Three Strikes and You're Safe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: marclevytoo

Watch out for those angles of refraction.

Everything about him was big. Everyone who knew him called him Big Man. Except for those who had known him for a long time and simply called him Big.


The Unpaid Internet Content Provider called, "Yo, Big."


It was easy to get to know Big. From way up high, nothing ever seemed to get him too low. Before sitting, Big gently placed the two pints he held in one hand on the table without spilling a delicious drop, a Holy Water Saison, and a Zoned AG, brewed with kumquat.


"How's that Holy Water?"




Thomas Wu said, "You smell like you've been working hard."


"Not too hard. It's coming, though. Beautiful buds are starting to bloom."


Big grew weed on ten bountiful acres. Big grew his bounty in a domed greenhouse he designed and in fields showered with love and affection. He learned to grow weed in such a loving manner from his pioneering OG mother, an old hippie with a lot of positive energy. His farm and his farm house smelled like weed. Big smelled like weed. Big swooned with true love at the smell of weed.


The Unpaid Internet Content Provider contributed, "I'm barely working."


"Nothing new there."


"In a pandemic, I'm picky."


"You can work for me during harvest. I could always use more trimmers. But when you work for me you have to work naked."


"What, you don't trust me?"


"No exceptions. It would like bad."


"Not as bad as I would look."


Thomas Wu, as an annoying plastic surgeon with a cockeyed perspective on well-being will, avowed, "I could fix him up to look good."


"I'm an organ donor. You'll have to wait"




"A damning statement coming from a surgeon."


Big said, "You don't change unless you want to."


"I know that."


"Everyone knows that."


"Except for all those who don't."


The irascible techno-yuppie dweeb, who was determined to drive these backwoods tree huggers from the vicinity of his pedicured fiefdom in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains, was pridefully among those who did not. Sly, wily, and certifiably OCD, he wasn't going to be first to flinch, ever. The literal line in his sand had been drawn with a razor honed saber taken from a Prussian cavalryman at Verdun. Threats at his elevation exist only to be eliminated. He never did, never would, never wanted to, not change anything about how he alone knew himself to be.


He was listening to a recording of the cabal from the previous evening. It had been provided to him by his ace private investigator, same location, same suspects, same voices, but with a new pattern of deception to be deciphered, and a new code that had still to be cracked. Piece by piece he was confident the puzzle would be revealed, though, and he would soon crush these dolts and be done. His genius skills at pattern recognition remained legendary in Iowa public schools to this day.


He slathered his Ruffles with chunky day old mayo dip as he mused. His pointed ears twitched like a Siberian wolf, considering angles of deceit. For weeks, each of their illicit conversations had been recorded on a flash drive and printed out for him to painstakingly compare, study, and review with his red Sharpie. What good is muscle until flexed?


"Three points, that I'll give you."




"Pyramids don't grow on trees."


"Power of three."


"It takes three horses to pull one troika."


"There's a pattern there."


"Like a there there."


"A pattern begins at three."


"A possible pattern."


"My money is on the three."


The alert ears of the techno-yup tingled when he heard the insidious foreign word. He was not surprised, though. The threat had turned out to be just as dire as he'd predicted. This was no random malignancy of dunces. He was being confronted by a troika of Soulless Communists.


"Who says it's got to be the way it is anyway?"


"Base 10 to start."


"Where does it start to begin to end?"


"Base 9 would be good action for 3's."


"Some patterns seem to end at the beginning."


"Or never end."


"Three strikes now and you get another chance and you're safe?"


"Standards are low."


"Says who since when?"


"You claim foul and dispute the strike call."




"A third wheel doesn't get another turn."


"It's out."


"A third wheel may get to steer, though."


"Your point?"


"Don't poke a pyramid in a third eye."


"Points are not virtues."


"That's about as sharp as the rule of three they teach in writing school."


"I thought there are no rules in writing."


"They teach it anyway."


"Or else what?"


"They have to teach something."




"Or go with the flow."


"You can go 3 weeks without food but only 3 days without water."


"What's the point?"


"Not me."


"No flow there."


"Ya gotta believe."


"Loads of shit to believe and step in."


"Open the third eye and the mind follows."


"With the flow?"


"You have to love yourself for that."


"Multiplied by two, not three. Three's hard."


"But not too much."


"What, love?"


"A word with many meanings."


"What if I like Base 9 just the way it is?"


"Who's to say what's too too?"


"You sound like a shrink now."


"Too much is never a virtue."


"I do read the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders before bed."


"To put you to sleep?"


"Not only."


"Which edition?"




"Too bad."


"I would have guessed III."


"I'm not that old."


"Personality disorders also show up in clusters of three."


"It's a package deal."


"I'm partial to narcissist, borderline, histrionic."


"Hard to see."


"Cro-Magnon tops Neanderthal."


"Not only split but fractured."


"Simplicity, and moderation, for flow can't be overturned."


"And humility."


"Well, sure."


"Good points."


"Fucking A."


"I haven't heard that one for a long time."


"The longer you keep it up the better you'll see."


"I'd have to see it first to say."







Submitted: October 18, 2020

© Copyright 2020 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

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