A little Story, ( Part II)

[roger@arkansas.net (Roger A. Stephenson)]

Hello,
To those of you that remember the first episode; He, He

For the rest of you; The story you are about to read isn't true. Searching
the List  Archives will establish this as an absolute "Truth", ( I think it
was Spock that said, "Logic is a field of beautiful flowers, that smell
bad.")

And the sequel begins;


The female Dromie,  (notice 'correct' spelling), never had liked the Rex's
anyway, or the huge meat truck every morning. "They ordered out more than
anybody on the block," she thought to herself, still tending her nest.
"They ruined the block party the last four years in a row!" she grumbled
quietly. Remembering the now dead rexy getting hammered and going nuts,
cheating at volleyball and such. He  threw a baseball through the Pachy's
bay window two years ago. "Stubby armed fool!" she mocked. And who could
forget the fight he and his wife got into last year. It was about who was
the smartest and they rolled through the badmitten game, knocking down the
net. "Good riddens!" she growled loudly.

Attempting to break that train of thought she returned to the kitchen, and
cleaned up her breakfast mess. The national network TV people didn't seem
to know what was going on right here in her little world. Her burrow seemed
cold. "Stupid TV!" she hissed, and punched at the remote. The screen went
black.

After the heavy equipment had cleared the neighborhood, and the crowd had
broke up, a strange calmness settled over the young Dromie. She suddenly
didn't really mind that her mate was off hunting. She knew he would be
coming home, alive. She still wished he could have stayed with her, but
this trip was planned well ahead and the nestlings-to-be were not. She
figured, rightly, that she'd be a royal bitch during this horrid 3 weeks to
come.

The phone rang and she jumped at it, releasing built-up nervous tension.
Before it could sound a second time, she had it against her head. "Mrs
Dromie?" the disarticulated voice asked, almost robotic in tone.

Of course her little mind was pretty stressed already and all of this was
beginning to feel like a Twilight Zone episode, or Alfred Hitchcock movie.
"Yes. And just who is this?" she hissed.

Typically, for her species, nesting time was not a good time to mess with
Dromies, espesially borrow-bound females. She hadn't been out of the borrow
for oh so long, and she was seriously on edge.

"This is the long-neck-of-the-law, Inspector Bronto."

Of course the little Dromie-soon-to-be-momie, about flipped out at that
anouncement.

"Mrs. Dromie? Are you alright?" the Inspector's voice quizzed. Hearing her
breath move sharpely.

"Yes," she squeaked.

"What I'm calling about Mrs. Dromie is, are you aware that your garden hose
was used to intentionally present a deadly situation , which lead to the
death of Mr. Rex?" the Inspector rattled off without breaking tone.

There was not so much as a hint of any personallity in the voice. The
Dromie didn't know whether to believe what she was hearing or not. "What
are you saying? That I killed Mr. Rex? With a damned garden hose?" she
replied,  with a sure tone of defiance. She also was letting some of her
borrow fever vent.

Very much to her surprise a rising background of giggles and snickers told
her she was getting jerked around. It didn't matter that they had somehow
synthesised a voice, and a good one. She was now really pissed. Some little
pack of Saurians was up to no good right here in her nieghborhood, and she
would just love to go door to door to find them, but she couldn't. The
brood.

Without caring if her mate might call home, she unpluged the phone, and
went to the washroom to clean herself up. This midmorning bath was a treat
she looked forward to. It was also good for her after the passing of her
eggs. It was her first clutch as well, and that didn't make things any
better.

The warm water soothed both her temper and her soreness. She let the rest
of the world melt along with her tension, and almost fell asleep in her
tub.

Realizing the water was growing cold, and she did have some chores that
needed tending to, she reluctantly climbed out of the bath and dried
herself. She finished off her grooming by trimming the hair-like feathers
from around her eyes, and applying moisturizer to her more sensitive skin
areas. She turned her head from side to side, examining her look in the
mirror, and liked what she was seeing. Her mother had already reared 5
broods by the time her and her immediate siblings had hatched, and she
always looked beautiful to the young Dromie. She hoped she would age as
gracefully as her  mother, and judging from the way she looked now that was
a lock.

The young Dromie made her way back into the kitchen and plugged the phone
back in. She now wanted to hear from her mate, and get some news about his
hunting. It was Thursday, his day to call home.

She began to check over the supplies in her pantry, and make a list for the
grocery store to deliver. The Super Cretaceous store was the last store in
her town to cater to brooding Dromies, and she was very thankful. Main
Street Maastrichtian had quit 3 years ago when a delivery Ducky and a
Dromie-soon-to-be-momie had a run-in. The Ducky was accused of assault with
a deadly weapon, for slapping the frail Dromie with his tail. Of course the
charges were dropped when it was revealed that the Dromie was kicking at
him with both feet at the time, and he was just turning to run. It seems
the store had forgotten to include twenty pounds of ground red daybats, for
her babies.

The phone rang, again. This time she was far less stressed, and didn't care
if it was some adolescent joke.

She was pleased buy not surprised to hear her mates voice. "Hi baby," he
blurted out, "how's them eggs doin?"

"They're fine sweetie, how are you?" she cooed softly.

"I'm great! And I've got some great news!" he rattled off, almost too fast
to understand.

"What's that?" she asked, knowing he had hunted well. He was good at it,
and that was one reason she choose him as a mate.

"I've found 6 new species of copepods this week!" he boasted triumphantly.
"That makes 22 this season!"


Roger A Stephenson
Hell Creek Homey

"The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune"