The Journal of Geraldine Harrington, April 10th, 2005.
Still haven't been able to get touch with Kim. I called the house -- so sorry, 'the compound' -- and got one of the endless swarm of younger cousins. Her name is Claudia, she's just turned six, and did I want to hear all about the hellhound she skinned this past weekend, because it was her birthday and so Daddy got her a new flensing knife? I assured her that I desired no such thing, but that did absolutely nothing to dissuade her; definitely a Healy. My God, how those people ever have the appetites for anything more gastronomically challenging than water and dry toast, I may never know. Where I come from, six year old girls do not customarily ever NEED to use the phrase 'and the kidney was swollen and green and that means it had been drinking human blood, 'cause they have a 'nallergy but they do it anyway' in casual conversation. Or, well, ever.
I left a message for Kim, but I somehow doubt she'll get it, as I'm reasonably sure that Claudia, advanced as she seems to be in the field of butchery and making me not want to have lunch, does not yet read or write. I'm beginning to think I'll have to resort to smoke signals. Or perhaps stating aloud that I'd like to bleach my hair, as that would probably trigger off her super powers and bring her running.
Carted a load of concrete rebar over to the ambush site (nothing says 'love' like paying for someone's pit traps), then hit the Cafe Alch to pause, breathe, and consume massive amounts of caffeine before going back to my labours. Enter Courtland, who is looking much better, I must say, although I'm truly surprised that his mum hasn't yet come to beat me about the head and shoulders with her handbag for leading her loving son into a wellspring of gang violence, sin and depravity. Perhaps there's actually someone in this town who hasn't yet got access to the GPS tracker apparently implanted in my arse. We chatted a bit, and I did the well-behaved and compassionate female friend thing and went shopping with him for a gift for Iggy. He's a good bloke for her. They suit each other rather remarkably well. Even what with her current status as 'possibly going to be the lead in the next sequel to 'Carrie'; do not taunt happy fun geek'.
Apparently, Leaf's been taking an interest in their sex lives. Can't say that it surprises me, really, given the givens -- I mean, I don't discuss my sex life when I can help it, just because I'm so bloody averse to people 'taking an interest'. Hell, I went as long as I could without actually admitting that Sam and I were DATING. It just got to where his continued possession of four working limbs and a large number of digits meant that either we were going out or I was an evil alien body-stealer, and I really didn't want to wake up to find Carmen and Kim preparing for an interrogation. But I digress.
Leaf, in her inimitable way, apparently implied that there was something wrong with Iggy not wanting to have a go at meeting Mr. Vicker. And Courtland finally did what the rest of us have been taking bets on doing, and replied by smacking her about the head and shoulders with the question of whether it makes her feel good when people imply that her fondness for introductions to that good gentleman makes her a less than healthy individual. She didn't like that question, but given that she's the one who took us back, once again, to the proud motherland of the Madonna and the Whore, I can't feel an excess of pity. I truly do like Leaf. I just hope that he's given her a good enough talking-to that she may actually start to grasp that we're NOT all the same person, we're NOT all like her, and if there's nothing wrong with her liking what she likes and being as she is, there's nothing wrong with the rest of us, either.
Hope doesn't half spring eternal, does it?
Courtland came back to the warehouse with me, spent a few hours 'giving direction' while I dug holes and centered posts; it was a good time all the way around, even if it was complete tosh in the greater scheme of things. We didn't think great thoughts or do great deeds, but we dug some holes in the ground and got ready to hold a line, and when you get right down to it, at the end of things, what else is particularly going to matter?
Back at the house, I stopped in for coffee, and met up with Sam and Carmen. Gave them the good news, along with the minor footnote that I was being reassigned to the Hellmouth in Maine (complete tosh, the Martin's Passage Hellmouth hasn't been a threat in YEARS, and as if the Council would DARE send another Watcher there, after what happened to the last, what, six?). Sam stared. Carmen hit me. Good times, all the way around. And then there was hugging and squealing, and the sort of kissing that would normally get someone decked over it happening in public, only I was too busy being dazed and a little bit lacking blood in my head to care. (Sorry, archivist, but you ought to be used to that sort of footnote by now. And if you're not, for the love of God, why are you reading this?) Everyone's been so happy for me, thus far. Kim may not be, but then, there've been members of her family field-certified as Watchers before, which is essentially what I've just done. Look, Kim! I skipped some book-learning in favour of shooting things in the head! That counts for something, yes?
