Dancing Rabbit Dreams

By Tryg Jorgensen

Among many tribes there are stories of the Little People and among the southeastern tribes the stories are ubiquitous. The Seminole identify distinct species, one tribe of little people are 4 inches on average, another tribe are 12 inches high, some are taller, and one tribe are masters who can go transparent like cuttle fish, changing thei

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oklafalaya Publishing
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218425555

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Among many tribes there are stories of the Little People and among the southeastern tribes the stories are ubiquitous.  The Seminole identify distinct species, one tribe of little people are 4 inches on average, another tribe are 12 inches high, some are taller, and one tribe are masters who can go transparent like cuttle fish, changing their skin melatonin into shapes that mimic what is behind them.  In Muscogee stories grasshopper legs taste like turkey and crawdads like lobster.  If you lost your keys again it’s probably a little person prank.  They love dressing in squirrel suits and dancing drunk. Sometimes f!@#$%& with people is as fun as sh@#$ and giggles. 

The kid is a menace to Fecundity!  Phyllis stares at the male agents like they are the source of all gender problems.  Her frail face belies her ferocity.  At eight and half inches she could take on a bear standing fifteen foot.  She is easily the most emotional of the three mothers, Division Heads, among the Choctaw Agency of the Little People. The Division is in the Four Mothers Intervention and Interdiction Agency.  Like native herpetologist they established it in 1824 as the anti-venom to any cosmic bites from the eugenic Bureau of Indian Affairs.

Are we going to allow him to impregnate half the tribes in this state before we do something about him?  Phyllis’s fingers make the scissors motion.  Also whoever has been cute about this and circulated that fake memo on free will for a man’s Willy will be put on a plan of improvement which will include the next five unscheduled interventions.  Phyllis was probably disgruntled because during the annual conference committee meetings on inter-tribal disputes, she lost the rock, paper, scissors caucus that landed this case in her agency.

The agents assembled look at each other with the I’m not sayin nothin expression.

Bug, agent badge KA5OHCNG6 (KowiAnukasha, County 5-Kiamichi, Oklahannali, Chahtahh Nation, Grade 6), is a perpetual novice who can’t even drop his eyelids correctly.  Turn away stupid! Turn away stupid!  He could hear his brain scream.  Instead he accidentally has his eyes moving in the diversionary right look away when his lead left eye betrays him by catching Phyllis’s, Penny’s, and Bunny’s faces.  His eye is caught in the social tractor beam.  His stare locks in on Bunny’s sheepish smile.

Agent Bug.  Phyllis remarks with honey dripping off of her canines.

Ahokni (auntie)? he whispers.

You haven’t had to do a real world intervention lately have you?  As she speaks Bugs mentor, Wekee, begins sliding down out of his chair in an attempt to make an escape; his rotund belly intervenes.  I think you and your mentor should handle this case personally!  Wekee’s face contorts into bowel movement consternation.  Thank you for your service.  We’ll be meeting next week.

The entire group of little agents disperse and flee like there is free lunch at church.  The final two out drag their butts on the ground.  Wekee is shorter by an inch next to Bug.  Not that Bug is taller than any other Kowi Anukasha (Choctaw Little People or KA’s for the acronym), it’s just that Wekee is shorter, and fatter.  Imagine a twig with a June bug on it and you have Wekee’s gut dimension.  As the two little Laurel and Hardy daring duo of the KA’s walk to their office you can hear Wekee’s substantive protest with rectal air.

How did that happen? Bug quandaries.

Cause you’re stupid.

No really, He isn’t on my caseload.  Is he on yours?

Well he is now!

Why is he even in our office?  I mean he lives in Tahlequah.  Isn’t this a Cherokee case?

He was born at Talihina.

So.

He’s more mutt than a loose bitch in a dog pound.

Mutt?

Yup, and no one wants to cover him because he is Johnny Spreadseed.  Pan-Indianism has gone horribly awry.  Talk about paperwork.  His descendant’s family tree looks like spaghetti.  Put the state map on the wall, throw the pasta against it and you will cover half of his heirship, maybe!

We’re talking about other tribes aren’t we?

We’re talking about if Indian Health could vaccinate against this kid they would. He is walking hormone.

How are we going to stop him?

Dunno, review the intro narrative.  Wekee lumbers to his desk, plops in his chair and proceeds to calm himself with a snore.  Bug meanwhile flips through the casefile entitled Tim Elijah Jim Individual Spiritual Plan which is over thirty-nine pages long meaning there are some issues in this jacket.

