Lesbian Squirrels: Part 9: Student Loans Unleashed

Dr. Simone Moonglow Lenin Rothschild frowned at her computer screen. As a teacher of Advanced Grievance Indoctrination she was required to give these idiots a grade. Yet here it was in black and white, all five of them had aced the test! Who aces a 200 question test? They were inhuman!

Dr. Rothschild’s classes were open to all students; which meant of course that white males need not apply. These five jackasses were pasty and not even metrosexual. They were ruining everything!

The other students were normal. They were a self-selected group that was correctly vaginocentric or at least gynocurious and they drifted in five minutes late while staring at their smartphones. They were college students after all. Also they were using college for its true purpose; to explore new (pre-approved) personalities. All 58 students (aside from the five) were experimenting, en masse, with new behaviors. This was good. Nothing made Dr. Rothschild happier than seeing 58 students expressing their individuality by behaving identically.

Except those five idiots. Did they even have cell phones? Worst of all, they wore ties. Why didn’t they heed the implications of the first assignment? “Ties and Nooses, Hats and Vices, Thoughts on Why Men Are Stupid And Violent Due To Their Torturous Mode of Dress With Examples from Glen or Glenda by Ed Wood.” It was Dr. Rothschild’s best work. She had assigned it specifically because of those five nincompoops. The whole point of the scientific paper was that one should be free to wear whatever they wished, so long as it wasn’t a tie or hat. As she’d explained at length, ties were symbolic nooses and thus a dog whistle employed by phallocentric oppressors and the last vestigial remnant of slavery in the United States. For some inexplicable reason they continued wearing ties despite her explanations. Who were they to make choices which made the rest of the class uncomfortable?

Not only that but those five idiots read the whole paper! They had practically memorized all 18 pages and could quote from it, verbatim, at any moment. They noticed and pointed out(!) a couple of spelling errors; talk about mansplaining! Of course nobody else read it. Who would? Any student with half a brain knew you were supposed to scan the abstract and scatter its vocabulary into rambling answers later on. She didn’t expect students to read her work any more than the students expected her to read their assignments.

Everything they did was infuriating. They dressed neatly. They arrived early for class. They paid attention to everything. They took notes. They finished every assignment early. They carpooled. They recycled. They were polite, attentive, and intelligent. They didn’t drink. They didn’t smoke. They didn’t swear. It was disconcerting at best and downright terrifying when she thought about it in depth!

When the semester had started they’d had a tendency to open doors for fellow students and say horrific things like “ma’am”. She’d publicly berated them for hours. This usually chased Y-chromosomally challenged bible thumpers away; but they merely smiled and complied. They dutifully barged through the door like a herd of buffalo as all the other students did and they’d replaced “ma’am” with a more appropriate non-committal, gender specific but carefully non-binary, grunt.

But it was just an act! She’d seen them at a grocery store and they were unfailingly polite to everyone there (it was off campus or she’d have called them on it!). She knew that when they carried an elderly lady’s groceries to her car it was their way of taking control of a powerful matriarch and forcing her into a position of weakness and subordination. Bastards!

No male students had held up to her onslaught before. She’d cratered six engineering students and a math wizard who fretted over GPAs. She’d baffled a stoner until he swapped into chemistry class and a computer science student until he became a stoner. Two Russian exchange students moved to Bosnia. A veterinary science student who needed an elective had become a monk. She’d convinced three hulking flannel clad forestry students they were gay. (They were helping her write her next paper “I’m A Lumberjack And I’m OK”.) Even male ROTC cadets and returning war veterans gave her a wide berth.

But these five unapologetically conservative males had blown the curve! She’d made a grave error by using an electronically graded test. Normally she’d assign an essay and distribute grades as she saw fit. But, in a moment of weakness, she’d thought about all the time she’d save. After all, she was leaving to visit her androgynous same-sex soul mate in Amsterdam next month.

The mechanical test had been risky and those five jerks had used it to drop a bomb on her. What the hell was she going to do now? You can’t give an A in Grievance Studies to a white male!

It was time to bring out the big guns; she fired up Facebook and clicked to her favorite site, “Mary And Terry Hate Men”. They had some interesting theories. She read the first six of eleven posts and nodded. She clicked to bring up linked audio files and listened:

“My resistance is running low
And every day the hold is getting tighter and it troubles me so.”

