Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger

By Jonathan Logan Donovan

Life has become "Zombified." The air itself carries death or worse. A few hardy, starving souls band together to try to make sense of Life's new rulebook while holding on to what little "humanity" they have left.

Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger is a book that examines Lifes incomprehensible, insatiable and cannibalistic need to consume life. Set in the oddest zombie apocalypse imaginable, it follows the paths of several starving characters, all precariously balanced between lack and plenty, in their never ending search for more food.

After the reader is finished with this story, they may have to ask themselves an uncomfortable question: Am I alive, dead . . . or neither?

Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger is the first book in a trilogy. The second book will take the story in a whole new direction, resolving many of the conflicts left open in Husk. Expect the second book sometime in the summer...if the world survives!

Husk: A Tale of Human Hunger deals with mature subject matter, has strong language and is intended for a mature audience.

The main theme of the novel is the overriding emptiness in all people (for food, stuff, power, love, you name it) which is never questioned and can seemingly never be filled. The trilogy hopes to expose the alternative.

Like an unexpected olive pit on unsuspecting martini-teeth, Husk is intended to unsettle, both with its subject matter and style. The author hopes you enjoy the zombie apocalypse and disease he has constructed. He also hopes you appreciate the pre-existing human condition that puts anything the zombies could hope to accomplish to shame.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477283523

Jonathan Logan Donovan

Jonathan Logan Donovan is not dead, undead, alive or kind of alive. He exists somewhere in between in a state of bliss with his wife and two glorious children. He invented a board game, composes music, studies history and chess in his spare time and is quite clever when he wants to be. He inevitably gets into trouble when he talks so he has decided it is better to write a lot.

Book preview

© 2012 by Jonathan Logan Donovan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/23/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8354-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8353-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8352-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919777

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Parched

Part One: Tatters

Froth

Preserve

Trash

Crumble

False Start

Pre-Approved

Seep

Hand Off

The Last Good Man on Earth

Ration

Zero Down

Frayed

Barbed

Pasture

Shreds

Scraps

Gristle

Shrapnel

Part Two: Rags

Odds

Ends

Shards

Shatter

Disposable

Pest

Leftovers

Collapse

Render

Mend

Clogged

Jagged

Mince

Shackles

Weeds

Part Three: Crumbs

Ruin

Pinch

Rubble

Weathered

Stalk

Asunder

Plowed

Knit

Cracks

Dissolve

Wither

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Molly:

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My gypsy-skirted morning gorgeous-glory.

I’ll never loooo-oooose you again.

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Parched

37025.jpg

Seven weeks after outbreak

I ain’t doing it . . . I already ate the god-damn dog fur and all. I ain’t that hungry yet. Not yet. Frank is a solid dude. He let me in and gave me his shit. I’m not eating him. I ain’t that fucking hungry. What the fuck?! If I eat him what does that make me? What the hell would I be? Might as well just go outside and let those spooky shits gobble me up and start munching people right along with them.

So, fuck all that . . . I ain’t doing it. I ain’t them. I mean, I am hiding for a reason, right? They ain’t hiding . . . ain’t got nothing TO hide now, do they? Real honest fucks outside, ain’t they? But there’s certain shit you don’t do and eating Frank is one of them. I don’t have a lot of high standards or morals or whatever but forking Frank down is one of them. Fuck all that.

Wow… my subconscious swears a lot…

I can’t . . . WHAT THE FUCK . . . I’m considering eating this guy. A week ago I would’ve eaten a Braunschweiger with mayo at the brew pub and taken it for granted but now here I am thinking of Frank as a way to make this fucking unbelievable, gut-stabbing pain-feeling end. Fuck that! That would make me one of them, wouldn’t it? Wait . . .

Am I fucking one of them? One of them sloppy ass, slap happy, shambling incapable hopalongs outside? I don’t want to be a zombie THAT’S WHY I’M FUCKING HIDING in this god be damned hole of a basement with this guy . . . Frank.

Jesus, I’m starving. Ate the dog and see, that was a smart move cause I told him, Your dog is barking and doesn’t understand this nightmare, Chief. His doggy dreams are all rabbits and snacky treats. He can’t backyard-bury these boney yum yums, dig? If it keeps barking they all are going to come right on in cause a dog is a dog and a man is a man and meat is meat, right? We got to put that barky Rottie down. So we did and hot damn it tasted like a fucking steak. Call me a liar . . . when I was younger I ate at some pretty fancy places and that pooch tasted like an eighty dollar steak.

