Evidently, Mr. Canoehead had gone to the heads of the fab four; none of them knew where Sid the Kid was when they left Antarctica. This was discovered when they got to the hub and Margot asked, “So, where are we going? Pittsburgh?”

“That’s a good question,” Jordan admitted. “He lives there, but I have no idea where he is rigt now.”

It was agreed that the best plan of action was to return to Valhalla, where Jordan would call Sid, and take it from there. Stopping at the door to Valhalla’s dining room, they saw Daisy sitting rigt where she was when they were last there, so they retreated to the hub, and entered Valhalla through the Executive Suite.

“Hello Daisy,” the four said in unison, as they entered the dining room.

Daisy, who was betting she would catch them walking in outta thin air, rigt in front of her, was startled. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering where y’all disappeared to.”

“We just sent our visitors from south of the border off on their trip to Pie Island.” That made no sense to Daisy, because they should have gone out the front door, straight into the parking lot, if it were true. But she knew better than to meddle in the business of the guests, especially when the guests are the only guests, and they are paying for every room in the hotel, so she let it go with a roll of her eyes, and a smile. The girl was confident that, one way or another, sooner or later, she would find out the truth, but was in no hurry for it to happen.

As the brothers collected their phones, and retreated to the bar to call Crosby, Margot asked Daisy what she was doing.

“Oh I’m just fighting with some ignoramus on Facebook.”

“Ignoranus?” Margot laughed.

“Yeah, a stupid asshole, pardon my French.”

“That’s funny!”

“I think so. I made that one up all by myself. But some other smartypants prolly came up with it a long time before me. Maybe Shakespeare, or Tolstoy, or one of them other Frenchies. Maybe that Dumbass guy who wrote The Three Mousekrteers. It sounds kinda French, don’t it? Ignoranus?”

“You may be rigt,” Margot chuckled, “but it sounds more like Bukowski. What are you fighting about.”

“The economy. This chucklehead, I guess he’s one of them Freedom Fries Fighters guys, ‘cause he gots a big machine gun in his profile pic, called me a libtard, so I just beat his ass real bad, and he’s disappeared. Prolly bitching about me on some incel forum rigt now.”

“How did it start?”

“Well, someone posted something ‘bout how the Freemasons are responsible for the virus, and everything else that’s going on. So, I told ‘em what’s really going on.

“What’s really going on, Daisy?”

“The Freemasons are just the military arm of the Rosicrucians. Just like Sinn Fein is the political arm of the IRA. All of them have recently been purchased by Pepiso and Disney, as their stocks plummeted in the wake of Corona.  It was all planned by George Soros, who got his instructions from Halle Sallasie, who did not die, and shall never die, until he is allowed to marry Mickey Mouse, and join the Moonies.”

“I knew it! And that’s when the fight started? When you set them all straight?”

“No, it started when someone, in the same thread, said the economy is more important than a bunch of old people, so I gave ‘em a new idea about how to shape the economy up. I said it was obvious that robots are gonna take all our jobs, but I have a plan.”

“Good girl. What’s the plan, Daisy?”

“Well, wars are good for the economy. So, we send our robots to war against their robots. All the robots kill each other, which is good because the robots are the enemy of the people, especially the rich robots. So, no more robots, and the economy is healthy, so we all get all our jobs back.”

“That’s brilliant, Daisy! But the incel didn’t like it?”

“Hell no, he didn’t. He wants to go kill all the Chinks himself. The real flesh and blood Chinks, not the robot Chinks. I called him a poor white trashole, and that’s when he called me a libtard. So, I beat his ass, and everyone is laughing at him, and he ran away.”

“Poor whit trashole! That’s brilliant! Is it yours?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I don’t think even any of them Frenchies ever used the term, so I guess it’s mine.”

“Excellent! What else did you say?”

“Hang on a sec. I got it rigt here. I said, this is what I wrote to him: Listen, dumbass, there were 57,976,321 spermatozoa in the load your father blew into your mother, on the day you were conceived.

“Of all of them, there was only one that had the material that could create a brain capable of scoring triple digits on an IQ test.

“He was winning the swimming race by a country mile. But when he got to the egg, he discovered that the corresponding intellectual capacity material contained in the egg was from a gerbil.”


“Thanks, Miss Margot! I said, this presented a moral dilemma for the little tadpole. He didn’t know if he should carry on, and do what he could to produce a moderately intelligent human being, one capable of nothing more than laughing at TV sit-coms, when prodded to by the laugh track, or let one of the ‘tard sperm win the race. So, he went into the pub to have a few beers and think it over. He smoked a couple smokes, and contemplated the kind of creature he would create if he stumbled out of the pub blind drunk, and finished the job. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to do that, because he had such big dreams, so he shot himself, instead, convinced that the creature created would be devoured by the the mother’s inner Darwinian voodoo doctor, who performs first trimester mercy abortions, and spare the world yet another semitard gerbil brain.

“But the little brainiac tadpole didn’t get the email announcing that the Darwinian voodoo doctor was on vacation at Mardi Gras that week, dancing the Macarana. “

Clapping her hands, and howling with laughter, Margot said, “Genius!”

“And then I told him, so here you are, with all the smarts of a bag of broken dildos, you fuckin’ Forest Gumpling. You should go celebrate by watching a few episodes of Hee Haw, the Beverley Hillbillies, and the Dukes of Hazzard, and then sneak upstairs and fuck your sister, while she’s sleeping, which you can do  ‘cause she won’t even wake up, ‘cause yer dick’s so small, and it ain’t gonna take but twelve seconds anyhow, pardon my French.”

“Oh, I love you, Daisy!”

“Aw, I love you, too, Miss Margot!”

While the girls were still yoking it up, the brothers returned. Eric told Margot, “He’s at home. He said to come see him tomorrow. Jordan knows exactly where he lives.” Still laughing, Margot nodded her head, and Eric asked, “What’s so funny? You laughing about the melonhead robbers?”

“Melonhead robbers?” asked Margot.

Daisy jumped in, “Oh, yeah, that happened when you were away. Two guys, wearing watermelons on their heads, robbed the Petro-Can station up on Red River Road.”

“They were wearing watermelons on their heads as masks? That’s hilarious! They must be from Saskatchewan.”

“Yeah,” Daisy agreed, “for sure, that’s a no-brainer. But it’s gonna be okay, ‘cause the Mounties in Saskatchewan have already sent Detective Pumpkinhead to catch ‘em. They say Detective Pumpkinhead always gets his melonheads.”

Shaking her head and laughing, Margot said, “Well, we can all sleep easy tonight, knowing Detective Pumkinhead is on the case. Now, speaking of sleeping easy, I’m going home. It’s been a long day.”

“Is it okay if I hang onto the Riff n Raff book, please, Miss Margot? Daisy asked. “I started reading it, but then I got distracted with my Facebook fight.”

“Yes, of course, Daisy. It will be interesting to see what locks that book opens in your mind, if there are, in fact, any locks in your mind” Margot gathered up the phones and laptops of the Mairkans, put them in their respective rooms, making sure to plug them all in, and headed home to Anarchia.




dj jc cover front

114 e


114 a

114 b

114 c

114 d