M. DAVID LUTZ

M. (Mark) David Lutz is a dedicated writer, specializing in comedy and satire. He started seriously writing humor over twenty years ago. Primarily publishing articles and short stories until he turned his attention to writing a book series.

He has assisted other writers, encouraging them to develop their talents and helping them publish their projects.

Now retired after forty years of government service, Mark looks forward to writing full time.

He is regularly communicating with readers through his website and Facebook accounts while continuing to write additional volumes to his ‘Princess and Plumber’ series in addition to other projects.

He currently resides overseas with his wife and daughter.

Q. WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE TO NEW AUTHORS THAT YOU WISHED YOU HAD RECEIVED YOURSELF WHEN YOU STARTED?

A. I would tell new authors to spend as much time as writing the story to everything else that will be needed to publish, market, distribute and all the other processes to get the book into the hands of the readers and do not neglect social media.

Q. WHEN YOU READ YOUR BOOK REVIEWS HOW DO YOU HANDLE THE BAD ONES?

A. I cannot say I’ve had any ‘bad’ reviews yet, but I know that is just a matter of time. I spent years in a writer’s forum critiquing and getting reviews of my work to toughen up my skin. So I think I can handle it. But I am a perfectionist maybe from all the years of being an accountant, so when something is wrong, I bothers me until I can ‘fix’ it.

Q. HOW DO YOU FEEL WHEN YOU DO GET A GOOD REVIEW?

A. When I get a good review I always wonder if people are just being nice and not willing to be totally honest. But when they express that they enjoyed the book, it does make me happy.

Q. HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDER WRITING UNDER A PSEUDONYM?

A. I not only write under a pseudonym, it belongs to my alter ego who has had more works published than I have.

Q. ARE YOU TRYING TO HAVE EACH BOOK STAND ON ITS OWN OR ARE YOU TRYING TO BUILD A BODY OF WORK WITH CONNECTIONS BETWEEN EACH BOOK?

A. Currently I am still working on a series that I do not foresee ending soon. So naturally I have built a body of work with connections between each book. But I am also starting two more projects which will be standalone books.

Q. DO YOU WRITE EVERY DAY? HOW MANY HOURS A DAY DO YOU WRITE?

A. Most days since I am retired, I start at 10:00 am trying to do the administrative stuff for an hour or two, then I’ve been able to mostly ‘create’ as I type, and I also now use a mic to dictate. I do this up until when I take a dinner break, then afterward I usually devote myself to copyediting or proofreading my works until eleven at night. Saturday and Sunday I usually spend with the family, and I only work on writing in the evenings.

Q. HOW MUCH OF YOUR PERSONAL LIFE DO YOU INCORPORATE INTO YOUR WRITING OR DO YOU MAKE UP EVERYTHING?

A. Since I consider myself boring and I’m not famous, I would not want to read about my life either. Generally, I prefer to make things up.

Q. HOW DO YOU CONNECT WITH YOUR READERS? DO YOU OFFER THEM A FREE BOOK? DO YOU OFFER THEM A NEWSLETTER?

A. Now that my readership is beginning to increase I am working on giving them an audio version of my series and am in the process of setting up a newsletter.

Q. HOW LONG DO YOU RESEARCH BEFORE YOU BEGIN YOUR NEXT BOOK?

A. As my book’s plot twists and turns, that is when I go out and research what I need at the point at which I need it.

Q. WOULD YOU GO BACK AND REWRITE ANY OF YOUR BOOKS? WHY?

A. These days with ‘print-on-demand’ and because I am still evolving as a writer, I have made some tweaks and then after ten years I wrote a second edition and basically doubled the size of the original, but the story essentially remained the same.

Q. IF YOU COULD GIVE UP ONE THING TO BECOME A BETTER WRITER WHAT WOULD THAT BE?

A. Duh, I am giving up time! When I am not writing I am reading and studying books and manuals to become a better writer, as well as reading books of other writers.

Q. WHAT DOES YOUR WRITING SPACE LOOK LIKE?

A. I have a spare bedroom, that looks like it was decorated by ‘Toys ’R us, and occupied by someone mentally unstable…the room is very messy and cluttered…like my mind.

Q. WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT PART FOR YOU WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING?

A. As I’ve always said, ‘Writing is easy…writing good ain’t. Usually, I never struggle for an idea but am plagues by rules of grammar, formatting etc.

