@RazorFist

My heartfelt thanks and sincere gratitude to @Scotty17 for renewing his sponsorship. Nice to have the blue crown top tipper as a subscriber and a selfless individual. From what I understand, whatever he earns on his posts he gives it all away. And to think I rarely write because I am so busy with preparing for the winter months coming (hunting, chipping wood, etc). Thanks again @Scotty17. God bless you! You guys give him a follow and subscribe.

Detective Shoemaker and the Cinderella Story Detective Shoemaker set out on a personal mission. Winter had set in and his clientele had dropped off precipitously. Now that he had plenty of time on his hands, and knowing full well that idle hands were the Devil's workshop, he sought to investigate the origins of the fabled Cinderella story. Shoemaker wanted to know more about the background of the fairy tale. He had a hunch, a sneaking suspicion, that something wasn't entirely right with the story. And while it was just a hunch, professional detectives like himself worked on hunches and then gathered clues to solve a case. Right away, Shoemaker knew he wouldn't be dealing with a butler, a maid or whatever else that silly game of Clue had for characters, but rather there were several other real characters that captured his suspicious bone. For example, there was Cinderella's hapless father, her stepmother, the three stepsisters, all of whom deserved further scrutiny. But were there more characters real or imagined, such as, who drove the carriage that whisked Cinderella away? And how on God's green earth did the carriage turn into a pumpkin? Or did it? And if it did, was it a miracle or sorcery? These things rattled his brain like a bowl of marbles in a tin box. Detective Shoemaker wanted to know, just had to find out, so he could set the record straight once and for all. The first thing he uncovered was the fact that there were over 500 versions of the Cinderella story. This investigation would require some legwork to run down that many leads. The question that came to mind when he found so many versions was whether the French writer Charles Perrault was indeed the original author. In Perrault's version, the Cinderella we know today was named Cendrillon. Odd name it was. Was that an alias, and was Cindy (as he liked to call her) running from the law and using Cinderella as an alias? Detective Shoemaker opened up his Tor browser and searched the Dark Web for clues. Over a chilled bottle of  Dom Pérignon, Shoemaker sipped from the gift he had received after he had successfully cracked a cold case file - the brutal murder of a teen in Russia, Anastasia. On his second glass of bubbly, and slightly tipsy, Shoemaker found what he was looking for: the Cinderella story was over 2,000 years old! Perrault, Walt Disney, and all the others has plagiarized the story and twisted it to suit their greed. The detective grinned and shook his head. There were two things behind every case: greed and/or lust. He was onto something. Now the primary question was whether the Cindy story was real or indeed a fairy tale. Had the truth been hidden in the echoes of time? He had to know. But for now, it was time to call it a night before he drank much too much. **Too be continued.**

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Autumn in Upstate New York I could walk to Canada in about a half day. The border is pretty much open nowadays even with the pandemic. It would be a beautiful walk among the autumn scenery. I walk a lot alongside the roads and also in the woods. It's refreshing! My warning Autumn signals to me the fact that I need to prepare for the upcoming winter months from late October to mid-April. It is not unusual to see snow fall in multiple inches by Halloween. Years ago we received 36 inches of snow in 24 hours. That's a meter more or less for you friends in Europe and Asia. We need to ave a snow blower on hand or pay someone else to remove the snow. Preparation This means I need to chop a few cords of wood for the fireplace, stack it and properly cover it, and weight it down so the northerly winds don't blow the tarp off. I have to store gasoline for my snow blower, check the seals on the windows, insulate them with double ply plastic, and buy a new snow shovel and ice scraper for the car windshield. I always seem to lose the last two every year. Clothing is always on hand. One moment it can be a comfy 50 degrees and the next below zero. Things can change rather rapidly around here. Images of my neck of the woods These are pics from the other day. Take a look at the first. Can you believe how much work it would take if you had to rake up all the leaves when they fell before and during winter? I'd refuse the job. How about a job here? Beautiful colors! Here's a nice little pic from the smartphone. As you can see, we are in an area of rolling hills and mountains. It's a really cool area for hunting and fishing. When you enter these woods, it's best to always have a rifle at the ready. You may run across a charging black bear or a wolf. Racoons aren't so mean but can be annoying. And my favorite pic. You can catch fish here such as trout, sunfish, bass, catfish and more. In the summer you have to be on guard for mosquitoes, though. If you've never visited upstate New York near Canada, it is different world up here. People mind their own business and live a life of serenity apart from the hustle and bustle of cities. And if you do visit, don't be alarmed at the sound of gunfire. That's common here. So come on over or up - we're waiting to greet you southerners and foreigners warmly. And we'll share some fresh meat from the hunt, a bottle or nine of beer, and yes you can even borrow one of our guns or fishing poles.

