Main Page: Boys vs. Girls Book 1: The Conflict
Previous: Introduction
Previous: Introduction
Prologue
During the summer, when school has let out, on every other Thursday the children of the small town of Buckitooey Falls will gather as one, and head to a small, decrepit old house on the outskirts.
They will wait, patiently, as a battered and worn old man emerges from the house. This is the Storyteller. He has as many stories as hairs in his raggedy gray beard, but most of them are about the Boy-Girl War, which is of particular interest to children this age who are, as you read this, engaged in their own version of it.
He will wait, pretending he does not know what they want. Then, tiring of this charade, he motions them to gather closer, as if to keep precious secrets from spilling to the wind and carrying throughout the world, which knows much less about such things than he, and for now should probably stay that way. He waits a second longer, then, clearing his throat, he begins:
It all seems stupid nowadays, even more so than it did at the time, that the human race could unite against itself with such savagery. Really, according to some incredibly stupid historians, it was merely a scaled-up version of the boy-girl playground rivalries, which is why they are usually referred to as “boys,” and “girls,” rather than “men,” and “women.”
But, it was in fact completely unrelated to the “Cootie Wars,” which proudly counted among themselves the double distinction of both the longest conflicts in history, and those with the least fatalities. (There was, in fact, only one, a little girl with hemophilia who got hit by a pebble.)
It all started with that infamous scoundrel, Kayynar Laverĝe, who grew up in downtown Buckitooey Falls. After the breakup of a long and enjoyable relationship, instigated by the guy having cheated on her, she lost all common sense and decided to go play on the railroad tracks by the hardware store. Why anyone would cheat on her was, and is, a complete mystery. She was kind, intelligent, and even if one was too stupid to appreciate those attributes, she was also drop-dead gorgeous. But, some people are just complete idiots.
Anyhow, Kayynar was getting over her broken heart fast. And playing on the railroad tracks was fun. The first time, she’d had a huge fight with the signalman trying to keep him from reporting her. Now they were the best of friends.
“Howdy, Kayy,” he shouted with a wave.
“Yo,” she replied. “How’s business?”
“Oh, it’s still on track,” he answered, as usual, and they both roared raucously. Kayynar even cheered up for a minute.
“Seriously though,” he answered more seriously, “I’m about to be derailed. The board keeps insisting they need a robot for this type of job. Say they’re the only ones in the county without one and it’s made them a laughing stock. Oh sure, that’s all good and dandy. Where’s that leave me with my wife, six kids and invalid parents who can’t afford nursing homes, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Kayynar flipped him a coin. “Quarter for your troubles,” she said.
The signalman squinted at it suspiciously. “This is a hunnert-buck piece,” he explained. “You’re a little over.”
“Oh wow,” she said with mock surprise, “how did that get there? My mistake. Keep the change.”
Just like always.
“Oh, one more thing,” he shouted, “better be real careful. Train’s comin,’ due any minute. One of those miles-long things.”
She didn’t notice. This wasn’t part of their routine so her brain, more heavily occupied with fantasies of mutilating and killing in the most painful ways possible while trying to replace those with images of soft fluffy clouds and extraordinarily cute fuzzy animals, stored it in the first subconscious storage bank it came across and promptly forgot about it.
Coincidentally this storage bank was labeled “Precise Dates and Types of When I Have Eaten Cheese.” It promptly rejected the new bit of data in much the same way a school of vegans rejects a cannibal. It became a homeless vagabond, traveling from neuron to synapse for a few billionths of a second before her brain stuck it in another random storage bank, told everyone to behave because it was rather busy for a moment and didn’t want a complete systems overload, and returned to the tasks at hand.
Coincidentally this storage bank was labeled “Precise Dates and Individuals of When I Have Pulled off Flies’ Wings,” and was nearly empty. But we are getting off the subject.
Kayynar finally reached the railroad track and started walking its length. But, wouldn’t you know it, it seemed she’d hardly got there and the crossing guard went down. A train was coming. One of those miles-long things.
No sweat. She would just get off and leap over the crossing guard well before the train got close. She was in very good shape, and she would have managed it easily. Would have.
But, having come here directly from her date where that loser broke up with her, she was still wearing her pretty expensive new dress from Sears. And the darn thing was stuck in one of the rail ties. See where this is going?
