We All Scream

Author's Note:

The key to life is accepting challenges. Once someone stops doing this, he's dead. -Bette Davis

A good reader can read about 300 words per minute on a screen (yes, the number varies from paper to e-media). Assuming you are a good reader and you are viewing this tale on an e-device, not on paper, it should take you 20 minutes to read this story. Are you willing to give up 20 minutes of your life to read my experiment? My challenge?

This is my September entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires challenge 'Confusion'. The word challenge, in and of itself, implies pushing beyond ones' limits. This topic, confusion, seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to try to push my writing limits. This story is written in first person, present tense and in the present… scared yet? It is a stream of consciousness piece; a verbal babbling that hopefully, relays a humorous event. It was very strange to write in this mode. Major thanks to my beta, Mountain Cat, who still is willing to respond to my emails after I asked her to proof this piece. I promise for both our sanities sakes to stay out of this style for future challenges.

I look forward to your reviews on this piece…maybe. As always, not mine, just playing, and will put everything back on the shelf neatly, and without harm, when I'm done.

Let the games begin!

I love my brothers even if dealing with them often leaves me in the land of confusion. Ironically, that very song, 'Land of Confusion' by Genesis, is what I heard today, on the radio, while driving to work. Well, I guess it's not really all that ironic. Someone keeps messing with my SXM station, changing it from NPR to 'Rock of the 80s.' I'm going to hurt them once I figure out who's the culprit. I have learned over the years to do my research carefully. Why? Because the one turning the dial may not be the one who came up with the brilliant idea. In my justice-driven world, all the parties involved should be equally chastised; you know, in the spirit of 'all for one and one for all'. Our motto holds true whether saving each other from death or scheming up new ways to drive each other insane.

The song loops through my mind again making me snort. Those men thought they lived in the land of confusion? They should spend some quality time in my world. When it comes to my dear colleagues, the most innocent of events can turn into a circus. Or a small war.

Though I'm not a parent, even I know you don't offer a three-year-old child a myriad of choices because it never ends well. Too many variables and the situation inevitably descends into the land of confusion. Or chaos. Sometimes a gunfight. I wish I'd remembered that sage piece of advice, about choices, earlier today. It might have saved me from a throbbing headache and the possibility of jail time.

While I suppose it's not politically correct of me to compare my colleagues to three-year-olds, as the saying goes, if the shoe fits. I sigh in frustration as I massage my temple. The chorus of the song drifts through my subconscious again. I hate when a song gets stuck in my mind.

Shall I regale you with some other sage advice I didn't remember in a timely manner? Don't lose your temper when dealing with three-year-olds… or people with the mentality of the same. It never helps the situation and tends to produce hysterics, punctuated by loud bouts of screaming and uncontrollable sobbing… mostly by the child; sometimes by the adult. A shudder runs down my spine at the mere thought of having to endure that, times three, on top of my blossoming migraine… or maybe it's an aneurysm.

I freely admit to being a stubborn man, but I'm usually not a stupid one. This started out innocently as these things always do. A job well done. A suggestion that a celebration was in order. The call for a road trip. The one lone dissenter, me, overruled or more accurately overrun, by the majority. The ensuing fights, physical and verbal, over where to go, when to go, and of course, seating positions in the vehicle. The sole voice of reason, me again, losing it and issuing threats that would have brought Child Services down on me in record time if I was dealing with actual three-year-olds. And that was all before the car reached the end of the driveway.

After a few blessed blocks of intimidation driven silence, initiated by me, they begin a grownup version of the child's game 'he's touching me' in the back seat of the car where I had relegated the three demons. Actually, it's a very exciting version of the game considering that everyone in this vehicle is armed, dangerous, and slightly deranged. I issue a warning against the drawing of blood and making holes in the car's leather seats...or each other. I know the Captain. He will hold me personally responsible for not keeping the hoard in check... like I really have that power. One can't control what the shock wave of a bomb destroys.

It crosses my mind, again in hindsight, it would have been smarter to separate the devil's spawn, preferably by tying one to the roof rack and dragging another behind the car, far enough away from the bumper so as not to set off the parking sensors. This gives me pause. Do parking sensors work at all speeds? Or just when the car is going slow? That will effect how much rope I will need if I pull over and institute this plan.

