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Chapter VII.  A Chapter of American Pre-History Revealed.

“When I was but a child, my parents realized I was becoming a great beauty.  My father, the Great Sun of our tribe, viewed me as a means to an end.  I, he reasoned, could be used to forge an alliance with another powerful nation to assure peace, wealth and security for our people.  He sent messengers to all of the great bands and his message was spread far and wide from the people of the great sweet water lakes in the far north to the stinking savages in the islands below the end of land far to the south east.  It was those stinking Calusas from the islands who kidnapped me and brought me to the place you found me.  I’ve been a prisoner in the Urn for the past 900 years but more about that later.”

I said, “Uh,” and she threw up a hand to silence me. “I’ll answer your questions later.  Right now I need to talk because I haven’t talked to anybody for a long time.” 

“To increase my value, father summoned the wisest members of our related tribes and asked for their advice.  They agreed that I must be taught all of the knowledge and skills of man and woman alike. 

For long years, teacher after teacher lectured me.  No one in our known world knew more about healing herbs and potions than I.  I can cure all but the most hideous of human and animal diseases and heal horrible wounds.  I know all of the edible and medicinal plants of field and forest and how to cultivate many of them and I am a master of magic potions and spells. 

The greatest artists of our time painted my likeness and many copies were made and distributed to all tribes.  Offers were made and rejected.  I am a real hottie, aren’t I” she asked as she stood up, twirled around, skirt flying up, uncovering Omygoodness!

“Oh yeah,” I said as my eyes retracted back into their sockets.

(See, I told ya’ll ya’ll wouldn’t believe this.)

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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ChapterVIII.  The Grand Tour.  (More Pre-history)

“When I was seventeen, my father gathered a hundred of his bravest warriors, and many of his advisors and medicine men to accompany us on what was to be a two year long tour.  I was to be introduced to all of the larger friendly tribes from the great river to the west and the great salt water to the east and from the salt water in the south to the great sweet water lake of the north.”

“We trekked south and east from our town of Cahokia (Illinois) in early spring, reaching a large village called Jora as the leaves became full.  Some of our band had relatives in Jora and there was a great reunion.  (Jora was in western NC)  We rested for several days, patched trail worn clothing, and traded for new clothing before traveling to Etowah. (NW Georgia)  Before we departed Jora, everybody told us we should stop at the Jewish-Hindu Trading Post which was located about midway between the two towns.  When we left Jora, several from our party stayed there and we were joined by warriors and families from Jora.”

“The trail in this area was up and down hill, so the walk was difficult and tiring.  We reached the Trading Post called “Vijay Feingold’s Mercantile and Trading Company” in about a month.”

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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I'm working on Chapter XVI, "Snatch has Fleas" right now.

Life is too short to catch little fish.

 http://www.panhandlefishingbooks.com/

Joel Murphy

Pace, FL.

Chapter IX.  “Vijay Feingold’s Mercantile and Trading Company

“The trading post was a wonder to my people.  There were many items none of us had ever seen before.  My favorites were brightly colored skins called cloth and pots and pans made from metal.  The men all wanted sharp knives and axes. Our women wanted seeds from exotic plants and pots and pans.”

My father talked to Mr. Feingold for a long time.  Vijay Fiengold agreed to teach me the knowledge and arts of the Jewish and Hindu cultures but explained that it would take a long time.  By then I was a fast learner so it took only about three months. 

Hymie Patel, a Jewish Hindu Mystic taught me many Yoga techniques, some of which assured my survival for 900 years, sealed in the urn.

There were several buildings housing the Trading Post and many huts for the families of the workers.  The Hindu people lived on the south side of the post.  They were easy to recognize because they all had red dots on the forehead and were all named Patel.  Their shops were cluttered with signs advertising all sorts of products over all of the walls.  It was in one of the Hindu shops where I found something called a book with drawings of men and women doing things I could hardly imagine.  This book was called “Kama Sutra.”  My father saw it and took great interest in it, showing it to all of the warriors.  They all laughed and pointed.  My father traded many skins for this book.

