P...andas, E...lephants, T...igers, and A...nimals.

I normally like to ease my reader into whatever adventure I have planned for them.

It’s only right.

It’s the difference between the $3.00 tour and the $5.00 tour. I use it to hide the fact that the only actual difference between the two tours was an additional two dollars charged...

A clever way to mentally garner additional brain-revenue, the legality of which, Wal-Mart still refuses to acknowledge for commercial transactions...

Not tonight. Tonight I plan to burn this bitch down. I contemplate strewing random cuss words throughout the text as a way of fighting back.

I refuse to be rash.The ointment the doctor gave me the last time I was rash was almost gone...and I have since lost my job and health insurance...

No.The poor unsuspecting reader didn’t click this hub to watch Thought Sandwiches dissolve into a Tourette Sandwiches. Besides...that would only fix this hub. What of the others? Shit was going to burn...

I let slip my rage in the form of a single cuss word, “Zerglot!”I seethed.

I was at that part of the hub-making process in which I was trying to decide who to include in the narrative...

It’s a complex and multi-dimensional process which involves the kidnapping (usually kicking and screaming) of people who, I know and love, and who want nothing to do with this nonsense (i.e. people who have already taken the $5.00 tour) and place them in stories...

It usually ends well...usually.

I send the person an email with an innocuous link to Hubpages.com, informing them that a story has occurred...and that they were involved.

I let them know (in the email) that no offense was intended...narrative need prevailed...You know....the legal stuff the legal guys tell you to put in small print...

It usually ends well...usually.

I have still not heard from Faye...

Normally, I will also swoop up an unsuspecting fellow Hubber or two (you know...actual writing talent) that I can incorporate to push along my dubious plot lines. Not this time.

I know quite a few awesome Hubbers, and Hubber-ettes, who would willingly lay down their fictional lives on my behalf. Susan (from the award winning Hub-show) Just Ask Susan (no less) even let me take a six-hour Hot Butter Rum bath in her tub.

It took the whole six hours to drink it through the Crazy Straw I insisted upon using.

I have since heard that she has taken a nasty fall and fractured her ankle. I feel bad. I should have cleaned up the butter. This was in Canada.

(Note to self...Susan’s toilet flushes all normal. Unlike certain Hubbers I know whose toilets...don’t. Clearly...simply being a nation within the British Commonwealth System was not a significant factor in my ongoing flushing investigations...)

Flushing.

Yes. Rather...no. I have no intention of flushing any Hubber’s promising career down the toilet...regardless of the direction their toilets decide to arbitrarily spin.

No. Rather...yes. I was going to hire some outside talent. I was thinking of using some cross-platform shit...FaceBook friends...obscure literary characters...folks who know Down-low stuff. People in no way associated with Hubpages or on any official radar screen or watch list.

I believe...Out of town muscle is the term used...

In terms of real world characters I had already made my selection...I was going in with real-life Reno roommates, husband and wife team, Erika and Jamie. There’s a conference scheduled later at our house south of Reno in a couple of hours and I will introduce you all proper at the meeting...

First, I had a rendezvous with an unsavory character. If all went well he would be the one to light the match that burns this shit down...his name was Abner Snopes and this meeting needed to be held in private.

How does one meet a man like Abner Snopes? Typically...you know a guy (or in my particular case)...you know a gal who knows a guy...who knows another guy. It’s that kind of shadowy world...

My gal in question, Barbara Morrison, professor of English Literature, gave me that first name in this chain of arson...William Faulkner. Faulkner eventually led me to Snopes...

The meeting was held in the comment box section of one of my underperforming hubs. There were cobwebs in evidence and it smelled as if vagrants had been urinating in there. The only un-burnt out light bulb flickers annoyingly. There had been no activity in weeks...

I won’t supply a link. It deserves to be an underperforming hub. It was one of my first. Besides...the nature of the meeting and, the crappy-ness of the hub, suit my purposes just fine...no one will observe our discourse...

Snopes is wearing the stiff black Sunday coat that he was wearing when I first became acquainted with him in Faulkner’s 1939 short story, "Barn Burning.” He was a rough looking man. When he spoke it was from around a wad of tobacco.

“I burn barns,” he replied laconically after I stated my needs.

“I understand that barns are your specialty Mr. Snopes,” I countered, “Certainly, however, I should think that other structures would also be on the menu, right? All I’m saying is that I need you to be a little flexible on what gets burned. Mark my words sir...this bitch will be burnt down...but according to my narrative needs and my timetable.”

