Crouching Becky, Hidden Louise

Hot Becky crouched behind the rhododendron, turned and whispered to Famous Louise who was hiding near a sassafras bush, “Did you hear them boys talking about some sort of vault?  Is that what they said, a vault?  What the heck is that all about?   One minute they are making sense, talking about books and films and particle physics, and the next minute they’re cramming their faces full of pie and swilling bourbon.  What is it about men?  That tall one with a beard has been trying to tune his guitar all night.  Why, they don’t even know the words to one Johnny Cash song!”

“Yeah,” Louise added with a slight snarl, “and the one with the scraggly beard keeps falling asleep in his chair.  Ain’t too hard to look at, though.”  

“What about the quiet one?” Becky wondered aloud.  “He looks quite pleased with himself.  Has the look of a confirmed bachelor.  I hope some good woman comes along and knocks him right off his horse….show him a thing or two!”  

“Agree” added Louise, now intently eyeballing the quiet one for tattoos or other signs of wildness.  

“Them boys sure are some slim pickins,” Hot Becky said with a hint of reservation in her voice, “but a girl can’t be too choosy up here in this gorge.  Good thing it ain’t a full moon.”  

They shifted slowly in place as each began to collect their private, possibly impure, thoughts.  Suddenly, from the far perimeter of the fire-light, a tall, scraggly old coot intentionally cracked a twig to gain the girls’ attention without scaring them too much.  “What the….?” Hot Becky hissed, whirling around yet still holding to her quiet voice.  

“Don’t shoot!” the old weasel said in a strained whisper.  “Don’t shoot….those are my buddies.  We’re here on a mission.”  Louise just gave a stationary look and dropped her hand to her waist band, ever willing to let Lady Smith & Wesson do the talking.  

Old Weasel started to talk fast in a low whisper and worked hard to convince both Hot Becky and Famous Louise these young hombres they were spying on were not just some ordinary, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em, sloppy-slimy-egg-hatin’, moonshine-lovin’, pie-eaters.  “No ma’am,” he said in his most convincing, New York-by-way-of-Texas, North Carolina accent.  “Them boys is, every one of them, college educated.  Why, the big one there has a master’s degree and the other two is working real hard to earn graduate degrees themselves, believe-it-or-not.  Wouldn’t think it to look at ‘em at the moment, I know, I know - since they been drinkin’ a tad.  Maybe enjoyin’ a cigar, even.  But what you got here is a real tri-fecta, ladies.  Why, any one of them studs would be a good catch, except they is each spoken for in one way or another.”  The Weasel looked over at his three friends, cautiously hoping that no one was drooling, no one was itching their privates and no one was talking about liking Adele, forcryingoutloud.

Famous Louise relaxed the tension in her right arm.  Old Weasel’s heart began to beat once again, and he remembered he was alive because his toes hurt so damn much from the day’s big adventure.  Hot Becky did not seem convinced…actually, she seemed a bit flushed with excitement.  “Huh”, shrugged Louise.  “None of ‘em look too bright”, she went on.  Becky just licked her lips.

“Now, now, ladies”, said Weasel, talking nervously.  “Let me just fill you in and you can draw your own conclusions.  Then, if you still want to jump ‘em, tie ‘em up and make them watch while you dance nekked around the fire and then disappear into the night, that’s your call.  Just hear me out for a minute.”

Old Weasel went on to tell Hot Becky and Famous Louise a few stories of these brave adventurers.  He told them of their many feats of daring on rock walls from Carolina to Squamish.  He told them of the strength of their character and their faith.  He bragged about each of their fine qualities and of their love for the outdoors, their families and for one another.  He emphasized how much they loved rock climbing and how they trusted one another with their very lives, over and over, while they pursued their love of adventure.  

Just as he wrapped up his speech with how few degrees of separation there actually was between these illustrious climbers and Tom Waits himself, there came a loud belch from the vicinity of the three hombres.  Then another wicked belch came, ending in a terrible gurgle.  Laughter immediately arose from all three men.

Old Weasel froze; his best-ever ten minutes of fast talking now for naught.  Hot Becky looked at Famous Louise, their expressions blank.  “Women is fickle” Weasel thought to himself as he sensed the mood completely change.  He had to work fast.  “Uh, how ‘bout I show you where the snake bit me?” the Weasel said as he struggled to shift things in his favor, wily old bird that he was.  No dice.

Hot Becky, looking hotter than ever, and Famous Louise, looking so good you didn’t need a side of ice cream to go with her, stood up…turned…and strode intently toward the parking lot where their fancy car waited.  Old Weasel watched them go and hung his disappointed head for a moment, then turned and limped toward the campfire.

“In the vault...the three of ya!” he shouted.  “In the vault!”

He grinned, though, knowing his buddies had been saved from a semi-terrible fate.  They need not share the pie after all.

eggs for breakfast