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The Girl with the Hot Pink Fingernails

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  #1  
Old 06-05-2018, 09:13 PM
spshane (Offline)
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Default The Girl with the Hot Pink Fingernails


Country folk spend a lot of time looking at animal turds; that's what they do. It's not just their livestock—cow patties, horse nuggets, and sheep droppings. They can also tell you about the turds of any animal within a hundred square miles of their spread. Deer, foxes, rabbits, mountain lions whatever's passing through. It's how they know what's been killing their chickens. Some of them will even go as far as to bust a turd open with a stick or a knife to find out what the creature's been eating. And so it wasn't at all unusual that a fellow like Skeeter Brock would stick a blade into a turd that he knew for certain belonged to a mountain lion.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Skeeter may have once memorized Franz Zimmer's Methodologies for Fecal Dissection, but they seldom found their way into his war stories. The specific details of his procedure elude me, but I know he quickly heard the distinctive ting of his knife bumping against a metal object—something you don't expect to hear inside a mountain lion's turd. His first guess was that he had tapped against a partially digested bullet casing, where someone had shot the sonofbitch. He hardly had time for a second guess, because as he was rolling his blade away, he uncovered a human fingernail coated with unblemished hot pink polish.

“Well, shit...” He set his knife down on the ground and hovered there with that feeling like his guts might slip right out his asshole.

Thoughts riddled through his mind like sixteen pissed off rabbits trying to jump every which direction at once. Of course, he thought about the owner of the turd-covered finger and how she was most likely dead, but Skeeter figured that wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. The poor woman was already dead; meanwhile, it was Skeeter's life that was about to be turned upside down. He pictured government-issued jeeps and police cars crawling about his ranch, and that didn't sit well with him. If human remains weren't suspicious enough, they'd certainly have a few questions about his plants. Way too many to be considered medical by anyone's count.

Even if they overlooked his plants, he knew they'd be running around with their dogs. And he couldn't say with absolute certainty that there wasn't a body or two buried on his land. Of course, Skeeter didn't bury them, but his place sat close enough to the border that he had witnessed sketchy people wandering through in the night. The cartel and their mules had been seen in the area and sometimes shit happens.

He had half a mind to dig a little hole and to bury the finger—turd and all. After all, he didn't know anyone to wear hot pink nail polish, so fuck 'em.

He reached for his knife and, just as he moved his hand, a low guttural purr carried from the weeds. And all of the sudden, his mind was no longer riddled with images of dead prostitutes, drug mules, and DEA agents; it was riddled with images of dead Skeeter.

He was in the worst possible position and his knife wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. Standing up, the cats would likely leave him alone, but crouching he looked an awful lot like food. He had a Remington 870 in his truck. A lot of good it would do him there.

He rose slowly to his feet, holding his arms out to make himself look bigger. And suddenly he heard the voice of his deceased holly-roller father rattling through his mind.

“Son, you tell that heathen 'Stawp! In the name of the Lawwwwd!”

“Yeah, uh, Pops,” he muttered. “A lot of fucking help that is.”

In the shadows, hardly ten yards away, something moved. Green-yellow flickers and then a pair of eyes were staring right at him. He held out his hands, but the eyes inched closer.

“STOP!” He shouted.

“Tell them, Son. If you're not prepared to rebuke this beast by the authority of Jesus, then you have no authority to rebuke him.”

Skeeter never really saw eye to eye with his old man's Jesus, but he remembered the way the neighborhood dogs ran from him—especially when he 'rebuked' them. The silhouette of the mountain lion became barely visible in the dim light. Poised and ready to pounce.

And suddenly his father's blathering was all he had.

“STAWP! In the name of the Lawwwwd!”

A glimmer of light flashed from the weeds along with the horrific “Fuck You!” of a bawling woman.

A thin figure stumbled forward, visible only by light that reflected from her machete. “Give me back my fucking finger!” She poked at the cat's side.

The cat turned to chomp on her.

“Ahhh” She drew down her blade and slice into the cat's neck. “You fucking cunt! Give it back!”

Wounded, but more pissed off than anything the mountain lion, pounced on her.

Shuffling backwards, Skeeter found his way back to his truck and his Remington, but by then it was too late for the girl with the pink fingernails.


Last edited by spshane; 06-07-2018 at 05:36 PM..
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  #2  
Old 06-06-2018, 04:17 PM
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There is so much that is right with this it is almost rendered unapproachable.
Almost.

"thirty-odd"

Thinkin' you are referrin' to the venerable .30-06 calibre.

That tends to be pronounced thirty-aught-six or simply thirty-aught.

Perhaps you intended for Skeeter to slang it to thirty-odd?
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Old 06-07-2018, 01:18 AM
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Also, bullet casings don't end up in what you shoot.

What was the metallic 'ting'? A ring on the finger? You leave us hanging on that.

...and how long had this woman been tracking this critter? It would take some time for a finger to pass through a cat's digestive system, and cats keep on the move. The only way an injured woman would have been able to keep up with, and then walk up on a mountain lion would be if it was seriously injured, and then it would be seriously pissed off.

Sounds like the little woman was a force to be reckoned with, with that machete, and maybe she had a better chance than what ol' Skeeter reckoned.

Never turn your back on a woman with a blade.
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Old 06-07-2018, 02:04 PM
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Originally Posted by Nick Pierce View Post
There is so much that is right with this it is almost rendered unapproachable.
Almost.