While I'm not sure about the length of rope required, I'm confident I can come up with a logical explanation to offer the police officer when he pulls me over. My oratory skills, which are quite good, will either get me off scot-free or land me in jail...again. I calculate my odds at 50/50. I also know if I get arrested, I'll have to justify my car seating arrangements, ad nauseam, to my Captain. He might be sympathetic since he has personal experience with the antics of the denizens of hell. However, the Captain might also feel my own track record with lunacy diminishes my credibility. Often, he doesn't believe I have nothing to do with my brothers' shenanigans. Worse, he thinks I should be able to stop them. The Captain says I'm a natural born leader. I'm fairly confident he's wrong.

Glancing up at the sky even though it isn't dark yet, I debate if there will be a full moon tonight. That would add plausibility to my insanity plea. And should the moon turn red or blue, I will be golden. I might pray for some strange lunar event, but God and I aren't on speaking terms.

Since the children of Satan can't decide where to go, at least not in a manner that avoids a trip to the emergency room, I step in, playing the role of the adult, and make a rational decision. Well, maybe rational isn't quite the right word. It might depend on your viewpoint.

Right or wrong, I decide to stop at the first place we come to and for the record, it's the wrong decision. But I'll never admit that, not even under oath in a court of law. While I'm not dead set against lying... I really don't like that word so let's refer to it as rearranging the truth… sometimes I think I rely on it too often. That could have something to do with the Captain's skepticism when I try to explain these odd events. My rationalizations, on the surface, seem pretty straight forward. Just don't touch the paint until it dries, please.

As I park the car and Lucifer's minions burst out of the back like a category five hurricane, or a pack of wildebeests, another thought hits me. I slam my palm against my forehead, which exasperates my headache. Two words. One syllable each. Drive thru. I could have kept the whirling mass of confusion contained by simply going through the drive thru. That would have at least kept the lunatics confined in a small enclosed area, like in a prison cell, and helped minimize damage. However, because of my incredibly wrong decision, I have unleashed a terrible disaster on the general populace. Unfortunately, life doesn't offer do-overs.

The older couple near the door, who are nearly bowled over by the herd of wildebeests galloping for the entrance, glare at me as if the beasts' unruly behavior is somehow my fault. Alright, maybe it is, a little, since I'm the one who stopped the car and let the plague lose. However, placing the full blame squarely on my shoulders somehow seems a tad unfair. I didn't force the tribal elders to stop here. That was their own unfortunate decision.

So now I have to choose what to do in regards to the geriatric duo's perceived grievance. Should I smile and apologize? Scowl and ignore them? Or take out my gun and end this, and by that I mean humanely putting down the wildebeests. I have a sneaky suspicion which option the seniors are leaning towards. But that particular selection will involve a lot of yellow and black 'do not cross' tape, visits by the police, again, and a ton of paper work for the Captain, who despite appearances, doesn't enjoy administrative work.

Since smiling really isn't my strong suit and the third option involving the firearm would displease my boss who decides the amount of my yearly Christmas bonus…and whether to bail me out of jail… I go with option two, scowling, as I brusquely brush past them to enter the store. I think I hear the word 'rude' being tossed in my direction and I inwardly laugh, at least I think it is a silent chuckle. Lady, you don't know the half of it.

Rude doesn't begin to scratch the surface of my personality defects. In fact, it might be one of the nicest adjectives ever used to describe me. The other words that come to mind aren't suitable for primetime viewing, well make that primetime viewing twenty years ago, when such language was bleeped by the censors. My mind takes an unexpected left turn as I debate what happened to all those people whose sole occupation was to bleep out bad words. Were they forced into early retirement? What other jobs had they qualified for with that particular skillset? Political speech writers? Bloggers? Late night talk show hosts?

A loud crash shakes me from my reverie and I seek out the source of the sound, which against all odds, I hope doesn't involve the wildebeests. It is a good thing I'm not prone to betting because I'd be broke. Walking into the store, I spot what a minute ago was a ticket dispenser and now ... well ... isn't. The dispenser is lying on the floor, cracked open like an Easter egg. I momentarily get distracted, staring at the broken object. So that is how it works. Quite ingenious. Wonder how much money the guy who patented that idea received?

I drag my eyes from the mess on the floor, scouting for the three devil-may-care wildebeests. I spot them further up the line, as if putting distance between themselves and the destroyed object will exonerate them. Fat chance.

Scowling past a few more patrons, I make my way to their place in line, using my green evil eye to quell any explanations they might try to put forth. None are needed. I know from personal experience that wildebeests, by nature, are klutzy, especially when they are horsing around, or whatever the proper term is for wildebeest hi-jinxes.