Sam had to go to bed long before I did, so I sat up a few hours working out trap plans, and just took delivery of -- for some insane reason -- a bunch of roses sent to me by Mister Jack Ritterhaus. They're quite nice, assuming you live in a crazy world where sending me flowers is appropriate.
I wonder if they'll fit down the disposal.
Back later.
I left a message for Kim, but I somehow doubt she'll get it, as I'm reasonably sure that Claudia, advanced as she seems to be in the field of butchery and making me not want to have lunch, does not yet read or write. I'm beginning to think I'll have to resort to smoke signals. Or perhaps stating aloud that I'd like to bleach my hair, as that would probably trigger off her super powers and bring her running.
Carted a load of concrete rebar over to the ambush site (nothing says 'love' like paying for someone's pit traps), then hit the Cafe Alch to pause, breathe, and consume massive amounts of caffeine before going back to my labours. Enter Courtland, who is looking much better, I must say, although I'm truly surprised that his mum hasn't yet come to beat me about the head and shoulders with her handbag for leading her loving son into a wellspring of gang violence, sin and depravity. Perhaps there's actually someone in this town who hasn't yet got access to the GPS tracker apparently implanted in my arse. We chatted a bit, and I did the well-behaved and compassionate female friend thing and went shopping with him for a gift for Iggy. He's a good bloke for her. They suit each other rather remarkably well. Even what with her current status as 'possibly going to be the lead in the next sequel to 'Carrie'; do not taunt happy fun geek'.
Apparently, Leaf's been taking an interest in their sex lives. Can't say that it surprises me, really, given the givens -- I mean, I don't discuss my sex life when I can help it, just because I'm so bloody averse to people 'taking an interest'. Hell, I went as long as I could without actually admitting that Sam and I were DATING. It just got to where his continued possession of four working limbs and a large number of digits meant that either we were going out or I was an evil alien body-stealer, and I really didn't want to wake up to find Carmen and Kim preparing for an interrogation. But I digress.
Leaf, in her inimitable way, apparently implied that there was something wrong with Iggy not wanting to have a go at meeting Mr. Vicker. And Courtland finally did what the rest of us have been taking bets on doing, and replied by smacking her about the head and shoulders with the question of whether it makes her feel good when people imply that her fondness for introductions to that good gentleman makes her a less than healthy individual. She didn't like that question, but given that she's the one who took us back, once again, to the proud motherland of the Madonna and the Whore, I can't feel an excess of pity. I truly do like Leaf. I just hope that he's given her a good enough talking-to that she may actually start to grasp that we're NOT all the same person, we're NOT all like her, and if there's nothing wrong with her liking what she likes and being as she is, there's nothing wrong with the rest of us, either.
Hope doesn't half spring eternal, does it?
Courtland came back to the warehouse with me, spent a few hours 'giving direction' while I dug holes and centered posts; it was a good time all the way around, even if it was complete tosh in the greater scheme of things. We didn't think great thoughts or do great deeds, but we dug some holes in the ground and got ready to hold a line, and when you get right down to it, at the end of things, what else is particularly going to matter?
Back at the house, I stopped in for coffee, and met up with Sam and Carmen. Gave them the good news, along with the minor footnote that I was being reassigned to the Hellmouth in Maine (complete tosh, the Martin's Passage Hellmouth hasn't been a threat in YEARS, and as if the Council would DARE send another Watcher there, after what happened to the last, what, six?). Sam stared. Carmen hit me. Good times, all the way around. And then there was hugging and squealing, and the sort of kissing that would normally get someone decked over it happening in public, only I was too busy being dazed and a little bit lacking blood in my head to care. (Sorry, archivist, but you ought to be used to that sort of footnote by now. And if you're not, for the love of God, why are you reading this?) Everyone's been so happy for me, thus far. Kim may not be, but then, there've been members of her family field-certified as Watchers before, which is essentially what I've just done. Look, Kim! I skipped some book-learning in favour of shooting things in the head! That counts for something, yes?
Sam had to go to bed long before I did, so I sat up a few hours working out trap plans, and just took delivery of -- for some insane reason -- a bunch of roses sent to me by Mister Jack Ritterhaus. They're quite nice, assuming you live in a crazy world where sending me flowers is appropriate.
I wonder if they'll fit down the disposal.
Back later.