She tapped her designer label pencil on her exquisite silver toned keyboard. Yes, this might be the answer:

“Under attack, I’m being taken
About to crack, defenses breaking.”

This could do the trick. With a silent nod of thanks to the Goddess, she began composing the agenda for an “optional” weekend seminar. It would be called “Disco-cracy, Abba, And Transspecies Raptors, An Examination of Societal Norms”. According to Mary and Terry it only took 56 hours to turn a male into putty so they’d make it a three day “experience” that subsituted for Monday’s lecture.

She frowned; it was a little odd that the authors used squirrels and birds in their lectures. She would have preferred more logical non-binary constructs like zieself and emself. Duh! Even so, nothing is perfect and everyone loves disco! She was so excited she didn’t bother to read the remaining five posts. She’d do that later. All hail Facebook!

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Lesbian Squirrels: Part 8: The Transspecies Drone Of Denuttifying

Mary and Terry perched in a tree observing their work. A hunting raptor is an awe-inspiring creature. Terry shivered a little. To think they controlled such power!

Edward was eager to demonstrate his new abilities. They would be so proud! He scanned the ground while humming Abba:

“You’d better take care.
Never walk alone after midnight.
If you don’t believe me, you’d better beware
Of me!
I am behind you.
I always find you.”

There it was! A small furry creature was furtively inching through the brush. Edward stopped humming. Abba had provided the prey; it was up to him to be the predator. He banked off a thermal and drifted silently closer.

Squirrels have territories but they only pay attention to those adjacent to them. This squirrel’s territory was well delineated and agreed upon by all the adjacent squirrels. Roughly speaking, he had access to all food in a triangular space bounded by a field, a stream, and the smelly petrified bear. The bear was gross but otherwise it was a good territory. He had plenty of food to support him all winter.

He had heard of Mary and Terry but wasn’t interested in them. “There’s something weird about squirrels that mess with electronics.” He thought. He’d never met them.

Right now he was digging a hole to stash some acorns. After that he would…

BOOM! Edward struck like Thor’s hammer.

Desperately, the squirrel squirmed in Edward’s iron grasp. It was no use.

Meanwhile Edward was singing to himself:

“People who fear me
Never come near me.”

Edward perched in a tree and held the writhing squirrel with one talon while he giggled to himself. It felt so good to hunt again!

But wait! There was something more… Something he had to remember… In the joy of the hunt, it had slipped his mind and now he grasped for it. What was it?

He held the squirrel up to his eyes and peered directly at it. The squirrel, terrified, froze.

After a few seconds, the conditioning kicked in, and Edward remembered exactly what he was supposed to do. He flipped the squirrel over and checked…

It had nuts!

Satisfied, Edward ate the squirrel.

There was still plenty of daylight for hunting and Edward was going to use every minute! He took flight and began singing to himself again:

“And if I meet you
What if I eat you?”

In less than 10 minutes he’d located and captured another squirrel; this time from the territory immediately to the west of the stinking petrified bear. When he flipped it over there were no nuts. Damn!

He delivered this, and all female squirrels, unharmed, to Mary and Terry’s perch. Without another word (for malesplaining is unforgiveable) he’d take flight and begin the hunt again.

As each female squirrel arrived, and by midafternoon there were dozens, Mary and Terry would give a short but incredibly persuasive speech about the movement. Not surprisingly, any squirrel that had been plucked from the ground by a hunting raptor but immediately spared due to their sex was more than happy to join the movement.

By sunset nearly every male squirrel in that portion of the forest was gone and all the females had agreed to help Mary and Terry in their plans. Mary and Terry were delighted. The movement had a glorious future!

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Lesbian Squirrels: Part 7: Finally, A Competent Hero

The “High Priority Emergency Interagency Meeting” was playing out like they usually do. Members of various bureaucracies were clucking like hens and talking about budgets. Meanwhile a terrified technical analyst was slumped over a chair weeping.

The Cigarette Smoking Man (who is totally real) surveyed the room; the total lack of action was as he had expected. Unnoticed by the crowd he skirted the edge of the room and stood next to the analyst.

“Nice try.” He patted the analyst’s shoulder. “But I’ll take it from here.”

He cleared his throat. Bovine like, the crowd turned towards him. Some of them knew him. Those few immediately took their seats and waited for further instructions. The rest, confused, followed their peers.