He glowered at me from beneath a furrowed brow. Snopes was out of my league. He’d been burning barns since long before the Atomic bomb. In fact...as I recall...although it was published in 1939...the story was set in the 1890s.

That said...I didn’t believe the authorities had Snopes’ name associated with any open cases. He was perfect. I just had to control him. I glowered back. He broke eye contact first...

“Wood and hay kin burn...” he observed sagely, trying to be reasonable. Faulkner’s aging antagonist, filled with suppressed rage against society, pulled out a flask...he took a tug before putting it away without offering any to me.

I couldn't argue with the physics of his statement. Wood and hay do burn. I just wasn’t sure that what I needed burned was a barn. That was the problem. I have reached the halfway point in the story...

[I can hear the readers groan in dismay...]

(“Only half-way??”)

(“What??” They chorused.)

(“You suck!”)

(I heard one disgruntled reader say upon noticing his neighbor’s ticket stub, “Hey...you only paid $3.00 for your ticket...?” )

(“Yes...and I want my money back...”)

(“I paid $5.00!!” This... from several others...)

“AS I WAS SAYING....”I typed out in bold capital letters over the discontent of the crowd...I had reached the half-way point of the story and I wasn’t sure of which direction to go....

(“F**k this.”)

(The scraping noise of chairs being pushed back was clearly discernable as several people left the room...)

(“I’m flagging this a**hole...”)

I waited for the hecklers to settle down or vacate. Snopes was looking at the words I had just typed and looked quizzical. I wasn’t concerned...according to Faulkner...Abner was illiterate...

“Snopes...you will stay here until I give you the signal and then you will burn what I tell you to burn. Is that understood?”

He grimaced, “Master Faulkner just had me burn barns,” he complained. He was illiterate but he was sly. “Master Faulkner would know what he wanted burned before he started the story...He had me burn barns...” He was getting fussy and indignant...

He was on to me...

“Regardless,” I state firmly, “Master Faulkner is dead.” I saw the old literary character flinch a little at this development. I press my advantage. “As such, you will be following my directions.”

He acknowledged my supremacy by spitting a wad of brown juice into a corner of the room. He glared at me balefully...

I left the comment encapsule. It truly was a sad hub. Snopes and I had conducted our sordid business in that bottom unused box...I was walking past the boxes that actually held statements. It was a short walk. There were only four of them in total and two of them were mine...

“You were pretty brutal with that old man.” Said the refined voice from within the darkness of the second box from the top. “You could have cushioned the blow a bit about Faulkner’s death...”

I was startled. Actually...I nearly shit myself...

I stepped into the room and she lit a lamp. This box was in a similar state as the one I had just vacated. Only worse...

A bird’s nest in the ventilation duct. Graffiti scrawled across the walls. All the lights were burned out in this particular comment box...

The noted Hubber...and fashion-ista...Nellieanna was in one of my hubs!

I would have been blushing with pride had I not been blushing with embarrassment. Why did she have to pick this Hub?

She placed the Coleman lantern on the cracked and stained linoleum. I could see used syringes and condoms littering the floor. Water dripped from a ruptured pipe. Wait...was that a pile of Five One Cows poop...?

She was dressed casual...a red T-shirt, jeans, and sensible footwear. There was an open back-pack at her feet...cans of purple spray-paint poked out from the un-zipped compartments...

"What are you doing here?!?”

“I am mad enough to spit!” She declared emphatically.

I was taken aback...she was normally so gentile and refined. I was worried that she was going to report my conversation with Snopes to the authorities.

“What appears to be the bother?” I ask casually...

“Oh Thomas,” she declares, “I constructed the most beautiful poem and after I published it Hubpages.com placed the most appalling advertisement right next to it!”

I was relieved. “But what are you doing here?”

“I intend to spray-paint nasty words on all my Hubs to have the ads disabled! I was walking over there when I heard you and that odious man speaking...I slipped into...this...hub...” She finished distastefully... looking around as she wrinkled her nose...

“Um...”

Nellieanna began her impassioned plea, ”I've never subscribed to any of that, and certainly have never received a penny, nor expected to, but there they'll be, some atrocious ads for some disgusting products right smack-dab in the middle of my gorgeous, artistic, very carefully wrought poetry hubs!!!!!! Nothing I can punch or un-punch stops this unwelcome invasion. Oh, woe is me!”