The Jewish families lived on the north side of the post.  The men were strange looking with hair all over their faces and arms. 

Mrs. Feingold asked me to call her Rona.  We became good friend and confidants.  When I was not studying with Mr. Fiengold or one of the Patels, we spent most of our time together.  She had many slaves so she had much free time.  She told me of her winter home in Miami. “I go there every winter to escape the cold”.  She said, “Vijay never wants to go but all I have to do is play hard to get and whine a lot and I get my way.”  Yes, I learned a lot from Rona too. 

One day I asked Rona about the book, Kama Sutra.  She rolled her eyes, looked around to see if anybody was listening and said, “You gotta learn some of that stuff.  You can make a man do anything you want.   I go to Miami for the winter every year, don’t I?”

“The Trading post was a busy place.  Almost every week, caravans bringing goods from far away places arrived.  Parties from all over came to trade for the wonderful goods Mr. Feingold provided. 

When it came time to leave, Rona gave my father a map showing the way to her winter home in Miami and invited us all to come and enjoy the warm weather and good fishing.   She called me aside and gave me her personal copy of Kama Sutra.   She said, “I know all of this stuff and I circled some of the things I really like.”

The next morning, we began our march to Etowah.”

 

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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Chapter X.  Etowah, Village of Fat, Ugly Dogs----- and Football.

“I remember little of the march to Etowah but who could forget Etowah?  The first thing that I noticed was the number of dogs.  I should have expected the dogs because Etowah means “Village of Fat Ugly Dogs.”  I had seen skins and balls made from Etowah dogs all of my life but I was unprepared for how ugly the dogs were.  Some of the Etowah women looked a lot like their dogs.

Dogs were the main crop in Etowah.  Much later, these dogs became known as Georgia Bulldawgs.”  They were bred for their meat and skins.  I’ll have to admit these dogs were very tasty, much better than venison.   The skins of some of these dogs were sewn, sealed and inflated to make balls.  Larger Etowah dogs were skinned to make baskets, tubs, and all sort of pouches. 

Balls made from the skin of 2 month old Etowah pups were a major trade good.  There were dozens of these balls in my village of Cahokia but I had never realized how they were made.  Football was a favorite sport all over the Indian world.  Teams traveled far and wide to play.  Rich fans followed them in caravans.”

Life is too short to catch little fish.

 http://www.panhandlefishingbooks.com/

Joel Murphy

Pace, FL.

Chapter XI.  Are You Ready For Some Football?

“Sometime during the second week we were in Etowah, great crowds of people began to arrive from the town of Tus-kah-loos-ah, Alabama, a village far to the south west.  My father had planned to visit Tus-Kah-loos-ah but I didn’t want to go.  Who, in their right mind, would want to go to a town whose name means “Village of Drunk, Obnoxious and Ignorant People?”  I couldn’t imagine living in a place so named.  My father said we must go because the Mound Builders who lived near by were a powerful tribe.  They would be unhappy if we didn’t visit them.  Now we didn’t have to go because the great Chieftain of the Mound Builders attended the game in Etowah.

They came for a great football game.  I cannot remember the name of their football team.  Football games were a great orgy of eating, drinking and other activities.  The day of the big game, all of the Alabama fans were falling down drunk as were many of their team members. 

The teams were made up of very big young men.   Both football teams had their own squad of young women camp followers who chanted, screamed, and did all sort of acrobatics when they were not otherwise occupied.  I remember the girls with the Alabama team were all fat and many of them had no teeth.

I wasn’t interested in the game at all.  I got tired of watching the Etowah team (Dawgs) push Alabama up and down the field.  To me, it was rather boring so I went back to our lodge to take a nap.

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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THANKS,

Bill & Dean

I'm not much of a football fan.  'Druther go fishing unless Auburn got a chance to go the Rose Bowl.  (When pigs fly, I guess.)

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Chapter XII.  No More Whole Noles.

The next month we trekked to the village of Tal-ah-has-see with the Dawgs for another football game.  The trail to Tal-ah-has-see was flat and wide.  The home team of the village was called the “Noles.”   The Dawgs fans always looked forward to a game in Tal-ah-has-see because there was more beer there than any place they had ever been.  Unfortunately, the “Noles” team was never much of a challenge.