Kayynar tugged, and tugged, and tugged, but she took great pains to avoid ripping her dress. Alas, it somehow became more entangled every time.
The signalman was shouting at her as he ran towards the track and tried to flag the train. “Just rip the stupid dress! You can always buy a new one!”
Well, he wouldn’t understand. He was a male, after all. Actually, considering that this was a life or death situation, she would have conceded he had a point, if it weren’t a one-of-a kind creation. One sleeve, you see, was slightly shorter than the other, a rare mistake that made it a collector’s item.
Finally, in desperation, she decided to sacrifice it, and came free. But her momentum flung her face-down onto the track, and when she lifted her head, the huge steel behemoth was bearing down on her.
***
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…
The highly trained female nurses of Buckitooey Falls Hospital were no stranger to this sound. But this time, it was different. This time, they would be reassembling an entire human body from torn scraps and shreds and hoping it somewhat resembled the original product. Nobody in this small town had ever done such a thing. Nobody anywhere, in fact, had done such a thing. Oh, well. At least their only male staff member, the pathetically incompetent Dr. Glurch, wasn’t here this morning.
But, as all ill-fated things must happen just when their probability is just above zero, he waltzed in, playing “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “Like a Surgeon Truth or Dare remix” on his iPod, about a hundred decibels too loud. His female coworkers sighed in exasperation.
“Sorry I’m late,” he yelled above the music. “I had to walk Rufus, and doggone it – get it? Doggone it? Well, he ran into the neighbor’s yard ’cause there’s this Pekingese chick he’s got an eye on, but ’er owner had a bone to pick – get it? Bone? Anyway –”
“Just get the defibrillator and make sure it’s working,” the lead surgeon, Deborah O’Brian, ordered.
“Yes ma’am,” Glurch replied with a salute, as he walked to the back singing, “yes, my paaaaaatients die, before they can pay…”
“And turn that darn thing off!” She sighed. It was people like him that had eventually driven the hospital to fire all of their male staff. Those that refused to leave met with rather nasty “accidents.” And Glurch’s “accident” was being formulated as they worked.
He looked the defibrillator over, fiddled with some settings, decided to test it, and – “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!”
Well, maybe he would kill himself first.
They all returned to the task at hand. Using reference photos and textbooks and computer software and just a bit of guesswork, they began putting the corpse back together. It had sounded like an exciting prospect, but right now it was fast becoming tedium city.
Twelve hours later the preliminary work was done, and they started with the muscles and organs. Dr. Glurch rushed up at that moment, with charred skin and all but his underwear (which was conveniently made of asbestos) burnt to cinders, pushing the defibrillator. “There, I got it to work!” he rasped triumphantly. “Can I get a reimbursement on my here dead iPod –”
“Go order twenty pounds of prosthetic skin and three pounds of Blonde Type 3 hair.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left, and twenty seconds later they heard screaming. “But try cleaning up and putting on some clothes first,” Debbie muttered.
***
Needless to say, Dr. Glurch was little help with the completed project. If he had been, surely Kayynar’s fate would have been worse. The only glitch, so far as the nurses were concerned, was a small lump of tissue missing from her brain. So small, in fact, that this was its first discovery, and so everyone assumed its absence would cause no major difficulties.
As they all stood around the table, the head surgeon switched the defibrillator on. Electricity poured into the corpse. Sparks flew. Her head, which was all that protruded from under the blanket, was truly an eerie sight, more so because of its beauty than if it had been green, sewn together, and had handles on its neck. Her eyes fluttered open, and the electricity flow automatically stopped.
Three hours later she was able to form a word. “Thaaaaaaaaaaank yooooooou…” Two words, actually. Her voice sounded way too low-pitched, but that would only require a minor vocal chord adjustment.
“Well, yer downright welcome, l’il missy,” Glurch said, bowing. Yessir, that “accident” would have to be soon. “Now, we better make sure yer all tip-top, so what say you get up and try to walk a spell?”
Kayynar frowned, realizing she had no clothes on and that he probably knew it. “You’re pitiful,” she coughed.
“Beg pardon, missy?”
“You’re pitiful!” she screamed rising from the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around herself. Dr. Glurch unconsciously backed away. “You, and all of your kind!” she continued, advancing towards him. “Loathsome, pathetic scum of the Earth. You sicken me!”