“You, and you. I want to talk to you.” He pointed to the highest ranking military officer in the room and the Walmart greeter. “Everyone else, leave.” In 30 seconds the room was empty save the two selected individuals, the analyst, and our hero.

He addressed the general first. “Wild animals are coming to rip off your balls. It behooves you to strike first. You know the coordinates.”

With a nod the general leapt out of his chair and made a beeline for the door.

He addressed the Walmart greeter next. “I have your browser history from the last 20 years. It will be posted to your wife’s Facebook page tomorrow morning. If I were you, I would see to it that Facebook wasn’t running.”

The Walmart greeter’s face turned pale. He knocked over three chairs on his way out the door.

The Cigarette Smoking Man drew a Marley from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep draw. Then he strode out of the room without looking back.

In my story, this man is the hero.

Mulder got it all wrong. This man is a hero.

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Lesbian Squirrels: Part 6: The Menace Of Undetectable Bullshit

[This post was originally presented to a smaller audience on September 23rd, 2016. A few days later squirrels hacked my blog and posted it to a wider audience. Squirrels understand that information, like bullshit, wants to be free.]

The analyst was terrified. This wasn’t going well.

He was addressing a hastily assembled audience of Government heavyweights and Military brass; generals, vaguely defined security officers, government operatives, and of course, a representative of Walmart’s Extreme Greeter Department. These were precisely who you called when the world was in danger but they were doing nothing!

He’d spent all morning with slides and handouts; explaining the situation. He’d included evidence to support his findings. There was no flaw in his logic. This thing was dangerous and it would get out of control. Immediate action was imperative!

The threat hadn’t so much tapped into a new technology as hack into an existing flaw in modern society. One that had been placed there, on purpose, long ago by people who should have known better.

During the post war era, the Government had a lot of clandestine scientists left over from the Manhattan Project. Since the research infrastructure was there, Truman left the eggheads to their own devices hoping they’d cure cancer or something. Instead they mastered knowledge that made theoretical physics seem harmless. They created and unleashed a self-replicating mental flaw that was nearly undetectable and infinitely adaptive. Never leave extremely smart people unsupervised!

How they performed this deed was classified. (These secrets were created during a time when the word “classified” was respected. As such they were not pasted on some fool’s private server in a shitter in Colorado. For that the analyst was thankful. He didn’t know how it was done and had no desire to know. He barely slept at night as it was.)

That first round of mad scientists had created the psychic fuse, the self-replicating ability to plant utter bullshit in the human mind. Once there it took root so deeply the subject couldn’t see their own irrationality. In this they were wildly successful. So much so that it was now endemic in the public. (There was an economy of bullshit producers working to fill opportunities created by this self-replicating flaw. They were called “marketers”.)

Fortunately, subsequent attempts to “light the fuse” failed. Getting a person to think bullshit was easy; getting them to act was hard. Mostly the bullshit corroded the subject’s mental circuits and caused them to sit on the couch watching “Ow My Balls”. Attempts to activate the flaw included the project MKUltra and strange manipulations of public schools. The former led to Timothy Leary and bad poetry. The latter led to an 18 trillion dollar deficit.

Unfortunately, in 1972, an obscure quartet from Sweden hit upon the secret. Abba realized that particular combinations of rhythm, meter, and “hook” could draw on that pre-installed infrastructure and break the strongest mind. The CIA was frightened by the massive amounts of bullshit generated and in 1973 officially halted all MKUltra research. The CIA felt it was safer to focus on less dangerous activities like overthrowing banana republics.  Meanwhile, Abba continued to unleash the bullshit within and created a monster. The form of their destroyer was a series of chart topping hits from 1974 through 1982. Eventually an MI6 agent, pining for better music, went rogue and forced them to stop. What that brave man did to accomplish this feat is unknown to history, but he (if it was a he) saved the world from a horrific oppressive disco-ocracy that might have lasted for generations and certainly was ruining culture.

Now, decades later, the squirrels had figured it out. The furry little pissants were sitting in an oak tree with Wi-Fi fine tuning the craft of destroying self-control. Far more frighteningly they were disseminating their techniques. Their Facebook page “Mary And Terry Hate Men” was generating thousands of hits an hour and their fanbase was expanding geometrically.

On Facebook, nobody knows you’re evil, or a squirrel. This was how Armageddon begins!