My father was an Illini fan and didn’t know much about football in the south. He didn’t care who won as long as he saw a good game.  At half-time he was disgusted with the Noles.  I heard him tell the great chieftain of the Etowas  “The Noles started, farted, fumbled and fell.”

The Dawgs won by such a great margin in this game the great chief of the Etowah village proclaimed that the name of the Nole’s team must be changed to “Semi-Noles.”  In his opinion, a team that played such half-assed football should be called Semi-Noles and so they have been called ever since.”

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I Got Mine.

ChapterXIII.  “Do you Think I am Cute Enough to be a Gator Cheerleader?”

“OK, you can talk now,” she said.

 I was totally at a loss for words, a condition that might amaze some who know me well.  Ok guys, ya’ll gotta’ cut me a little slack here.  After all, I was probably still a little buzzed by the previous night’s weed, possibly concussed by the several knots on my head from the night’s mishaps and totally mind-boggled by all she had told me.  Yeah, and information overload has been known to cause confusion, constarnation and even constipation.  Factor in this:  I was 23 years old and in the presence of an almost naked, copper colored Bo Derek look alike.  That alone was more than enough for my “Cat-got-your-tongueitis.”

 (For you guys who don’t remember “Bo Derek,” Google her.)

It took a few seconds to get my brain and voice to work together.  To start with, I probably mumbled a bunch.

“OK, to start with, howinthehell do you speak English if you have been in the urn for 900 years?  Uh, ---oh yeah, howcome you look so good and smell so good if you’ve been in the ground for 900 years?  I’m not buying any of this crap.”

“Elementary my Dear Watson,” she replied.  “Hymie Patel taught me how to put myself in a state of suspended animation where all metabolic functions are at zero plus the secret of seeing and hearing all things by feeling the vibrations of the universe at all times even when in the zero state. 

I’ve kept abreast of all that has gone on in the world for the past 900 years.  I can tell you what the Emperor of Japan had for dinner last night or what happened in Australia or whatever else you need to know.  In 900 years, I was never bored.  I even know what you did with the red haired girl last night.  I see you have read the Kama Sutra too.” 

Now that got my attention because I know darn well she was sealed in the urn at the time I was in the sack with Windy Gale.

She stood up, whirled around a couple of times, kicked one leg straight up over head, (omigod, I think she took my picture) and said, “Do you think I am cute enough to be a Gator Cheerleader?”

 

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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Simi-Noles, LMAO on that one.

Bill & Dean

At this particular point in the tale, I am the only one who has met the pretty little Indian girl.  I don't even know her name yet.  Anybody have a suggestion?

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I Got Mine.

one big one (10/28/2008)

---

chyanne, wyomi,miki, niki, shome,     who care , tell the tell.

tell the TALE, too

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I Got Mine.

Chapter XIV “Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch.”

“Anybody seen Ken,” Frank asked.  “He must’ve gone home,” Bubba said.  “Naah, his car is still over by the pole barn,” Frank said. “Maybe he went back to the Sorority House with the girls,” Clint chimed in.  Naah, Frank said, he was right beside the front porch when I turned off the generator last night but I haven’t seen him this morning.  “Aw heck, Buddy said, “We was supposed to go fishin’ this morning.  He is probably down at the pond.”

“I’m gonna run down to the pond to see if he’s caught any,” Bubba said.  “He’d dang well better have a bunch or we ain’t gonna have a fish fry tonight.  Take your pole, Bubba.”

Frank walked out on the porch and hollered, “Hey Bubba, come on back up here as soon as ya’ll got a mess of fish for supper.  Clean ‘em good and please get rid of all the bones this time.   I’m gonna run into Gainesville to pick up a couple of cases of beer and some ice.  Can you think of anything else we need?”  “Yeah, call the Sorority House and ask Miss Martha to send some girls tonight.”

Frank went back inside to get his wallet.

“SNATCH!!!!!” Frank screamed.