It suddenly occurs to me...a viable plot option! I consider raising the cost of a mental tour to $5.00 and $7.00 respectively...

“Sure, I can do that! I can type in some nasty word. I can, I can!” she continues ... (A wan smile comes over her face and her knees seem to weaken as she thinks of cussing). . .

“Say Nellieanna,” I begin, “I think I may have a solution...”

We huddle together and discuss options. Unwilling to show my creative hand to the audience...I activate Internal CD player (loud)...Buffalo Springfield’s “For What Its' Worth...”

“WHAT??” I screamed...unable to hear over the music...I lowered Internal CD player...

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly as she stares at me oddly...her head cocked...sculpted eyebrow arched...

The plan was this. She was going to go home and I was going to burn this shit down. The audience would be kept in the dark for another section or so...

Nellieanna put up a fight over this but, as I said, I had no intention of hurting any other's careers...

As we were leaving I noted wet purple spray paint on the wall. I began reading...It filled two entire walls...

“Oh dear...you shouldn’t read that...”Said a suddenly alarmed Nellieanna...”Oh dear...”

In the neatest penmanship I had ever seen in the spray-paint medium...she had detailed the glaring faults...unlikely dialogue...weak plot line...questionable parentage of the author...

In fact...Several drywall panels were dedicated solely to questioning the parentage of the author...

Much of it rhymed...truly...Some vile stuff...I was unaware that there were THAT many words that rhymed with that particular four letter word...

“Gosh ...” I said all hang-dog head...

“I was upset about the ads...” She hastily assured me...“Still...this hub is a disappointment...”

“Can a rabbit even do that to a cow?” I asked. The picture she had thoughtfully provided suggested it could...

“Oh yes...I’m from Texas. We see that quite often.”

I recalled Rick Perry’s recent debate performances...oh yeah...

Something on the wall gets my attention. I ask to see the lamp. It was an older message...scrawled in pencil...I start to laugh. I have to relate this...I mean...its right here. I laugh again. But how...it requires some backstory...really...back facts...

Historians are sexy beasts. I've studied the subject...I understand...I’ve attracted a few babes my own-self to the historical flame. Yes...there are history groupies.

That said...the quality and quantity of, said groupies will invariably be different for (Oh say) a session player vs. (Oh say) a head-lining act.

I would never attract the fine historical-trim that (Oh say) a Bernard Bailyn or Fredrick Jackson Turner would. Obviously. No. It’s a tier system...those at the top...deserve to be at the top. The rewards go to the talent. The big names in the historical game...the Foners, McPhersons, Packers, McCulloughs...Oh yes...they attracted the truly amorous...

This particular amorous message on the wall was scrawled to one of the titans in the field...the noted North Carolina Historian...Alastar Packar.

The nubile young woman wrote in exquisite detail about what she wanted to do with him...if only she had his number. I laughed again. I totally know this guy! We’re friends! That is hella funny!

I did what only a friend can do...I pulled out a green sharpie marker and, starting with a North Carolina area code, provided the necessary conduit to love. No...It’s true...you shouldn’t give your phone number out on the internet. I am proof of that...

I was still chuckling as I hugged Nellieanna and put her in the cab for her ride home to Texas

"Really dear," She was saying, "I am indeed sorry about the spray painted diatribe...really...it was narrative need."

I certainly understood narrative need. I assured her of that fact and we agreed to meet after the conclusion of these unpleasant events...perhaps at Squidoo...? I watched her cab begin the long trip back to Texas. I should have put her on a plane...

(I quickly type that she is on a plane...)

I needed to meet with the room mates...

I roll a joint as my long-time roommates, Jamie and Erika, read over what I have completed up to now...getting them up to speed as it were...

“I love Faulkner!” States Jamie matter-of-factly.

“Argh...Faulkner?” Groaned Erika...Faulkner wasn’t a favorite. “He goes on for days...”

Damn. I had not intended for them to know of Abner’s role in this. I had thought I copied down only to the part about Susan’s toilet...Zerglot!

“So?” I asked eagerly.“ Are you guys in?”

“In for what?” Queried Erika. “I mean...I’m not sure what you want to burn or why you would want to burn it? Do you know what or why? Am I missing something?” She declines the joint I pass to her.

“Um...maybe you should smoke this...it kind of made it clearer to me...”

I was interrupted by Jamie who was pointing at page two...