At this stage it all could be stopped. One sniper taking out two squirrels would do it. The NSA (which created, owns, and operates Facebook) could drop the site down the memory hole and hunt down most electronic traces. All that would remain would be a few disappointed fans sitting around sipping tea, bitching about men, and listening to Abba. Society could withstand a certain level of mayhem.

The problem was, nobody wanted to stop it because nobody wanted to believe they were already full of shit. The mind rejects such a notion. Thus he couldn’t convince anyone to take action!

One of the Extreme Greeters spoke up. “So you’re saying I’m already half brainwashed, and all it takes is Swedish disco to lock it in and give my mind’s control to an external actor?” He had a mocking lilt to his voice.

“Yes, and I can prove it. I’ll ask you a few very simple questions. You answer with the first thing that pops into your head. Since I know the right questions I’ll trigger the already pre-planted bullshit.”

“OK, shoot.”

“If Bob has two apples and Ralph has five apples; Ralph is what?”

“Racist!”

The analyst smiled, he’d proven his point. Yet the Greeter didn’t see it, nor did the audience.

“You don’t think it’s weird that you think Ralph is racist when I didn’t tell you anything about Bob and Ralph?” He prompted.

The Greeter had an angry grimace…. Cognitive dissonance was an unpleasant feeling. “Fuck you!” He shouted.

“So, you know nothing about Ralph’s thinking but you know he was a racist; and when I ask you for details you shout an obscenity? Doesn’t that seem odd?” The analyst coaxed.

“Let me try! I love games.” It was the head of the Department of Education, how she got in this room was beyond the analyst’s understanding but perhaps she was willing to see…

“OK, you have 32 students in a classroom, how do you determine which one is the smartest?”

“I don’t understand your question; all students are equal.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Here’s the second part of the question, there are 32 NFL football teams, which one was the best last season?”

She giggled, “You don’t think I know because I’m a woman but I do. The Denver Broncos won the Superbowl.”

“So you cannot differentiate between students in a classroom but you can for football teams?”

“You’re an asshole!” She grumbled.

He looked from the Greeter to the Department of Education bureaucrat. Neither one saw a flaw in their logic. Yet both agreed that the analyst was deplorable.

He gave it one more try. He pointed to a random man in the audience, a military fellow sporting an impressive array of awards and insignia.

“You sir, what do you do?”

“US Navy.” He responded proudly. “My actual rank and job duties are um… classified.”

“That’s fine, have you ever been on a boat?”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘ship’ and yes I was stationed on the USS Carl Vinson; an aircraft carrier. We were in the Adriatic Sea during the Bosnian war from ’92-’95.” He said this as if to imply he’d ‘seen things’ and this ‘wasn’t his first rodeo’.

This was just what the analyst was hoping for.

“So tell me, what was the greatest risk you faced during that tour of duty?”

“Global warming!”

“You were on a military craft, during war, and you think climate was your most immediate personal threat? I mean sure there’s long term issues but on any given Tuesday… while in a theater of war you were most at risk of…”

“Reduced polar bear populations.”

“Not the fact that you were on a floating nuclear reactor? Not the risk of rocket attack?”

“Certainly not. You’re wasting our time here!”

Exhausted, the analyst shuffled to a chair and sat down. The crowd began to murmur; the collective agreement was that they’d been brought here under false pretenses. That there was supposedly some sort of danger and this was just a fool wasting their time with PowerPoint slides. They were busy people after all.

The analyst began to weep. They were all going to die.

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Squirrel Call: My Dog Hates Me Now

Not only have I had squirrels on my blog (because they’ve harnessed Abba and may destroy life as we know it!) but I’ve slipped out into the woods a few times and done some small game hunting. Every year I grow more fond of small game hunting. I heartily recommend it.

Like most Americans (of the non-urban sort) I’ve overemphasized big game. Don’t get me wrong, big game is definitely more awesome. After all, filling the freezer is a proper endeavor. It separates the subspecies species ruralis carnivorae var. rednekii from the more common urbanis weenie var. metrosexx.

However, small game is more laid back; it’s much lower stress. I think modern day man (and women) may get too hung up on the flashy megafauna.