We ate the fucking canned crap, ate the friggin fruit and peals and boiled down our broth-leathers. I’ve been licking the god damned drain pipe cause its coated in that fructose flavorful foulness most people mop up in buckets every Sunday after eggs and bacon. Bacon. Buttered Biscuits. Buffet Baked Beans with Beef. Bucket of Wings. Bacon. And those rotten suckers are still just bouncing around outside like ice cubes in a back seat cooler smelling like gamey Game day BBQ from last week’s tailgate.

Holding steady, Brother? How are ya? You’re looking a little freaked out, no offense. Frank looked over with a concerned expression on his stubbled face as he asked this.

None taken and yeah, nah. I’m good. Just thinking about how freaking stupid this whole situation is and about my girl. You know, man, I wasn’t with her. Thinking about her getting nom nommed on by those things still just gets to me. It’s the kind of thing that just does circles in your mind no matter how hard you try to shake it straight, you know?

Yep. Know all about it. My family is in Memphis. I get it. I have no idea what the hell has happened to them. Screw the warehouse job that brought me all the way up here, man. Away from my girls and my family. C’mere and look, man. I think they are getting weaker. That big fat one, you know, with the puke and crap all down the front of him? I don’t think he’s out there anymore. Frank’s face brightened as he continued, Maybe he went looking somewhere else cause I don’t see him. He was the most, I don’t know, determined of ‘em all? The fiercest? So if he’s gone maybe the others are going to screw off soon too. We can hope, right?

Yeah, yeah. We can hope, brother man. I think you may be on to something there…"

Fuck this ass and his fucking theories. Like they are all just going to get bored and go to a movie. Maybe that fat fuck went out for pizza. Are you kidding me? This guy is starting to really get on my last . . . FUCK HIM and his kids. If I don’t eat something soon I am going to die. And not like Kind of die or Hollywood kapow-boom die . . . I am going out shriveling up like a spider in a toilet bowl. Just some web spun and snorkel plugged, Kleenex-shrouded helixbug that’s up-deep-ended and tossed lost into non-crowded public pools as a fly-swat pounded arm floatie. That’s me, alright!!!

So fuck his faulty fixture smile. Fuck his cheery little window gazing hypothesis. They ain’t ever leaving cause they are starving like me. I wouldn’t leave. To hell with leaving . . . they know we are in here like strands of hair stranded here in comb-filtered forest lands. That god damn piece of shit dog friction barking was like a cowbell over a rusty, dusty megaphone. We all might be hungry but they’re the ravenous ones. Course they ain’t leaving. I wouldn’t.

The fuck!? Wait a minute. Is that what they are thinking?! Are they all just dicking around out there screaming inside about how hungry they are like me? Do all of them think they are just really hungry people like me? Could they not know what they are? Or are they still thinking they’re people? Are they cream-filled stale doughnuts?

Do they all think they’re cannibals? Wouldn’t that be something!? A whole world of people who can think but act just like zombies. Are all of them just thinking about how much they’d really like a fucking sandwich?!? Can’t be right. Are they just partly people who think they are really fucking hungry or are they pain free people parts performing for me to see how to order a meal? Well. What the hell. Why not be a zombie then. I’m sitting in here like a tail snapped in almost half mouse trapped rat just as hungry as those cursed bastards.

I’ve always been hungry. Working shit jobs for the past three years. Getting by on noodles, toaster strudels and bar food. Bouncing at that silly ass ghetto strip club drinking all night, sleeping all day, hearing voices and eating like a hobo. Fuck all that, hobos at least eat sausage and beans and play the harmonica or banjos and shit . . . I had crackers, chips, candy bars and beer. That ain’t no diet.

Ever since that freaky chick and I had that violent as hell scratch and bite fuck-fest I’ve just gone to work, drank like a beast to calm down the demons inside, passed out, woke up at night and did it all over again. Three years of hunger, nightlife and blackouts. Christ’s sake, I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in three god damn years. Sometimes a man just needs a minute, you know. A brief pause to get his fucking wits back together without somebody yelling, You owe, fucker. Work-Produce or die.

I just want a god damn meal. Some sort of rail-ridden cream chipped concocted sup hash & mush on Texas stew-sopped up and toasted loaf potato pancaked four course party platter super-size portioned to serve up to eight or more or me but NOT fucking you, Frank, in three minutes quick-like on high. I need a heaping helping of something. Anything.