My head pounds harder as it dawns on me I will have to submit an expense report to cover the damages. I'm going to have to leave an incredibly generous tip in the jar on the counter near the cash register. Or maybe directly in the owner's hand. Or the policemen's benevolent society. Only time will tell which one will be most advantageous to avert disaster. Or a lawsuit. Or jail time.

The Captain will not be amused; he never is when reviewing my expense reports. As a manner of honor, vouchers are the one thing I never… well rarely… fabricate. The only time I even consider minor alterations is when the truth is too outlandish to believe. Oddly enough, that seems to happen more often than one might expect. However, you have to remember I'm dealing with the wildebeests.

I think the Captain will be inclined to pay my claim this time without a raised eyebrow. This is a fairly mundane situation; and the validity of my expense report shouldn't be doubted. I hope. And if he doesn't approve it, I will personally take it out of the wildebeests' paychecks ... or their hides. I don't need to decide which yet. I have found it's never good to limit my options this early in the game. It's hard to predict what else might occur. I have been surprised way too often.

The wildebeests are annoying the people near them, which is their default state, especially when in public. I start humming Land of Confusion under my breath, wondering if I can get away with smacking the wildebeests upside their heads. Probably not, I decide as I furtively glance around me. I see way too many goody-two-shoes in this line, who all have a limited understanding of how best to deal with wildebeests and cell phones with cameras, not to mention 911 on speed dial. The Captain feels about publicity the same as he feels about paperwork… to be avoided at all costs. Headlining on the evening news is frowned upon. I know. It happened to me and the wildebeests once. And though it wasn't my fault, based on the lecture I received from my commander-in-chief, I don't think he believed that once again. This seems to be a recurring theme in my life.

Three sets of brown eyes rotate as one to focus on me, but I'm not fooled by those innocent looking orbs. As the song says, 'Too many people, making too many problems, and not enough love to go around.' Or in this case, three wildebeests making too many problems and I definitely don't have enough love to go around. Maybe Genesis did understand the basic nature of three-year-olds and wildebeests

I love my brothers more than anything else in the world. A new song creeps unbidden into my subconscious. 'Yeah I would fight for you. I'd lie for you. Walk the wire for you. Yeah I'd die for you.' Whoa wait a minute. That song by Bryan Adams came out in the 90s so I couldn't have heard it on my hijacked radio station. So why is that LP spinning in my brain? Maybe the wildebeests have finally driven me insane.

I narrow my eyes to glare at the beasties as they draw near to their final destination… and I mean in the store, not in life. And that's when it hits me, like a sucker punch to the gut; this isn't going to end well…again referring to the store not their lives, though come to think of it…

A trickle of sweat runs down my spine, an amazing feat considering the AC in here is cranked to sub-zero. My eyes skim the line and a non-PG word escapes my lips, earning me an angry eye roll from the two millennials in the next line over who are actually here with a real three-year-old. You haven't seen nothing yet, folks. Junior is about to get the education of a lifetime here today. Hope you're well paid, so you can afford a shrink for your trendy kid whose name is probably Declan (#7). Or Finn (#11). Hell, I even read that Atticus (#34) had broken the top forty. Talk about setting your kid up to be the brunt of jokes.

Focusing back on the disaster at hand, I imagine this is what it must feel like to be in an oceanfront home, helplessly watching as a hurricane rolls in, knowing it is too late to do anything. The wildebeests are front and center, noses pressed against the glass, which is a pretty good feat considering their respective heights.

Looking at that case, I wonder whose job it is to spray down that large, curved expanse of glass. How often is it done? Do they get paid more than minimum wage? Do they use an environmentally sound cleaner? Is it non-toxic in case someone licks it? How strong does the cleaner need to be to effectively and efficiently remove drool? Will I be explaining yet another trip to the ER because the chemical used to clean the nose prints off the case causes an allergic reaction in wildebeest number one? Can I put that on the accident report yet gloss over resultant bruises from me smacking them for leaning on the glass? Maybe I can cleverly blame it on the chemicals in the glass cleaner, if I confiscate all the cell phones that might capture my act of violence. My eyes roam upwards, not because I'm begging God for advice, but to check for security cameras. One can never be too careful these days. Next to his dislike of publicity, the Captain positively hates when the police bring him hard evidence of our stupidity on tape, DVD or YouTube.