Dr. Glurch began to feel rather sick himself.
Next: Chapter I: In Which the Primary Characters are Introduced
They will wait, patiently, as a battered and worn old man emerges from the house. This is the Storyteller. He has as many stories as hairs in his raggedy gray beard, but most of them are about the Boy-Girl War, which is of particular interest to children this age who are, as you read this, engaged in their own version of it.
He will wait, pretending he does not know what they want. Then, tiring of this charade, he motions them to gather closer, as if to keep precious secrets from spilling to the wind and carrying throughout the world, which knows much less about such things than he, and for now should probably stay that way. He waits a second longer, then, clearing his throat, he begins:
It all seems stupid nowadays, even more so than it did at the time, that the human race could unite against itself with such savagery. Really, according to some incredibly stupid historians, it was merely a scaled-up version of the boy-girl playground rivalries, which is why they are usually referred to as “boys,” and “girls,” rather than “men,” and “women.”
But, it was in fact completely unrelated to the “Cootie Wars,” which proudly counted among themselves the double distinction of both the longest conflicts in history, and those with the least fatalities. (There was, in fact, only one, a little girl with hemophilia who got hit by a pebble.)
It all started with that infamous scoundrel, Kayynar Laverĝe, who grew up in downtown Buckitooey Falls. After the breakup of a long and enjoyable relationship, instigated by the guy having cheated on her, she lost all common sense and decided to go play on the railroad tracks by the hardware store. Why anyone would cheat on her was, and is, a complete mystery. She was kind, intelligent, and even if one was too stupid to appreciate those attributes, she was also drop-dead gorgeous. But, some people are just complete idiots.
Anyhow, Kayynar was getting over her broken heart fast. And playing on the railroad tracks was fun. The first time, she’d had a huge fight with the signalman trying to keep him from reporting her. Now they were the best of friends.
“Howdy, Kayy,” he shouted with a wave.
“Yo,” she replied. “How’s business?”
“Oh, it’s still on track,” he answered, as usual, and they both roared raucously. Kayynar even cheered up for a minute.
“Seriously though,” he answered more seriously, “I’m about to be derailed. The board keeps insisting they need a robot for this type of job. Say they’re the only ones in the county without one and it’s made them a laughing stock. Oh sure, that’s all good and dandy. Where’s that leave me with my wife, six kids and invalid parents who can’t afford nursing homes, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Kayynar flipped him a coin. “Quarter for your troubles,” she said.
The signalman squinted at it suspiciously. “This is a hunnert-buck piece,” he explained. “You’re a little over.”
“Oh wow,” she said with mock surprise, “how did that get there? My mistake. Keep the change.”
Just like always.
“Oh, one more thing,” he shouted, “better be real careful. Train’s comin,’ due any minute. One of those miles-long things.”
She didn’t notice. This wasn’t part of their routine so her brain, more heavily occupied with fantasies of mutilating and killing in the most painful ways possible while trying to replace those with images of soft fluffy clouds and extraordinarily cute fuzzy animals, stored it in the first subconscious storage bank it came across and promptly forgot about it.
Coincidentally this storage bank was labeled “Precise Dates and Types of When I Have Eaten Cheese.” It promptly rejected the new bit of data in much the same way a school of vegans rejects a cannibal. It became a homeless vagabond, traveling from neuron to synapse for a few billionths of a second before her brain stuck it in another random storage bank, told everyone to behave because it was rather busy for a moment and didn’t want a complete systems overload, and returned to the tasks at hand.
Coincidentally this storage bank was labeled “Precise Dates and Individuals of When I Have Pulled off Flies’ Wings,” and was nearly empty. But we are getting off the subject.
Kayynar finally reached the railroad track and started walking its length. But, wouldn’t you know it, it seemed she’d hardly got there and the crossing guard went down. A train was coming. One of those miles-long things.
No sweat. She would just get off and leap over the crossing guard well before the train got close. She was in very good shape, and she would have managed it easily. Would have.
But, having come here directly from her date where that loser broke up with her, she was still wearing her pretty expensive new dress from Sears. And the darn thing was stuck in one of the rail ties. See where this is going?
Kayynar tugged, and tugged, and tugged, but she took great pains to avoid ripping her dress. Alas, it somehow became more entangled every time.
