u/JustBardinAround

Chapter 4: Exit through the laundromat

If I had learned anything from the Breaking Bad series, it was the value of a good laundromat. Car warshes’ll do ya too. Anything cash basis. Construction, if you’ve seen those Ozark shows… also a literal money printer.

“BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

But how do you muffle the sound? And how do you get the SWAT team to exit through the laundromat of your choosing without noticing the extra doubloons in their Dockers?

Trojan horses usually go one way, in. This gold needed to get out, from the force of the cops coming in. So the old Trojan Horse wouldn’t work. Could an old horse learn new tricks? I’d like to think a smart pony might. A cowboy needs his steed after all, I could ride the horse out. They would have their scopes trained on me. Looking small, so they could miss small. They wouldn’t look for anything other than dangerous items. I’d keep my hands in plain sight. Nod to the sheriff and everything.

I’d go out in comfy clothes with nothing more than my phone. They’d do the rest the second I asked for a lawyer rather than answer their questions. And I wouldn’t have to break a single law or lift a single finger. But those fellas might break some laws of their own if they didn’t keep it above board. More doubloons for me, if they did. It almost seemed too simple. But so did all of the prestidigitations I had practiced. The best effects were so simple. The tricks in which folks were confident wouldn’t work, only to be amusingly misled. Those were the best. That 2-card monte David Blaine does is a real doozy, eh? In, out. 2 motions. 2 card monte. Toodle-do and ta-da! Easy then. That mechanism was figured out. Thank you, Vegas. I was a winner-winner after almost losing it at that chicken dinner.

Now then, how does one collect my clean clothes at the laundromat when they are all looking for me to do so? Murphy. That sweet bastard. I needed them to look for me, in order for it to work. Free real estate. Gotta weave your own rug to pull out from under them though. And it was a damn good thing I was a Webelo. I was also trained in the doctrines of money by The Sun Devil themself. Bachelors degree to prove it. #1 in innovation or it wasn’t my alma mater! And one lesson in my humanities class stood out:

Art is valued at and worth exactly what someone or many folk are willing to pay for it.

Seems sudsy enough to clean a stain or two. And besides, the richest and most corrupt mother fuckers in the country pulled that heist regularly. It was fair. I was playing by the rules. No laws broken. Even Pontius Pilate wouldn’t have washed his hands after shaking mine. I was a clean man. Had built my own laundromat and everything.

Thus ends the free preview.

Stay tuned for pre-order links and novelette release date!

When it comes to a heist, you’ve got to plan it with The Little Red Hen’s story in mind. Everybody loves freshly baked bread. Every. Damn. Body. But few are willing to plant the wheat, harvest it, or even grind it into flour. Fewer folk will create a sourdough starter from scratch or labor over bread chemistry.

There’s a lot of work that probably went into the planning of which wheat cultivar would produce the desired gluten content. How fine should the flour be ground? What should the hydration levels be through the leavening? Did the Little Red Hen get taught all this or have to figure it out herself through trial and error? After plenty of profuse planning, I could tell that compact crimson chicken was trying whisper wisdom to me through the æther.

Or maybe I had simply been staring at this chicken sandwich bag for too long. All that remained on my tray was a few over-crisped waffle fry bits and bone dry sauce packets. Only the dry slurps of ice remained in my cup that dutifully bore its red poultry logo. It was surprising my gnawed up straw had any suction power left. I didn’t remember eating anything other than the first bite of my meal.

Patience had become my private tutor since the desert rat incident 3 months prior. The cost of tutelage from such a tenured professor was a price paid in sanity. Which was fine. It lent to the creative manner in which I chose to court Lady Fortune. That Lucky Lady was a cheap date, her being genuinely enticed by my bold acts and quality time. My many attempts to win her favors were fruitful. I had worked up a king’s ransom worth of her hankies, and I wore them proudly like a peacock in full peacoat.

If you haven’t guessed by the little red hen stuff, I had determined through many harsh conversations that most of my remaining friends couldn’t grasp the depth or breadth of my plans. I was seeing something that seemed to be in plain sight to me but was beyond abstract to them. I knew I had “put on the glasses”, but, I had no idea the clarity I would receive. Even if I started off by mentioning how crazy of a plan I had, they doubted my sanity. But, this plan was so crazy that it just might work! It was crazy like a well-built back country snowboard booter. And thanks to my upbringing, I had floated a few of those. Taught me to take a bruising as I learned the lessons of life.