I shift my eyes back to the case in front of me that stretches the entire length of the store, hosting multiple rows of product as if one row isn't enough. We truly live in a decadent society. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I come up with a gazillion possible combinations. I can hear the wildebeests debating their choices already. The foretelling of the apocalypse. I glance out the windows to see if by chance there are four horsemen galloping down the street.

Rotating my eyes back to the herd, I watch as they travel up and down the glass, looking at the selections as they elbow the other patrons out of their way or trample them underfoot depending on their height. I think the store should have one of those height restriction signs, like at the amusement park, that forbids kids of a certain height on this ride. The alternative would be a sign forbidding wildebeests, but that might be construed as politically incorrect. Wildebeests have rights too.

While this place was probably designed with children as its main clientele, you wouldn't guess that by looking around at the mostly adult crowd. Or the price board. What kind of kid has that level of disposable income? That gets me thinking. What is my credit limit on my plastic? Should I make a quick call to the Captain to get it raised just in case? Another one of those forbidding shudders runs through my frame imagining what will happen if selections are made, rung up, and my credit card is decline for insufficient funds. Police territory again. More reports. More lectures. More jail time.

Then a comforting thought, the first one of this trip, floats through my mind and the throbbing in my skull dials back a notch. I have multiple credit cards in my wallet; most signed, some not. I keep meaning to do that because I hate dragging out my license to prove I'm who I say I am. Besides, I look like hell in that picture on my license. Then again maybe that is actually a good thing because I think that is what I look like whenever I'm around the wildebeests. Maybe it truly is a representative picture of me. What does that say about my life?

Let me tell you about the day they took that picture for my license. I was in hell because my dear Captain made me take the wildebeests too so we could all get new licenses. We moved to this state at the same time and therefore we all required new licenses. This is the United States of America yet each state refuses to believe the other is capable of issuing a valid driver's license. I think it is a money racket.

I think back fondly on that day…not. The most enjoyable thirty-six hours of my life... not. And that was only to reach the first counter where a bored looking state employee, or maybe she was private contractor… did this state contract out… informed me my birth certificate wasn't official enough to obtain a license in this red, white, yellow, and black state. The bored worker told me to return to the state of my birth and request a new one. I distinctly recall telling her, politely, that the state of my birth, which shared a border with them… well technically that isn't true… believed my birth certificate sufficiently real because they had issued me a license. I kindly offered to show it to her as proof. She declined and said 'Next'.

However, the proverbial icing on the cake was the fact that the wildebeests made it through the line with no issues. Me of noble birth denied; those street rats walk out the door with a shiny piece of plastic. I later freely admitted to the Captain that some of the damage on that expense report had been caused by myself not the wildebeests… for once.

Speaking of said herd, I wonder if they have their wallets on them. I still need to solve the problem of possible insufficient funds for this venture into hell. Knowing them, they will be unwilling to part with their money voluntarily. I decide to check my wallet before panicking so I pat down my pockets and the second non-PG word of the day slips out of my mouth. I can feel the millennials' eyes burning a hole in my back along with the elderly couple. Great, now the generations are ganging up against me. Where the hell is my wallet; and why the hell does the Captain keep insisting I'm the responsible one? The Captain isn't stupid…usually.

The wildebeests are getting ready to order. I can see the gleam in their beady, or is that greedy, little eyes. More sweat, in the form of tiny ice cubes, tumble down my back. I eye the herd wondering if I can get away with frisking them to look for their wallets without getting arrested. I suppose it will depend on how I do it and the exact placement of my hands, being ever mindful of the camera angles on the phones, which might distort the actual image.

Phones! The proverbial light bulb goes off in my head, the energy efficient CFL type which take a while to burn brightly. The Captain put Apple Pay on my phone knowing his second ... me ... has a bad habit of misplacing his wallet; now being a perfect case in point.

Pulling my phone from the rear pocket of my black jeans, I now only require two additional things for this plan to succeed. Battery life and a sign that says 'Apple Pay Accepted Here'. Using my elbows like the wildebeests, I reposition myself so I can clearly see the cashier area. Contrary to what the cameras might show, I didn't actually hit the moose blocking my view, but rather nudged the obstacle out of my way. Well maybe nudged isn't quite be the right verb to describe moving a mass of that size. Slugged? Battered? Rammed? Whatever verb one cares to use, my methodology was sound and I was able to see the wonderful sign indicating I had a valid method of payment.