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Chapter XV Snatch has Fleas & Stinks too.

“Dammit, who let Snatch in?  That SOB has a ton of fleas and he’ll scratch them off in the house and I’ll have to spray again.” 

Snatch was strictly a woods cat but tame and smart enough to mooch food anytime there was a party going on.  He was the only cat I ever saw that ate ‘tater chips and loved beer.

When Snatch heard his name, he decided it was time to hide unless he wanted to be evicted.  Frank would run him out from under one bed and ‘ole Snatch would dive under another.  It took about 10 minutes before Snatch tired of the game and ran to the door where Buddy unceremoniously whacked him in the butt with the broom. 

Snatch made a bee-line toward the pole barn and dove under the ’39 Ford coupe Frank was restoring.  Instantly there came the sound of mortal feline combat complete with caterwalling, hissing, squalling and any other fierce sound felines generate. 

A black streak flew back across the yard and didn’t stop at the screen door.  Complete penetration!  Snatch hit the screen at about 60mph, tearing a catsized hole in it.  A bilious green fog followed Snatch.  Evidently there was a skunk under the Ford and he’d nailed ‘ole Snatch with both barrels. 

Buddy and Clint flew out the cabin door, gagging and wiping their eyes.  Buddy puked all over the porch. 

This time it was a bunch harder to evict Snatch.   The skunk piss drove the fleas off Snatch and they immediately dove into the bedclothes, making the cabin untenable.

“Guess we’ll have to fumigate this place this afternoon,” Frank said. “I’ll pick up some bug bombs and something to spray the stink out of here too.  Hey Clint, come help me strip the beds and I’ll get the sheets washed while I am in town.”

 

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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Ok, The rest of the tale will be written as I have time and ideas.  Right now, this is all I have written but I have a bunch of notes.  The next couple of chapters will have our "Indian girl introduced to Frank plus a little more.  After that, the tale will take a hard turn to port to get back somewhat toward my original warped idea.

 

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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Bill & Dean

Jeff

I should have a chapter ready to post later today.

Life is too short to catch little fish.

 http://www.panhandlefishingbooks.com/

Chapter XVI  Down by the Pond

Hopefully ya’ll all know what Bo Derek looked like when she was about 20 and realize the dilemma I was in.  Oh heck yes, Inouwantme was cute enough to be a Gator cheerleader—and then some.   Even her name was a turn on.

“Uh, um, y’know, we gotta’ get you some clothes.  You can’t go around dressed like that these days,” I managed to say although, heaven knows, I liked what I saw.  “What is wrong with the way I am dressed,” she asked.  “You just gotta’ cover up more,” I said.  “I’ll run up to the cabin and get a Tee shirt for you.” 

“What’s the matter?   Don’t you want to introduce me to your friends?”   She asked.  “Uh, I don’t think Bubba and Clint could handle it,” I told her.  “I’ll be right back,” I said as I sprang to my feet. 

About that time, I saw Bubba walking toward us.  I started walking his way, careful to block his line of sight to Inouwantme.  Evidently he hadn’t seen her yet. 

“Hey Ken, how many fish you gotholyshitwhoisthat?”  I tried to block his line of sight but he had already locked eyes on her magnificent rack like a heat seeking missile and there wasn’t one blasted thing I could do but introduce them.  Bubba was absolutely bugeyed, totally locked on!

“Bubba,” I said, “this is Inouwantme, carefully running the syllables together to make her name less enticing/erotic.  This is my friend Bubba, I told her,” while carefully avoiding repeating her name.

Now I really had me a de-limma.  No way was I gonna’ leave that horny letch alone with her while I went to fetch a Tee-shirt.  I turned to Inouwantme and said, “Bubba and me are gonna’ go to the cabin to get you a Tee-shirt.  You stay right here.”   “I’ll stay with her, you go get the shirt,” Bubba said.  “Naah, I replied, you and me gotta’ talk.”

 

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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The next chapter will be called, "Bubba, you Ain't Gonna Believe This S---!"

I'll try to post it before lunch.

Life is too short to catch little fish.

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