notes from
the MUCK . . .

How does your garden grow? With muck, muck and more muck! I spent much of today finishing the final muck box and then shifting muck from one box to the next. The first box, which the Big Lad is enthusiastically pointing out, has been rotting down for two years now and once we’d removed the top quarter of unrotted material, we found we’d hit the pay dirt.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Run

Jesus, I've been trying like mad to post this but even the internet is against me, against us; this is bad. In a nutshell, I don't think any one of us (three, two??) is safe, what's more, I think the blog is being used as a tool to track our every move.

You may recall I stumbled upon a mystery some time ago with a wig/decapitated head being paraded in the window of a house on my way to work. Casting aside the heavy and confining garment assumptions, I set forth on a little investigation, helped by Jeff and Niki. Things kind of died down, and last week I noticed that the house in question was missing the head/wig, and indeed seemed to be sans any signs of life. All windows were open as if to be aired for a new tenant; I should've taken photos to look for tell tale eyes peeping over the ledge at me...Ignorantly, foolishly,I let my guard down, and made an assumption in thinking that this story was over...

How wrong I was.

Niki picked up a mystery the other day; one half of a phone conversation overheard in NYC which went like this (dude is whispering):

I heard that if you inject enough [mumblemumble]into his bloodstream, in a couple of hours, the coroner can't tell the cause of death!...Uh huh, uh huh ...I know, baby, I know....Yeah, I know. But baby, will you be my alibi?
--F train

I thought a lot about what kind of story lay behind that conversation, and when I put two and two together to reach the conclusion that my wig/head collector was in NYC I feared for stateside readers of the Muck; the hunters have become the hunted...

Then I walked to work this morning and was greeted by....THE WIG/HEAD, looming down on me from its lofty post. "SHIT", I thought, I've been found out completely. It was a shaky Ben that retreated to the Graveyard this lunch time to try and recollect myself and get my head round what was unfolding. That's when things got ugly.

Sitting in my usual bench, I tried to enjoy the spring sunshine, patting myself on the back (literally, I do do that) for remembering my sunglasses. I began eating my pie when a grey squirrel appeared from a nearby weeping willow. It boldly scuttled up to me and stared intensely at my food, all the time drawing closer and closer. I rustled the bag and it darted away, only a few feet though, before it began closing in again. I felt like I could handle the squirrel, but then two more turned up, circling me; I could only deter one at a time with my rustling, which was getting more desperate as they drew ever nearer. Soon one would be within range to go for the food and I conceded defeat to mother nature and shifted benches. They did not follow me, but frollicked freely on my former seat. Maybe it was because of the squirrel cull that is planned for the greys whose existance threatens the native red. I'd like to believe that, but in reality, I believe that the squirrels are a part of this somehow; they're done with the red and are focused on a higher prize, and I can't for the life of me think how or why...

My status now? Scared. You see any wigs in windows, over familiar rodents, corpses being injected with mumble mumble, you report here, or to Niki, you sit tight, and we fix this thing.

God speed.