracted a flat, round container of Copenhagen from his back pocket, stuffed a pinch in his cheek and said, C'mon outside. I wanna tell you about these critters but I don't want Hector to hear. He's liable to get too swell-headed.

Mark just shook his head and followed the older man out to the corral. They found a couple of cedar rounds that hadn't been split into firewood yet and sat near the fence. Butch spit a chocolate colored stream at a nearby fence post. Missed.

"I'm gonna give you a crash-course on mules, so listen close.

Most of the bad-mouthing you hear about mules comes from horse people, people who wouldn't be caught dead on a mule. But, here's the real facts… Mules are just fine for riding, maybe not quite as comfortable as a horse, but good enough. The smaller ones, the hinnys, are great beasts of burden, easier to load than a horse. They'll outlive any other beast of burden. Mules are more versatile and less flighty than horses and they don't react as strongly to poor handling. So, even if you don't have the experience, Mark, you're better off with a mule.

Okay, but…

"Now wait a minute, I'm not finished.

Although mules have a respect for fire, they aren't as downright afraid of it like a horse is, less apt to overreact. A mule can tolerate great extremes of temperatures. If you've ever seen those old soap ads on TV of a mule train pulling wagon loads of borax across the desert, that was more than just an ad for soap. They actually hauled that stuff through Death Valley—where the temps are sometimes over a hundred and thirty degrees—to the rail-heads.

That's great, for heat, Mark interrupted. But I'm more concerned with the cold nights this time of year. Also, we'll be going up the side of a mountain… McClellan Peak over there. How will he handle that?

Butch spit another stream at the post. Missed again. You ever seen that fancy painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps?

Yeah, I have. And he was sitting on a big fancy looking Arabian stallion.

"Hah! That whole painting was just for his image. The reality is he was riding a mule! In the Alps where it ain’t exactly tropical weather. If a mule can go bopping through the the Alps with an idiot on its back, you can bet your ass—no pun intended—that Hector ain't gonna have any problem with the temp and terrain around here.

And here's another fact… Given the chance, a horse will eat until he's too bloated to move where a mule does not overeat. And you mentioned stubbornness. A mule has more brains than to let ya force him into a dangerous, or even too awkward, a situation. They have a greater instinct for self preservation than a horse, a better brain and reasoning power than a horse. In short, a mule is just plain smarter than a horse. You should feel a hell of a lot better about being out there on Hector than any horse.

Okay, okay, I'm convinced. M'gawd, after all that, I'd be surprised if Hector would even be willing to partner up with a klutz like me. So, I'd be down-right honored to go with Hector… if he'll have me, that is.

He will. I'll explain the situation to him. Some-times he can be a bit of a wise ass—again, no pun—but he can be very tolerant. Butch spit at, and missed, the fence post again. And if that damned pole jumps outta the way one more time, I'm getting my ax and cuttin' it down!

That'll teach it!

4

THE