One of those black and blue life lessons, everybody wants to be part of a heist until it looks like an Ocean’s 11 plot. Pure movie magic that 11 guys worked together like that. Smoke and mirrors. Jesus’ remaining apostles could barely function as a unit thanks to that treacherous Judas creature. It was one lone operator who put the body of Christ in a tomb. One person got a job done that a group could not. Because of the favor that he curried.

Luckily for me, my first recruit was Murphy of Murphy’s Law. Who promised me everything that could go wrong, would go wrong. Boy howdy, was that Murphy guy a truth teller.

An engineer worth their salt can utilize a law to their advantage. And this redneck engineer was salt of the Earth. Had been my whole life. After initial heartbreak and distress of what I thought was lost trust in family and friends, I quickly found a new trust. A trust that people would be exactly who they were. And that seemed right in line with Old Murphy’s wisdom.

More wisdom. Using the “six degrees of Kevin Bacon” for reference makes the LDS community a much smaller circle. Intentionally circumscribed. Engineered. Which meant, it could be reverse engineered. The training I received as an assistant to the mission president was the blueprint. I had witnessed the rumor mill churn plenty. My inner engineer saw rotations I could harness like the neighborhood electrician who was selling free power. And by the sound of the mill’s whine, there was plenty of power. Rather than unfollow my clearly labeled art profile, it was much more fun to gossip about the microfilms I had been posting.

Fun fact. Did you know— if you grow up in the LDS religion and put water into a tequila bottle, those of faith that see the bottle will happily make water into wine for you? It’s like magic. Movie magic. And to get such audience engagement? Bravissimo! Thus, the rumor mill whined on. Those gossipy echo chambers were forbidden in the broad daylight of the Utah Valleys. Which made the fruit growing in the shadows all the sweeter. I had provided so much fruit from the rumor seeds I planted that it had started to surplus and become wine. People even planted their own! They were drunk on “wines” of their own making! I was using the rotations from the rumor mill like Dr. Frankenstein, charging capacitors to bring “this thing” to life.

Now I felt like the little red hen was teaching me a personal lesson as well. Great, another mentor. I already had plenty of places to learn from. And despite their mentorship, neither her, nor the artistic cattle were helping me figure out how to get the money out when the SWAT team arrived. Random welfare checks on my acreage in the county kept coming like countdown ticks on a timer.

“If I want that bread”, the Rooster said, “Im gonna have to bake it myself…

…Siri, play Alice In Chains.”

Chess is an interesting sport. Weak backs and strong minds to the outsider looking in. To those engaged in strategy for the sport of it, you’ll see that a back stronger than it needs to be can be a liability or even a deficit. Unless of course, your goal is to be a “himbro”- in this case, the ends justify the means. But we digress.

Another reason chess is interesting, the similarities to life in way of politics. And politics are unavoidable. Everyone’s position is known (or thought to be known) by someone else on the board. Play enough chess, and it takes a very creative thinker to come up with some new rouse to rush in for checkmate. Most chess moves are old. Same as the societies and social games we are all subject to. The politics.

“The kings gambit”, for instance, first recorded in 1497, is an opening chess move which one risks the position of their king as bait for some later strategic advantage. Usually control of the center. If you look it up on Wikipedia, you’ll see also, “It is considered an opening characteristic of Romantic chess, known for giving rise to extremely sharp and unusual positions.”

Giggidy. Sounds like a pair of ace’s to me. I’ll call that bet.

Half of chess is the game and the strategy. The other half is the person you’re playing against, like poker. Basically, it’s just a decision tree and many people apply the same pathway over and over. Pruning away any deviation from their training. It is my experience, that with too much growth in the garden, you shouldn’t prune if you can avoid it. If you allow new branches to grow without pruning, you can shape a gorgeous new game plan. You can let it grow and become something bigger and better than the scissor-happy alternative. Same goes for your “strategy decision tree.” And in real life, you aren’t even subject to the 8x8 grid board. Thats a 64-square fallacy many fall subject to.

So, a gambit is merely a strategic sacrifice made early for greater gain later on. A gamble. Bait for your opponent. A King’s gambit then, must be a gamble of oneself for something noble. Not riches or fame. For, clothes and a crown do not a king make. A noble pursuit for both king and commoner is that of peace. A center point where balance is achieved. Not some idealistic way of living where we are all monitored into obedience. The best king wants to be a normal man, and sees that everyone in the kingdom gets to live accordingly.

