Fire and Brimstone

Summary

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly a fire rang out. A woman screamed, and all was silent again…

Details

The day leading up to the most recent Brotherhood debauchery wasn’t looking too good. As a fire had been promised to the attendees, the host was busy using his cheap ass chainsaw to cut down a final couple of trees, and it began to rain. Not only was the host covered in sawdust, but it was wet and sticky sawdust at that. Time to take a nap.

The 5 o’clock hour rolled around, and our intrepid host managed to pry himself off of the couch, dragging his butt towards the kitchen where food preparation needed to take place. It was there that the first guests, one Larry R. and Jason J. intruded in on the silence that had been the hosts lot in life until that hour. “We have a present for you!” cried the more leprechaunish of the two. A small package, wrapped (tastefully) in newspaper and packing tape, was offered to the host. As Meeting Notice Sis-Bro Collier had mentioned, the host had been intending to play with matches this night. The early-birds did the courtesy of bringing sufficient matches for as many fires as members wished to perpetuate on the sleepy residents of the Kent east hill. “We’ve got lots more where those came from!” the guests cried. The sleepy host neglected to mention that there were plenty of piles scattered throughout the yard, and indeed the neighborhood, that begged for fiery attention. For those of you in need of matches (“Your face and a dog’s …”), let it be known that Larry has sought to corner the local phosphorus market, and has some to be had for a very attractive price…

Other bacchanalians began to show up. The aforementioned Sis-Bro Collier helped Bro Barnes find his way to my house from his place up the street. Designated Driver Bro Bishop and long lost Bro Nelson showed up next, leading the host to decide that, since the weather had cleared, and the brush piles had not, in and of themselves, dissolved into compost, it was about time that the fireworks began. Dry newspaper stuffed into wet straw failed to enjoin into conflagration in a sufficiently timely manor, so the application of distilled mead, made from sour honey, created the dancing flames that were in such demand. The rotgut in question was made from honey that had undergone spontaneous fermentation, then an assisted fermentation, and a subsequent removal of unnecessary water. The resulting liquid is much better as a fire starter than as a mixer with fruit juice, although it has been known to function in that capacity as well. The flames licked higher…

Another fellow showed up. Unbeknownst to me, Dean had been a member for several months. Must have joined during my hiatus from debauchery. Not knowing him, I all but accused him of being the local fire marshal, and demanded to see his badge. Must have been the fire started that had been consumed earlier…

The Brush Brigade (we can keep the same initials, but we’ll need new web hosting services…) fed the red and yellow maw that we had created in the back yard. (Of a voracious appetite, the mouth that roared never did managed to scorch the paint off of the side of the house, a fact that my wife was greatly pleased to hear upon her return from her mother’s house. The likelihood of subsequent meetings at my house rose ever after.) Sneaking in rather late was the Sis-Prez-Bro, lately driven down from the frigid north Lake Sammamish hinterlands. It’s always good when the leader arrives to lead.

To my knowledge, the final arrivals were actually the first, as Nancy J. and Betty R. had dropped off their reprobate neer-do-wells at that earlier occasion, then quickly departed to revitalize the local auction economy before the fire marshals (the REAL fire marshals) arrived to throw us all in the fire starting pokey. When asked later for a count of attendees, the first number that sprang to my mind was near 20. A later (and soberer) count could only find 10. Must be the small house that we sought to cram all of these people into. It only SEEMED like 20 persons had been in attendance…

While the Brush Brigade handled their chores with pluck and aplomb, LLB Nelson disparaged my kitchen, oven, and honeymoon knife set, while plotting up a series of Duvall area special pizzas. As more and more people filled up the kitchen area, more and more bags of corn chips took up more and more acreage on the counter tops, along with the prerequisite containers of salsa. Of the soft tacos that our intrepid (and now back sore) host had made, there was but little attempt, leaving the remains for the next day’s omelet. Neighbors complained about the noise and smoke until hot coals were pitched their way in the darkness. (I’m back to the fire, and not the omelet.) As the kitchen became too loud, or the house became too hot, various waves of migration settled about the ring of fire outside to sing old Johnny Cash tunes. When the last of the children were gutted and spitted over the open flames, vespers were called, and the last drunks were kicked out. From all standpoints, another successful meeting…