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Cleaning House, a Response to Ann Carr's Challenge.

Updated on October 12, 2018


Interesting creature
Interesting creature | Source

Stranger Things Have Happened

And so there I was standing in my mom’s back yard thinking of the day I got stung hard 10 times. Meat bees they call them. I was digging a line for electrical juice to a Russian Olive tree for lights for parties and just plain old pretty. Heat of the day in summer. Mom pulled me in from the stings and gave me some green chili soup. And tossed 4 Benadryl down my throat. She said Green chili is better than chicken soup. I was nursing the stings and she said: Back to work Chosen One that trench won’t dig itself.

Hell’s bells and cocker shells. I was 32 with kids of my own and a doctorate. But still my mom’s little adopted boy.

Knock, knock, knock on the fence and the most beautiful red haired Mullato lady, half a decade younger than I, I figured, stood on the high raised stoop. She looked a bit nervous. And boy o Boy she was making my knees buckle. “You must be looking for my brother” I said. She broke my reverie of times past and I reckon I was grateful. I kind of shook off my dirt and washed face with my hands and polished my boots on the back of my Levi jeans. Being courteous I replied, Missy may I help you? “Missy” was safe as I was unsure whether she was a senorita or senora.

A shy smile and she said are you Eric? I somewhat bowed as us good old boys do and whipped off my oversized 10 gallon hat, two hair combs with my fingers, and I gave up. I had been crying in memories. A “May I?” and she hopped the six foot fence and landed on high heels like I would hiking boots. One hand to the ground and one in the air like a bronc rider. “Hi, my name is Jemma and you and your mom saved my life.” A hand stuck out like a robotic vice grip. It damn well hurt.

My response was obvious – “Jemma, if I may call you that without being too forward?” Surely it was not me but you are one of the women my mom saved. I don’t do saving. She said “no it is you I came to see”. “Mam, I am just her son” no more than that.

My next question was “do you want some tea, coffee or something stronger”. Jemma answered without humility – “I will take some of the whisky your mom kept under the sink.”

It was my mom’s house yet I felt it was the Eagle’s band Hotel California. She had a sheen from a tiny perspiration around her head. I kicked in and noticed more nervous sweat. And I was damned if it did not smell like our Lilacs my sister and I planted for mom. A scent that matched the smell of the blossom of a Lilac. I figured we needed a kicker back for the whisky and busted out two Corona beers.

Not much conversation. Just kind of smelling the smells and hearing the Parakeets in my mom’s parlor room green house. She was awful comfortable there. I seem to recall the Chrysanthemums were the smell de jour.

This lady was out of my league in class and nobility. She began with “est-ce que tu sais qui je suis. With a slow moving Cajun roll to it. “non je ne” I responded. (basically “do you know who I am?” – “No I do not”.) Then a broken suggestion “Francais non haute couture” a term used in back country to mean I do not do French as a fashion. On purpose she switched to a Castilian Spanish, oh not so, but Porteguese.

Can You Imagine

Don't Get It?

All are merely history.
All are merely history. | Source

Clear to Rock And Roll

“Voce é o filho”. Now I got it. Cajun French to off Spanish. She was making sure I was me. So I slammed her with “ Wer bist du”. And she responded “Ich bin ein Freund”. Enough I said as I put a gentle hand on the glass coffee table, yet slapped it.

We had established our “bona Fides” to an extent. I was hiding from international stuff in my mom’s home as she had just started to stay in a nursing home. So we sat for 15 minutes. Breathing in meditation with eyes loose to the atmosphere.

“May I freshen up?” and I was sorry for my rudeness in not offering before. She merely said, “it has been a 20 hour journey”. I finally got over how beautiful she was. A bit more time than was needed and she appeared. She had a scanner of sorts and declared “the house is clean”. I knew the deal, she meant of recording devices.

She was wearing one of those black almost Chiffon fold over breast outfits, made for exclusive dinner parties. A silk looking waste belt and perfectly above her knees. A look that a breathing man cannot avoid a full look at. She pulled a chair up backwards and sat across from me, making sure I saw her Glock on a thigh band holster. She reached in her bag and tossed me a nine millimeter Luger, not store bought but fully automatic and two cartridges. Two big problems. She was separating my bullet’s trace from hers and loading me up for a full firefight. No good. And I had no doubt she got my make of gun from some weird file kept in some weird place.

Lookie here lady I am out of the biz. And I also see no cash. “I see from the foundation and cover up makeup on your shooting arm you messed up before. And I don’t go with mess ups”. Who am I with anyway? “ “האם זה משנה” “תן לנו לראות”. And it became clear that the house we were cleaning was Israel’s. “You have a penguin outfit, no?” I’ll be right back, don’t steal any ashtrays”.

Showering, the curtain was opened and she whispered, “you will do”. I flicked water at her, careful not to hurt the dress and stated “you won’t”.

Off to the only place in town where you would not get beaten for wearing such clothes. It is a sleepy hamlet away from the world. Did she really have to drive us there in a custom Panemera Porsche, the only one with four doors? Who am I looking for I thought to myself. Our doors were opened by two guys in their own penguin suits. But these suits were off the rack and had a fit to hide a pistol or two. Snow was starting to come down yet seemingly no cloud in sight. What?

She grabbed my arm and pecked my cheek as though we were lovers at a place we loved. How freaking far from the truth. For some damned reason they were there. Now it made sense, one of the Lebanese at this cocktail hour was the one who shot my best friend 5 years ago in Turkey.

Now the wench told me the deal. The bad guy had diplomatic immunity but had hired “local” talent for bodyguards. She just wanted me to show my gun to get the guards to react so local law enforcement could arrest them, sending the “diplomat” back to England where there, he had no such status.

A waiter offered her a glass of wine but whispered in her ear just loud enough for me to hear. “The house was clean except for the 4 gunmen which were obvious. Jemma obviously knew from my “jacket” – file that I had the tiny FN Baby Browning in my inside wallet pocket in my coat. It may break your thumb but it will kill.

A Hundred Pound Buddy in Our Home

Look at the little ones.
Look at the little ones. | Source

Just a Reminder


The two inside had body armor. So I calculated a thigh Femoral artery hit if need be. Or the tougher shot at the aortic artery in the neck. A deep breath and we sauntered to the open bar for Heinekens.

We branished our weapons and shot to the ceiling which got the other gun toters to bring them out and fire a shot or two. We crab walk out the front door and hopped in the Porsche that was ready.

Folks, I reckon you expect killing in such a scenario. Our job was to get the protection team arrested. And they were and the mark made his way to Heathrow where he went bye bye into MI6. We went back to my mom’s home and 3 days spent walking the beautiful forest and canyons.

I was back to trading physical commodities and she was off to Hong Kong.

{ just as an aside I read this to my young boy. He expressed it was a great work of fiction. And I smiled inside and responded, that it might be. Then “wait daddy” that is not a lie like movies” I remember Grandmas house and it was like that. And mommy said that she met you when you were a spy in Vietnam”.

“Your momma ain’t got no call to say such things”. “Can we talk about it in five years?”

“I get it dad, you are not ready, even though I am”}

A life led with regrets. Or maybe none. I will garden today and enjoy my life of love.


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