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Sneeze Dried Boogaloo (Apocalyptic Fiction) Five years after the nuclear apocalypse, bones still littered the street, reminding survivors that life was fragile. Who could know whether other survivors could gain access to any remaining nukes and begin yet another likely final round of dehumanization? With a shotgun in hand and ever at the ready, Sven moved stealthily down 5th Avenue in Manhattan. Most of what was salvageable from bombed out stores and shops had already been picked clean by other scavengers, humans included. But if he was slicker than snot, and looked in the right places where others had not, fate might smile on him. It had before. Entering a larger store, he observed he was in Macy's. Flashbacks of the annual Thanksgiving Day Parade, with Santa at the end and Snoopy somewhere in the middle, reminded him of considerably better times. Melted plastic toys were frozen in time, like Salvador Dali's clocks in his famous painting, "Persistence of Memory." Sven stopped and kneeled to listen. Clutching his Glock 17, just in case, he withdrew it from its leather holster and clicked the safety off. He had previously had to shoot a fellow survivor some 14 months prior when the man struggled with him over a bottle of expired aspirin. Just as Sven stood up, he heard a distinctive sneeze and went to the floor quietly but quickly. With an ear to the warped tiles, he listened for any vibrations that would signal life. He craved a cigarette. Badly. Few sinful pleasures were available as they had once been. Oh, he'd made some wine in a five-gallon bucket a few times, and he hand-rolled cigarettes in the summer after a tobacco crop was harvestable, but he would have gladly trade his Glock for a ream of Marlboro red, he believed. And a hot cup of coffee. "Damn," he whispered, turning over on his back to fill his near depleted lungs. There on a disheveled windowsill it sat, a work of art or horror. Weird, though. Some psycho, or maybe an artist, had placed a skull inside a part of a branch and had adorned it with green leaves. As he neared the opus and fingered a leave, he recognized it had been freshly cut or plucked. Just then, another sneeze forced him to crouch anew. The echo was confusing. Was it coming from afar, up on another floor perhaps, or was it nearby? He slid the chamber of the Glock back quietly to ensure there was an actual round in the chamber, out of an abundance of caution. She was loaded, ready for death. A cockroach scurried in front of his now prone face. "Son-of-a-..." but he cut the end of his curse when a third sneeze interrupted his reverie. He inched closer to some protective cover and a better line of sight. Nothing. Sven was no Dora the Explorer, but not to investigate the sounds would be anathema to the rule of survival, namely, survive at all costs. And then there was a cough, and following it a plume of smoke which drifted his way and then over his head. Tobacco! "The hell?" he wondered to himself. Was someone on a break from scavenging? Sven low-crawled closer to an open door, the Glock's trigger on rock-and-roll. When he peered around the corner his eyelids surely made the sound of a window shutter slamming shut from his utter amazement. It was a...well, it *looked* like a man. He ducked behind the wall and then after a moment peered again. The figure was smoking, it's back to him at about a 45 degree angle, so somewhat safely out of "it's" vision. A bead of sweat trickled down onto his nose and he blinked and shook it away. The left side of the creature was armless, it's long, crusty sleeve dangling like a demented Christmas ornament in a ghetto home. The hair was long, gray and scraggly - down to the mid-back, but this was certainly no Saint Nick. And yet Sven felt no urgency of fear; rather he continued to watch in disbelief as the creature alit from a wooden folding chair and ambled out of sight. It walked with a decided limp, as if from a wound, tilting somewhat at a slant, much like the creepy dude from the film "Slender Man". Sven espied a pack of cigarettes on a small table next to the folding chair. It was like finding gold. He'd be damned if he wasn't going to do some immediate prospecting! Arising to his feet, he peeked around the door jamb again. Nothing. It was out of sight, whatever it was, but he had to be cautious. Glock in hand, Sven tippy-toed three meters to the table and snatched his treasure, nearly crushing his cardboard boxed prize with his firm grasp. The urge to immediately spark up a stick and saturate his begging lungs was unfillable since he had no fire. Just then, it appeared and growled, then howled. Chills rippled down Sven's bony spine. He turned to face the creature...but it was no creature at all, it was a half man! "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You scared the bejesus out of me, dude!" A disjointed row of rotted teeth with a capped silver bicuspid stood out from the otherwise near unrecognizable face. "What in God's name...are you?" Sven queried. It said nary a word in reply, only started through one eye, the other apparently shut forever. A Mexican standoff ensued for what seemed like hours. Sven sized up the creature. It's left side was all bones, rotting flesh had healed into a cruddy tumor-like mass above the bones and seemed to have sealed the rest of its innards. The creature, a monster really, raised his right arm and brought a tin cup to its thin lips and slurped. "Whatcha drinking, friend?" Sven asked. For a moment there was no reply. The standoff continued. "Coffee. Not that it's any of your freaking business." The voice was deep like a lion's roar, slow like molasses drip, drip dripping from a faithful maple tree in the dead of winter. "Uh, care to share? Been a month of apocalypses since I had any," Sven bleated. "Quid pro quo," the man replied, looking at Sven's Glock. Suddenly the trade he'd thought about earlier didn't seem like much of a bargain. "How about I just up and take it then," Sven challenged. Freeze dried bones made his move. Swiftly, much to Sven's surprise. Sven sidestepped the creature and tripped it, sending Slender Man sprawling into the table. The bag of bones spewed a foul yellow and green vomit at Sven which he dodged. "Time to Boogaloo!" Sven shouted. He yanked the trigger three times and Slender Man fell backwards from his propped up elbows in a heap, gun smoke wafting into Sven's nostrils. The coffee had spilled to the concrete floor and Sven thought better of lapping it up like a dog. Into an adjoining room he trudged carefully, Glock still in hand. Exiting the room with another purloined treasure in the form of a foil bag of Folgers Instant Coffee, things suddenly went black. **To be continued?** Copyright 2021 RazorFist