Small game takes a load off my mind. You don’t need fancy equipment, you don’t need a thousand acres, and you don’t need all day. What’s not to like? It’s a hike while armed! It’s birdwatching for mammals! It’s meditation in camoflage! The stalk is shorter and (very importantly) it’s less likely to go into overtime. If you take a shot at a squirrel and it scampers off you don’t have to track a blood trail all night. If you nail a grouse you just stuff it in your pocket and hike home. You don’t bust a spleen dragging the carcass out of the woods. Etc…

Sometimes I want to bond with nature on a mellower level than the high stakes “fill the freezer or go home empty handed, you get one shot all year” endeavor of big game hunting. Also I like that if I’m drawing a bead on a rabbit I don’t have to fret over whether it’s got antlers of such and such length or if I’m in hunting unit X versus Y and the moon is in the seventh house. Small game regs are immensely simpler than big game.

None of this matters if mother nature doesn’t cooperate. Lately she’s been a stone cold bitch. Lots of rain, lots of wind, temperatures ranging from nice to crap, etc… It’s affecting the hunt. Squirrels ‘aint dumb. They’re not going to get their ass wet in a rainstorm just because I got off work at a certain hour and only can hunt that evening.

Recently I wound up sitting on a log thinking “there’s got to be a better way”. Turns out there is. It’s called a squirrel call. Being a relatively novice/inept hunter, this is something I haven’t considered. That they exist is not necessarily news, but I’d never thought of getting one.

Amazon, as always, came to my rescue. Amazon baby I love you; you crazy bitch!

I ordered up a squirrel call (this link goes to the item on Amazon and so does the photo).

This is NOT a sex toy.

This is NOT a sex toy.

When I ordered it I checked out a few videos. It looked pretty straightforward. YMMV. I haven’t tried it in the woods yet. There are a few different call types (if you’ve spent any time outdoors you’re familiar with the different calls a squirrel makes… especially the “I know you’re there and now so does the whole damn forest” chatter I hate so much). It seemed like I could make all of the sounds.

There is another reason to buy a squirrel call. It’s a blast to torture my dog! Imagine your cat with a pound of catnip and a laser pointer. Now double that and square the results because it drives my dog absolutely bonkers.

When it showed up in my mail I took it out of my box and tried it a few times. My dog went ape!

It tore around the house upending everything in sight in a mad eyed mission to find and eliminate the squirrel that surely was there. I mean full on freak out.

So of course I piled on. I only stopped when I figured the dog would either stroke out or destroy the house.  Even then I left the call lying on my kitchen table. Every now and then, with no particular pattern, I hit it. My dog can go from sound asleep to flipping over the couch in five seconds. It never gets old!

Best purchase ever! Even if forest creatures never acknowledge it I’ve gotten my $8 of fun and then some.

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Lesbian Squirrels: Part 5: The Pretentious Git With A Large Vocabulary Learns New Words

[This post was originally presented to a smaller audience on September 22nd, 2016. A few days later squirrels hacked my blog and posted it to a wider audience. Squirrels understand that information, like bullshit, wants to be free.]

Things were looking up for Edward. His “training regimen” was becoming more and more enjoyable. Gone now were the terrible early days when he had been a useless hawk. Edward shuddered at the thought; beatings, waterboarding, that thing they did with ice cubes (ugh!), and so on. Now things were much more pleasant.

He sat on his perch and eagerly answered questions:

What was the most pressing issue facing a squirrel these days? Edward chuckled to himself; this was so easy! The first few times he’d given completely ridiculous answers like “storing food for the winter” and “avoiding cats”. He was so much smarter now.

“Privileged misogynist male squirrels!” He shouted.

Terry asked a follow-up question. “Why?”

He opened his beak to continue but remembered his lessons and clamped it shut. He must resist malesplaining the situation to his betters. After all, he might be transspecies but he was still limited by his cisgender orientation.

Terry watched him slyly for a few minutes and when it became clear Edward wouldn’t utter a peep, she nodded. “Very good Edward. Would you like a reward?”

He nodded.

She pressed a button on an iPod and the earbuds Edward was wearing blared forth. The song filled his heart. Eagle by Abba. It was his song!

When he’d been brought here, his benefactors had stuffed earbuds in his ears. They played the song 24/7 for days. How many days? Edward couldn’t remember, but it was many. It was on a loop and they only stopped to swap rechargeable batteries.

“…now I’m under their spell
I love hearing the stories that they tell…”

Edward was in bliss.

“…I dream I’m an eagle
And I dream I can spread my wings
Flying high, high I’m a bird in the sky
I’m an eagle that flies on the breeze…”

Edward hummed happily.

