Granddaughter insists Grandpa carry Little Dolly. Though embarrassed, Grandpa does so without complaint. After playing in the park, Granddaughter wants to pick blackberries, so the pair pluck ripened berries till noon.

Scared of rustling in the bushes, Granddaughter wants to go, believing it’s Zombies. They hurry home. Granddaughter takes a nap. Grandpa visits Facebook.

Grandpa realizes he’s forgotten Granddaughter’s Little Dolly. Heading to the park, Grandpa recalls Granddaughter’s zombie-fears. Grandpa finds Little Dolly where he left her. Walking home, Grandpa doesn’t think anymore of Zombies or Granddaughter’s Little Dolly.

However, Little Dolly — now a Zombie — has both on her mind.

Jasper fingers the trigger in desperation. He knows the numbers are a fraud before starting. Ninety-six-cents makes a big difference in the life of a man with no job, little money, less pride.

He thinks, “I can’t.”

Jasper also knows that there is nothing he can do about it. He looks at his shoes. He could walk away, but again that would do nothing. So Jasper decides to end it, no more debating, no further argument, nothing but the act remaining. He exhales, squeezing the trigger.

The gas pump thunks to life — the numbers racing by too fast to count.

In August 2016, I posted an article about foreign refugees being resettled in Northern Nevada. I was roundly criticized, including being called an Islamophobe, for pointing out how these people were not being properly scrutinized, setting up the possibility that they could bring acts of terror to the state and the U.S.

Well, here is an update…

Over the last few weeks, the Reno Police Department received reports of “several instances” from women who’ve been followed by unidentified men. And in at least one local news report, the female victim told law enforcement she’d been followed by more than one unknown male.

The majority of these instances have happened in the parking lot of large retail businesses during normal business hours. Nearly all the suspects are described as wearing an earpiece or using a cellphone and appeared to be working in coordination with another group of men in the area.

In fact, there are a couple of Facebook postings from the Reno area, where woman have captured photos of ‘foreign speaking’ men approaching them or congregated in parking lots. One incident happened in the parking structure of the Cal-Neva in downtown, another at the Walmart on Damonte Ranch Parkway, and a third attack where a woman was apparently yanked from her vehicle, though little has been reported on the attack.

Add to this the strange incident of a woman allegedly speaking with a ‘heavy accent,’ stealing the purse of an injured woman involved in a car crash near Virginia and Plumb, in Reno. She may have been working in concert with three other individuals at the time of the theft, since they were spotted together at Shoppers Square during the time of the incident.

In the Damonte Ranch incident, the woman reported that she was confronted by a man, who upon approaching her said, “Hello dear, how’s your day going, you are extremely beautiful.” She was polite in her response to him, but continued walking.

Once inside the store, she turned to see him walking around her car and looking in it. She reported the man’s activities to the store’s security and eventually had them walk her out to her car so she could safely leave the area.

But before this happened, she observed him not only meet up with another man and listened as the two spoke in a foreign language to each other, they both returned to her car. Finally, a white van with five more men in it pulled up behind her vehicle and the two men looking at her car, got in it.

She said the group of seven drove around the parking lot slowly, passing by her car each time. Next they parked four rows away and appeared to be waiting for her to return to her car and that once security threatened to call the police, they drove off.

This is the same thing that has been happening throughout Europe, though very little has been openly reported on the way these incidents are set-up or unfold. In the end though, the majority of these attacks end in a brutal rape and even the death of the female victim.

To be straight, no one is certain of the number of refugees the state of Nevada has taken in, or from what part of the globe they’ve come from. What’s known is that terrorism takes many forms, and it has one aim — to strike fear into others. So go ahead, call me what you will, but the time is now to be vigilant. They are among us and they’re a danger to our safety and our society.

My feet tangle.

Glancing down, I see Batman’s bat-a-rang on a line, zipping around my ankles, pulling tight. With no ability to place one foot ahead of the other, I topple, a full-body slam to the floor. Before I know it, a blur of red and blue rolls me over, so quickly, so many times, I nearly puke.

As Superman rotates, Spiderman flings his webbing, immobilizing me neck to foot. I put up a fight to free myself from the wet, sticky goo, but can’t move more than my right hand, which is in my pocket. Confused, I cry out, “Why? What have I done to you?”

The voice is unmistakable as Batman growls, “You didn’t share.”

“What?” I ask.

“You failed to share the Pez candies you brought home yesterday,” he explains.

With a furrowed-brow, I question, “How in the hell…”

“You can’t fool Yogi or Boo-Boo’s noses,” Aquaman interrupts.

“They knew the instant you opened your front door,” Santa continues.

“And to think I fought my best friend defending you,” I call out, adding “You fat bastard, Kris!”

Toy Story Woody mosies over as Luke Skywalker demands, “So, where did you hide them, Luke Two?”

“Huh?” I respond, “Hide what?! What the eff are you talking about?!

“The Pez candies, you S-O-B!” Fozzie Bear snarls, spraying slobber in my face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I pled.

