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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Maji rumbles into more careers, where she finds love and happiness----along with the Medal of Freedom.

Submitted: March 15, 2016

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Submitted: March 15, 2016




A Short Story

Nicholas Cochran

Chapter Two


Blue-collar positions by the scores occupied Maji for the next ten years, followed by ten years in various government slots where she was wined and dined and bribed. She kept all the presents and enjoyed all the junkets but never gave one of the legions of lobbyists anything they wanted.

When the list of gifts from lobbyist plunder began to shrink, she decided to call it a day and retire with a full pension and an empty bed.

And so, here it was, one a.m. and the name of Mr. Blank continued to elude her.  She tried the letters of the alphabet in excruciatingly slow observation and combination. Then she tried male first names.

She went to her computer and found the most popular male names in the years that she roughly figured held the birth date of her stranger, her seven-times-in-one-night,  Blank Blank.

By three a.m., her eyes were glazing over, the coffee had worn off, the bennies had failed to lock in, and she thought: to hell with it; I’ll just relax and let it come to me.

She did just that; passing into Nod, sitting on her capacious patio while studying the movements of the constellations and catching a fleeting glimpse of both the Northern Lights and the ISS.


Maji later tried to piece together the sequence of unlikely events that culminated in her being awarded the Medal of Freedom at a serious ceremony at the White House.

Somewhere between three and four a.m., one hell of a racket woke Maji from her multiple-personality snooze, while she still occupied that particular personality which was that of a hard-assed lawyer hammering a negligent doctor over malpractice on the wazoo of a engineering student who owned her own private jet.  

With unprovoked snarls and the mindset of a ravenous Great White, she sped through her exquisitely decorated rooms like a gnarly grizzly and flung open her massive oak front door with one hand while brandishing a solid andiron in the other.

The etiology of all this unbearable cacophony was a SWAT team of ten members shrieking at the neighbors to: get down, grab the floor—or the wall; shut up; on your knees, accompanied by the deafening howls of ten goddamned police dogs who were set off by some gizmo the unfortunate occupants had shot into the dogs' dog whistle zone for their protection,

In addition, not only the curs but also a number of the team, comprised of fluid genders, were affected. They dropped their weapons and grabbed their stabbing-pain-filled ears in an unaccustomed agony, even for a SWAT team member.

Maji, in her heroic personality, rushed to aid the forces of good. She quickly decided that 'the good guys' had to be the ones with the most guns and the best body armor.

 She was wrong.

However, that particular cocoanut didn’t fall out of the buggered-up tree until later.

Maji immediately threw the yapping canines out the front door where they all rolled around and sniffed each other.

Meanwhile, at ground zero, Maji jumped ahead of the SWAT members, cuffed aside a couple of AK-47s from the neighbors, and kicked two in the nuts with the blurred fluidity of one Bruce Lee.

She emitted her best cries of doom into the faces of her neighbors, a large family of smelly Aussies, who purported to be employed by the DHS, but, in fact, was running loads of illicit beef jerky and pemmican to the indigenous people of the great North, somewhere above the Arctic Circle. Apparently, these two items had been immediately banned when outbreaks of e-coli, salmonella, and Ebola dropped into the unfortunate health-laps of the people with the best view of the Northern Lights. Suddenly, what was merely a food crisis exploded into a food catastrophe, because the huge bands of snow-shoeers had nothing left in their larders but M&Ms and cans of anchovies.

After three weeks of upper GI turmoil, the Chiefs and the Councils decided to scrap the laws of the land and import their staple, with the fervent hope that some jackass would not spit on or piss in, or otherwise infect their food supply.

Maji’s neighbors—recently arrived from Alice Springs—had a mole in the Councils of the North. Their mole advised the Alice Springs Mafia to corner the market in these two items. In addition, the brighter bulbs of the First Nations, Metis, and Inuit urged the Dunders from Down Under to add a third: vapes, for immediate shipment to Churchill. From there, private planes would deliver the plunder to Council Headquarters which sat on the frozen tundra, one hell of a long way farther North than Johnny Horton ever made it. 

The Aussie flim-flam family Barrbie, instantly took the tip and cleaned out all supplies in the country of the beaver and the moose, before, leveling their shelf-clearing sights on the lower forty-eight.

The Barrbies thought the MeBucko Gang was invading with the sole purpose of snatching all the Barrbie’s inventory as well as their fifteen weapons of one type or another.

Thank God Maji put herself between the SWATs and the ‘Roos’. There could have been a mass shooting of fifteen folks from Wallaby land, instead of the fifteen terrorists who were presently escaping from the house across the street by way of back-yard fence-hopping, taking only their book and  Cheesits in the bags holding their grenade launchers and machine guns.

