And Now... The Pirate Queen Minty Quest Leads Headfirst into Danger

Okay, so here's the thing... you already know that it's been a rough couple of months... I've been adjusting to the new situation and it hasn't always been easy... Truthfully, it hasn't been easy even once.

Sadly the effect on my psyche has been to punch an SAU-sized hole into my formerly indefatiguable confidence and perkiness.

Naturally my charm, wit, beauty and modesty remain of course... but the confidence is lacking.

You are about to embark on the 3rd section of a 4 part story about how I got my cheerfully exuberant self back after learning a hard, painful lesson... and as all such stories go, the Nadir must occur before the Apotheosis. (If you don't know what those words mean, it's an indication that you never took my Myth and Symbols class...and now you never will. Oh well, sucks to be you).

My point is... just in case you are worried... I will prevail.

But it's going to get pretty dark first.

So be ready for it.


I'm just sayin'.

Now on to the story part of this thing...


Although my own curiosity and irritation with Monsieur Redneck had directed me to choose the road away from snack foods; as I followed the John Deere cap out into the parking lot of the convenience store, I found it simpler and more fulfilling to blame him.

It was all HIS fault I wasn't filling my gullet with minty-chocolate goodness.

He would pay for this outrage.

I filled my tank with 1.29 gallons of gas (Go me!), and ducked quickly into the driver's seat. Revving my engine, I scanned the lot quickly and saw my foe's truck (naturally) pulling out onto Rt-202/9.

I waited a beat for a car to pass and merged with traffic myself. Thanks to the ugly black smoke that belched from Monsieur Redneck's 4x4 beast of death, he was easy to follow. Also, he didn't really go far. After approximately 1.4 miles he pulled into the parking lot of a local redneck dive, The Gangsta Shack. I pulled in, parked at the opposite end of the lot, and waited to see what would happen next.

The answer is...

Not much.

*sigh*

He got out of his truck and pimp-rolled (NH redneck style) into the charming establishment.

Before I go further, let me just paint for you and illustration of this lovely venue.

The building itself was a marvel of architecture... The marvel being that it had remained standing as long as it had. Built in the late 70's, when the American Redneck Post-Modern Craftsman Style had been in high demand, it was entirely square in every way. Although there was a cinder block foundation, it was cracked and seemed to have grown tired of being in the same place, so it had begun to lean a bit to the left. The blocks themselves had been painted a bilious sea-green at some point in the 1980's by someone with a sense of humor.

The rest of the exterior was painted in a whimsical argyle pattern (oh yea, I said it). In places, the argyle appeared to be entirely plastered over by black trash bags, but on a second look it became apparent that the trash bags weren't simply plastered across the face of the building randomly; they were actually, a cheap and yet, not at all, disturbing substitute for windows.

I have often pondered, while passing this particular establishment, what the point was behind having window frames when one has no intention of ever filling said frames with glass, but I had never been able to answer the question to my satisfaction, since I was not at all interested in ever entering the establishment to assuage my curiosity.

The good news is, I learned the reason for trashbags instead of windows.

The bad news is, I learned that reason the hard way.

And here at last, we come to the action...

I walked through the doorway into the The Gangsta Shack about ten minutes after my prey. Scanning the room slowly I made my way to the bar and waited to be served. The barmaid, a depressed woman of about my age, was plunging dirty glasses into a tub of soapy water that smelled strongly of bleach and then quickly running the glasses under a stream of water. She managed to deal with each glass so quickly that I found watching her to be an almost Zen-like exercise; it wiped all other thought out of my mind. Thus, when she asked me, "What'll ya have?" It took me longer than usual to respond.

My brain stumbled and fell down a set of deep stairs into my stomach. By which I mean, I suddenly realized that I was in a bar, alone, tracking a red neck... and I had no money.

Not for the first time in my life, I thought, "What the hell is WRONG with me?"

It was then that a voice behind me spoke the words which will live on in infamy until the day I perish in a burst of flaming glory...

"I bet she'd like some tequila!"

Don't even pretend to be surprised... I know you were expecting this all along. Yup, it was my friend Monsieur Redneck. He had emerged from what was apparently a gentlemen's bathroom, where he had managed to find two other men who looked like they had been cloned from the same sheep. Now all three were standing just behind me, grinning. Their smiles did nothing at all to hide, or even disguise, the evil coldness in their eyes or the almost sulphurous stench of hell they carried with them.

Then again, perhaps the smell was just something they'd acquired from their sheep relations...

But that's all extraneous. The point is...

Before I entered their domain, I thought I was so smooth. I was so ready, thinking I could just slide back into my old, kick-ass, Pirate Queen persona.

I'd been so cocky.

The past three months of my life had completely disappeared momentarily, and I'd been convinced that my old confidence and fearlessness was back...

Instead, what I discovered was...

The confidence had been a momentary delusion... brought on by a sudden craving, lonliness, and a desire to have that old righteous anger back.

I wasn't tough.

I wasn't a Queen.

What was I?


Answer... very, very stupid.

I should have left the building right then, running if necessary...

But oh no, I didn't.

Two hours, 8 shots, and 6 games of pool later, I found myself flying head first out through one of the plastic covered windows and landing in the parking lot in a smelly, painful heap.

I learned a valuable lesson before passing out.

It's a bad idea to drink tequila, play pool, and bet on yourself.

It's an even worse idea, when you have absolutely NO money.

And it's a TERRIBLE idea to play pool under such circumstances with someone who has anger-management issues.

So here I am.

Tied up.

In a shed.

My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like something dead crawled into it while I was knocked out, I can't feel my feet, and there is an enormous spider on the wall 8 inches from my face.

So basically...

I'm in HELL.

What will I do next?

Well obviously,

I will prevail.