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Campfire Tales

Weaponized Autism

Eva spent one evening around the campfire ranting about weeds in the garden again. She said it was so bad that by the time she would finish weeding a row, new weeds had already popped up and began growing right back where she’d started. Dear old George had tried to help by surprising her with a new garden hoe, and while the gesture was nice, it was like trying to fix a bullet hole with a Band-Aid. Jim was there, and knowing he knew a bit about weaponry, she told him she was about ready to enact a scorched earth policy by dropping a bomb on the place, remarking that what she needed wasn’t a hoe but a jungle machete.

“What you really need is some tannerite,” he said. “Blow some shit up. It’ll take care of all the gophers, too.”

“Great, I’ll take it,” Eva lit up. “Where can I get some?”

“There’s your guy right there.” Jim gestured toward J.D., George’s eldest son, and whose name everyone assumed stood for “Just Drunk”. He was stumbling full force toward the fire like a moth to flame. J.D. was about as handy as they come, one of those guys who liked to tinker and could fix or build anything. He also had the hots for Eva and used his mechanical prowess to try to impress her. Jim saw the immediate advantage to this, plus the fact that J.D. was three sheets shitfaced and looking for some action.

Jim got up and walked over to him. The men chatted for a bit, Jim making dimensional gestures with his arms and hands. “BA-BOOM!” Eva heard Jim bellow out, and the pair erupted into guffaws of idiotic laughter. J.D. glanced over at Eva and made a motion that sort of looked like he was trying to wave or blow a kiss at her, but instead he ended up licking his palm and smearing it across his face before lurching off into the darkness back to his workshop. Jim sat back down next to Eva, saying “done”. With J.D.’s affordable labor rate of eight beers per hour, what could possibly go wrong?

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