"YEAR  (1976) 2ND JUBILEE – TIM ELIJAH JIM ISP FORM 3 BACKGROUND NARRATIVE 

  Life is full of irony for Timothy Elijah Jim.  He is a full-blood Native American Aboriginal of the New World whose Certificate Degree of Indian Blood will nauseate any lineal descent (I knew we shoulda developed an inter-tribal protocol before Boarding Schools!).  At age thirty-five, he is six feet two inches with a now emerging beer gut.  He still wears a long ponytail that is Grecian Formula camouflaged. He has several nicknames such as Jim Tim, Slim Jim, Timmy Jimmy, or other derivatives that Indians give each other to mock, tease, and determine pecking order; Tim’s mother calls him Tomcat which is culturally based on what animal spirit she thinks her child had.  Tim’s mother did not see him as a domestic house cat, just lazy and hormonal as one, and she threatened to have him neutered if he wound up making her raise a grandkid.

Tim Jim is not your average Indian, he is the sum of BIA social engineering at its best.  He is what happens when you deal with Blood quantum, pan-Indian seed, Pow-wows, Athletics, and playboys.

Tim’s dad, Elijah, is Choctaw Chickasaw; this is not uncommon since both Elijah’s parents met at a common event sponsored by Goodland and Wheelock.  Both tribes speak the same language and have a common origin story with ample supply of vertically challenged women. 

Elijah’s dad, Jeremiah, left Goodland in 1935 and enlisted in the Army.  Elijah’s mom, Grace, married Jeremiah that same spring and Elijah was born eight months later.  Someone was in the camp house, during the all night singing when they should have been in church.  KA6OFJAG6 has more information on Jeremiah, and KA5CKMAG7 has information on Grace.

Tim’s mother, Annie, is half Creek Cherokee.  Annie’s dad,  Jim Harjo, had been Indun married so many times the only thing with more rings would be a tree.  Apparently Harjo had accompanied his uncle who was invited to the Stokes ceremonial grounds.  Ketoowah women were shaking turtle shells and the rhythm sparked Jim Harjo’s libido.  Of course the smorgasboard of good looking women that he was in no way related to set the pheromone stage.  He ended up losing his hat that evening to the local ceremonial grounds deacon.  You lose either your boots or hat for trying to carouse at stomp grounds.  EC5HGHCG6 has complete data on Harjo and YT7SGKCG5 on Ketcher.

Elijah and Annie met in Dallas during relocation.  So do the addition: Jim plus Maytubby plus Harjo plus Ketcher equals the voting block of the State of Sequoyah.  By the time Tim was born, he could literally have the state seal stamped on his civilized butt.  Pedigree undetermined due to protest filed by Keetoowah agents who cite matrilineal exceptions for insanity have been filed based on Cahokia protocol that all tribes would arrange for the early fatality of any crazy butt member of another tribe entering jurisdiction.  End of Form 3.

"YEAR  (1976) 2ND JUBILEE – TIM ELIJAH JIM ISP FORM 4 GOALS

Need to address Tim’s casualness about Indun marriage as an exploitative basis for seducing women.  Casualness has severe disregard for relational responsibilities and seems to be an extreme form of sixties free love.  Would be understandable if Tim was a hippie, but Tim’s obsession with macho defined gender roles undermines any redeemable qualities about his carousing.  See attachments including child support claims.  End of Form 4.

"YEAR  (1976) 2ND JUBILEE – TIM ELIJAH JIM ISP FORM 5 OBJECTIVES

Ten years after graduation in 1976 Greg and Tim are buddies playing softball for beer.  Luckily Greg’s cousin has gotten them a job at the commodity warehouse behind the Tsa-La-Gi.  There Tim and Greg stack the golden bricks of cheese with the best of them; occasionally the Thomas Lott option pitch slips through Tim’s fingers and some elder will gripe endlessly about the deformed packages.  Damaged cheese bricks are one of the perks of working at the commodity center; the no-talent-two spend weeks with colon blockage from too many grilled cheese sandwiches and beer chasers.  Hopefully this diet will end any future need for interventions.  Recommend 3 mg of devil shoestring powder be placed in his coffee to reduce libido by generating intestinal problems.  End Form 5.

Oh crap Wekee.  The previous agent left us a turd.

You saw his conquest list I guess?

He literally tried to have carnal knowledge of every freshman girl at Haskell in 74?  Why hasn’t someone tried to neuter this animal?  Bug digs through the files looking for intervention forms and what will become known later as the Bobbit protocol, a joke among the male agents.

He also tries to nail the girls at Bacone, Indian clubs at Southeastern, Northeastern or wherever he’s playing softball!  He has a restraining order at Sequoyah and his name on a watch-list at Riverside.  His modus operandi is to drive the Indun softball circuits playing Willie Stargel, hit some sweet drives into the outfield, round the corners winking at the ladies around the fence.  He has turned the Indian pastime into foreplay.  Wekee smiles like he is describing a swamp rabbit.