Q. IF YOU COULD PICK ONE OF YOUR BOOKS TO BECOME A MOVIE BLOCKBUSTER, WHICH BOOK WOULD THAT BE AND WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY THE CHARACTERS?

A. I sincerely believe that my ‘Princess’ in my book series could be a ‘Disney’ princess. She is original and the characters that surround her would make a very good, animated movie.

Q. WHEN WRITING DO YOU TRY TO GIVE YOUR READERS WHAT THEY WANT OR DO YOU GO FOR ORIGINALITY?

A. I know I should now that I am writing full time to give some thought as to the marketability of my books and articles, and probably will in the future. But for now, I am content to first write a book that I enjoy reading especially since I must review it constantly. Then I do try to write to the best of my ability to give my reader an enjoyable time.

Q. DO YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF AN AUTHOR OR A WRITER FIRST? WHY?

A. If I understand the question, I consider myself a writer first. I just naturally write all the time, and after a while I realize I’ve written enough to start putting it into a book,, which then makes me an author.

Q. HOW LONG, ON AVERAGE, DOES IT TAKE YOU TO WRITE A BOOK?

A. Writing full time, it is taking 3 to 6 months to produce a manuscript.

Q. DO YOU OUTLINE YOUR BOOK BEFORE WRITING IT OR DO YOU JUST PLOT ALONG AND HOPE FOR THE BEST?

A. Right now as I am working on a series, it is more of a progression of the life of the characters like in real life. I generally know what they are going to be doing next.

Q. DOES WRITING EXHAUST YOU OR ENERGIZE YOU? HOW?

A. Writing /creating energises me – proofreading and marketing exhausts me.

Q. DO YOU HAVE OTHER WRITERS THAT HAVE HELPED YOU ALONG YOUR WAY? HOW?

A. I have been fortunate to have several persons helping for over ten to fifteen years now. They provide services I cannot do or certainly not as well as them. They also happened to be published writers themselves.

Q. WOULD YOU RECOMMEND SELF-PUBLISHING TO NEW AUTHORS? WHY?

A. I do want to make this comment. Each writer has to make this decision for themselves, and they should only do so after extensive research into what is involved with each path to getting published.

Q. ARE YOUR CHARACTERS ‘REAL’ OR DO THEY COME OUT OF YOUR IMAGINATION OR DO YOU BASE THEM ON SOMEONE YOU KNOW?

A. Since I write satire, I would say the characters are real. I also create characters that are purely fictional. Then I also base my characters on people I’ve known. I always try to do my best to be fair or kind when I am talking about someone. Sometimes public figures have done some stupid things that made them stand out. When I talk about them, I try my best not to write anything mean or untrue. I am not out to hurt anyone’s feelings. I also think people, in general, are much too sensitive these days and have lost the ability to laugh about themselves.

Q. WHAT IS YOUR WRITING KRYPTONITE?

A. I would only say that because HUMOUR is the core of my writing, my kryptonite would be any life event that punched me in the gut. Thank God, in these latter years while I have had challenges, I have been able to keep my sense of humour.

Q. AN AUTHOR'S PATH IS NEVER EASY. WHAT KEEPS YOU GOING?

A. To me it is much like hiking up mountain. It is difficult, tedious, exhausting, lacking in any tangible reward, but when I reach the top (or publish a book) NOTHING compares to that feeling of accomplishment.

Q. WHAT IS YOUR OPINION ON PROFANITY IN BOOKS TODAY? IS IT OK TO USE? WHY?

A. Everyone has the ‘right’ to write what they want, but if they want me to read it, the profanity must be very sparse and purposeful. I believe a good writer should have enough vocabulary to avoid bad language, and if a particular character demand the use of foul and vulgar language then I would find another character to write about.

Q. WHAT ARE YOUR TOP THREE FAVOURITE TYPES OF MUSIC? DO THEY HELP YOU WITH YOUR WRITING?

A. Top three favourite types of music: Oldies 50’s and 60’s. Easy Listening, and Italian Love Songs.

Q. TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT YOURSELF. ARE YOU MARRIED? HAVE CHILDREN/GRANDCHILDREN? IS THERE A SPECIAL DOG/CAT/BIRD IN YOUR LIFE?