“You say here that you don’t want to flush any Hubber’s careers down the toilet?”

Jamie is in actuality...the renowned Hubsville poet who publishes under the unassuming Nome de guerre as jhamman.

I look around at the remaining readership and offer the three that were still awake a golden nugget of trivia...

Jamie, A.K.A. jhamman, was the actual originator of the term, “I Don’t like Leaving Meat in a Car.”

(I expect that this information will stand you in good stead should the appropriate jhamman category come up on Jeopardy. Yeah. F**k those guys who left...)

“Still, I need you.” I reassured him. “You’re a Hubber...you have been in there...you know the physical layout. Also...if you will notice...I actually typed, ‘I didn’t want to flush a promising career down the toilet’. You know...you’re in the nonsense poetry section...so....”

He looks hurt. I feel bad. He waits for me to delete the offending sentence. I disappoint him again. We both sigh. I offer him the joint...he declines.

“I don’t want to be involved in any emotional prostitution.” Declares Erika emphatically.

At the mention of the word...prostitution...or maybe emotional...Creative Voice appears...

“What the f**k Creative Voice?” Cried out Erika in alarm!

‘My retinas!” Screamed Jamie!

Creative Voice was only wearing a fig leaf when (at least) a palm frond was required...

“What’s with the fig leaf?” I ask. I’m used to him.

“I thought we were doing the whole P.E.T.A thing tonight...you know...they only use natural fibers...and someone mentioned a prostitute...” He looked about eagerly...

“I said emotional prostitution.” This from Erika.

Creative Voice was confused...”But...I thought you paid the (brain-revenue) money so you didn’t have to deal with the emotions...?”

He began putting on his normal mission gear...green tights...Star Wars helmet...elf...

Something occurs to me, “Wait...you've been taking our (brain-revenue) tour money...and spending it on prostitutes?”

“Well, Wal-Mart still refuses to acknowledge the legality of that for commercial transactions...”

A big fight is forestalled by Jamie...

“Uh-oh.”

He indicates the live Hubsville feed on his computer.

An out-of-town reporter was speaking...

“...numerous reports of barns being burnt down in the Amish community of Hubsville.The Amish, noted for their ability to raise barns quickly, have begun fighting amongst themselves...turf wars over who can build a barn faster...” She reports.

The Squidoo lens settles in on an old Amish guy...

“Oh there be a tempest brewing,” he slowly drawls all Amish-like. “Thee stand in the righteousness of...”

His words were cut off by the obvious sounds of a crime occurring behind him...

(Clippidy-clop, clippidy-clop...bang, bang, bang....clippidy-clop, clippidy clop...)

An Amish drive by shooting...

The old Amish guy lies dead at the reporter’s feet with the back of his head blown away...

“Oh F**K!!” We all cry out...

The Amish community was being torn asunder by my folly...I look up and Erika and Jamie are staring at me. I single tear falls from my eye and rolls down my cheek...

“What?” I say defensively, “They seem to like building barns...”

“OK...what’s this about?” They both asked.

“Hubpages.com has placed “Fur” ads on my hubs!” I inform them, “and I am going to burn this bitch down!”

“Are the Amish responsible?” Erika asks.

“Um...no. That’s just an unfortunate....”

“Oh wait!” Interrupts Jamie excitedly. “Is this going to be like the ‘Writer’s Hero Journey’adventure?”

“Kind of...but shorter I think.” I confirm.

Erika looks blank.

“You still haven’t read it?” I ask disappointed.

“No.” Was all she says.

“Well, if I provide a link...will you read it?”

“Maybe.” She responds drily.

“Would putting a link for people to read it be an example of emotional prostitution?” I probe because I like typing the word probe...

“No...That would just be an example of shameless self-promotion.” Erika explained.

I thought about the other things I shamelessly did to myself...usually late at night...with the lights turned low...sometimes at noon...other times from noon to late at night...sometimes after reading a particularly saucy Mamadrama poem...I call it Google-ing myself...

“I can live with that.” I say as I supply the link:

A Writer’s Hero Journey. (Featuring Faye).

We are a fur-free household. With two dogs, four cats, and a fish...we are animal friendly. It is our belief that the only things that should have fur are animals...our animals...and furniture...our furniture...after the animals get off our furniture. As such...we were moving into action.

Jamie was busy collecting pitchforks, torches, and literary references...for handing out to any peasantry that we might happen across and manage to rile up with our fiery anti-fur rhetoric...

