Wackos to Obliterate: Book One (Chapter 2)
At least here I can have a little quiet. Mavis sat at a built-in desk in their bedroom. This was where she had her laptop and it was where she did most of her writing. George had left an hour earlier to meet the trolls at a local restaurant for breakfast and babble. No doubt, they’re strategizing about how best to conduct a propaganda blitz for the primaries. She read over what she wrote the previous day. At times it bothered her George was getting serious about what he did as a troll. Initially, it seemed like he took it as a joke; a way to pull the leg of some overly gullible people. But quickly it escalated into something more personal. At times, he would start yelling about how stupid and clueless people seemed to be.
With that kind of racket going on, Mavis often found it hard to concentrate on her own work. She really wanted to get the first draft of the current book done in the next week or two since some of her readers kept posting messages on her SNS page that they were breathlessly waiting for the new one to appear. I don’t want to disappoint my fans.
It was rather amazing, but since last year, her four-book romance series had started to sell in the thousands. Of course, those numbers did not mean she had become a major author, but it demonstrated that if she developed a solid fan base and devoted enough time developing links and connections on SNS, even an indie author could do quite well. There were, after all, a dozen or so Indies who had sold more than a million copies of their e-books. From the positive reviews her books were receiving, Mavis thought she may be able to do quite well.
At the very least, writing was more productive than listening to George jabber about either online trading or his current political obsessions. Once Mavis started to make some serious money, George seemed willing to give her more time to herself. The deeper they sank into their cyber niches, however, the less they shared psychologically in the confined space of the fifth wheel.
That looks like his car. George maneuvered the pickup into the cramped space next to Rick’s vintage 70s blue Malibu. Never could see the beauty in that beast. He shook his head as he walked past the front of the old sports car toward the entrance of the local diner.
As soon as he pulled open the glass front door, aromas of food cooked and cooking assaulted him with their “eat-me” pleas. Reminiscent of the Sirens in the Odyssey, bakery scents like cinnamon and baked apple mixed with freshly brewed coffee, hash browns, toast, and fatty sausage tempted his taste buds. It smells like breakfast, Ma.
No sooner did he smile at the young girl standing behind the cash register than did he notice Rick sitting with “the crew” at a large circular booth to the back of the restaurant. He pointed in their direction as he walked past her.
The place was not very crowded on this weekday morning. Scattered around were several couples of varying ages as well as a few men in jeans and work shirts who could be anyone from truckers to farmers to local merchants. In addition, there were a few men in suits and a smattering of teenagers. Rick and his buddies ensconced in the back looked like part of the décor. Simply, they had the demeanor of late middle-aged locals who spent most mornings in here shooting the breeze before they went off to perform some other routine.
Gerold, Bill and Rick were metabolic-syndrome sufferers – a condition that may have been aggravated by a daily ritual of having breakfast in the Fast-Track Restaurant. This local chapter of trolls sported graying handle-bar mustaches; thinning scalps; and wire-framed glasses. Today was the fourth consecutive morning George met with them. On the first morning, he wondered why they chose a booth with seating for eight or more. Soon he discovered the overall acoustics of the restaurant, combined with the rather isolated location of this booth guaranteed a secluded space at which to gather.
“Why don’t you slide over and give George some space?” Rick said, gesturing Bill to move.
“Stay where you are, I’ll sit here.” George grabbed a chair on the opposite side of the table from the padded U-shaped booth.
“Why don’t you let Lizzie take your order and then we can get down to business?” Rick motioned toward the waitress to hurry over; seemingly unnecessary since she was walking towards them. No doubt, it was his way to demonstrate he was in charge of today’s proceedings.
“Hold your horses, honey. I’ll be right there,” Lizzie responded with water and coffee mug in hand. In a matter seconds, she stood to one side of George, placed the water glass and coffee mug in front of him, took his set of silverware from a pocket of her burnt-orange colored apron, pressed her ample chest slightly against his shoulder while she arranged the napkin and silverware, and then pulled an order pad from another pocket. “So what would you like, Hon?”
George leaned back in the chair and looked across the table at the other men seated in the high-backed, light-green padded booth.
“I haven’t had time to see a menu.”
“Is there a menu? Damn, I’ve been eating here for years and never seen one.”
“Being illiterate, Gerold, you have no need of one.” Bill winked at George.
“Speak for yourself asshole.”
“Would you like to the breakfast special? That’s what these boys have every morning.”
“I guess that’s what I had yesterday.”
“Just like a regular customer, buddy.” Rick smiled.
“One of the boys,” Bill added.
“How’d you like the eggs? Over easy?” Lizzie asked.
“Scrambled, please,” George said as he looked into the emerald eyes of the big-boned, early middle-aged woman resigned to work a job in which she had to engage in inane banter with the same people, mostly men, daily. George noticed the boys followed her departure with the intensity of stalkers.
Gerold leaned over the table toward George. “Scrambled like your brain, eh?”
“Like the brain of most dorks online, I’d reckon.”
“Whom we’re obligated to educate,” Rick said as he shoved a beefy hand into his black computer bag and extracted a clear plastic folder from which he distributed to each troll a couple of sheets of stapled paper.
For the next hour, Rick conducted a meeting reminiscent of the Kiwanis or local Chamber of Commerce. He explained the scripts or bullet points upon which they were encouraged to improvise and modify to help save this country from those who want to "fundamentally change" it. He went on about how it was their duty to "transform the conversation" to a populist movement in the hopes of helping the right people get elected. That the other side was depending on the naïve sucker to vilify them and be fooled into thinking they were on the same side.
“You know, we’re kind like Boris and Natasha pictured on the sweatshirt George wore yesterday. They were dedicated to find the right argument to persuade the gullible Rocky and knuckleheaded Bullwinkle. Those who waste their time posting comments are as dim-witted as those two.”
“You’re comparing us to Russian spies?”
“You do look a little like Boris, you know,” Gerold said.
“Your wife’s named Natasha?” Bill asked.
George looked at the other three. “I thought the flying squirrel and moose were the good guys.”
“They were the unpaid dupes. Boris and Natasha were the professionals. Like us.”
“Philosophy derived from cartoons watched in childhood?” George asked through a smug grin on his face.
“I loved that show!” Bill said. Something about his sentimental tone made the other three burst into laughter.
Link to the previous chapter of Book One
Chapter 1