Post 2

A night in Colorado can be exceptionally cool. The higher in elevation one climbs, the crisper the night air. The exposed skin on her weathered cheeks burned a bit from the chill; the dog was fine save for the flapping of her lips in the wind. Clementine and Mrs. MacGregor were clipping down I-25, away from Denver proper toward Colorado Springs. West of the springs lay her late husband's family homestead.

She was anxious, excited. Frightened a bit, truth be told. The last image of the Denver skyline still burned in her mind. The sky scrapers on fire and the surrounding infrastructure glowing in the night like a giant bonfire on the beach haunted her ride. She did want to know what truly happened, but that would have to wait until she got to the homestead.

The cabin was nestled deep in a valley, high up in the mountains. Once off the interstate, the drive was long and slow, with gravel road switchbacks the whole way up. Then you might miss the driveway if you blinked. Between two quaking aspens, another gravel dirt road snaked upwards.

Mrs. MacGregor and Clementine hunched down as she turned between the aspens and rumbled up the curvy road into a grove of pines. The evergreens were dense and the boughs hung over them closely as they passed. Time went by, the gravel snapping and popping underneath the heavy tires.

Eventually, they came to an opening in the pine grove and moonlight shone down into the clearing. The MacGregor homestead was a two story cabin of simple construction. It was of basic design: steeply eaved A line roof, rectangular foundation. A single front door was placed in the center of the front of the structure, flanked by a large picture window to the left, a small window to the right, and a metal awning immediately above. The trim was a rusty brown and the siding was of a mocha color, but in the light of the stars and moon the cabin was washed of color and left in shades of gray. The garage and outhouse were to the back and left, out of view. The clearing was completed by a small island of aspens about forty feet from the front door, a fire pit down and away to the left near the treeline, and a water pump near the home. The ground was sandy and sparse.

Mrs. MacGregor pulled the motorcycle around the house to the garage. She manually opened the garage door, rode the bike in, shut it off, and went to get Clementine out of the side car. When she pulled the helmet off of Clem's considerable head, the dog looked her in the eye and started a low growl. The dog then looked back at the house.

“Good girl,” the old woman said, and slowly opened her black leather riding jacket to pull out the loaded Glock from her holster. I'm losing my edge she thought. “You let me know when you are ready.” Clementine stepped out of the side car, all 130 pounds of her. She had a thick, lab-like head and short, triangular floppy ears that gave a sincere, kind look to this huge canine renown for protecting flocks from cheetahs and bears. Anatolian Shepherds have long legs and a large muscular body that belies their speed. Clem's thick coat was a light cream color and her face and ear tips were sooty colored, as if she stuck her head in a dirty chimney. After the dog performed a generous stretch and shaking of her coat to work out the kinks of the long ride, her long thick tail curled up and her body tensed.

Clementine was ready.

They made a formidable, if unexpected, pair. On one hand, one saw an old, thin woman still wearing a motorcycle helmet and a riding jacket tiptoe up to the side door of the silent, dark cabin, gun in hand. On the other, one saw a massive beast stalking the house with glittering, dark eyes. Mrs. MacGregor paused to listen, and sure enough the cabin was not as silent as she thought. Someone was clanking around in the kitchen. She was about to peek in through one of the side windows when all at once the front door banged open. Clementine was gone in a heartbeat, and in the next heartbeat she heard a strangled cry, a loud clanging as something metal hit the house, a snarl, and a thump.

The old woman rounded the corner as fast as her legs could carry her. She saw that Clem had pinned the intruder to the ground and was breathing in the man's face. The man, in turn, had his eyes squinted shut and was whimpering like a twelve year old child, saying something like, “get off, get off.” His breathing was labored with the giant dog on his naked chest; it appeared that the man was in his underwear.

Mrs. MacGregor sighed as she recognized the man as her youngest daughter's boyfriend, Mr. Hollywood. A quick glance at the bucket told her he was about to come out and get some fresh water from the pump, but Clementine had derailed those plans.

“Clem. Off.”

The man's eyes fluttered open as the weight of the beast disappeared, and he looked over at Mrs. MacGregor.

“Mary!” he exclaimed. “Mary, Mary, what a wonderful surprise!” He coughed a bit and started to stand up. “And, uh, hello, Clementine.”

Phillip Brickland, the major star of the enormously popular spy movie franchise, “Agent Awesome,” began dating Mary MacGregor's daughter Lena about two years ago, when she was hired on as costume designer for one of Phil's latest films. The only thing that impressed Mary about Phil was his cooking. He was otherwise entirely unlike his suave, cool, quick-witted, surfer/spy alter-ego.

“What in the world are you doing here, Phil?” asked Mrs. Mary MacGregor. “And where is Lena?”

“Oh, she's back in L.A.,” Phil replied as he picked himself off the ground, shaking sand from his boxers. “I just needed to get away before the press tour for the movie starts. She said I could use the family digs.” He paused. “Uh, that's okay, right, Mary?”

The old woman sighed. “Let's go inside. We need to talk.”

“Let me get a bucket of water. I wanted to make fresh pasta Primavera tonight, and I need some water.”

“Fine.” Mary began to lead Clementine into the house.

“Oh, and Mary?” She paused without looking back.

“I brought a tithe for the use of the house.” Oh, did he? She thought.

She stepped inside to the dark house.

“Phil, why aren't the lights on?”

“I can't figure out how to work those gas lights. Can you help?”

Thank god you are pretty, you can cook., you are good to my daughter.

She pulled matches out of her coat pocket and lit a few lights in the cabin. The gas lamps were like portable propane lanterns, only placed as light fixtures around the cabin. As the glow brightened, familiar shapes came into existence. It was an open concept room, with the old formica table to the left of the front door in the dining room, the reclaimed cabinets framing the small kitchen on the right, the wood stove in the center of the room, and the living room with an old, worn, and loved couch in the far left.

But there, on the middle of the table, sat her tithe and she smiled a rare smile down at Clementine. “Ok, so he's not all bad,” admitted Mary. She immediately sought out a spoon so she could savor every bite of her jar of Nutella without mucking up her fingers too bad. So Mr. Hollywood did pay attention, and knew her very favorite snack.

“Too bad he forgot about you, my dear,” she said as she wiped the drool off Clem's maw. “Idiot.”

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