He pulls out his well-worn copy of The Hamlet, by William Faulkner. Published in 1940, it was the first of three books published by Faulkner that further chronicle the travails of the Snopes clan...known in literary circles as The Snopes Trilogy, they include The Hamlet, The Town, and The Mansion.

“Yes...in part four...The Peasants...” Jamie muses, “Hip, Buck, and Varner!! These should be the peasants we arm with pitchforks and torches!”

“Don't they know Abner Snopes?” I ask doubtfully. “Don’t get me wrong...I am really liking the name Varner...”

“Well...they do know Flem Snopes...Abner’s nephew; I think...I don’t recall Abner in any of the three books.”

“Right, right, right...Abner may have got shot at the end of Barn Burning...” I finish thoughtfully. That college literature course had been a long time ago.

Erika, who has absolutely no interest in discussing Faulkner, asks to see the offending fur ads.

“Careful,” I warn her, “Not only are there evil fur ads there...you may actually accidentally read part of a paragraph that I might have written...” She doesn’t rise to my subtle verbal challenge.

I indicate the odious commercial message...

We were down to the brass tack issues of ‘burning this bitch’ down. How, exactly, does one ‘burn this bitch’ down...when...this ‘bitch’...is actually a mental construct? A dilemma.

“We would have to treat it like a Klingon warship.” Announces Jamie matter-of-factly.

Of the household...he was the one who ran a favorable eye over the Sci-Fi genera...as such...he’s our science guy...

He had recently fixed our bathtub like nobody’s business. I encouraged him to write a hub-thing about it. They really like plumbing contests in this town.

I’m not sure if he wrote the Drano plumbing Hub yet...but the water pressure rocks...

Now...I’m not likening basic plumbing skills with hard science...I don’t have to...they just are...

“Can you build a catapult that will launch a burning barn into the death-star portal of Hubsville? In such a way as to completely destroy this un-holy fur alliance thing they got going on?” I inquire...eager for details...

“I can.” Jamie states assuredly.

“Really??” Honestly...I was a little surprised...I was just throwing out a blend of literary plots and thoughts...some other random shit...

“Yes. But I am a Star Trek fan...not a Star Wars fan. It wouldn’t be a death star...It would be a Klingon warship. Star Wars is nothing more than a dumb puppet show compared to Star Trek!”

“I see...” I was unaware of the cauldron of passion that apparently seethed within him on the subject...

Our tactical discourse is interrupted by Erika...

“Thomas?” She squints at the screen. “You do know that the (100% faux) icon means these are fake furs, right?”

“Huh?”

“Right here. They’re fake.” Erika points to the small bear paw print...

That gave me paws...uh...pause...

“Oh. Right, right, right...My bad. We need to abort this mission due to an intelligence failure!!” I call out to any readers still out there with a pulse... “No...There will be no refunds...”

I begin scratching...

“You were rash again weren’t you?” Erika asks knowingly. “Do you still have that ointment? Remember...from when you thought the elephants were coming into town with the Cirque du Soleil?”

We were all having a good laugh at my expense. Another joint was declined by my two roommates...it suddenly occurred to me what was wrong...

“You know...only two people are actually going to read this whole thing...and I...I’m pretty sure...I will be one of them...you can probably smoke this without any problems...”

They hedged...I considered a good place...

“I have this comment box we can smoke in...trust me...no one will see us...”

My words are cut off by the barking of the dogs. We live on the outskirts of Reno...an area zoned for horses although we didn’t have any...the landlord didn’t want the liability...

Looking out our back sliding-glass door we can see the various out-buildings and sheds scattered about the 2-acre property. One of the buildings was actually an old barn...we could see flames...

“Uh-oh.” We all simultaneously understate the problem. We rent.

The ringing of the doorbell brings us to the front of the house...

On our porch was a work-party of Amish barn-builders...they looked long in the tooth...tore back...fucked-up...tired.

They had been fighting fires, building barns, dodging drive-by Amish-related bullets...(what else? ...Oh yeah), avoiding attention from technologies that they don’t acknowledge...I assume the helicopters had to scare the shit out of them...

There may have been some crop-bringing-in stuff...weaving and whatnot...I’m not really sure...It’s an alien culture...

The foreman (maybe Elder?) stepped forward...he straight looked like he’d stepped from a Grant Wood painting...his name tag read...Varner.

“We understand that a barn needs a re-building...” Varner says all Amish-like...