Nothing to Get Hung About Noah Davidson swung a baseball bat like a medieval battle axe. The professional scouts were aware of his exceptional talent, especially Mae Mae Gonzales. Mae Mae scouted for the New York Yankees and had a keen eye for discovering athletic talent where few dared look. Her male peers envied her because she was not a man, and because of her gift, but the misogynic behavior and prejudice only encouraged her all the more. She despised chauvinists. Mae Mae discovered Noah in a run down college in Beeville, a south Texas town. The university, if one could call it that, was called Coastal Bend College. Noah played shortstop for the varsity team Cougars as a sophomore. After a 9-2 loss to nearby Blinn College, Mae Mae called out to Noah just before he ducked into the confines of the home dugout. "Yo, Noah! Don't be down on yourself - you hit two homers!" "And we Cougars lost," Noah replied. At 6'4" and 220 pounds, Noah was a modern Adonis in full bloom. Curly blonde locks and pristine aqua eyes revealed a sadness that betrayed his athleticism. His shoulders were broad as the Nile, his muscles rippled like aftershock tidal waves. As he looked to Mae Mae he squinted into the sun that glistened her dark hair. Mae Mae tossed a folded note to him. Inside the dugout and on his way to his locker, he opened it to find Mae Mae's cell number. And thus began a mutually beneficial relationship. Mae Mae and Noah met for dinner later that night at an Outback Steak House in Galveston, Texas. At 41, Mae Mae had seen multiple thousands of young men in their prime of life, and had even slept with a handful. It was one of her ways of endearing herself to Yankees management, and certainly in her mind's eye, nothing to get hung about. But now she had found her Romeo to her self-identified Juliet. The relationship quickly ran into spring training a scant half-year later. Noah had been playing for the Somerset Patriots, a AA team in New Jersey, a close proximity to Manhattan. But the Yankees had called him to tryout for the Big Leagues at George M. Steinbrenner Field in Tampa, Florida. Mae Mae held a lot of sway with Yankee management; her willingness to do practically anything was her veritable ace in the hole. This was his chance, maybe his only one, and he didn't want to throw his chances away. He couldn't allow alcohol, drugs or the steroids offered to him by teammates and well meaning fans to chip away at his opportunity for stardom. And he also couldn't allow the fawning cougar M&M to sap his physical and mental strength. Something had to give. In the fourth inning of a game Noah finally got his chance. He bobbled a sharp grounder to short and then threw it wide of first base for an error. The runner eventually scored. Down 3-1 in the sixth inning, Noah stepped up to the plate, his wide, sturdy stance blocking out the setting sun. He was a strikeout victim on three pitches from a Venezuelan hurler. In the ninth, still down 3-1. Noah made up for his go ahead error and drove a rocket over the right field fence with two men on, giving the club a satisfying 4-3 win. The teenie-boppers threw themselves on him after the game, oohing and ahhing at him as if he were the neo-Babe Ruth. He soaked it up, signed autographs, and flirted, all to M&M's considerable disdain. She would have some of the boys intervene on her behalf later. They owed her. Noah had looked up into the crowd and saw the scowl on M&M's face and it wasn't sweet as her namesake. He had to tell her it was over. Kaput. Done. Finished, at least for the time being. Over a bountiful breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, coffee and toast the next morning, Noah sifted through his food like a haystack with his fork. "What is it, Noah?" Mae Mae inquired. Noah ignored her question and continued to play with his food. "I saw you with the teens, you know. You gave your number to two of them. Pre-planned, tear off pieces of paper with your cell number. How cute, how original, how quaint," she continued sarcastically. "What, I can't have fiends, Mae Mae?" "It's not that, it's just that you need to concentrate on your game and your career, not young girls," M&M admonished. But it was that; her jealous nature rose up within. Noah paused, flipped a pancake over, and looked into her eyes. "You're right. It's time we took a break. I'm sorry." Perplexed, shocked, M&M spoke up. "Oh, you're ditching me now that I've made you? How brave, how cowardly." Noah arose from the table, threw a $50 on the faded tablecloth and strode from the restaurant. "You didn't make me, Mae Mae. I'll call you after Spring Training." And with that he waved at a taxi outside the premises. Furious, M&M chased after him. This could not be her final at bat, she would not flyout of his life for any period of time. She opened her clutch purse for her potential go ahead run. "Noah?" She stood trembling a few meters away from him, fully aware of his speed and dexterity. Noah spun slowly on his heels. "What is it, Mae Mae? I don't want a beef with you. Maybe another time." "No, Noah - it's now or never," she remarked rather sternly. "Cut the drama, M&M, for god's sake." He turned his back to her. "It's nothing to get hung about," she told herself. There would be others, a calm voice assured her. But Mae Mae refused to listen. She retrieved a small .38 caliber from her purse. "Noah... one more thing..." As he turned around anew, she fired, a slug lodging in his throwing shoulder. She jerked the trigger anew, the bullet wildly missing its intended mark and striking the bewildered cab driver in the forehead dead. It's nothing to get hung about, get hung about, hung about. Sirens wailed from afar as she lurched to the ground beside Noah's bled out body. Nothing to get hung about...yet.