A. I am married. My wife Joanne is from the Philippines but is now a US citizen working for the government. She is supportive of my writing but admits that she only ‘gets’ half of the humor I write, and of that half, she doesn’t think it is that funny. She was sent to keep me humble. We have one daughter, Markeean, who will be leaving the nest soon. Due to my wife’s job, we reside overseas and will consider moving back to the United States when my daughter goes back to college. We spend our weekends traveling around Japan and taking in all the sites.

Q. DID YOU JUST KNOW YOU WANTED TO BE A WRITER OR DID YOU HAVE A PARTICULAR EXPERIENCE THAT MADE YOU WANT TO START WRITING?

EATING AT WORK IS NO PICNIC

Office work can be very grueling. I must fetch water from the creek (deep sink in the janitor’s closet) to make coffee each morning. Then I journey to yonder hunting grounds to trap and bludgeon a fried egg, cheese, and sausage on a toasted bagel. In my little cubicle, I read and answered all the emails from my friends until it is time for a coffee break. I make the rounds to all my fellow co-workers to complain about how overworked and underpaid I am, which usually keeps me busy until lunchtime.

Often, I’m so exhausted from my trips to the cafeteria for breakfast and mid-morning snacks that I no longer have enough energy to make the trek at noon. Fortunately, I am in charge of procurement. Thus, it is no coincidence that I have the only combination personal computer and a Hot-Dogger machine made by IBM/Ronco. While performing complex calculations with this baby, it is also roasting my weenie and toasting my buns!

An intern asked me for advice the other day. “What does it take to become an executive in this organization?” I told him, “We are looking for people with huge bladders who like to attend meetings all day.” I’m always happy to help the little people whenever I can. I say ‘little people’ not because they are vertically challenged or anything. I am referring to their chances of being promoted around here.

On a mid-morning run for donuts,…not really a run…more like a stagger with a slight limp; I stop at the snack bar to order a tuna fish sub. I always get the foot-long so I can eat half of it immediately. Then, thirty minutes later, I can eat the other half when I get hungry again. The cafeteria lady plopped balls of tuna fish on my sub, which was sufficient for three sandwiches, though I wasn’t complaining.

That reminded me of when I moved into a new apartment some years ago. I had gone to the store to stock up on groceries. Taking advantage of a sale, I piled two dozen cans of tuna on the counter.

When the cashier saw that, she asked, “You always eat that much tuna?”

“Why yes. I’ve been eating a can of tuna almost every day as far back as I can remember.”

“Have you ever experienced any side effects from all that fish?”

“Not really…well…there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” The young gal curiously asked.”

“Each spring, I do get a tremendous urge to swim upstream and spawn.”

Sometimes, I have had to throw my bloated form in front of the food cart to get it to stop outside my office. Other times, as a matter of life and death to fend off starvation, I’ve had no choice but to sneak into the employee’s lounge to forge for foodstuffs. You can challenge me on this, but I believe I do not need permission to consume anything in the frig that is green and fuzzy…that was not that way originally.

When people eat at their desks, they are considered dedicated or too cheap to go out for lunch. When I take lunch at my desk, some inconsiderate jerk comes barging in, demanding something. I have a name for people like that…I call them ‘my boss.’ The rest don’t have any excuse. I would not be at my desk if I did not want to be disturbed, right? You would think when they see me holding my foot-long in one hand and a Coke in the other, with a whole bag of potato chips in my mouth and a pickle shoved up my nose…that I was having lunch!

They either don’t notice or care, but then I suppose it would be too impolite if I continued to choke down my hoagie in front of them. Even though it is noon, the appointed time for lunch according to International Law, I must shove my food to one side and sit there feigning interest in what they are saying.

While they drone on and on, all I can think about is how my cold food is getting hotter, and my hot food is getting colder. When I return to my little picnic on my desk, it is about as appealing as ‘…Having a second honeymoon with my wife on our 25th wedding anniversary.’ Whatever was firm has gone limp; that which was plump and juicy is now shriveled and wrinkled, and nothing is as fresh and tender as I once remembered. Even the ‘mayo’ has turned virulent in the heat, and with just one bite, I’ll be dead before I hit the floor.

In times like these, I must repair to my supply cabinet and break out the Tostem Pop-Tarts®. I learned how to eat them raw when I was in Japan. Then, I spend the afternoon in a sugar-induced coma. There is much to be said for eating lunch at your desk…like ‘DON’T DO IT!”