His first child is with a A. Redcorn?  That one is a Haskell entry.  Second with S. Baker at Goodwater OIMC.  Third with a D. Chibitty at OU Indian Club event.  Fourth with S. Chanate at Bacone.  Fifth with C. Soap; Northeastern.  Sixth is on the way.  He is a party to three DHS cases for unpaid child support.  We gotta save this guy from himself!

I can’t go to Tahlequah!  Wekee shakes his head as he leans back to sleep some more.

Phyllis said we are supposed to.

I ain’t goin.

Phyllis said we are going!  Bug looks at Wekee like he has lost his mind.

There are some Tsundi up there that want my head or at least to shove something painful like a goat burr up my butt I’m sure.

Did you cause some crap up there too?

Gambling debt.

Bingo?

Rabbits.

How do you gamble on rabbits?

One side brings a doe and another a buck.  If the buck catches the doe in two minutes the buck wins.  My doe laid down on me!  Cost me my shoes and hat.

That’s not a good enough reason to stay away from Tahlequah.

It's winter!  They were so mad I bet they try to take everything.  Cherokee can be very nasty about unpaid debts.  They’ll make us march home naked!

Us?  It’s your debt.

Phyllis said to us.  Remember?!

A day later Wekee and Bug drop from the front bumper of a baby blue K-Car GSA vehicle they had stowed away on at the BIA in Muskogee.  In the parking lot of the Tsa La Gi hotel they move from tire to tire watching for any sign of children, dogs, or cats; all of which can be painful.  Wekee’s chest expands in and out making his belly look like a child is moving under the surface; an ultrasound would see an omentum that may look like a fetus.

Where’s the commodity building?

Map shows towards the back.

That’s gonna take us an hour to get back there!  Wekee has a despondent look on his face, the kind a desk jockey gets when they have to change planes at O’hare.

Why don’t we wait here until night and then move back there under cover.  We sleep in the building and wait until tomorrow when TJ shows up?

If he calls in sick we could be stuck up here for a week!  Wekee looks at Bug with the get real nuance.

We can’t risk moving now, the sun’s out.

Here kitty kitty!

Bug stares at Wekee like the fat one is obviously drunk.

Here kitty kitty!

Why - are you – calling - a cat?  His phrase translates, you dumb-butt!

I have an idea!  Get above the starter.  When the cat shows, put your hand over this!  Wekee points to the positive battery cable terminal on the starter case.

What are you going to do?  You can’t run fast?

Right, You lure the cat and I will get above the starter.

That’s your solution!  Shock the cat!  Piss off the cat and watch Bug squeal in terror fleeing underneath these cars?  You think you are some kinda Cat Whisperer?  You ever lugged a full grown cat?

Sounds fun don’t it!  We be playin Big Mac makin money the hard way.  You man up?

Bug shakes his head.  He runs under another car, looking around mumbling.

There ain’t no cat that way!  Wekee bellows while watching Bug staring around the corner of a tire.  Suddenly Bug begins a gut crawl moving towards an object on the side of the parking lot near the ditch.  Five minutes pass, then ten.  A flat squirrel starts moving towards the car, doing a lousy job of scampering. 

You get the front and I’ll get the back.  Bug points to the flat, grimacing head sun baked and hard.

We’re going to lug roadkill for an hour with the sun beating down on us?  Wekee’s voice sounds like a cold from speaking through his nose.

It’s a better idea than luring a cat to bite my butt!

Do you have any idea how bad that stinks!?

We’ll take a bath in a sink tonight.  Bug shakes the flat decoy and Wekee reluctantly helps make a scamper across the parking lot, staying as close to buildings as possible.  Within an hour they ditch the bug-ridden camo and sneak into the open garage doors of the commodity center.  Upon finding an empty box on the floor they determine it is appropriate camo.  Moving slowly pushing it like maybe a breeze would, they locate next to a stack of boxes and soon climb the white label USDA packages toward the top.  They watch their prey move from below from the break room returning to the warehouse.  One is Greg with a bad Fu-Manchu moustache and the other is Tim.  Greg throws a box to Tim in bad basketball pass form and remarks,  Did ya see Sheila?

Yeah she’s getting fat.

No wonder, You knock her up too?

Shut up Tundra Tit.

I’m sorry, five kids in ten years.  Ever try a condom?  Hey, hey, maybe you could trade peanut butter for diapers. Hee hee. 

You’re just jealous because you have a pencil d@x$! 

Are you talking about Ghenghis snake!  No wall can keep it out. Greg grabs his groin with both hands looking smug like a rooster that just stepped out of the hen house.

If Sheila’s getting fat maybe you could harpoon her you muktuk eatin wuss!