Dark Winter has Come - Winter is Coming Various interpretations of dark winter are to be found, in film, in speeches, and in reality. There was a film made in 2018 called "Dark Winter." You may have never heard of it, because the movie didn't go over too well. The flick was flat and never delivered on its premise of fear. At any rate, during the 2019 presidential debates here in the United States, then candidate Joe Biden stated the following: “220,000 Americans dead. If you hear nothing else I say tonight, hear this. Anyone who’s responsible for that many deaths should not remain as president of the United States of America.” Dark winter Biden, who went on to become the president* blamed President Trump for the CoVid deaths and his lack of a proper response. He further stated: “We’re about to go into a dark winter and he has no plan.” Here, Biden made reference to a secret exercise conducted from June 22–23, 2001, where scientists from John Hopkins University (and others) were fighting a terror attack of the smallpox virus. The virus was said to be a deliberate attack on the US by its enemies. They played out several scenarios to curtail and manage the adverse effects of the disease. Cut to 2019 and the CoVid outbreak. I find it rather frightening that the exercise tied in with the attack on the Twin Towers in Manhattan, New York, the subsequent anthrax attack, and later the coronavirus, which are all interrelated. I am of the strong opinion that the coronavirus was intended to wipe out large swaths of the population, as well as instill fear through a carefully organized plan of intense propaganda meant to bring about tyranny. The observant see tyranny unfolding before their eyes every day. Do not be fooled or conformed to this world, for lies permeate and spread faster than the truth. The truth is silenced. Winter in New York Here, about 20 minutes from the New York/Canadian border, the paranoia has infected the small populace (1,500 people). People are scared to go outdoors because of a handful of deaths. What businesses we had, have shuttered, while a few remain open, unafraid of the true virus and its propaganda. I, like a handful of others, basically have the entire town to ourselves. It's dystopian in many ways. Yet I am not afraid of the boogeymen. Home As I begin this paragraph, it is 9:04 p.m., Sunday, August 22, 2021. It is pretty much quiet. Only the noise from raccoons scarfing down food and the crinkling of garbage cans fills my ears, as well as the sounds from a fresh pot of percolating coffee. The television is off and has been for nearly a year. I refuse to watch propaganda. Instead, I use my late evenings to write. Sitting here after a day of hunting ducks, I sip on milk fresh from a nearby dairy farm. It is thick and creamy, not the watered down milk you are forced to buy in the supermarkets. A shadow from my porch light reveals several tall pine trees. Soon, maybe late next month or mid-October, their branches will be filled with snow. The roads will remain unplowed until 4 or 5 inches accumulate. Treachery will abound, even for for travelers accustomed to the snow and ice. This morning Earlier, at the small coffee shop/diner in town (we don't have a Starbucks nearby), some of the hunters I know were talking about the upcoming winter. Cursing was prevalent, anger was visible. A few of them sat at a dilapidated table with a stained tablecloth, pouring brandy into their steaming cups of java. They berated Biden's disastrous Afghanistan pull out, called for his arrest for crimes against humanity, and wanted him arrested. I sat several feet away and could not help but hear and agree with their ramblings. Joe had blown it. VP Kamala was cackling like a hyena, as always. The topic shifted to the preparations for winter: snow plows, snow tires, new shovels, snow boots and the like, to the new coronavirus variant coming down the pike. "Well, Stan," an otherwise grumpy old codger bellowed, "you speak of a new variant, but G-damnit, where's the flu?!" I was startled by the outburst, like the first gunshot of the hunting season, as I had my back to the men. My ears perked up like a fawn upon hearing the snap of a branch in the woods. "Hell if I know, Jimmy! Hell you think I am, a scientist?" "Well, I say ain't no way the seasonal flu disappeared after hundred's of years!" *He was right and I knew it.* Joe Biden and his staff of tyrants had bewitched the population with fear porn, the likes of which had not been seen since the Nazi's promulgated it eighty years previous. I had taken my last bite of apple pie topped with a spurt of whipped cream into my hungry mouth. Like the whipped cream and the fresh milk, the coming months will have blanketed the town with thick layers of snow. "Winter is coming," I thought to myself, "but dark winter is already here." It won't be leaving until the propagandist's are able to usher in a new society ruled by fear. I reached for my sidearm; I was safe...for now.