The kings gambit is the common man’s gambit as well. A risk for reward of peace, a risk for reward of balance. Because that is where abundant living abounds. A bardist in the garden is better than 2 in the bush of guerrilla warfare. Killing a killer doth another killer make. An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind… which will leave the third eyed man to be “king.”

My thoughts were not short on fuel when I gassed up my truck south of Prescott, AZ minutes before dawn. The air rang with the sound of a Red Bull tab. A few deep breaths later…and all three of my eyes felt a little less bleary. I hadn’t clocked out just yet, there was still work to do.

Chapter 1 - Fear and Loathing in Los Alamos

There were no bats, but I was a bit further south into the desert than Hunter S. Thompson. My muddy brown F-150, like a bioluminescent shark from ocean depths, lit the double yellow line, hellbent and hungry.

If Mr. Thompson was correct about the tendency to push a drug collection, it’s a good thing he wasn’t a gardener. Seed collecting might sound like a stamp collector’s delight, but there are certain classes of seeds that are not for the feint-hearted. Oaxacan string of pearls, Malawi Gold, Kona Gold, Thai, Colombian Gold, Golden Tiger… a few of my favorite selections in the “captains cabinet.” And if you’re a mycologist… spores and cultures galore. Golden Teachers, Philosopher’s Stones, APE, Enigma, and more mutations coming regularly. Colorado had just decriminalized all these natural resources. The seeds had been 100% legal in the US since The 2018 Farm Bill classified them as “hemp.” The spores and liquid cultures previously only legal for “microscopy purposes” were now decriminalized for personal cultivation in Colorado State by vote of the people.

Without saying what I had on me or had in me as I tore through the desert night, I will confidently say that there were no bats. There were, however, brand new SUV’s with cattle guards and paper license plates in droves that seemed odd for a 12AM race out of town. Odd for any other night, but it did seem right in line with the cops waiting for me at the hotel. The hotel my “friend” had booked for me. The cops let me go and finish my check in because they had no right to detain me for trying to check into a hotel. I am personally grateful for those good officers and the laws they upheld during that conversation.

My plans were working, though. I had been right up to this point. And now, after a rather telling dinner with the rat who booked my room, the SUV’s were another huge confidence boost. I had given quite the performance that I was in a big hurry to leave town. It was chum in the water. Sharks on the interstate all around me, escorting me westbound.

I had left the white whale bait back at the hotel; a quarter pound of literal raspberry leaves that I bought for my nursing mare. (I’m an herbalist, what can I say?) There were no laws anywhere against possessing a quarter pound of literal raspberry leaves. But to these folk, anything green in a bag was considered contraband until proven innocent.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably thinking that this was some half-baked, shitty plan that wouldn’t work. If you’re from Utah though, you’ll have no problem believing that when I turned my phone back on the next day, unrelated LDS friends and family were scolding me for not answering their many calls throughout the night. Allegedly, the friend who got me the hotel room now had his lawyer involved. My family was mad at me for carrying around a big sack of completely legal herbs because of what it looked like. My family and friends were unwittingly painting the map of this war declared by zealots. The sonography via phone calls confirmed their positions on “the chessboard.”

I had already learned those I befriended on my Mormon mission decided I was a good for nothing drug dealer due to my gardening hobbies. So, using their own view of me against them, I planted the biggest bag of green herbs I had on hand, raspberry leaves. Then, I goosed my way out of town and turned off my phone. Letting the unfounded fears of my former friends fuel the fire of religious frenzy. Sometimes you have to let the echo chambers of zealotry collapse upon themselves. It only takes a little faith and a hike around town, just like the walls of Jericho.

These good LDS folk were, allegedly, trying to get me arrested for laws that I was not breaking. The “Mormon Mafia” had no control over the man whose mind was freed by all the seed bearing herbs God had ordained for his use. That lack of control was concerning to them. I had my Bible on my dash and I was still free. And in that spirit of freedom I was tearing out of the city through the desert darkness, chasing hellfire on the horizon. A scapegoat on the loose.

Pawn to e4 and pawn to f4 successful; I was set up to let the king’s gambit ensue.