As soon as one of the ‘Roos shouted an unintelligible indignation, Maji’s number forty-four idiot savant personality recognized the accent and told her Jaws personality that these poor cobbers of hers were about to be lit up.

"Wait!" and Maji turned to face the SWATers.

She rapidly explained the situation to the SWAT team Commander, while the numb-nuts-street-and-number locater, mumbled an apology to the bug-eyed Barrbies. 

Maji immediately knew the mistake and rushed out the door, past the howling, sniffing doggy-cluster and across the street with the SWATS running up her tail pipe.

She had always wondered about that large family across the street but had only seen them on Fridays when they slaughtered and grilled a lamb on their front lawn. Maji had assumed, correctly, that this practice had been negotiated with the Welcome Wagon Committee when the Azerbaijanis entered the neighborhood some months ago. Maji was at sea when the stunned Welcome Wagon widow struck the 'salughter and spit' accord with the layer-clothed rabble, busily hauling in barracuda and sailfish while a guest on a Senator’s flashy fishing boat, a perk she received as a delayed gift from him a couple of years before.

Maji had watched the Friday ritual with great interest, often when a goat was on the spit. She soon came to appreciate the refined culture of her neighbors, despite the spit smoke wreaking havoc with her sensitive lawn furniture and nettling her Siamese cat, Conjoined.

The SWATs leapt the back fence with the exhilaration of black-hatted and red-coated fox hunters while they yapped and yipped like their hounds as they made their hurdles.

They caught ten of the fifteen plus an inventory of legally purchased weaponry not yet seen in Jane’s Weapons.

The yelling and friendly firing plus the goddamned racket from the pooches began to erode Maji’s Great White personality and before five a.m. she insisted on everyone in both houses to:just bloody well go to your goddamned homes . . . and you guys . . .genders, piss off and let me get my sleep.

That did it.


In old English, it was spelled Piff; and . . . yes, Biff!

Maji seriously hugged some body armor and wept upon rememberiing the name of her Maximum-Max lover of yesteryear.

When her tears dried and all but one of the fifteen ‘Roos had left, after thanking her with twenty versions of the word ‘mate, Dundee Barrbie, the haggard father of thirteen, felt he owed Maji more than simple thanks. He insisted on explaining to her in spirited detail why she almost got shot.

They repaired, rather groggily, to Maji’s resplendent back deck where they sipped Fosters from a can and watched the sun rise over the eastern range of the Fallanoes.

He explained the entire chain of operation for their beef jerky-pemican gambit. Dundee took her right from the beginning; the initial acquiring—either by purchase or purloin—all the way to the loading of the merchandise into the private jets.

From there, in the air, the jets with skis attached, would slide to a soft landing, coming to rest outside the Council Chambers somewhere hell and gone where it’s blacker than an abo by winter and brighter than a Christmas tree all night long in the summer.

Maji was lingering behind the lead thread to this tale and she stopped when she heard ‘private jet'.

She smiled, issued a long deep sigh, and asked Barrbie if he had ever come across a 'private jet' owner named Biff.

Barrbie damn near fell off the French Provincial chair,(a gift from the Defense Minister of Guatemala) Maji had pulled out for him to sit on. Dundee choked on his Fosters and burbled out a repeat of Biff’s name.

“Biff?:” he squeaked again.

After twelve repetitions of his question and Maji telling him to belt up, he nodded and grasped Maji’s hand and invited her to join his mob. She immediately accepted and within three weeks, her head hurt like hell from the seven bangings against the headboard it absorbed upon her reunion with Biff. She warmly invited him to accompany her to the White House to receive her Medal of Freedom. Biff agreed with great fervor and brimming admiration of his incredible Maji; “you haven’t changed a bit.”

‘Neither have you," she managed after number seven.

As it turned out, Biff had to divorce three wives, as well as dodge some nasty bigamy accusations.

Maji called the President personally and asked for a postponement. The President was blown away by everything about Maji and she told Maji to just call a couple of weeks ahead, so that she could shuffle some appointments plus a State Dinner or two; and maybe a veto session.  Maji agreed and thanked the Pres for her overwhelming kindness and consideration.

Biff unzipped himself from past mistakes by way of laying a billion on each ex, plus a few tangible trinkets, but he still had four left and a stable of rich-guy toys as well as an open account with the leading price-gougers who swim among the suckers near the bottom of the ethics tank.

Maji insisted he close all accounts that she was to use. She also convinced Biff to donate a couple of Ferraris and three Lambos to the Season of Sharing in Biff’s home town.


The Medal of Freedom felt very strange around her neck but it didn’t stop her from shedding a tear when she saw Biff holding a large platinum-plated "Number Eight" in his hands, while he sported a smile of pride of accomplishment—for both of them.

© Copyright 2018 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.

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