Y2K Survivor

OK I know I said a couple of weeks ago I would post part of the first chapter of book project (waste of time hobbie) I am working on, when my daughter allows me any home computer time.  This is still the rough, unedited first draft.  Full of warts, blemishes and will probably be changed to add story depth that will occur to me later.  But aside from that, Here is the first half of Chapter One. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Bubba

            Our story opens in a small village in rural Eastern Oklahoma.  With the soft morning sunlight glinting off the thin aluminum siding of the 1976 Bi-Centennial Detroit Mobile home located at the back end of the a circular driveway-road of the Garth Brooks Drive Trailer Park and Dish Satellite distributorship.  Our hero is snug and warm in the downy comforts of his lucky wife beater T-shirt and OU Sooners Boxer shorts. 

    He is a manly man with several days growth of stubble on his face and well toned athletic body curled up on the pine framed trailer sofa and semi covered with a Dora the Explorer baby blanket.  The mere fact he was sleeping on the sofa and in boxers, rather than the manly nude sprawl he normally enjoyed in his queen size waterbed attested to yet another fight with Earlene.  It was another of those sessions of complaining about his staying out all night, never coming home until the sun comes up and never seeming to earn any money to help pay the bills.  In other words, she was pissed about THAT again.

    But Bubba had faced danger all his adult life, and he had not survived by backing away from a fight if he felt he was in the right.  He stood his ground and he stood firm, right up until Earlene threw the baby blanket in his face and locked him out of the bedroom door.  Thus our story opens with the idyllic sight of Bubba curled up on the trailer sofa, struggling to cover his chilled shoulders with a baby blanket that just isn't big enough.

    Smash!  Bang!  The clatter from the kitchen, just six feet away from the trailer sofa Bubba was trying desperately to sleep upon loudly jarred him from his slumber.  Jumping upright and reaching for the nearest weapon at hand, Bubba saw the threat to be his beautiful Earlene standing over the kitchen sink, near tears with frustration.  She was dressed and made up for a day at the office.  Years of practice at getting the right hair and make-up showed it rewards each morning as Earlene left for work at the nearby Lumber Yard and Tag Office.  Currently Earlene was a checker for the Lumber Yard but she had aspirations of one day becoming a fully fledged Tag Agent one day.

    "Goll Dang Earlene!  You knowed I was sleepin!  Why you goin' on like that when you know I have been out workin' all night long?!"  Bubba demanded.

    "Working?!  Working?!  You know people go to work to make Money Jimmy Joe!  Did you make any money last night?  How about last week or even last month?  I don't know what you do all night Jimmy Joe but it sure as hell aint working!"

    "Now baby I done told you I don't do that kind of work.  I am more like your average run of the mill super hero baby.  I'm out there saving the world on a daily basis.  Sure, it's dangerous work and it'll probably get me killed, but hells fire girl, it damn sure beats sittin on my ass watching reality TV shows!"

    Earlene had the look of a tea kettle that was about to hit full steam.  "Superhero?!!  Superhero?!!  You tellin me you are some kind of superhero that can save the world but can't help out cover the lot rent for your own trailer house?  What kind of super hero is that?!!

    "Hey," defended Bubba, "You know even that Peter Parker had financial troubles all the time, yet he was out there savin  the world on a daily basis.  Well, ya see baby, I'm kind of like Spiderman only I fight monsters, not some faggy super villains." 

    Our hero lets the Dora the Explorer baby blanket drop to the floor of the trailer house as heads for the front door of the 1976 Bi-Centennial Detroit mobile home.  As usual, upon waking up from a few hours sleep, he felt the urge to make urine, and like a true conservative on this planet rapidly consuming itself of its own natural resources, Bubba hated to waste water on a toilet when he could just as easily wiz in the front yard.  Now he was not the kind of Neanderthal that would let loose into a public street while directing his mighty stream with one hand and waiving to the neighbors with the other.  No Bubba is a man of modesty and discretion, and therefore steps behind the cover of a three-year-old Bradford Pear Tree he and Earlene planted in the little side yard between trailers at the Garth Brooks Road Mobile Home Park and Dish Satellite Distributorship.  The tree was strategically placed to give maximum screenage to Bubba as he faced the back of the porch and let loose towards the rusted tomato cans buried along side lone rusted piece of galvanized tin that marked yet another unfinished home improvement project to add skirting to the trailer.  Granted Bubba is a good deal thicker and wider than the small tree, but to be honest very few residents of an Oklahoma trailer park are out and about at 9:00 a.m. on a weekday.  Those that work are at work; those that don't are either asleep or watching Dr. Phil and hoping for a glimpse into that miracle cure that will fix their lives.

    Bubba gives his dripping member a quick shake and stuff back into the Boxers so quickly you see a slight wet darkening in he middle of the one of the O's.  Only to find the front door has been locked behind him.  He makes a few thumps on the door with the required threats of a future ass kicking if Earlene doesn't let him back inside.  But his attempts are merely for show so Earlene will know he cares about her.  In truth, our hero knows how to pick his battles and his finely honed instincts tell him it would be to his advantage to lose this particular fight.  Bubba never questions these instinctive insights.  His instincts are what keep him alive in a world filled with dangers so horrific most men would crumple in a whimpering mass of liberal pussiness.  And Bubba knew one truth to be self-evident above all others; he was no goddamn liberal, Hillary Clinton loving, fucking retard pussy.  He was a God fearing, Bush/Cheny voting, terrorist hating, right to lifer conservative with a hard-on for religion.  But then again, as the saying goes there are no atheists in foxholes and if you want to survive in the vampire hunting business you better love you some Jesus!

    He grimly strides to the back yard where his out building located.  Fishing under the cinderblock used as a step he finds his hidden key and opens the door to reveal a woodshop filled with wooden steaks of various sizes and a huge collection of wood hurling weapons that include semi automatic dart firing pistols to pump shot guns to his dependable cross bow.

            As the saying goes, a super hero’s job is never done.  Bubba takes advantage to gasp some wooden darts and fire up his electric grinder where he carefully shapes them to the size of various pipes he has stacked above his workbench.  He continues to work steadily and silently making the weapons he will need in the coming battles, weapons that can’t be bought, but have to be hand crafted one at a time. 

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