“Do your thing, Wonder Woman!” Tweetie Bird instructs.

In an instant I feel the Lasso of Hestia drop over my forehead. The pressure so intense I can’t resist answering truthfully as Batman (Ben Affleck, not Christian Bale) steps forward, gargling, “Where’s the Pez candies?”

The harder I try not answering, the greater the Lasso tightens at my temples, until I blurt out, “Drawer on left, closest to dishwasher!!!” As the pain subsides, I hear the clacking of my collection of Pez dispensers in the kitchen. A drawer opens, a plastic bag rustles, a drawer closes. The disorganized clacking starts up, moving down the hallway.

“Wait!” I scream, “What about me? You can’t jus’ leave me like this?”

“Oh, yes we can,” replies Return of the Jedi’s Princess Leia Organa, “Besides we want to hear how you explain this to your wife.” She disappears with the other dispensers into the back room and the leather satchel they live in.

My right hand is touching my lock-blade knife. Slipping it from my pocket, I flick it open, stabbing into the now-dry and ever hardening web. I must hurry – my wife’s due home in less than half-an-hour.

Bbbrrraaappp…shit, my damn cellphone.

It’s three-in-the-morning, can’t be good news. I roll over to pick it up, zap, blinding lights flash from it, my body receives a violent jolt that crashes through my body, hundreds of old-fashioned photographic flash bulbs explode in my brain.

“What the hell!” I cry, my arms and legs twitching uncontrollably.

Never in my life have I ever been electrocuted, I’m certain I’ve survived a deadly shock and will live to tell about it. But something is wrong, out of whack, not right. As I gain control of my limbs, the photo-flashes dissolving into darkness, I cannot find the edge of my bed.

Slowly, I roll over. I look where my legs should be, I see my dog. Buddy’s face; eyes are open, looking at me like nothing’s wrong. But he’s huge, larger than life, out of proportion to the rest of me as I reach over to rub his giant, moist nose. I can hear his tail at the end of the bed wagging – thump, thump, thump.

My hand’s tiny against his brown set of nostrils. I know I am in trouble. I’ve shrunk to the size of a naked G.I. Joe. My bed is bigger than a football field and as wide. I’m leery of moving too fast towards where I believe the edge of my bed should be — I don’t want to fall off. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawl. Buddy’s tail continues to slap in happiness behind me, my heart beats in rhythm to the sound.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I tell myself as I find the edge, realizing I cannot see the floor, my desk or anything beyond my white sheets.

There’s no way I can jump – but perhaps I can climb down using my blanket. So I re-position myself, dangling my legs over the edge of the bed, turned trap. As I grasp the blanket next to me, I feel Buddy move. The bed undulates with each motion Buddy makes. I redouble my grasp on my blanket, keeping my balance.

Suddenly – Buddy sniffs at me – his cold, gigantic wet nose touching my naked ass. Son-of-a-bitch! I jump from the chilly surprise. Next thing I know I’m airborne, falling into the blackness ahead of me. Thank goodness the arm-rest on my office chair’s padded as I slam my forehead full-force into it. Buddy jumps from the bed. He joyfully licks my face.

Two words that caught my ear when I was five or six years old were stereotype and Styrofoam. While I didn’t understand the meaning to either, I was bent on trying my damnest to fit one or both words into my vocabulary via a sentence.

During a church social one afternoon I, at long last, found an opportunity to say Styrofoam in a sentence, and actually make it sound like I knew what I was talking about. However, the Greek god of language, Mnemosyne got me all confused.

“Can I have some Kool-aid in a stereotype cup?” I asked Mom.

Xavier slipped the cage, as it was known over his head. He adjusted the device so that the electrodes sat on his temples with the third touching the back of his head where his neck began.

Less than a second after voice-activating the unit, he felt the rush of the virtual reality arch rushing towards him. And so, Xavier arrived on yet another RealTrip.

Though he’d been warned about the gang-wars of the 1980s, he found returning to the ‘simpler days of the 20th century’ refreshing. “Besides, the only time someone gets hurt or killed during a RealTrip is if they do something stupid like loop themselves into having one orgasm after another,” he told himself.

No, Xavier wasn’t after sex. Instead, he had found a safe way to experience crack cocaine without getting hooked or having to deal with real drug dealers.

Besides, he found Compton, California and it’s streets to be less dangerous than his everyday work life, pounding red rocks on the surface of dust-laden Mars. Also, unlike his real-life conditions, Xavier could enjoy the sensation of sunshine on his face.

And as he walked south on Main from Compton Blvd toward Redondo Beach Blvd., he couldn’t help but wonder how many others using RealTrip enjoyed the same feeling as he did.

His revere came to an end as two men rapidly approached him. They wore jeans, heavily creased down the front of each leg, full white tee’s and bandana’s, all signs Xavier recognized as clothing worn by gang members of the time-period.