Frank whispered excitedly, Hey, man. That fat guy is definitely gone. I’ve been looking for like two hours now and he has left the area. And that lady in the sundress? I don’t see her anywhere either. It’s like they both got on the bus and went home. Isn’t that something. I’m thinking we wait here a few more days and we are in the clear, friend. Two guys riding out this storm like some spaghetti western! I’m sure of it now that I can’t find that woman. She really gave me the heebeys. They’re all awful but that lady and her empty baby papoose thing just about made me lose it every time I saw her.

Shut up shut up shut up shut the fuck up you fuck shut your mouth if it ain’t popping waffles out. Few more days of this and I’m done. You’ve got to be eating something to be so positive all the time you lying, chuck grounded, dog-eared-tagged and released Igor-assisted hobbyist sack of shit. Where you hiding your stash, you weak piece of nothing? Shut up shut . . . give me give me your meat fuck you shut up . . .

"Really, man? That’s a good sign. That chick was one of the first I saw when I came tearing down here. I still can’t thank you enough again for that by the way. You didn’t know me from spit but you popped that door open and hollered for me. I brought all this shit to your door, man, and I can’t tell you how much that means to…"

Stop, man. No problem. I wasn’t about to leave a guy out there in that mess. I’m not leaving another white man out there with those things any more than I would tolerate some guy coming into my home bad-mouthing my wife and the Lord or something. Frank shook his hands in a gesture of dismissal.

Yeah but, Frank. You have no idea what that meant to me. I was losing it. When I heard your voice and saw you in the doorway shooting your shottie in the air, man. It was like… the world is still alright, you know. I’m not the best guy in the world or whatever but when I saw you standing there I thought ‘Fuck if that isn’t a miracle.’ You brought me right back into being fighting mad and I love you for that.

Frank turned his attention back to the window and said, Like I said, man. It was nothing. You would have done the same for me so just pull yourself back together and let’s keep getting by until this whole thing rights itself, ok?

Fucking lecture me like I wasn’t the one in the middle of all them crushing heads and gutting fucks . . . blasting through dead mothers with rhino charges. You sat in this hole with all your food watching the world crumble like a fill in the dolphin-finned and sardine tinned mad-libbed inmate tap dancing on CNN surrounded by coral reef insistent sharky grinned and frenzy-fed friendly misfires. Didn’t even have the balls to pack your shit and go down to Memphis, did you, you fucking franchise coward? You’re the guy who hands out the "Hello, my name is . . ." stickers but doesn’t wear one.

You could have bounced your way down there if you gave a shit but you weren’t hungry enough. Your family didn’t daily dose your nutritional needs, did they?! I bet-hope your kids are eating kids at playground swing sets setting right the seesaws seeing tearing teeth-type tree saws cutting into your wife-idea whose screaming seeing her like-kids feasting on fucking chewy-children with cowardly daddies like you in the hillsides on picnic blankets daisy picking. Your kids are hungry enough, man. Your kids are plenty hungry and so am I. Your kids and I both want to salt and eat you you silly, savory, optimistic little impatient handicap-ramped back-bumper horn-honking potholeroast of a useless man . . .

You have no idea the shit I am capable of, Frank. I am hot potato kidney failure. I’m from stone blood running downhill cold. I ain’t them but I ain’t you and you ain’t me. If you don’t shut up and give me your meat . . . well, that’s on fucking you. I refuse this beached whale walled in waiting room. You say you helped me out and no biggy blah blah fuck all that. One favor don’t make you the savior of me. If you were so kind sainted fucking Christ baby dance hearted you’d give me whatever the hell you still have.

Fuck it, man . . . I’m so hungry.

I’m going to write a song. Something to distract my mind from this fucking disaster.

Well, I misplaced my blade.

OooOooOooooeeeOo

I misplaced my Blade today-eh-ay.

So I have no artistic way to end you nicely.

If you want to go, oo whoa oh oh

In a way that’s not so slow oh oh.

You should help me find my Blade so I can end you

Nice-aly, nicely, oh no.

You should help me find . . . it

You should help . . . me.

I ain’t doing it. I ain’t that hungry yet. I can’t believe I’m thinking of eating this guy, Frank . . .

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Part One

Tatters

Are you green and growing or ripe and rotting?

-Ray Kroc

Froth

37029.jpg

Leo turned his radio off with a snickt and a hrrmmmmph.

God damn announcers know jack shit about the game of football. We’re about to have a perfect season and they still pick the other team to win?! Damn it, Karen, why do they do that? Too many rookies on the team? What the hell do they want, eighty year old starters in wheelchairs eating prunes? God, they piss me off!