Following my own advice, I started going to a small cafeteria in our office building, which serves home-style cooking. Every day, there is mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy, and sliced turkey with stuffing, among other things. I just can’t seem to stuff myself enough with enough stuffing. If I could, I’d stuff my pillowcase and sleep on it. The cafeteria also has fried chicken, roast beef, and dead fish.

Though you serve yourself, it is not my favorite, ‘All you can eat.’ It is more like ‘All you can afford.’

The first time I was there, I loaded up my plate and took it up to the cashier. A sign prominently read: ‘Customers will be charged according to their weight.’ When I saw that, I became faint and started to pass out right there in line. The manager rushed over just in time to keep me from falling backward into the cream of broccoli soup, which would not have been good for me…it would not have been good for anyone. He explained the sign meant the weight of my plate, not my weight.” Whew! What a relief! I didn’t have that much money in my 401k. I doubt even the bank next door kept that kind of cash.

When the little cashier girl weighed my plate, she went to faint. “I’ve never seen anyone pay this much for lunch before.” She asked, “Will that be cash, charge, or do you just want an estimate?” It was a hearty meal, though nothing more than I consume daily, all day. I became very fond of getting a whole breast of turkey, a pound of mashed potatoes with a half stick of butter, a heaping helping of stuffing, globs of green beans, a mess of cranberries, two dinner rolls, and then pouring a bucket of giblet gravy over the whole thing. I would curl up in the corner booth, dig in, and not come up for air until the very last bite was gone.

After washing it down with a Diet Coke, I waddle back to the office, where I spend the rest of the afternoon slumped over my keyboard in a semi-conscious state, in shock from all the cascading carbohydrates in my digestion, causing my levels of insulin coursing through my veins to go into overdrive to ward off the huge assault upon my kidneys, pancreas, liver and whatever else is connected down there.

Right in the middle of my peaceful unconsciousness––someone comes barging in…demanding I do something for them. Some days, it is impossible to get any rest at all. That is when I take refuge in the broom closet to get a few winks.

It has been said that ‘breakfast’ is the most important meal of the day, though I think you already know I do not like to discriminate. The trouble is, most days, I barely make it to work on time. I suppose I could requisition a hot plate in my cubical to scramble eggs and fry some bacon the way I would at home. However, I would have to review the ‘office policy’ on sitting in my cubical, wearing nothing but my underwear, and reading the newspaper.

CRAZY BOB AND THE CHAIN GANG

razy Bob, that’s what everyone called him, behind his back, had been continually inviting me to come out to his place in the country. He was my former boss before he moved back to Pennsylvania from Florida. A year later, I found myself living in Pennsylvania as well.

There was a long weekend coming up. It was either visiting Bob or putting the contents of my refrigerator in alphabetical order. Bob won by a slim margin. With a pocket full of change for the tolls, thirty pages of directions from Bob, a compass, and an Indian guide, we set out to explore the wilderness like ‘Martin and Lewis,’ ‘Abbott and Costello, or more closely, the Lone Ranger and Tonto.’

The directions were very detailed. Bob, extreme in everything he did, named all the landmarks I would see on the four-hour trip…every MINUTE! The IHOP, Howard Johnson’s, and Cracker Barrel were listed in his directions. When he estimated the time the trip would take from my home to his, he had not anticipated I would stop at each one. Due to my appetite, this trip was going to take days. Another reason would be because my Indian guide, ‘Running Water,’ had to stop and take a leak every thirty minutes.

“Have you ever heard of ‘Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania? According to the map, we have to travel through there.”

“Yes,” grunted Running Water.

“Tunkhannock, that sounds like an Indian name…do you know what it means?”

“It means, ‘Lotsa luck finding Bob’s place, without me, pale-face.’”

I was getting concerned as we had not passed a McDonald’s or a Seven-Eleven in over twenty minutes. We truly had left civilization and were deeply thrust into the wilderness. There were no more signs of civilization. After another hour, right after Running Water’s sixteenth rest stop, I was beginning to have a Big Mac attack.

Bob wasn’t called ‘crazy’ without good reason. The directions he gave me were proof of that. For example. ‘…Turn left at an apple orchard, go over a bridge that used to be there, and go straight when you come to the cows in the pasture.’ It continued, ‘When you come to a fork in the road…take it.’ Bob thought of everything, even adding, ‘…if you get to the place where you are totally lost, go back to where you know where you was. Then start over again and don’t do the same thing as you had previously done.’ I did get hopelessly lost and, in fact, went back to where I was sure of where I was. Thank goodness there was a Stuckey’s, as I was down to my last five-pound salted pecan nut roll.