“Best avoid these two,” he thought as he crossed the street, dodging traffic as it moved in both directions. Cars, trucks and the like were a hazard Xavier didn’t have to worry about on Mars.

The pair also crossed the street. Xavier felt a sudden tenseness in his gut.

“Hey, what’sa cracker-ass like you doin’ on our street?” the smaller one growled.

Xavier didn’t answer. Instead he began to will himself out of the trance that RealTrip had placed him in, but he was too late.

“I axed you a question, White-boy!” the smaller one yelled as he pounced, placing Xavier in a throat-crushing head-lock.

With fear overriding his theta waves he was powerless to escape the alternate reality he placed himself in. Instead, he felt the blows of the larger one slamming his fist repeatedly into the side of his head causing an explosion of white lights followed by complete darkness.

As suddenly as he slipped into unconsciousness, he found himself coming back to his sense. That’s when he grew aware of the coldness of a knife blade pressed against his Adam’s Apple.

“This is a RealTrip, right?” he said aloud.

“Yeah, it’s a RealTrip, asshole,” he heard a voice snarl. Xavier realized that his RealTrip experience had been ‘jacked’ by criminals known as MalFactors.

“Yeah, ya little cock-sucka,” a second voice grunted, “Teach you to avoid ‘synth,’ by RealTrippin’ the fake shit.”

He felt the knife press hard into his skin until Xavier could no longer ignore the weakness of his body and the heavy warmth that spilled liberally down the front of his shirt.

Originally, I wanted to title this, “Sergeant Murray and the Invincible Goat-Ropers,” but that would have made as much sense as what follows.  Jus’ nod your head slowly in agreement and go with the flow.

There’s a Soccer-mom, Grammar and Thread-Nazi, and the bald Italian guy up the street, whom for the life of me, I cannot understand when he talks, all gaming me. With that being stated, for 58 days I’ve been outside my box, thinking — thus their superficial play-date.

“Imagine that – me thinking — outside the box. It’s almost laughable,” I tell myself as I hear Foghorn Leghorn in the background roostering, “It’s a joke, son, a joke! Get it? Thinkin’ outside the box? That boy’s denser than corrugated cardboard.”

And while the Oppressed Earth Pants Corps., mandated force-feedings of salt-peter has long since been flushed from my system, I’ve been able to sustain my inner man-child on daily rations of stale beef jerky and two-day old hot coffee. And it’s because of these items, several red helium-filled balloons and a Russian spyware game issued by CNN, that I have managed to accidentally give away my position.

(If they wanted it that badly, all they have to do is ask, but since no-one asked, I’ll go a step further and share my coordinates: 39°39′30″N 119°41′42″W.  Simple, huh?)

Honestly, I never really understood why we have had two satellite dishes attached to our home for all these years.  Now – I know – or at least I think I know. And there it is, the time for playing over, “It’s time to engage in some kick-the-can before the vapor-lamps buzz and flicker to life,” I say to the dogs as I head out into the street.

“Maybe there’s time enough to make asphalt-angels on the black-top, if we hurry,” one of four responds, knowing I cannot recognize any of their voices.

Archie has a bunch of problems, all self-made – booze, money, women, but Archie also has the solution.  A universal carnival mirror that’ll let him go back in time, with enough duration to fix any future mistakes after they occur.

Recently, Archie acquired another problem – all those other Archie’s.  They appear after each use of the mirror and the more he tries to get rid of them, the more they multiply.

Across the galaxy, F’flavex finds herself blessed with a twenty-fifth alien life-form. She doesn’t understand where they’re coming from but she does know her 10-thousand hungry children are getting fed.

It’s exhausting, dragging my pet Anaconda around the hallways of this little box. Every few minutes I find my inner man-child having to wipe off the dust-bunnies from its ‘shroom-shaped head.

But finally I grow smart and decide to turn the beast into a neck-tie, keeping it off the cold linoleum. I toss it around my shoulders, crossing the wide end over the narrow end, bringing the wide end up through the loop, then drawing the wide end back down.

My memory has yet to fail me and it seems I can tie a double-Windsor knot in my sleep. I slide the wide end underneath the narrow end and fold it to the right, then I pull the wide end through the loop between my pet Anaconda and my neck, and tighten the wrapping.

Finally, I take the wide end and wrap over the narrow end so that the front of the wide end is visible, then I pull the wide end up through the loop again. By bringing the wide end down through the knot in front, I tighten the knot carefully and draw it up to my Adam’s apple.

Soon it’s suppertime, so I go to the lavatory and splash water in my face, slick back my hair and wash my hands. I always take my meals in my room and so I happily walk that direction, feeling confident that my ‘adapt-and-overcome skills’ will impress Nurse Wratchet.

However, as I enter the door way to my cardboard cutout I realize I forgot something. My daily dose of salt-peter has ebbed and my pet Anaconda is now becoming enraged, with murder on its mind, and before I know it, I’m in the throes of being hanged on the door-jamb by a card-carrying member of Slythern.

So much for making a fashion statement.