Here where I live, we are 'sheltering-in-place', but about once a week we have to craw out of our 'bunkers' and restock up on water, meat and veggies (and toilet paper, lol).
Welcome to the adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Don.
This week our intrepid couple has taken advantage of a warm sunny day to do a bit of wandering in their car, prior to stocking up with much needed essentials. As they drive through the countryside with windows down, they enjoy the sun on their faces and the chirping of birds. Alas, they lost track of time and the car ran out of gas. As Mr. Don glided the stricken vehicle to the side of the road, he failed to notice a patch of broken glass, the shattered remains of beer bottles marking to spot where reckless under-age teens, who in a spasm of zeitgeist angst brought on by copious consumption of alcohol, decided to search for Drury Lane and the mysterious Muffin Man. But that's another story. With both passenger side tires punctured, they were definitely bogged. Mrs. Don did not looked pleased.
After the second car passed without stopping (social distancing really is a thing), the hardy pair decided to strike out on foot in search of assistance, or at least a cell or wifi signal. Had they really traveled that far from civil society? As the road passed through light woods, they espied a gravel driveway, helpfully demarcated by a mail box on a pole. The promise of a habitable abode at the other end of the drive drew the couple deeper into the woods. As they crested a slight rise, they saw the homestead, decrepit as it was. Nearer was a small dilapidated barn, and further beyond an equally dilapidated clapboard house, with a veranda along one side, deep in the shade.
"Looks sketchy," Mrs. Don muttered. "Come on, honey. What could go wrong?" chirped Mr. Don, with an annoying high pitch. And off he sauntered. They came first to the barn, but couldn't find a way in, or a window to peer through. As they rounded a corner into view of the house, the opening chords of an infamous song were plucked out on the strings of a banjo. They both froze. A distinctive click was followed by a toothless cackle, and Mr. Don instinctively dropped behind a conveniently placed barrel, unceremoniously dragging down Mrs. Don with him. Before she could utter an epithet, a shot rang out, peppering the wall behind them with buckshot. Instead of waiting agonizing seconds while the shooter reloaded, the intelligent couple dashed through the barn door that was conveniently askew not three feet from them.
Once inside, they quickly took stock of their surroundings. A still. There was a still in the barn, and scattered around it were bottles, some full, some partially full, many empty. Mr. Don grabbed a rag and soaked it with alcohol from one of the bottles, then jammed it into another full bottle. "What are you doing?" Mrs. Don asked. "Molotov cocktail," he replied. "But how are you going to light it?" she asked. "With this!" trumpeted Mr. Don and he flicked his bic from his jeans. Mrs. Don looked aghast. "You told me you quit!" Flustered and blushing, Mr. Don stammered "I did. I mean... I have. I mean... it's a nice lighter, ya know. We've been through a lot together, and... and..." he moved his thumb quickly over it, igniting a flame, "... and it still works!"
Touched by the flame, the rag eagerly began burning. Running to the barn door, Mr. Don pushed it aside just enough to lob the bottle toward the house. "High roll, baby!", he exclaimed, much to Mrs. Don's puzzlement. Mr. Don did not stay to watch it gracefully effect a flaming arc between the buildings; he did not wait for it to shatter on the side of the house, just to the left of the corner where the veranda started; he did not pause to admire the splash pattern that instantly stained the dry, paint flecked clapboard; he did not wonder at the rapid dance of flames that followed the stains, engulfing a not insignificant portion of that nearest corner of the house. No, Mr. Don was already at the far end of the barn, looking for an escape from the toothless laugh, which had changed to a toothless scream. The banjo had stopped, naturally.
Mrs. Don was at his side in an instant, offering him a hatchet. "Where did you find this?" he asked, incredulous. "On the floor over there," she replied, "conveniently illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that peeked through an opening high in the wall created by a slightly dislodged plank. I thought you'd find it useful." Taking the hatchet carefully in his hand, he said "You're right. That
was conveniently illuminated." After a short course of grunts and thrusts (which is satisfying only for a man, really), Mr. Don managed to create an opening through which they could egress with alacrity. They escaped through the wood. "Keep the barn between us and the house," gasped Mr. Don through out-of-shape wheezes, "it'll prevent interdiction." Mrs. Don sighed, and kept moving. Stumbling from the wood into a field, they heard a great whoosh, and a black column of smoke rise above the tree tops. "Flames must've reached the barn," Mr. Don said. "Let's keep going," Mrs. Don urged, "someone might be following."
