Chapter 22: New Adventures in Farming.

I had little time to consider Jack's offer of forced prostitution, for at that moment federal agents swarmed on the Quanders homestead, demanding payment of the mortgage and the handover of a young Cuban refugee I had previously not been aware of, who had been put to work mining diamonds in the basement. "Oh hell," Jack yelled, cursing his unfortunate luck at being interrupted yet again. "I curse my unfortunate luck at being interrupted once again!"

Sleevus and the colonel took rifles in hand and threatened to shoot down any United Nations helicopters that may invade the farm's airspace. It seemed they did not recognize the authority of either the international organization (which was not even involved in the dispute) or the state of Kentucky, which they deemed traitorous based on an ongoing feud over an obscure whiskey aging process. Confused as I was, I admit to being somewhat intrigued by the fabled "quadruple-malt" scotch that Roberta recalled being suckled with as an infant.

"Come out with your hands up!" yelled a federal marshal. Sleevus objected and asked them to come in with their hands up. "Not without a written invitation and permission to court your sister," the marshal insisted. It was a chess game of Cat and Mouse playing Chutes and Ladders. The only question was whose battleship would sink first. "I'm not makin' y'all tea," Sleevus countered, and he pointed out that the agents hadn't even had the courtesy to call ahead so the Quanders could tidy up.

While the family hunkered down for a drawn-out siege and began calling journalists for interviews, Jack and I snuck out the back of the house and waded into the overgrown pastures beyond. He said he knew a place, a secret place where he came to cry. It would be a good hiding spot until things blew over and we could repopulate the farm. And I trusted him, because he was older, wiser, and more experienced. Surely got that eye patch from some lesson learned. Or an admirable desire to model his life on the teachings of Bazooka Joe. At any rate, the feds had spotted us and were approaching as the farmhouse now burned with fiery intensity. I guessed that Quanders family was finally going to meet Granny in the great existential void that exists in the absence of biological processes. Or they'd survive and file a lawsuit, like they did with that spilled coffee. Whatever. I'm not a fortuneteller.

We came upon a fortified complex, where Jack pointed out a steel hatch half-buried in loose dirt built into a hillside. He dug out the doorway, all the while complaining about the time he'd spend later picking the dirt out from his nails. Finally, he dusted off an emblem etched in the door- United States Department of Defense. "Well, we've got somethin' to defend against," he said, fancying himself an action hero as he turned the hatch wheel and opened the chamber. The hatch opened with a loud creak and a girlish scream, as Jack dislocated his shoulder. He wouldn't be providing 7th-inning relief in the town's annual softball tournament now.

"Oh Jack, every moment with you feels like the last I'll live," I told him. "Oh Katrina," he spoke back, "I really want to butt sex you before they kill us."

Inside, we could hear the agents still in pursuit. He sealed the door, and asked if I might want to make faces at them through a window before he dragged me over a metal bridge across a gaping black chasm, to another large entryway platform. There was a keypad on it, and he claimed he knew the combination because he had tried for several years to guess it, and this was the last combination he hadn't used yet. It worked. We sealed ourselves within a room full of blinking lights and humming machinery, where the sounds of the soldiers were drowned out by ambient noise effects that let whoever operated this equipment know that it was not just any equipment, but the Equipment of the Future.

For a long time, nothing happened. I mean, Jack finally got uninterrupted butt sex and we spent a while trying to find a bathroom to clean up, but nothing of significant plot importance. He told me about the time he waited in line to see Lord of the Rings but had to leave because a deadly assassin tried to kill him with a belt-sander. I told him about my plans to publish my story someday when editorial standards laxed. Then there was a loud explosion and the missile it turns out we had holed ourselves inside of was rocketed into space. Yes, I do believe that was an important turning point, and so I will make mention of it. But aside from that, it was relaxing.

Through the porthole, I saw our small planet grow smaller, although Jack said it was merely a trick of perspective. I told him that with a single functioning eyeball, he wasn't one to talk about perspective, and that it was possible that we were now giants and the earth had shrunk. He countered that his observation of perspective was quite fine, it was his depth-perception that suffered, and that I was an ignorant bitch. We discussed it for some time, until the rocket eventually docked with a vast orbital death outpost beyond the control of international or moral law. I sincerely hoped they had a wet bar.

When the airlock opened, we stepped into a new techno-futile world, where people wore spandex and excessive foam padding. Where weak artifical gravity made me one-third of my earth weight. And where oiled naked gladiator women fought to the death with steel-bladed flesh-tearing weapons while rollerskating around a concave pit of fusion-powered hellfire for the amusement of intergalactic barons. This was Outpost Omicron- "The Big O", and this was my new home. For the next couple chapters, at least.