After getting gas and putting fuel in my car, I took off again. A while later, I started looking for a place to pull over so Running Water could take one of his frequent potty breaks. I discovered I accidentally left with my ‘injun’ still running in the bathroom stall at Stuckey’s.

I could have gone back, but without all the rest stops, I could take days off my trip. I continued my trek all alone. With only Bob’s directions to guide me, I felt very confident…I would die somewhere along the highway, where they would find my emaciated, shriveled, dehydrated corpse, hunched over the steering wheel, with Bob’s bogus directions still clutched in my fist.

Call it fate or blind luck; I came to the end of everything at a lonely crossroad with a single building on the corner. It was a restaurant called the ‘Better Than Nothing, Bar and Grill.” As I was about to walk in, something caught my attention. It was a small cemetery on the side of the building where chiseled on one of the gravestones it read: ‘I don’t recommend the special.’ Having lost my appetite, I continued down a paved road until the pavement stopped and a path continued.

Traveling on a winding, twisting, bumpy dirt road, not even passing a farmhouse for miles. I was so deep in the woods that I had to stop a bear and ask it for directions, which cost me a five-pound salted pecan roll. Eventually, I came to the end of the trail and my patience. Without any sign of the existence of another human being…I knew I was very close to Bob’s home. He was not antisocial; he just had no use for people. That should have given me a clue of what he thought about me.

In utter frustration, I exited the car, knelt, and looked toward heaven for directions. I wasn’t praying…Bob’s house was on top of a mountain, so I figured it would be easier to see it that way. Sure enough, perched precariously atop a summit directly in front of me was a house fitting his description. Knowing where the home was…did not make getting to it any easier. Stretched across a gravel road was a cable with a sign that read, ‘DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE, KEEP OFF MY PROPERTY.’ Yup, no mistake, this had to be his place. After re-attaching the cable, I threw the car’s transmission into ‘D’ for Dang; this road is steep! Starting the ascent, I climbed so high I saw mountain goats wearing oxygen masks. Twisting, turning, and always winding higher, fighting off the altitude sickness…emerging from a low-level cloud, there was a two-story brick home. Bob had said I should make myself at home if he were not around. That probably did not include eating all his food, piling dirty dishes in the sink, throwing all my clothes on the floor, and scattering his records and tapes everywhere. You don’t even want to know what I did in his bathroom. I’d just finished messing up the last closet when Bob and his brother Richard came in. After Bob made me clean up the house and put everything back, he suggested I change my clothes before he showed me around his property.

As we started down a path, I began to hear the sound of dueling banjos, and suddenly, Bob and Richard were standing in front of me, dressed in bib overalls, laughing, drooling, and holding rifles on me while Robert put shackles around my ankles.

‘Billy,’ Bob started pacing back and forth, quoting, ‘…You’ll get used to wearing them chains after a while but never stop listening to them clinking. They’ll remind you of what I’ve been saying for your own good. What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.’ You’re here to build a road.”

“I thought you invited me to the country for a relaxing weekend of masculine camaraderie, bonding, and maybe even a few grilled bratwurst thrown in.”

“Well, you thought wrong, lard butt. Just think of this like a fat farm ’cause I’m gonna knock at least fifty pounds off ya before long.” Bob let out with a wicked hillbilly laugh. “There ain’t going to be no bonding or tree-hugging or any other touchy-feely crap like that. You want to bond with something…here’s a shovel.”

When I first met Bob in Florida, he was an up-tight dictator director in a coat ’n tie, speaking with a slight Pennsylvanian accent. Now he and his brother had turned into characters out of ‘Deliverance,’ complete with a southern drawl. With a pick ’n shovel and wheelbarrow, I was marched into the woods. There, I was forced to dig ditches, break rocks, and shovel dirt until my blisters had blisters. Bob was dancing a jig and singing about all the free labor he was getting to build his road. He boasted how this wasn’t the first time he had captured unsuspecting hikers who had stumbled onto his land, making them work for him.

I asked him, “What do you think the authorities would say if they knew what you were doing up here.”

“Doing what?” He asked innocently.

“You know, inviting people here with the expectation of a fun-filled weekend but then subjecting them to physical hardships.”