"thirty-odd"

Thinkin' you are referrin' to the venerable .30-06 calibre.

That tends to be pronounced thirty-aught-six or simply thirty-aught.

Perhaps you intended for Skeeter to slang it to thirty-odd?
Yes, I was thinking thirty-aught-six; it's what I used to shoot with my uncle when I was a kid. You think that's the kind of guy like this would have around?
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Old 06-07-2018, 02:15 PM
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Originally Posted by Prodigalson View Post
Also, bullet casings don't end up in what you shoot.

What was the metallic 'ting'? A ring on the finger? You leave us hanging on that.

...and how long had this woman been tracking this critter? It would take some time for a finger to pass through a cat's digestive system, and cats keep on the move. The only way an injured woman would have been able to keep up with, and then walk up on a mountain lion would be if it was seriously injured, and then it would be seriously pissed off.

Sounds like the little woman was a force to be reckoned with, with that machete, and maybe she had a better chance than what ol' Skeeter reckoned.

Never turn your back on a woman with a blade.
Congratulations! You caught all the initial holes that came to mind shortly after I clicked submit.

I started with just turds. I thought "what would be inside that you wouldn't expect?" And, yes, I was thinking 'ring'. Do you think pellets from buck shot would work better than casing? I just went with something metal and something that would come to this character's mind. It didn't occur to me that I never spelled 'ring' until later on.

I also thought about the digestive situation and how long it would take. Would it be quickened by something like injury or nearly being hacked to death? A lot of animals tend to evacuate when they're highly stressed on in the dying process.

It didn't occur to me until it happened that I was bringing the woman back. I should have described her state a little more and maybe that of the cat too. It was dark, but I can just talk about how they moved, etc.

It also occurred to me just a little a while ago that Skeeter can't call a woman like this dead until he actually feels her pause. And though he escaped the cat, his finger problem has potentially become a whole-damn-body problem. Worse in some ways, better in others.
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Old 06-07-2018, 02:24 PM
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Originally Posted by spshane View Post
Yes, I was thinking thirty-aught-six; it's what I used to shoot with my uncle when I was a kid. You think that's the kind of guy like this would have around?
Seems a bit exotic. Both Prodigal (I think) and I would vote for a Remington 870.
Hell, the damn thing has been around since 1951 and shows no signs of ever goin' away.
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  #7  
Old 06-07-2018, 04:49 PM
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When I was a kid, everyone packed around something in the three-ohs - .30-30, .308, .303 British, 30-06, and/or shotguns, of which the 870 was a preferred model. Nowadays, with the cartels and their mega-grows, it's all about semi-automatic or automatic weaponry (when you have a choice), otherwise anything will do.
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Old 06-08-2018, 02:30 PM
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Originally Posted by Prodigalson View Post
When I was a kid, everyone packed around something in the three-ohs - .30-30, .308, .303 British, 30-06, and/or shotguns, of which the 870 was a preferred model. Nowadays, with the cartels and their mega-grows, it's all about semi-automatic or automatic weaponry (when you have a choice), otherwise anything will do.
Yeah, I had a fake .30-06 when I was about 10. We used to play sniper in my wooded neighborhood. Eventually we got a kid in our group that would maintain the designated sniper person missed.

Then I got a bazooka that launched a hollow blue plastic missile using a spring and rod configuration.

After catchin' the round with his left ear (I waited in a hedge for a couple of hours until he stalked by) he stopped that sort of nonsense.

But back to the story - I now think Skeeter sayin' thirty odd is good character writing.
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Old 06-08-2018, 08:18 PM
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Originally Posted by Nick Pierce View Post
Yeah, I had a fake .30-06 when I was about 10. We used to play sniper in my wooded neighborhood. Eventually we got a kid in our group that would maintain the designated sniper person missed.



Then I got a bazooka that launched a hollow blue plastic missile using a spring and rod configuration.



After catchin' the round with his left ear (I waited in a hedge for a couple of hours until he stalked by) he stopped that sort of nonsense.



But back to the story - I now think Skeeter sayin' thirty odd is good character writing.


Yeah, this dude. I had one of these. I traded it for something... hmm... can’t remember what now. Think I was about 6

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Old 06-08-2018, 09:25 PM
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Heh. At the ages y'all are talking about, we were playing with .22s.

And I'm with you on the thirty-odd, Mr. Pierce. People say "thirty-aught" a lot of different ways, and I don't think most of them even realize what they're supposed to be saying. They say it the way they say it because that's how their daddy said it, or that's what they thought their daddy was saying, and they never thought to ask for clarification ("What's a thirty-odd, Daddy?" Guy from the city says, "Why it's a number right around thirty, son, like twenty-eight, or thirty-two," while the guy from the country says, "It's thet there rifle yore holding, ya little squirt. Quiet down and get a bead on thet deer down there.")
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Old 06-09-2018, 04:12 AM
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Originally Posted by brianpatrick View Post
Yeah, this dude. I had one of these. I traded it for something... hmm... can’t remember what now. Think I was about 6

Holy shit, a shoulder rest, peep sight and a spring tab safety guard!
Didn't know there was a deluxe version. And there is something about an exploding pillbox written on the packaging.

Those certainly are the projectiles I used.

The only fucked up thing about this tool was I could not use it from a tree.
The blue bomb would slide off the guide rod when I trained the muzzle down.

Yeah, you can guess how I found that out.
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