Scooter was no Manny Pacquiao Stephen was his real name, but he liked to be referred to as Scooter, for whatever silly reason. He accosted me in a parking lot outside of the only Starbucks for miles around. "I'm here to stomp you into the mud," he boasted. I sat my syrupy frap down on the hood of my car and asked, "Who the hell are you and what's this all about, pal?" Scooter stood a hilarious 5'1" tall, and maybe weighed 130 pounds. Wet. While I wasn't worried, one can never be sure of the skills a person may have when it comes to some fisticuffs. "You stole my girlfriend and you know it!" he shouted for all to hear. "Now you will pay with crimson blood!" "Is there another color I'm aware of?" I mocked. My sarcasm riled the attacker. Scooter began punching the unfazed air and I had to grin. His punches were weaker than a used tea bag in a half cup of steaming water. "Lookout, little man, you might hurt yourself," I warned. "Now what's your real beef with me?" A small crowd of about a baker's dozen was gathering from inside the coffee shop. "Hit him, Scooter!" hollered one guy. As I turned to see if Scooter had brought some backup, the little runt lunged at me with fists wailing, none of which struck. I leg swept him to the pavement. "Let's be reasonable," I said, as he got to his knees. "I have a girlfriend, sure, but I believe you have the wrong dude, dude." In the reflection of my car window I saw a few people on their cell phones recording the confrontation. "Oh, you're the right guy, alright, and I have pictures to prove it!" "Listen, dude, you're sounding like my real girlfriend now." Scooter paused, dropping his fists to his waistline. "Say what?" "My *real* girlfriend accused me of cheating, so I told her she was starting to sound like my wife." The crowd giggled behind me, but Scooter didn't get the joke. It went over his puny head. He frowned at the growing crowd and began dancing around like world champion Manny Pacquiao. "Once I bloody your square nose, I'll get my girlfriend back and dance some more in the middle of the street during quarantine!" "First imagine you have a girlfriend," I teased. "I smell liquor, dude. You been hittin' the whiskey jug?" Scooter attempted a flying kick at this point, but landed on his tail instead. I could have pancaked him in seconds flat. "Yep," must be the sauce," I teased further. "I slipped," was all he could muster. He was out of breath. "You have a picture of this, uh, girlfriend I supposedly stole?" "You know what she looks like, punk!" he raged. "Well," I began, "My little dish is 5'1", you know, about your height, maybe taller, but she tips the scales at 106 pounds. Reddish blonde hair, green eyes. Not your gal, homey." "That's her!" he screamed. This sent me in a bit of a tailspin. Was she sneaking around behind my back? I had to inquire further. "My gal has green braces on her teeth." "I already know," he fumed. "I bought them," he continued. Could this be? Was I so blind to notice that she was dating other guys? Sure, I was certainly no Adonis, mind you, but I wouldn't scare Jason from "Friday the 13th" away, either. Scooter began a series of karate or Kung Fu moves, I don't know which, but he surely looked rather funny...and slow. "Brown belt?" I inquired. "9th degree black belt," he responded. "I didn't know they added 4 additional belts. Hmmm, guess you're a real killer, then, huh?" "I don't wanna kill again, man; I just want Jessica back." I began to laugh. I reached for my wallet, when all of a sudden Scooter kicked it out of my hand. The crowd ooohed and awwwed. "That's not cool, shorty," I snorted. We both looked towards the wallet. There on the ground was the picture I had sought to show him of Penny, my girlfriend. A $10 bill skittered away in the breeze. Two jobless losers from the crowd chased after it. "That's you gal, PacMan?" Scooter bent over and gave it a look. "Oh, wow, that's not her at all!" But he immediately raised his fists again. Meanwhile, sirens could be heard in the near distance. Someone had called the law. "Now what?" I asked, bored with it all. "I'm taking you down for kicks and grins." The sirens drew closer. "Looks like you better Scoot, Scooter; the cops are coming." "Ain't scared of no cop." Two squad cards pulled up and screeched to a halt, 4 officers bailed from their squad cars lickety-split. "What's the major malfunction here with you two?" a bulky sergeant asked. Someone from the crowd crowed, "The little guy is trying to fight the bigger guy!" "Is that true, son?" the officer asked. "I'm not your son, pig!" Scooter scowled. The cops laughed. "We got ourselves a live one here, boys," the sergeant said. "How about we take a ride to the station, turkey?" "For what? What's the charge?" "Foul play," replied one of the other policemen. "Hey, Scoot!" I shouted as the officers were placing him in the cop car in handcuffs. "Guess what's for dinner tonight?" I paused but he didn't respond. "Turkey pot pie! Enjoy!"