“Ah, quit your whining; you’re so fat; tying your shoes is a physical hardship, you blimp.”

“Maybe…but what about the fun you promised? I’m not having any.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? I can fix that immediately. Would you like to play ‘Hide and Seek?’”

“Uh-huh,” I said before realizing who I was talking to.

Bob lowered his shotgun toward me and suggested, “Best run and hide, then.” Fleeing through the wood like a convict, I heard his two vicious Dobermans in the distance.

Several hours later, after Bob finished his nap, he called off the beasts, allowing me to climb down from the tree.

“You want to play any other games?” Bob asked.

“What did you do with the other people?”

“Do you see any other remains…er…I mean, evidence?” He had a good point. It would be hard to find a body since he owned the whole mountain. As far as evidence…are chipmunks carnivorous?

The sun had already set when Richard announced it was quitting time. “You might as well stop now; it’s so dark I’m afraid if I had to shoot you, I’d miss and hit some helpless fuzzy forest creature.” It had been a long time since I had physically worked this hard. Actually, I had never worked this hard. This was probably why I no longer had the will to live or the strength to trudge up to the house. The dullard brothers tried to lift me into the back of their ‘one-ton’ pick-up, but I made it sink down into the mud. They would have left me tied to a tree all night, but with so much road work left, they couldn’t afford to take the chance I wouldn’t be eaten by a pack of coyotes or a horde of bloodthirsty chipmunks. There was no choice…maybe there was, but ‘Dumb and Dumber’ hooked me to the bumper and dragged me up to the house. I didn’t object until a tree branch got lodged in my butt.

Bob was cooking dinner. Richard staked me outside so he could hose me down. After the delousing, we all sat down to dine. Bob may have been a crazed lunatic—but he knew how to cook. He kept taking swigs of his corn liquor and giggling all evening about the free labor he was getting until he had to go out and hunt down a moose just to finish filling me up. After dinner, the ‘Brothers Grim’ carried me to the shed in a wheelbarrow and locked me in for the night. I was so tired; I was asleep before my head could hit the pillow…if they had given me one, that is.

Sunrise found me ‘♫ On the Road Again ♫’…building it! While this wasn’t what I was expecting when I accepted the invitation to visit Bob for the weekend, on the positive side, if I was ever to apply for a position on a chain-gang with the Georgia State Correctional Institute, at least I would have work experience.

Around noon, only Richard was guarding me as I finished my fifteenth chorus of ‘♫Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot ♫’ Crazy Bob must have been off somewhere molesting a woodchuck. I convinced Richard to unchain me long enough to relieve myself. When it was safe, I made a break for it. I reached my car before being apprehended. I did not want to attract attention, so I just let my car roll down the hill without starting the engine. I left my luggage…reasoning, ‘My life was worth more than a three-pack of BVDs, a tube of Preparation-H, and the rubber sheets my mom always made me take whenever I slept over at anyone’s house.’

As my car gained speed, I whizzed past Richard, or rather, I whizzed on Richard, as I was still in the process of relieving myself. He just stood there with his toothless, wide-open mouth. Just as I was about to relax, I came around the bend at the bottom of the mountain…only to find Bob’s truck blocking my escape and Bob aiming his rifle at me. I slammed on the brakes.

“Hi, Bob,” I stammered.

“Just what do ya think yer doing?”

My mind began racing, thinking of a convincing lie he would buy. “Uh…well…you see…we…um…ah…ran out of rocks, yeah that’s it. Richard said I should go into town to get some.” I couldn’t believe it when Bob moved his truck, unlocked the gate, and waved me through. Just as I was about to pass…he jumped in front of my car with his pistol drawn.

“Hold it right thar city slicker; you must think I’m pretty gall-darn stupid.” I just looked at him blankly, imagining myself back in chains, digging ditches. “You can’t get no rocks without no money. Dem rocks don’t grow on trees, ya know.” He stood there for a moment, looking at me with his beady little eyes and rubbing his chinless jaw. Then he handed me a hundred dollars and told me to pick out good ones. “Hurry back,” he called, “cause you’ve got a lot of road to build, and the time is shorter than you.” [laugh] [chuckle] [snort]

I know what you are thinking, ‘…How could anyone be so stupid?’ You’ve got to understand ole Bob had been subjected to many years of training, like me, by the U.S. Military. That probably also explains why I went to town, bought the rocks, and spent the rest of the weekend…building his road.