Karen watched her husband of twenty-five years dress for the game, the same way she had for all their years together as man and wife. The only thing that had changed from season to season was the number on the front and back of the jersey. Leo was not a fickle fan. Karen was convinced that he wanted to be buried in that ratty, beer-smelly thing. She smiled at the thought of it.

The first season home game was his favorite day of the year and, during the two weeks leading up to it, Leo acted like a little kid. He whistled and played boyish pranks around the house. She liked excited little Leo. It reintroduced some rack-spice into their marriage.

This Sunday, though, was different. Karen was worried. Leo didn’t have his usual exuberance. No pep in his step. He was going through the motions but he wasn’t feeling well. Karen could always tell when he was under the weather. Summer had shifted wind-whiskedly into a cold and frigid Fall. The windows at night whined and shook with the force of the wind. She had been hounding him for days to see a doctor but Leo was nothing if not stubborn. Even though she was concerned, Karen didn’t want to spoil the end of his season by insisting he stay home and miss the game.

Your temperature was a hundred and two last night, Leo. I’m not nagging! I just want you to think about staying home today. You could hardly get out of bed this morning. Karen nagged despite her denial.

I’ve never missed a game and I’ll be damned if I do today. No early-autumn bug is going to keep me away from a possible 12-0 season. Leo put an end to the discussion with a shake of his head and a look away.

Leo, or Lenny as his friends called him, put on his number eleven jersey at almost the exact same minute that he had for the past twenty-five years. Sunday was his day. No one could tell him where to be, what to do or how to do it. He loved his team. Leo lived and breathed everything Black and Orange. Today, however, his uniform and illness made him look front stoop scooped out and weeks ago, pumpkin-carved candle burnt.

He had posters of his favorite players on the wall of his basement work room. The desktop wallpaper behind his task mastered, always-running fantasy league program was of the legendary quarterback of the ‘05 season running and throwing across his body. His ring tone was the team’s fight song. He had a horrible tattoo of the team logo on his left bicep. He was the perfect fan; the kind that swung on you if you wore different colors and showed up in the wrong part of the tailgate – with or without beer.

Every Christmas, he got team socks, sweaters, mittens and blankets and never once complained. Why would he? He knew the stats, plays, injury reports and college backgrounds of each and every player on the roster. What could he say? He was a die-hard fan.

If it wasn’t for Sparks those announcers wouldn’t have jobs and the team wouldn’t have a chance to even make it to the playoffs. Perfect example of one man carrying a team. It’s like construction, Karen. Most people just show up for the check but there is always one guy who just loves building something—making something meaningful. That’s Sparks.

Having risen through the ranks of his construction company, he now enjoyed the title of foreman and milked it for everything he could. After a particularly messy job in Boston where one of his crew had sent an auger straight into some power cables at four in the morning, his boss’ kid had called him up to see what he was going to do about it. His boss was old mafia and was to be respected but his kid was being a shit.

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it, brat. In the end, it will only cost you about thirteen hundred dollars and I’ll have their friggin power back on by two in the p.m. Sound good? Lenny’s voice sounded like a deuce and a half on a gravel road.

The kid said, Yeah. Sounds fucking good, Leo. Fix this shit and we’ll remember.

Leo had the problem corrected by noon and finished the whole job a month ahead of schedule. The company got a big check. True to their word, the company remembered. He got promoted, could spend more time with his family, traveled better and less, stayed at fancier hotels when he did, got bigger jobs and bigger checks. Best of all, he got season tickets. When he opened the envelope containing the tickets he grinned at his wife and said, I love you and all, but this is the best day of my life.

That had been twenty-five years ago, when he had been a young buck, right after he had married Karen. Now, Leo could feel his age in his bones and felt like the ass end of a dog. He was groggy, had dizzy spells and hawked phlegm like bullets into the sink and toilet bowl. He didn’t dare tell his wife how bad he was. She could deliver guilt like a nail-packed and piping hot package-bomb. So he lied and told her not to worry.

He was pretty sure some kid had come to work sick no matter how many times he ordered them not to. He remembered Tony sneezing a few days ago and trying to hide it.

He saw runny shit in the porta-potties and had told the crew, Jeeezus. I know you young guys need the money but keep that crap away from the work site. That crap in there is just plain wrong, you unhealthy pricks. And I shit you not, if I see the crapper looking like that again I’m going to make you all do your business in the alley. Wipe your ass with your rags or your hands for all I care. Nothing gets done if we’re all incapacitated. Take a few days, drink some medicine; I’ll keep your jobs open for ya.

