As I was sitting and watching Lucky’s U-haul, she assured me it just looked like a real one. An associate had made a replica ofa U-haul.  I wondered why.

I was pondering the problem when Cornpone arrived.  He was wearing Camo and boots.  Who would have thought they made camo immense enough to fit Cornpone.  He was to human’s what my vodka guzzlignnchum Behemoth–a cat immortalised by Bulgakov–was to ordinary cats.  

Cornpone waddled about the truck before climbing into the passenger seat.  Lucky hopped into the driver’s seat, with me following. I scampered over her and plopped down between her and Cornpone.  

Lucky drove out to the place where the bum died.  She got out.  I noticed she had her 1911 in a holster and was also wearing a Walther PPQ M2 in a shoulder holster.  I recognized Walther because mike adores and buys Walthers.  The PPQ is his personal favorite.  Perhaps he has now added a PDP. to his holdings.  

Lucky walked to the wall placed a small, discrete video camera. I worried more when I saw she had also put a thermite grenade on the ground. When I showed mike a photograph later, he told me it was a M14 TH3.  If you live in a closet, this grenade will melt through an engine block.  Soldiers can use it to destroy artillery and other stuff.  Anyway, this M14 only looked evil to me.  

Lucky effortlessly heaved a block tackle of some sort with hooks.  I then saw a light weight incline planes straddle the fence.  Even the enormous Cornpone could now cross the fence.  To let him climb over with his muscles was a ridiculous idea.  Lucky again sent me up the sycamore.  One of its thick branches held her pulley system.  

Cornpone carried two large pails of the mixture in the tub that the truck carried.  He walked to where Lucky had told him to walk.  He was a bit forward from where the bum died.  

The pails pulleyed up to the branch and somehow stayed there.  How did Luck do that?

Lucky had already given me my instructions.

Not more than 5 minutes passed before we heard a bot.  It approached our area.  As soon as it saw Cornpone, it advanced.  Then Mr Clean’s eyes rolled open.  To judge by Cornpone’s reaction, he was afraid.  In a flash, he pulled a Smithh and Wesson Model 10 from his backside.  I recognised it, as mike has one.  He opened fired with fruitless accuracy, just, bing, bing.

Now if you ask me, he might as well have tried to ward off a grizzly with a safety pin.   A couple of spot-on shots bounced off Mr Clean’s forehead. The death ray started.  Voila.  Cornpone was a slab of long pig awaiting consumption.  

Without wasting a second, Mr Clean came forward.  He was more or less just where the deceased bum entered the Kingdom of the Dead.  I could hear Clean’s incinerator switch on.  The heat of it roiled up into the tree branches.  Cornpone’s hefty cadaver began to feed into the incinerator, though I could hear the squeal of the saw as it sliced Cornpone into fire digestibles faggots.

During the horror, I heard Lucky’s command.  “Now!” I ran by the pails as Clean’s head swiveled toward Lucky.  Before Clean drew a bead on her, the pails splatted into his metallic head.  Even before that the filthy fluid had begun to pour onto him.  His head was drenched with black evil slop.  

Faster then Flash himself, Lucy was on the bot.  She slammed her termite grenade onto him and detonated it.  The thermite’s magnificent heat melted through the bots neck at a 45 degree angle.  Clean’s motive force left him.  The feed stopped, the incinerator stopped, the mired head dropped off and rolled between Cornpone’s buttcheeks.

I still can’t shake the image of this decapitated head appearing to be positioned to rim Cornpone food exits.  Worse, death had loosened Cornpone’s bowels.  Oh, well . . .   realy nasty.   It was most un-enticing.

Lucy noted it all.  She had built a device that pulled the bot away.  She jacked it on to a carrier.  She secured the decapitated head in a bag and sent it over the fence. Super pronto, into the truck it all went.  

Lucky also ordered (boy, I hate that word) me back.  “Fast! Faster!  We must get away lickety-split, rikki-tik or die.”

When in the grip of fear I am one swift cat.  Mercury ain’t got nothing on me.  I was in the front cab faster than Lucky.  She had also pulled the rear door of the truck down.  Before rolling away, She had also kicked the tub, making it flyout of the truck’s hold.  The tub’s filth left its mark when it went thumpy-splatty on the ground.  What remained of Cornpone’s remains were an abandonned monument.  Lucky left the un-incinerated half of him for Team Wolverine.  

As we rolled down the highway, she laughed.  “Well, that went better than I expected,” she said.  I got up the gumption to mention Cornpone’s awful death.  A lover of philosophy, Lucky lectured me on the transience of life, Cornpone’s endless deficiencies, and his opportunity, for once it his pathetic life, to die fighting like a man rather than just eating like.

I kept to myself the idea that he would have been better off fighting like a woman.  If he had mimicked Lucky, he might be in the truck with us.  Whilst I gave all this some thought, Lucky encouraged me to look at the bright side of life.  

One loss must not spoil a whole day.  Besides, swiping a bot was well worth one fat man’s death.  

Being more sentimental than Lucky, I had doubts.  Anyway, she made a turn I didn’t expect.  The truck soon rolled into a large auto body shop.  A Chinese guy in greasy blue, paint-splattered overalls came out to greet her.  

Lucky wasted no time.  “Get this thing repainted and put its old plates back on.  I want its contents unloaded by security cleared, competent people.  Put it all in an unobtrusive vehicle.  You and only you will take it to Saint Clair.  There you will meet Mr Gan.  He will take over the driving.”

The chap in overalls plainly knew better than to ask questions.  Instead, he got on with the project.  He gave orders to his crew. Then everything started going.

To my surprise, Lucky’s S-class Benz was parked at the shop.  In we hopped.  I stayed in her lap doing all I could to please her.  She got plenty of biscuits on the tummy and legs. She purred.  Alas, she didn’t care much for my breast work.  Probably I need to work on my technique.  But I learned my art working on women with brandy-snifter breasts rather than a pair that resembled a couple of martini glasses.  Perhaps I had become too accustomed to Melania’s ample Slavic breasts. As anybody with eyes knows, the Germans and Slavs are races of stacked women.  The Chinese?  Not so much.

As Lucky rolled down the highway, there was a lot going on in and about Wolverine’s state. 

For example, relying on a mother’s intuition, Constance sensed the disturbance in the force that told her her sneaky son was at risk.  So, she headed to Wolverine’s lair.  Instead of finding him contemplating perverted porn in his study, she learnt, as they say in Matty Groves, that he was out in his far bonnie fields bringing his bots home.  Or so claimed his servants.

“What a crock,” screamed Constance, “he’s out superintending a calamity.”  It’s so good to have sources that let you know this juicy stuff.  

So, my sources tell me, she screeched about how she had to do every fucking thing herself.  Her son was a  loafing boob, conman, and pornographer, a fellow unfit for real work.”  As she the house stark raving,  she offered truth: “Never send a boy, a girl or a mere man on a woman’s errand.”  She jumped onto one of Wolverine’s Range Rover.  Her servant and chauffeur took its wheel.

My guess is that Lucky would have liked to know that Constance was out hunting. We’ll get to that soon.