"Will you do me a solid?" she asked I was tinkering with a car I was remodeling when my iPhone rang. "It's Razor, wassup?" The silky feminine voice on the other end of the line spoke in somewhat of a delicate whisper. "*Heyyy*, Razor, will you do me a solid?" "A solid? What's a solid?" I asked. "A favor. I need some assistance if you have the time." "Happy to help you in a few; I'm just shutting the hood of my car here. I slammed the hood. What are the specifics?" She hesitated for a beat. "I'm not sure, but I think my carburetor is not getting any water. My truck won't start." I chuckled. "Ah, okay, well that's actually a good thing." "That my truck won't start?" she queried. "No, no, no; that your carburetor is not getting any water," I explained. Silence. And then, her dumbfounded sigh was emitted followed by an exasperated, "Oh, I see. Well, would you mind stopping by and having a looksie?" I took a peek at my iWatch, wondering why I even bought the darn thing. It tracked me like the flippin' FBI. "Gimme 10 minutes and I'll be there with bells on." "Bells? Oh, yeah, okay - awesome! And if you fix it," she began, "I'll be happy to buy you your favorite bottle of wine. These winter nights are pretty chilly, after all." I didn't know if that was a come on or if she was just being sincere. Either way, I didn't feel any need to be paid for doing someone a favor; and yet on the other hand a bottle of bubbly sounded pretty good. It was 22 degrees Fahrenheit at four in the afternoon in upstate New York, and getting colder by the minute. I shivered from the top of the nape of my neck to my damp snow boots below. I wheeled my '65 Pontiac GTO into her expansive driveway right off the lake and came to a stop in front of her 2010 Chevy Silverado. She had snow chains on the tires, in expectation of a heavy snowfall later that evening. Eight inches the meteorologist had predicted. Tiffany came out to greet me wearing a short-sleeved sweater, yoga pants, and a New York Yankees ballcap. "Hey, Razor. Well, here it sits like a 2-ton paperweight." "No worries, we'll get it cranked up in a jiff," I promised. "So, I haven't seen you in months. How's your love life these days?" "Oh, my last relationship ended because I didn't open the car door for her," I teased. "So sad," she breathed. "Yeah, instead I just swam for the surface." "Damn you, Razor!" A grin flowered over her narrow mouth, much like a Chia pet lamb. "I never know whether to believe you or not." "How could you, you're rarely in touch anymore," I argued. "Yeah, I know," she admitted. "I've been focused on writing a darn cookbook to self-publish on Amazon. I don't know whether to include the recipe for rum-flavored candy balls or not." "Balls? Rum? Sounds delish!" "Oh, you're gay now?" she needled. "Gay? No, of course not. I don't mean that in a negative way; it's just that...well, no," I finished. I checked to see if the carburetor was getting any gas. It was. Next I wanted to check to see if the engine was getting a spark from the coil. "Get in and crank it up for a sec." She turned the key and nothing. I wiggled the wire on the coil and had her try again. Still nothing. Then I spotted the problem: the battery cable to the positive node was completely off. "What is it? she asked with a tone of impending doom. "Serious problem here, little lady," I began. "Looks like you're going to need an engine overhaul." "Oh, no!" She hung her head in a melancholy way I'd not observed in her since she broke her leg in high school when practicing for a dance cheer 10 years previous. "Just kidding!" I immediately responded. "Look here." She bent over and brushed against me, as I pointed at the disconnected battery cable. I popped it on, tightened it with my right hand, then snagged a wrench from my toolbox and tightened it up properly. "Get in and crank it up." The engine sparked to life with a muffled roar. She popped out of the truck clapping her hands in an excited glee. "Woohoo, you did it, Razor!" I bowed, genuflected and then replied, "At your service, Madam." She dashed to the house as I shivered in the cold and snow flurries caressed my cheeks. In a New York heartbeat she returned with her skinny purse. It was a Balenciaga Lariat. The gal had class. She handed me a twenty dollar bill as her lips pecked by frosty, red cheek. "I don't need your money, Tiff," I began; "I'll buy a six-pack of beer on the way home." "But I insist," spat the queen. "That won't buy my favorite wine, dear," I offered. "Which is...?" and then her voice trailed off. "Well, I don't really drink wine, but a fine champagne is more to my taste bud's liking." "Cold Duck?" "Dom Perignon," I stated matter of factly. "Oh." She reached into the Lariat and pulled out two crisp Benjamin's. "That ought to do it," she pouted. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to be a cheapskate." "Save your money and instead do *me* a solid," I countered. "In what way?" she replied coyly. "Let me take you out to dinner later tonight...on me, of course." "I thought you'd never ask me, Razor!" "McDonald's?" "Burger King!" "See you at 7:30 sharp." "I'll be here with bells on." "Lemme have a look," I replied, popping the hood.