Genesis 2:10-15 KJV

“And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads. The name of the first is Pison: that is it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good…”

“Foraging is foraging.” Said Cain. “I didn’t study the holy writ for nothin’ neither. It’s not against the law any more than any of the fruits of the forest I eat. No one owns the Earth.”

God had ordained all these things for the use of man. Cain loved the ability to sculpt beautiful trinkets and jewelry with ease. The way that his friends would light up at a small, beautifully crafted trinket seemed magical to even him. He loved being able to give from his surplus. In the harvest season, Cain had been taught to collect and store the things that would stand the test of time. Grapes became wine with proper care. This particular bounty was shared weekly, year-round due to the surplus. Without it, illness would quickly spread, but the careful rations kept the water supply safely blessed by the Gods via sacraments.

And now, in this harvest season, Cain squirrelled another bounty away. In all of the special places he knew around the land. Many years and seasons of exploration for the sake of foraging brought many bounties to Cain. Many years and many seasons brought many treasures in many coves throughout the land. Most in areas that seemed bleak at a glance, but were in fact, quite rich!

His logic was this… that any soul who found one of his troves and and knew how to benefit would surely appreciate the location and the fruits that Cain had carefully selected into existence over these many seasons of seed saving. Someone also favored of God, like him, like everyone. He wanted a partner and friend for the process of tasting so many fruits and herbs. He had to taste until he was sick at times. His attempts to get help had cost him friends when he tried to enlist them. It looked like reasonless gluttony to a few who used to call Cain a friend. But, Cain knew these seeds and abundant alcoves would make life better and easier for everyone in town. For generations to come, at that! Even the shepherds lambs that fed the priests had proven to be larger and healthier year-over-year with Cain’s blend of “forest-derived” herbs and grains mixed into their feed. Thus, there was selection to be made, this was the cost. Cain paid it.

His time observing and wandering for forage also allowed him to find other blind spots. Blind spots in the scripture AND physical blind spots that he had carefully procured by sprinkling gold nuggets that he called “seeds” across the land. He knew that anyone who found the spot would likely take the gold and leave. Then, he would know that place was not recluse. Cain littered patches close to town, he littered them further out. He even littered many amongst the trails he found coming from forbidden cities.

And now these little gold “seeds” that Cain spread far and wide were squirreled into these hidden coves. These beautiful, shiny, yellow rocks that could be hammered into anything with the right tools. All the hours of working along side his father at the rock pit whilst child was really paying off. His use of tools made digging easy, and Cain was building favor amongst his family and friends with fine trinkets. It came at the cost of suspicions, sure. But those that knew him, understood how Cain always had a gift to make more of less. Adam’s son could find a dinner-for-4 in a 30 yard radius in most any part of the forest on a moments notice. However, to those less familiar to him, there was a misunderstanding around Cain’s skills that made many think he practiced magic. Those who had not received claimed little golden trinkets help curses from the devil as the source of their beauty. But many were starting to see the bounty around, as many in town had found gold during their time in the forests praying.

Cain never gate-kept his knowledge or observations. He told plenty of people that “magic” was just observations others had not yet seen. Magic was all around, all the time. We were the children of the Gods after all. The world was magic all around them. Yet, most in the village did not have the eyes to see or ears to hear. They said Cain misused his tools and skills. As the son of Adam, Cain should be spending his time doing otherwise. People
Complained to Adam that they thought Cain should leave the plants and flowers to the women in town. Despite all this, Cain placed his hope and actions of faith in a plan to help others see an easier and more bountiful life that they had been blessed with by Father and Mother God. Everyone should tend to the plants and the flowers. The ones of their choosing.

The village only had to look and see they were worthy of this gift all around them. This gift that had followed them from Eden. It seemed the true sins were that the village wasn’t partaking of God’s bounties season-after-season despite Cain’s many attempts to show and teach his fellows. And so Cain “sculpted” a plan from gold. He would give away all the gold he could find and make people see that the gold and the fruits growing all around were part of the bounty and blessing of being alive on Mother Earth. The “knowledge” of these locations just needed to be perceived as God’s magic rather than the Devil’s. So, Cain squirreled. And Satan squirmed.

Abel ran.

And he didn’t stop running until he reached the fork in the river described to him by his father. Abel had been warned time and time again about containing his temper.

