| N. Peas Trafalgar's THE TREE |
| By Dorian DeLorean |
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Dirk couldn't help himself when it came to power tools. Rumspringa had come and gone, and still he clung to his chainsaw, angle grinder and combination flashlight/bottle opener with a devotion that bordered on open-mouthed obsession. His father and his father's father had lived in these woods, and he knew not to wear the color red, because it attracts Them. And then They would want to come and have a nice teatime and decimating the forest would be all shot to hell for the rest of the day. |
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His Stormtrooper outfit had less to do with fashion than with safety, and the vaguely phallic shape of the helmet in no way restricted peripheral vision. The Kevlar gloves had just the right grip. The Kevlar pants made him look like he had absolutely no ass whatsoever. |
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Dirk hated trees. |
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He turned off the fireplace with the flick of a switch. In the bottom of the basket, disguised as a bit of larch limb, were the holographic remains of his 23rd century life. He had been rich, in that life, but had given it up for a $20/day latte habit and the ability to cut down loathesome tropical hardwoods. The chair left painful spindle prints in the small of his back. |
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