The signalman was shouting at her as he ran towards the track and tried to flag the train. “Just rip the stupid dress! You can always buy a new one!”
Well, he wouldn’t understand. He was a male, after all. Actually, considering that this was a life or death situation, she would have conceded he had a point, if it weren’t a one-of-a kind creation. One sleeve, you see, was slightly shorter than the other, a rare mistake that made it a collector’s item.
Finally, in desperation, she decided to sacrifice it, and came free. But her momentum flung her face-down onto the track, and when she lifted her head, the huge steel behemoth was bearing down on her.
***
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…
The highly trained female nurses of Buckitooey Falls Hospital were no stranger to this sound. But this time, it was different. This time, they would be reassembling an entire human body from torn scraps and shreds and hoping it somewhat resembled the original product. Nobody in this small town had ever done such a thing. Nobody anywhere, in fact, had done such a thing. Oh, well. At least their only male staff member, the pathetically incompetent Dr. Glurch, wasn’t here this morning.
But, as all ill-fated things must happen just when their probability is just above zero, he waltzed in, playing “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “Like a Surgeon Truth or Dare remix” on his iPod, about a hundred decibels too loud. His female coworkers sighed in exasperation.
“Sorry I’m late,” he yelled above the music. “I had to walk Rufus, and doggone it – get it? Doggone it? Well, he ran into the neighbor’s yard ’cause there’s this Pekingese chick he’s got an eye on, but ’er owner had a bone to pick – get it? Bone? Anyway –”
“Just get the defibrillator and make sure it’s working,” the lead surgeon, Deborah O’Brian, ordered.
“Yes ma’am,” Glurch replied with a salute, as he walked to the back singing, “yes, my paaaaaatients die, before they can pay…”
“And turn that darn thing off!” She sighed. It was people like him that had eventually driven the hospital to fire all of their male staff. Those that refused to leave met with rather nasty “accidents.” And Glurch’s “accident” was being formulated as they worked.
He looked the defibrillator over, fiddled with some settings, decided to test it, and – “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!”
Well, maybe he would kill himself first.
They all returned to the task at hand. Using reference photos and textbooks and computer software and just a bit of guesswork, they began putting the corpse back together. It had sounded like an exciting prospect, but right now it was fast becoming tedium city.
Twelve hours later the preliminary work was done, and they started with the muscles and organs. Dr. Glurch rushed up at that moment, with charred skin and all but his underwear (which was conveniently made of asbestos) burnt to cinders, pushing the defibrillator. “There, I got it to work!” he rasped triumphantly. “Can I get a reimbursement on my here dead iPod –”
“Go order twenty pounds of prosthetic skin and three pounds of Blonde Type 3 hair.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left, and twenty seconds later they heard screaming. “But try cleaning up and putting on some clothes first,” Debbie muttered.
***
Needless to say, Dr. Glurch was little help with the completed project. If he had been, surely Kayynar’s fate would have been worse. The only glitch, so far as the nurses were concerned, was a small lump of tissue missing from her brain. So small, in fact, that this was its first discovery, and so everyone assumed its absence would cause no major difficulties.
As they all stood around the table, the head surgeon switched the defibrillator on. Electricity poured into the corpse. Sparks flew. Her head, which was all that protruded from under the blanket, was truly an eerie sight, more so because of its beauty than if it had been green, sewn together, and had handles on its neck. Her eyes fluttered open, and the electricity flow automatically stopped.
Three hours later she was able to form a word. “Thaaaaaaaaaaank yooooooou…” Two words, actually. Her voice sounded way too low-pitched, but that would only require a minor vocal chord adjustment.
“Well, yer downright welcome, l’il missy,” Glurch said, bowing. Yessir, that “accident” would have to be soon. “Now, we better make sure yer all tip-top, so what say you get up and try to walk a spell?”
Kayynar frowned, realizing she had no clothes on and that he probably knew it. “You’re pitiful,” she coughed.
“Beg pardon, missy?”
“You’re pitiful!” she screamed rising from the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around herself. Dr. Glurch unconsciously backed away. “You, and all of your kind!” she continued, advancing towards him. “Loathsome, pathetic scum of the Earth. You sicken me!”
Dr. Glurch began to feel rather sick himself.
Next: Chapter I: In Which the Primary Characters are Introduced