In fact, he was sure his temper was the reason he had been called as a shepherd to bring ritual sacrifice to the altar. A regular reminder of the sanctity of life. He had overheard the conversation from his parent’s tent that tore his heart and rent his soul. And now, in an attempt to prevent his mother from knowing she was right all along, Abel ran.

Before he knew what he was doing, The First Man had committed to his deceit by telling Abel where to go. How they would conceal this thing. What his intentions were.
Adam would dispose of Cain’s body. In the same manner as Abel’s first born sheep. The charred remains being proof of the tale that would be maintained as the official narrative for millennia to come.

Adam had lost the life of one son, and to take the life of the other in judgement of law was simply too much! Especially one he had put in the public eye and entrusted with a position of holiness. Now, neither son would be around, and Adam could maintain the dignity of the caste of priests in which his progeny was dedicated to.

Satan smirked silently from a little way off. A secret combination born! Brought to life by the sacrifice of blood. One’s own blood. And 2 souls with one stone. Today was a good day for that old serpent.

“Cain slew Abel!” The story spread.

Of course, it was easy to convince the hardworking shepherding families that the “vain” gardener who claimed bounties from the earth was a sinner. His life was too easy compared to theirs. Cain was reaping where he sowed not. For he knew the plants of the woods, flowers of the fields, and the mushrooms in their fruiting seasons.
Rumors had spread that although God created the bounty in the forests around them, the devil had revealed it to Cain. Gossiping tales regarding commerce with Lilith, Adam’s first wife, also spread like wildfire.

It was easiest to convince the most pious of the bunch. The allegedly slain son spent his days of sabbath amongst creation. Not in penance or shame of imperfection. Not in sacrifice at the altar. And that’s why God burned him on one.

Adam knew this tale would hide a damning reality. Why would Cain seek further favor in the eyes of God by sacrifice at the altar? Why would anyone seek further favor, when by simply walking through the world one could find favor growing all around them? Mother Nature and Father God had provided for Cain without fail. This new story prevented others from following his example. Kept the tithes coming.

Indeed, this tragic incident put the fear of God into the group. They could still maintain the course Adam had set.

As long as Eve believed it…

He had begun to dread the ritual of bringing in the morning coffee.

It hurt his heart.

What used to fill his mornings with great joy, had begun to feel like an obligation and duty, like paying the spoils of a war lost.

He had no desire “to win.” But he didn’t want to lose either.

She noticed his energy declining, but declined to mention it. Her coffee still delivered, still piping hot, the morning still hers.

To communicate would be to acknowledge the dynamics at play. To communicate would be to relinquish the power of apathy and forfeit her well-earned drivers seat in the relationship. As long as the coffee kept coming, the relationship seemed to be in tact, to her.

Rocky and tumultuous, definitely, but in tact.

But the man had mentioned it.
The shift.
The change of energy.
The dynamics.

Time and time over he brought it up. Only to be reminded that he was sorry for trying to communicate. Only to be reminded of his “place.” It was after all, her house. He had chosen to place himself at her mercy by joining her in the rural town they now called home.

“The fairer of the sexes, to what extent!?”, his intrusive thoughts agonized.

Now, his coffers empty and the costs too great to continue waging this old battle of the sexes, he surrendered.

His heart, mind, and soul fully spent on that timeless war still raging in the hearts and homes of hopeless romantics.

Like any war, the fuel for the fire was communication.

Communication being the most effective, yet destructive tool to bring peace.

These truths in mind, the man resolved to wager his last wits in the efforts to facilitate communication. An all-in gamble at an attempt for connection. An attempt to prove his love and devotion. For he believed love and goodness could conquer all.

In truth, how could one not believe in love? Especially after having experienced love’s reciprocal power time and time again?

But… the hopes, beliefs, and dreams of man can be fruitless— despite the intent and vigor of heart.
Despite and in spite, of his love.

In bold defiance of this bleak truth; however, the man kept up their morning ritual. All in. Again and again. All in. All in. All in.

Praying with full hopes of heart that his piety would regain him favor in the eyes of love.

Acting in hope that the balance of equality could topple the thrones and concepts of power that have no business governing or meddling in matters of the heart.

Believing in the hope of love that can open eyes stuck wide shut.

And so, in the mornings, he brought her coffee with dairy-free vanilla creamer, lightly sweetened.

Bardists Note: “Siri, please play ‘One Week’ by The Barenaked Ladies.”