Sporting my first, last, and only half-grin of the trip, I peer at my phone and my smile fades. For a moment I wonder if I have suddenly gone color-blind for I swear the battery icon on my phone is red. A second ago it had been green. Happy, bright green. Like cash. Now it is red. Like death. How can that be? I know it was charging in the car on the way here. I plugged it in myself. I eye the wildebeests with distain. It wouldn't be the first time they have gnawed on the charging cord… or used it to tie each other up.

Time suddenly is of the essence. If my phone dies before I can pay, well suffice it to say I don't think I can buy my way out of this situation solely with my good looks. Not at these astronomical prices. Wildebeest number one will have an excellent chance with his flashy good looks. Three will give wildebeest one a run for the money. Even two has a charm about him that almost offsets his innate scariness. But me? I have no chance. Ruggedly handsome was the best compliment I ever received and that was after I was dead… long story.

Suddenly I know what I have to do and I become a man on a mission. I push my way through the human obstacles pressing in on me and join the herd in the front of the line. In this land of confusion, I will be the guiding light, cutting through the thirty-seven flavors of murkiness, twenty-one toppings of obstruction, and seven different-sized containers of obscurity and doing it all in record time, before my phone battery dies.

The puberty-bound, mini-adult behind the counter utters the time-honored greeting of 'what can I get for you today'. Wildebeest number one flashes a charming smile as he begins to open his mouth to recite his order, which will be longer and more complicated than a child's Christmas list. Correction. Several children's Christmas list. Hell, all of North America to include Alaska, Hawaii, Canada, Mexico, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands and Cuba for good measure. They are becoming somewhat progressive down there I hear.

Quickly stepping in to avert disaster, after all the Captain made me leader of the pack, I viciously stomp upon wildebeest number one's hoof, knee number two in the groin knowing full well I will pay for that during the next hand-to-hand training session, and strategically place my elbow in number three's solar plexus. The wildebeests groan and lick their wounds, metaphorically speaking, except for wildebeest number three who actually is licking his wound, or drooling… it's hard to tell. Clearing my throat and using my best authoritative voice, which is pretty impressive, I place a strategic order.

"Three mediums. With lids. One vanilla. One strawberry. One chocolate. Sprinkles, rainbow. No whip cream. Cherries. Two each. We're celebrating."

What I don't mention is what we are celebrating. In our business that sometimes turns people off. After factoring in the number of non-lethal bullet holes and gashes per wildebeest, placement, and scarring probability, the numbers had been impressive. A very successful mission. An ice cream celebration had been in order.

The wildebeests, having overcome their temporary disabilities, are eyeing me in a fashion that makes me nervous, though I keep my facade cool, like the temperature in this ice cream parlor. Thinking that the probability of me taking on all of them at once and winning without injuring innocent bystanders is low, I make another executive decision. I banish them to the car. I don't, however, give them the keys so, after they make their sullen way out to the vehicle, they are forced to stand in the hot sun and wait. Take that radio station changing menaces. Wildebeests are gullible at times.

An eternity later, a white bag appears on the counter in front of me. The inevitable parting question of 'can I get you anything else' is offered. My eyes roam to the container of rum raisin, but given the overall PG nature of this place, I decide the alcohol content of the ice cream would be far too low to meet my needs. I'll make a quick detour to an adult liquor store on the way home. Looking out the window, I see the wildebeests dripping with sweat as they forlornly huddle around the locked car. I'll have to remember to crack the windows at the liquor store though the one tied to the roof rack will be fine, as will the one tied to the bumper.

My IPhone gasps out its last bar, but the sale goes through. I stuff a huge handful of napkins in the bag, inquire if they have bibs…they don't…ask for additional spoons…wildebeest tend to break them… and then I'm out the door with the bag. Oh, and I promise to come back with a check for the earlier damages. The owner… or judging by his age maybe just the child in charge for this shift… seems rather dismayed by the thought of me ever returning to this fine establishment. Even though his voice cracks, I'm pretty sure he says that ticket dispensers aren't that expensive and not to come back…please.

Once back in the car with the wildebeests, I hand round the three containers, even though the Captain has a strict no eating in the car policy. Being a benevolent leader who knows his wildebeests don't like their ice cream melted, I decide to bend the rules. I know a car wash on the way home. If I leave the sunroof open and the wildebeests in the car as it goes through the tunnel, the Captain might never know of my flagrant violation of the rules. All the evidence will be washed away. I wonder how long it takes for leather to dry. I know from personal observation, wildebeests dry quickly and their hair gets curlier. In this hot sun they will be dry in minutes. When I stop at the liquor store, I'll make them stand outside the car. They'll be dry by the time I return, especially if the store owner is nice and lets me open my purchase within the store. I'll do it where no one can see me so he won't risk his liquor license. By the time I come out, the car and the wildebeests will be dry…me I'll be a little wet… like in sloshed… but happy. And the good thing about this breed of wildebeests is they are not prone to sunburn. Unlike me. I get burned looking at vacation pictures of someone else's trip to Florida.