At the far end of the field, they found themselves on the shore of a small lake. Conveniently, a row boat, with oars, was beached nearby, with a small leather satchel conspicuously lying on the bottom. "If we take this across the lake, it'll make it harder for someone to follow us," Mr. Don suggested. Mrs. Don looked skeptical. "Come on, honey. What could go wrong?" Reluctantly she agreed, and they pushed off from shore. Mr. Don rowed vigourously, wanting to put as much distance as possible for any possible pursuer. By the time they reached the middle of the lake, it was clear no pursuers were coming, and Mr. Don began rowing at a more leisurely pace. He even granted himself the luxury of turning around to see how far they had yet to go.
No sooner had Mr. Don turned to look forward, then there was a splash of water and a screech from Mrs. Don. It was a beautiful screech for Mrs. Don is a beautiful woman and everything she does is beautiful. But Mrs. Don is not in the habit of screeching (beautiful or otherwise) while on a rowboat in the middle of a lake, so Mr. Don turned back from looking forward and looked back instead. What he saw was horrifying. A hideous arm extended from the surface of the lake. At the end of that hideous arm was a hideous hand. And that hand was clutching Mrs. Don's beautiful hair, trying to drag her into the lake. Mrs. Don's hair was beautiful because... well... you know the schtick. The horrific sight of that hideous hand clutching that beautiful hair did not discombobulate Mr. Don, but rather inspired him into decisive action. He grabbed the hatchet, the one from the barn which wasn't thrown away after their escape from the barn, because that would be a useless waste of a useful tool after only one use, and with a mighty swing plunged the blade into the hideous arm. The blade stuck fast in the arm, without amputating it or causing it to bleed, I might add, and the hideous hand let go of Mrs. Don's beautiful hair. Then the hand, the arm, and the hatchet (so sad) sank quickly beneath the surface of the lake.
Mr. Don didn't stand there, giving the boat a ridiculously high centre of gravity that could be easily tipped over, nor did he bend down to look very, very closely at the spot where the hand disappeared. Mr. Don immediately sat down again at the oars and started rowing with all his might. "He's following us!" Mrs. Don said frantically. "I can see the ripples getting closer. He's gaining on us. What do we do?" Mr. Don tried to think of a good answer, but all he could say was, "Look in the satchel!" Now, why he would say that is a bit of a puzzler. He had only just seen the satchel that day. It wasn't particularly remarkable, and he hadn't developed any kind of attachment to it. He had no idea what, if anything, might be in it. But still he said, "Look in the satchel." So she did.
"Aha!" she cried triumphantly as she held aloft a phallic symbol of power and destruction, gently stroking its long, firm length with a look of longing in her eyes. "What is it?" Mr. Don opined inadequately. "Dynamite," Mrs. Don huskily whispered. "Quick," she snapped, "where's your lighter?" He replied, "In my jeans pocket." Mrs. Don quickly thrust her hand into his pocket, groping for the lighter. "Oh, hey," he said, "wrong pocket... but please... keep searching... right... there..." Mrs. Don pulled her hand out, "Ugh, men!" she said in disgust, and retrieved the lighter from the other pocket. Mr. Don couldn't hide his disappointment. Lighting the fuse, Mrs. Don carefully eyed the progress of the ripple, and threw. They both ducked down.
The explosion showered them with water. Which, truth be told, was probably a good thing as neither had remembered to shower for a few days, because what's the point when you're not leaving the house, so by now they were definitely on the ripe side, even if they couldn't notice it because it had developed slowly and their olfactory receptors had adjusted accordingly. When they looked back, they saw about a dozen lake trout floating belly up, dead. And one large body, arms and legs spread out, with an odd looking mask on the face, floating dead (-ish?). They didn't turn back to examine it more closely; or to poke it with an oar; or to try and remove the mask. No, Mr. Don just kept on rowing until they reached the other shore. And they kept on walking (quickish).
After a short while they came to a road. A rather nondescript road. No lane markings. No signposts. Just a road. They flipped a coin for the direction to follow, and followed that. There wasn't any traffic on the road, so they walked down the middle. Who would really care at a time like this. No big deal. It's a road. They walked. Yup, that's how boring it was. Then they came around a bend in the road, a boring bend no less, and they saw a car. It was on the side of the road, facing them. It seemed to be idling, which gave them a moment of hope that they had found a ride home. But the car was black. Very black. Not spit-polish shiny black. Just black. Dead black. Even the windows seemed to be black. Mrs. Don was hesitant, but Mr. Don, ever the optimist, said, "Come on, honey. What could go wrong?" as he jogged over to the car.