Fat lot of good that pep talk had done. He was miserable. His wife babied him as always and tried to convince him to stay home and rest. She had chicken noodle soup and toast for him. She’d bring him warm washcloths for his eyes if he decided to nap all day.

Dump it all in a thermos, baby. I appreciate it but this is the biggest season of the damn franchise’s history. Hell, the biggest season in the history of the league. I’d never forgive myself if I missed it. I can’t get more sick now, can I? Right, sweetie? Just get all your womanly cures prepared for me when I come home, OK?

His wife shook her head at her husband’s stubbornness, went into the kitchen and came back with his thermos and a couple of vitamins. She also tossed a scarf at him which he dropped clumsily. When he reached over to pick it up his head swam and he almost lost his balance but he got back up and played it off nonchalantly.

Don’t you worry, wifey. I’ve had worse. Remember Thanksgiving at Paula’s? When I get home we’re going to snuggle up and watch some television together. I don’t have work again until the fifth of next month. We should go down and see your parents. You’d like that?

She responded that she would like that very much and left the room. Leo grabbed his keys, opened the front door and descended the stairs to the curb. His hands were shaking so bad he had trouble opening the car door. He dropped his car keys once and it took him a minute to pick them up. While bent over, a stream of snot poured out of his nose and landed in the snow at his feet. It looked like blueberry and butterscotch poured over ice cream in an ash tray. He threw up a little and spit it out by the front tire.

Jeepers crow, man, this is awful. I’m going to eat that fucking Tony alive next month for handing me this shit. Kids got no sense bringing his funky ass monkey disease to the job. He and me, we’re going to have a nice, long fucking chat.

Leo fell into the driver seat and pushed the memory button that adjusted the mirrors and seats in his company Caddy. His wife always messed around with his settings. The guy he saw looking back at him when they realigned looked dead. Fucking dead. He didn’t know who this guy was. He looked malarial, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He looked like one of the hoople heads on the corners sucking cock for smack. He decided to skip the tailgate and go straight to his seat. He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. He didn’t want anyone to see him this way.

Word gets around in the business. Your reputation is all you got. I didn’t get season fucking tickets for looking like a trash bag, did I? I got ‘em because I deliver. I got ‘em because the company looks out for them who look out for the company. Just go to the game, come home and fucking rack out.

Leo turned the key in the ignition and pulled out into traffic. He drove slowly, wiping his nose constantly with the sleeve of his team parka. Once on the highway, he could see the stadium in the distance as his eyes watered a little; from happiness or sickness he couldn’t tell. He weaved back and forth across the lanes eliciting long, drawn out honks from the other motorists.

Yeah, yeah. Fuck yourselves. Not even Death himself could keep me away from this game today. How many times in life do you get a chance to witness the start of a perfect season in person? Not this guy. I ain’t no fag. Not this one here. I’m fucking going.

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Preserve

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Home.

Smiley face.

Since saying good bye to her old life many moons ago, Molly had lived gypsy-skirted, morning glory-gorgeous. She lived, what some would call, a non-traditional life style. Her friends called her Molly-U-Haully. She had sold the little of what she had after leaving her husband (car, books, artwork, electronics, a few gold coins) and used the funds to purchase an outdated dinosaur of a twenty six foot box truck at an auction for…

five thousand two hundred and thirteen dollars and eighty-seven cents . . .

. . . which was about eighty percent of her total life savings. She named the truck Pumpkin because of its color and loved how it looked. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen in fifteen years and she couldn’t wait to get cracking with the customization.

She immediately took it to a mechanic. She requested a tune-up and fine-tooth combing. She told him she wanted a sun light cut out of the roof and a window on each side of the vehicle precisely where she told him to put them. She also ordered several holes with caps to be drilled through the walls to feed cables and power cords through. Lastly, she asked him to find a way she could lock and unlock the retractable gate from the inside. When she returned a week later the grease monkey proudly stated that it would go, "Another…

Hundred thousand . . .

. . . miles if you keep it maintained; all fluids topped off and drive it sensibly. The Plexiglas is strong as hell. You won’t ever have to worry about someone breaking through it without a blowtorch or buzz saw. You’ll at least hear ‘em coming, for sure. You got everything you wanted and more, lady."

Molly, inspecting the man’s handiwork, said, It had better! I intend to use all those miles and more! I am tired of roots and area codes. I’m going to see the world, but good advice, my oily knight! I shall heed your dire warnings. You have served me well and it is a debt I can never repay!