A World of Silly People I love to laugh at silly people when they do silly things. I believe I have a great sense of humor. Well, I was sitting on a wooden bench in a mall one day and once watched a woman texting on her smartphone as she neared a little fountain. People tossed coins in the pond and made their wishes. Others sat on the ledge and ate, sipped a coffee or talked. Well, this beautiful young lady refused to look up and walked right into the water and fell in head first. Of course, I laughed. Looking back, I realize I should have captured it on video so I could have uploaded it and had a chance for it to go viral. At the zoo I like animals, too. I like going to zoos when I travel to different cities in the U.S. When I was a kid living in San Diego, my parents took us to the world-famous San Diego Zoo. My brother, cousin and me wandered off and got lost for like four hours. We decided to just sit down and watch the huge monkey cage, figuring that eventually our families would stop by and we'd all be united. Kids our age were tormenting a couple of chimpanzees by yelling and throwing food at them. We were about to shout something at them, when all of a sudden a chimp wiped his behind, and then tossed some poop right in their faces. "Poo poo!" they screamed, as they ran for the restrooms. The skater dude We had a teen in our town who rode his skateboard everywhere. It's like it is an attachment to his body, like a third arm or leg. Well, I live about 100 yards from the bottom of a steep hill that is about a 40 degree incline. During the winter when snow and ice cover the road it is very dangerous. One day when I was at a gas station I saw the guy making a ramp at the bottom of the hill and off the side of the two-lane road. "Whatcha doin"? I inquired. "Oh, hey, dude," he began, brushing his long, blonde locks back off his forehead. "I'm going to the top of the hill, racing down, and jumping this ramp all the way to the bridge." He pointed and turned his head towards the river. "Sounds treacherous," I admitted. "That has to be 20 feet at least." "Nah, bro. Heck, I'm going pro when I turn 16. I'm in my final training phase, now." "Cool, dude," I responded with a grin. And then off he went, walking up the steep road, stopping half the way up to catch his breath. At the summit, he turned and waved at what was then six or seven people watching him. He hollered something, but the nearby river drowned out his voice. "Yo, Razor, that brotha gonna die, yo." That was my cynical friend, Lamont, always doubting like Thomas in the Bible. "He told me he was a pro," I assured Lamont. Somebody behind us shouted, "Hey, I am going to video this in 4k HD!" When we turned around towards the voice, there was a growing crowd of perhaps 20 people who also wanted to see the stunt, including the gas station attendant. "I think I'll go ahead and call an ambulance now, just in case," Lamont admonished. We looked up and saw the teen in the middle of the road, one foot on his skateboard, and both arms in the air with a symbol of a recent victory, in a V shape. Then he pumped the pavement with his foot and began his descent. The skateboard gathered speed rather quickly and I sensed disaster in the making. Would he be another recipient of the infamous Darwin Award? I couldn't peel my eyes from skater dude. Now I'm not very good at guessing speeds, unless I am actually driving, but I figure he was coming down the hill at about 35 m.ph. or better. The skateboard wobbled often, but like a pro, he maintained control. He whooshed past us all, hit the sturdy ramp dead center, and then the skateboard leaped into the air like E.T. and his best buds on a bicycle towards the moon. The skateboard hit the dirt next to the pavement with a resounding thud, broke a wheel off, and sent the skater dude flying and then rolling, and then sliding on his skinny butt... ...right into the river! "Dudes, I got it all on video!" our would-be Quentin Tarantino shouted. We all ran to the river and saw skater dude swimming to the shore. Tarantino was filming again. "You okay, dude?" I asked, somewhat concerned. "I think...I think I broke my butt bone!" We all howled with laughter, but deep down I felt sorry for the guy. "Yo, you need an ambulance, homie?" Lamont asked. "No! No ambulance, no filming!" he whined through gritted teeth. Tarantino shouted: "This is going on You Tube!" Epilogue I saw skater dude about 6 weeks ago at the 7-11. He still had the skateboard, as usual, and was buying a Slurpee. "Hey, I thought you were going pro," I remarked. "Nah, bro, I've got better plans nowadays." "Yeah? Like what?" I quizzed. "Heard they were going to start filming the final *Jackass* movie and I plan on being in it." I haven't see skater dude since. Maybe I'll see him in the movie. At 27 now, he's still young and vibrant, filled with wide-eyed, big dreams. And I hope his dream will come true. And I hope he doesn't break his butt bone again. Silly guy.