After a bit of squabbling in the back seat of the car, the wildebeests sort out the ice cream and each one is holding one cup, though wildebeest number two is definitely eyeing number three's ice cream. All things considered, they don't appear as happy as I envisioned. Did they get heat stroke waiting in the sun?

My confusion must have been showing in my eyes in the rearview mirror, because wildebeest number one tries to enlighten me, assuming I'm not too old to learn…and care. I listen dispassionately as the wildebeest proceeds to recites all thirty-seven homemade flavors of ice cream that were resident in the long glass case in the store. Number three chimes in next and recounts the catalogue of all the twenty-one topping that were available to put on the thirty-seven flavors of ice cream. Number two, not to be left out, adds there were also three types of cones plus four other sizes of cups, like jumbo.

I could have explained my logic to them; after all they aren't dumb. That if I let them choose their flavor, toppings, and conveyance method we would still be standing there; and there was a high likelihood that a riot might have ensued. Not to mention my phone would have crapped out leaving with me with no method to pay…I won't admit to misplacing my wallet…again. But I don't. I simply tell them to deal with it. There is some muttering, but they have better sense than to deify me… at least this time.

Starting the car, I glance in the rearview mirror and watch as the herd sticks their spoons in each other's cups, sharing the wealth. A smile creeps on my face. I love when the wildebeests are happily grazing and content. The strains of 'Land of Confusion' drift out of the car's speakers and the chocolate smeared smug look of wildebeest number three tells me I have my station-changing culprit.

As I drive out of the parking lot, I poke a finger at the radio's controls and the strains of Bryan Adam's 'I Do It For You' fills the car. A fitting way to end this day I think as I drive back to the base. I'm so mellowed out by the music I decide I don't even need to stop at the liquor store…besides I have at least three bottles stashed in my quarters. That will get me through the Captain's lecture when he sees the inside of the company car. The wildebeests haven't been neat, and they didn't use the proffered napkins.

The Captain should surely be proud of how I have kept the confusion at bay today. No one is bleeding or injured in any manner. The police have not been summoned and no one is in jail. Property damage has been minimal and the tip I shoved in the jar, when the owner looked displeased at the idea of a check, was more than sufficient to cover all the damages. A few civilians' feathers were ruffled, but I don't think anything has been caught on camera that will be posted on YouTube. For once I can stand proudly in front of the Captain and report all has gone smoothly… after I hose down the wildebeests… or push them in the pool. I wonder if sprinkles will cause a problem with the pool's filtration system.

I'm in the home stretch, driving through the patch of woods adjacent to the base's gate. And then God plays his final card…have I mentioned He doesn't like me…and believe me the feeling is mutual. Out of nowhere…and since I'm sober it really is nowhere... a huge wildebeest… or to be precise a full blown buck runs in front of the car. It's a solid hit causing the air bags to deploy. When the white cloud clears from my vision, I see a very large male deer sprawled over the hood. Through the smoke rising from the car's crushed hood, I swear that the damn deer is smirking at me as it lies there, face pressed against the cracked glass. The numbers on my expense report have just increased, exponentially.

Rubbing a hand over my forehead, it comes back red and a glance in the rearview mirror shows more red on the wildebeests that isn't attributable to strawberry ice cream. The Captain is not going to be pleased about the condition of the wildebeests or the vehicle. I'm not sure which one will upset the Captain more. Both are insured, but the wildebeests tend to be whinier. Just saying.

The radio, which is one of the things that apparently is still operable on the smashed car, switches stations on its own accord and the words 'this is a land of confusion' echoed about the interior. So much for my good report to the Captain, my pat on the back for a job well done, and my Christmas bonus…for the rest of my life.

I glance in the rearview mirror again and see three relatively uninjured wildebeests, contently scraping ice cream off the surfaces on which it has landed. They aren't overly upset or concerned. I stick my finger in a glop of vanilla that has landed on the center console, then bring it to my mouth and lick it off. It's sweet, it's cool, it's delicious and it makes me happy. I decide to take a page out of my brothers' book. What the hell. I love living in the land of confusion as long as I'm with my brothers.

The End.