But when he tried to open the driver's door, the engine revved, the tires squealed, and the car shot off down the road and around the bend. "I guess that's social distancing again," Mr. Don muttered as the roar of the engine faded away. So they kept on walking. The road was fairly straight at this point, so it was exceptionally boring. At first they didn't notice the sound, but eventually it became clearer, so they stopped and looked back down the road. The bend was a long way off now, but the sound was coming from there, and then they saw it round the bend. The car. The black car. Was coming back. Fast. "Let's get over to the side of the road and let him pass," Mrs. Don said. So they did. Strangely, it seemed that the car adjusted so that it still looked like it was coming straight at them. "How 'bout the other side," Mr. Don suggested. So they did. And the car still looked like it was coming straight at them. Mr. Don looked at Mrs. Don. "Ummm... run?" he queried.
So they ran. Well, more of a jog, really, but it was the best they could do. Away from the road and into a field. The car zoomed past, horn blaring. But still they ran... er... jogged, hand in hand. They were so intent on... jogging that they weren't aware when or how the car was in the field with them. But there it was, driving crazily around them, taunting them, herding them. And still they jogged. What else can you do in a situation like this. It wasn't a good time to have a picnic, or admire the plants. The car was kicking up a lot of dust and dirt, and they no longer were sure which direction they were going or where they had come from. But suddenly it was there. A tree. An oak tree. They ran to it and hugged it. Now I'm sure the tree appreciated the hugging, and would want to hug back, but it's a tree. They grow slowly. Like Ents. So they don't respond quickly to new stimuli, or respond much at all. Mr. Don and Mrs. Don didn't care about that. They just hugged, because it was something to do other than run... er... jog.
The car's engine revved again. They turned with their backs against the tree and looked at the car looking at them. It seemed like minutes, but was more like 15.35 seconds, or thereabouts, and the car slowly backed up, never wavering in its stare. Then it stopped. Idling. Then the engine revved, the tires churned up dirt and dust, and it lunged toward them, faster, ever faster. Mr. Don looked at Mrs. Don and whispered, "Get to the other side of the tree." A whisper at this point would seem somewhat inappropriate, given the noise the car would be making. And really, would the car hear if he spoke or yelled. The tree certainly wouldn't care. But whisper he did, and she nodded, and they quickly moved, left and right, rejoining on the other side of the tree, which was now between them and the car. They took a step back from the tree. Why? No real reason, it just seemed an appropriate thing to do.
The car was flummoxed by this new maneuver. All other victims habitually broke cover, left safe places, and rushed into vulnerable positions. But this was new! It was still pondering this new reality when it struck the tree at full speed, square in the grill, and with such force that the car was split in two, left and right, until the car came to a stop when the back seat reached the bark of the tree. The tree gave a brief shudder, but otherwise did not seem flummoxed by this new situation. Perhaps it considered it a type of hug.
Mr. Don and Mrs. Don hugged. They cried. They laughed. They kissed. They... well, they... appreciated how well they'd managed in harrowing circumstances, right there among the trees, with the birds and the bees (both literally and... uh... figuratively). Later, walking hand in hand, they came across a clearing, and in that clearing was a wall. A nice, red brick wall. Well built. Well maintained. Could it be? Had they finally found civilization again? Giddy with excitement, they randomly chose a direction and followed the line of the wall until they came to a gate. It was a big gate. Wrought iron, beautifully rendered (but not as beautiful as Mrs. Don). And it appeared unlocked. Above the gate arched the name of the premises: Cherry Hill Sorority Girl's School for Orphaned Heiresses.
Mr. Don smiled broadly. "Come on, honey. What could..." A withering look from Mrs. Don choked off any more words from Mr. Don. She turned resolutely and walked away from the gate. With a sigh, Mr. Don also turned and followed after his wife. Only once did he look back, wistfully, wondering what things might have happened if only....
And that, boys and girls, is what can happen if you fail to socially distance correctly.
. As the meme says, this is a snapshot of what a world without vaccines looks like...
en.wikipedia.org