Free Stuff for the Taking! There's no such thing as free money (somebody has to pay for handouts), but there ***is*** such a thing as free books, videos and more. As an avid reader and writer I am ever on the lookout for resources and interesting storylines in books for inspiration or for pleasure reading. *The best writers are also the best readers.* Put that in your pipe and smoke it. One does not simply write well without a lot of knowledge and/or life experience. Here are some **valid resources** for anyone to get freebies galore. The choices are virtually limitless. You can thank me later. :) Project Gutenberg Love to read eBooks? You can download them from this site (link below) absolutely free. As of today's writing, Project Gutenberg has in excess of 60,000 free books you may download or read online. They are available in Kindle, PDF and EPUB (but other formats are available). Audio files are also available. The only downside to the website is the smaller amount of available books, compared to the one below. https://www.gutenberg.org/ PDF Drive This is one of my favorite places to download books. I typically read 2-3 books a week, and PDF Drive has a true inexhaustible supply. The website has every topic imaginable. I. Kid. Thee. Not. Imagine a place in the cloud that stores about ****81 million books****! And all are ****free****! From aardvarks to algebra, from philosophy to religion, from fiction to non-fiction, everything under the sun may be found on the website. Okay, not *everything*. Freshly printed books take a few months or more to make their way to the website. And if you cannot find what you are looking for, you can make a request and the community will likely find and upload it, then notify you. Of course, you can also upload books of your own. **Pro Tip**: ****Use your email only**** if you want to upload a book or make a book request. Otherwise, there is no need to sign up or provide your email. Incognito, baby! You can also use your smartphone. Guys and gals, you cannot beat free books. Well, free food beats it, I suppose. :) Oh, and for those who are looking to sharpen their writing skills, man alive, there are tons of free books! Novels? Short stories? Screenplays? Plays? Poetry? It's all there, my friends. There are also books on writing that reveal how to get published as a writer or publish your own book. Grammar books also abound. https://www.pdfdrive.com/ Internet Archive (aka The Wayback Machine) This website is pretty cool, too. You do have to sign up but it is 100% free. Everything from archaic sources, books and recent videos are stored on the site. Additionally, those expensive textbooks for university may be found there. Big bucks savings! Ka-ching! I remain completely amazed at what has been stored on the Internet Archive. Personal diaries are pretty cool to read at times, but I prefer the older material that no other website provides for free. Are you on #Twitter? I use to be, until the owner (ahem) went too far to the left for my tastes. Anyway, those deleted tweets from prominent blue checkmark folks and other interesting/revealing tweets are routinely scrubbed from the Internet and may be found there. Yeah, so ****you might want to think things through before you tweet something out in anger**** or whatever. The one drawback, which isn't really a big deal for me. is that some books cannot be downloaded. However, they may be borrowed for 14 days at a time. Also, if you have a physical disability, you have access to material not provided to everyone else. https://archive.org/web/web.php Check out these links and enjoy the ride. Even formerly banned books are available, as well as recently banned books. One of these days I'll post an article where you can freebie material goods delivered to your home. Until next time, happy downloading and reading!

Hello, I'm RazorFist Hello to all. I am an obvious new user but have been writing for two decades. I pretty much write every day of the week, whether for profit or enjoyment. Writing is my muse. I am a U.S. citizen, having been raised in California but now hailing in upstate New York near the Canadian border. My hobbies include visiting museums, writing short stories, reading Shakespeare, accumulating collectibles, travelling when the overlords permit it, reading treasure lore, studying for knowledge, walking on the beach when overseas or in Florida, and playing various sports. At the age of 40, I am not as fast as I used to be, but I do enjoy baseball, hockey, football and car racing. I live alone with my cat. I also feed stray animals when they appear. Here in the upstate area we have bears in our backyard, raccoons, and deer in abundance. Rather than shoot them with a gun, I shoot them with my Nikon DSLR. As far as food, I have an affinity for bacon, cheeses, and any other alleged heart-clogging foods. Being single allows me to explore new foods and eat out frequently. However, I do cook, since I learned how from my mother when I was quite young. She was a chef, and while it is kind of weird, she was a vegan before vegans were hip. I guess one could say I am rather outgoing, but I maintain a rather small circle of friends. I've found that acquaintances are rarely around when the going gets tough. Que sera sera. If anything may be considered a hinderance to my ability to make friends, speaking the truth is my thing. I say this because we live in an age of considerable deception, outright lies and censorship. The truth can be a harsh teacher but is good for the conscience and the soul. Truth is rarely valued any longer but is nevertheless essential. It allows me to sleep peacefully at night amid the howls of the nearby forest or the raging thunderstorms. My tongue is somewhat untamed and cuts like a razor, hence my moniker. I ascribe to no political party per se, but to freedom at all costs. I adamantly refuse to be a modern slave to false narratives and political systems. It is my hope that read.cash will fill in the dull moments of my life and that I will make digital pals whom I likely will never meet this side of eternity. I sincerely welcome both positive and negative feedback, as it helps me grow.