Greg smiles and then stings Tim with reality You’ve been stackin peanut butter all last month, you’ll stack it next month and then you’ll still be payin child support for the next sixteen years. 

Tim grimaced at this thought.  How had he, the player of the softball scene, pissed off so many women, his mom, his grandma from Stokes and his boss who was the aunt of his most recent sireling.  Easy he thought, maybe he was an irresponsible jerk; the introspection sucks.  Nearly forty years old and he was not even a decent prospect; no blood quantum, a Haskell dropout, kicked out of Talking Leaves Job Corp, a growing beer belly, and Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  It seems that nothing is in his control.

Tim!  Tim!  Hey you Buttsilk wannabe, he heard Greg taunt.

Wha?

Look sharp, Buffalomeat just pulled up.

Oh hell!  Tim looked for a place to hide.  He couldn’t go to the pot because some elder had just exited and left a saturated commodity beef cloud.  He couldn’t rush outside because he had already carried out the empty boxes to break down.  He could pull the fire alarm, but he had already been written up for that. 

Meanwhile Greg sat in his metal folding chair smiling like he was watching a stray humping a rich woman’s poodle.

Slim Jim! Bison Butt shrilled his name.  Mr. Jim!

Yo he responds with his vocabulary profoundly trapped in the seventh grade.

I spoke with Ashley.

How is she?

Are you gonna give her some money this month? She said with an Indian woman’s Make my day snarl.

Yeah Tim hurts from shame and wants to tell her to shove it but she is his boss.

I told her to go to the tribal court and have your check garnished, but she can’t get it through her thick head that you aint’ in love with her. She locks her head like a hawk and flexes her triceps with her fists on her hip making her elbows look like wings preparing to take flight.

Look. He starts to say something profound, and then, brain fart.  You can‘t kill that many brain cells at Indun bars and remain sharp.

I am looking, lookin at a man who needs to have his nuts cut off.  I swear you Indian men and your constant erections.  Having finished her sermon on philandering breechclout idiots she turns to exit.

Tim shakes his head like being slobber knocked by a pulling guard; D@%! women he mutters lamely.

Greg walks up with a cartoon out of some male mag and tosses it down on a table next to Tim.  The picture showed two squirrels on a power line and the caption read its all fun and games until someone loses a nut.  You better reach down and make sure they’re hangin.  Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. Greg was laughing all the way strolling outside.  Tim eyes a generic labeled can of peanut butter.  He knows he could hit Greg’s head, but he still owes Greg fifty bucks.  Violence is avoided due to an increase in fees if loan shark buddies are injured.

Up in the stacks Wekee has been mulling over an epiphany.  Hey Bug.  What if we go with him tonight, use our Vulcan mind trick and put some idea in his head for him to get drunk. He passes out.  You slip under his covers and cut his nuts?  We’re home tomorrow night and case closed.

Oh yeah! Great plan.  We try to make it home while I smell like dried nut blood inviting some coyote to track down my brown butt. 

Ok, I’ll cut.

He’s gonna wake up!  What if he starts screaming?  What’ll we do?  Jump in his mouth?

You really are a limp tulup (penis).

Never mind that we need to get to the car now he’s walking towards the bathroom. 

The two bolt for the open door and make their way to the two cars in the parking lot.  Twelve O’ clock arrives and Tim makes his way to his car.  He can hear Greg smart butting but refuses to face his buddy; his middle finger quota had expired at 11.00 a.m.  Greg could tell his ribbing had worn thin and so he did not follow him out to taunt him, besides, he knew that if Tim guilted him, he may have to share his twelve pack.

Tim jumps into his diesel Rabbit and turns the glow plugs on, turns the starter and no start.  What a pain in the ass he just replaced them.  He waits a bit longer and it grudgingly cranks over with black smoke inebriating swarming gnats. 

Wekee and Bug dangle on the sway bars while Tim’s car drives towards Bacone in Muskogee, obviously to begin snagging for cuties since the Indian Club at Northeastern State doesn‘t meet until Thursday.  There, on a billboard read something about Apple’s newest Macintosh.  Computers made Tim think of the future and then about reading 1984 in high school; another lie.  He read the Cliff Notes.  He wonders if Big Brother watches him when he looks at the catalog models in the lingerie section.  At any rate, all this technology talk made him think about a program he saw on Donahue where some perv was on stage talking about how doctors made him a woman.  Tim was sure he had met one of these by accident when he was drunk at the Crazy Horse in OKC, or was he watching Little Big Man? He remembers Grandma had called these types that wore drag Switching Jack which made him wonder what a true changeling would be called.

Somehow the collision in his brain of his pedigree, his diminishing stash of cash, child support, and a piece to drive didn’t slow his id’s inertia.  Wouldn’t you know it? While at the Bacone softball field, he sits on a bleacher watching the lady softball team and