“..As all good friends we talk all night, and we fly wing to wing
I have questions and they know everything
There is no limit to what I feel, we climb higher and higher
Am I dreaming or is it all real?
Is it true I’m an eagle?
Is it true I can spread my wings?”

Yes! Yes, it was true! Edward was an Eagle goddamnit! Not only was an Eagle but he had good friends and he had questions and they knew everything.

Ten feet away Mary watched in awe as Edward, eyes gleaming with joy, swayed to the music. She tapped Terry’s shoulder and the two left to consult in private. They climbed to a hollow in their oak some distance away.

“When I read about Stockholm syndrome I had no idea!” Mary enthused.

“Yep, the fool didn’t just move into town, he became the mayor!” Terry smiled.

They’d both expected taming a wild hawk to be hard but it turned out rather easy. For one thing a pretentious git with a large vocabulary is prone to manipulation and for another their timing had been perfect. The post skunksplosion transspecies raptor was ready for a new psyche to replace the battered original and they’d easily filled the void.

Abba had played a major role in the transformation too. A few days of abusive treatment followed by 63 consecutive hours of Abba was all it took. From then on Edward accepted anything they said as the word of God. Terry and Mary could have made him their slave but Abba made him their disciple.

“Watch this” Terry smiled.

She grabbed a microphone from a hook on the wall, clicked a button that interrupted Edwards music, and without giving the bird even a fraction of a second to adjust, she barked another question.

“What is our goal?” She barked.

“A gynocentric Utopia of complete peace and intersectionality!” Edward shouted.

Terry smiled and turned off the microphone. Edward immediately started humming again.

The squirrels looked at each other and nodded. He was ready.

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Lesbian Squirrels: Part 4: Witness The Power Of Abba

[This post was originally presented to a smaller audience on September 21st, 2016. A few days later squirrels hacked my blog and posted it to a wider audience. Squirrels understand that information, like bullshit, wants to be free.]

Thousands of miles away a data analyst was on the verge of discovery. He knew it. He loved the delicious feeling of mastery that came at these times. He was about to reach into the tendrils of the great web encasing the world and come up with the truth.

He was so close he was quivering with excitement. These moments were intellectually addictive.

He’d discovered other truths over time, usually one or two year; and that made him the most valued employee of an agency which we will not name at this time. For inspiration, he glanced at the awards tacked to his wall. They were classified and he’d never be able to hang them anywhere else. There was a letter of thanks from [redacted] at the office of [redacted] commending him for uncovering the Amish plot of 2014. There was the certificate from [redacted] honoring him for decrypting the Presbyterian’s secret military code in 2015. There was even a picture of him and the cigarette smoking man from the X-Files. (Who is totally for real!) After that photo they’d had to strangle the cameraman. It had been a bonding experience.

He turned his mind back to the matter at hand. There was something there. These web traces were associated with a generic dipshit redneck but the key wasn’t him. It was someone else camping on his server. Oh sure, he’d thrown up flags with a “bear event” a few weeks back but that turned out to be nothing. (As required by protocol the file had been deleted. By “deleted” they meant “archived for further review”. Obviously nothing is ever truly deleted.)

Now the same traces had activated once again. A different device was using the same WiFi access point. It was performing “interesting” searches.

He gritted his teeth, being on the edge of understanding is almost more frustrating than total ignorance. He knew something was up; but what? The “bears” search had been questionable but not conclusive. Now, the searches were hinting at a pattern without truly defining one. He tapped his pencil and looked at the list:

  • “mind control”
  • “gaslighting”
  • “Stockholm syndrome”

None of this meant anything except it was coupled with viewing habits that were oddly suggestive. Downloads of “1984” and “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” could mean anything. But a download of the full original series of “Twin Peaks” was terribly important. Then came this:

  • “the owls are not what they seem”

That couldn’t be happenstance! He couldn’t put his finger on it but something was there.

One of his monitors blinked; indicating new data had come from the traces in question:

  • “Abba”

Holy shit!

He sprang to his feet and jabbed at the special telephone he’d only used twice before. The connection was instant.

“What do you have to report?”

“This is analyst number 27B/6. There’s been a breach.”

“Explain.”

He paused. Even speaking it aloud worried him. It made the terrible menace go from conjecture to horrible reality. He steeled himself and spoke the words calmly.

“Lesbian activist squirrels have unleashed the power of Swedish disco!”

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