She left the man guffawing with a wad of cash on his tool chest; his hands stuffed inside the straps of his overalls absently rubbing a large, rotund and hairy belly.

*

Since her divorce, Molly had entered text land. She shared her experience with all of her online friends via status, web-feed, emails and blog posts. Her loss had becomes Likes – her version of the story—Views. Her lexicon had evolved into a mixture of fantasy gaming and less-is-more leet-speak – easy to thumb-leak or hands free into the intrawebs while driving.

That same day she had walked into her bank and withdrawn the rest of her meager savings. If Molly had been one thing in life it was frugal but she did not have much after thirty-eight years of retail or service jobs. Her he-who-shall-not-be-named ex-husband had brought in most of the family’s income and most of it had been lost in the bottomless hole of hydra-headed lawyer, court and other costs. All that money, a lifetime’s worth, fee-fell into the pocket-wells of neer-do-well, ambulance-chasing glad handers who promised friend’s discounts upon referral. Molly hadn’t minded at all. That money was dirty. It was corrupted and she was glad to be rid of it.

"I can’t believe I let my life be so preoccupied and bothered by my pocket book. There is so much out here to be enjoyed. The leaves blowing in the wind today and that crisp, autumn burnt smell on the breeze. I was such a fool to stay leashed to that marriage for as long as I was.

Greater than-period-less than wincey face.

Good riddance to bad rubbish!

Winkey face.

Her husband had always ridiculed her penny-pinching penchant but she knew deep down he resented it. He saw it as an assault on his ability to provide for the family but she would have done it the same way had they been millionaires.

Trying to stretch a dollar is not a bad thing. It is just common sense. Why pay full-price for something if you can find it for less? Buy more, pay less!

Inorite? FFS . . . WTF?

Molly had put the remainder of her rubber banded bound funds into a trapper keeper that was also stuffed to bursting with coupons, clippings, discount cards and sayings she had found that helped her keep her chin-up. Her favorites were, Unto myself, I am sufficient, as well as, Mess with me all you want but don’t mess with my kids. She had written, Life is not about waiting on the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain, on the cover of her binder in red marker. She underlined it twice, then a third time and put a cloud sticker above it. The sections inside were divided into check-lists, contacts, calendars, pockets for coupons and such and a dozen other categories that made sense only to her.

She had been all smiles when the teller attempted to convince her to stay with the bank. She had peacefully listened to admonishments about bad long term financial decisions and leaving the security of an FDIC insured bank. She had waited patiently until the teller was out of pleas, handed her the cash…

Twenty-nine thousand, three hundred and three dollars and fourteen cents . . .

. . . and said, Thanks! You should go outside. The grass has started turning brown. Fall is here and it is beautiful.

The grass has started turning brown.

It is beautiful.

Exclamation point.

She was never going to be dependent on a man or the system ever again. That had gotten her nowhere fast. It was cruise-no-control-freak frisky time for her and she expected everything to come up roses.

She began the process of converting her bought and paid for U-Haul-It into her new home. She pulled into a car wash and started in the rear. She filled a trashcan with water and dish soap and bleach-mopped, wiped and scrubbed out all the funkiness that had been deposited inside the truck during its time in the fleet. She then hosed down the exterior of the vehicle several times, paying extra-special attention to any stains or gunk that persistently clung-for-dear-life onto the metal brackets and rails on the sides and back gate.

Climbing onto the top, Molly stretched up towards the sky before furiously scraping and toweling the upper-bars. She sprayed scented air freshener throughout the cab and cargo areas, placed gas station, rear-view new-car smell pine cones on every available hook. She stuck and lit a scented candle in the ashtray (Hells Bells, the truck was ancient!) and clapped her hands together.

/golfclap

Done AND done! You could eat dinner off the floor in there, she said to no one in particular.

Once Molly was satisfied with the cleanliness of her auto-abode she had raced to the store, coupons trailing out of her pockets, purse and binder like price-reduced pony tails, to get her necessities. After taxes and discounts, she spent…

One thousand, seven hundred and ninety seven dollars and eleven cents.

She had saved…

seven hundred and fifty dollars and fifty-eight cents . . .

. . . with all her meticulous matching and planning. She was a proud, Pokémon-price match guaranteed to catch all them savings sensei master and as she saw the U-Haul-It come into view once again in the parking lot, with four store helpers pushing carts behind her and more to come, she appeared to all the world a ditzy, over-spender with a mindless, vapid look of pleasure on her face.

"I have a lot of work