We returned to cold. Hard cold. I didn’t even have a jacket when I got off the plane - it was in the suitcase, where it had been chilled in the hold. The customs line had the length that reminded me I have been remiss on getting that Global Entry thing. Took at least half an hour, during which I judged everyone in line and found them wanting for a variety of reasons. A surprisingly wide variety. I was owly and disinclined to give the customs man hale & hearty banter. Cab to home. Home to dog.

And the dog was delighted. He couldn’t believe it! The house was immaculate, thanks to the exceptional Housesitter. Fire up the oven and toss in a frozen pizza, pour the coffee, eat the ‘za, then have a good drink of whiskey. Interesting: the ice maker dropped its cubes with a peculiar desultory clatter, different than the usual heedless dump. Substack subscribers will know what happened next: it was full, frozen, and jammed.

Let us skip ahead past the exciting story of transporting all the frozen goods to the overpacked freezer, and go to the next day. I had to turn the fridge off and melt the cubes. Well, let’s look at the circuit breaker box schematic -

Oh. Right! It’s incomplete. It’s been incomplete for our entire tenure. But I have another piece of paper, scanned and stuck in a cloud folder, that has more hints. Ah: it’s switch #7. Except that turned off the downstairs freezer, which contained all the boon of the earth and slaughterhouses. I went through the switches in sequence, waiting for Wife to say the light in the fridge had gone out, and we shall not see it relit in our lifetimes.

Well, that’s what I would’ve said.

Once the power was cut I headed back to the sluck and smuck of the office mire, there to glower and fume and sputter like a wet fuse. There was a conversation about a future piece and what it might contain; a suggestion was made, in good faith, but I said I would rather open a vein than start writing stuff like that. Ended the matter. There was also a big town hall about all the things we’re going to be doing soon, including getting into the “Audio Space.” Or “podcasts,” to use the obscure term. You might be asking “what will you be doing in this space, given your years of experience in podcasting and broadcasting?

The answer, of course, is nothing, since no one has asked. And yes, they know I’m interested, and that I’ve done a few in my time. Not a farging word. God, what an ignominious end.

Hey, I don't feel well! Maybe I'd better head to the Wellness Room.

Come right in

Someone will be with you shortly

Do you need to dry your face or disinfect anything

Sit down by the calming light and collect yourself

Consider what you may have done to bring yourself to this point

Talk to the light

Throw up if you want to

Know that we care

It's fun to say:

Some sort of carbon paper? Maybe, but it sounds more complicated than that.

Remember? We were doing Dick Tracy, again.

We have to finish this up this month. It's not as if I could end the year on a - well, you know.

Easier than you think.

But smilin' Dick's on the case:

If you recall, Dick had jumped into a truck carrying an explosive drone, and kerbluey ensued.

Saved, as usual, in the editing suite:

The henchmen escape, and Dick and his sidekick note that they saw Brewster the Industrialist escape with the drone torpedo. So he must be the Ghost! Unless he’s trying to keep it from the Ghost! Who knows.

It’s all dark and rote and the print is lousy. Short story shorter: the Ghost takes Brewster back to the plant and threatens to feed him to a blast furnace unless he hands over the plans. Must have looked better in the original print; the whole thing is like a fever dream out of Metropolis.

You just know Tracy’s going to end up in that thing.

Did I find some stories that did not make the Bleat last week? I think so.

Well, concludes our Monday, except for a free-for-all Substack and the matches. The week begins. This might be the week where they take me aside for a little talk, but I don't think so.

Only a matter of time, though.