Tales of the Tree Chipper

The Cult of Set, the Snake God seeks to manipulate and master the forces of Chance for the purpose of financial advantage of its adherents. The Cult is a secret society, a fraternity of secret combinations which holds loyalty to itself above respect for law or morality.

You awake in the morning.
The weather is bad. Snow. Freezing rain. Darkness.

Holding your morning cup of coffee, you summon thoughts of Victory. Victory coffee! The legions of state and municipal authority! The apparatus – tirelessly working to plow snow, apply salt, and encourage safe practices! Hurrah! Those defeatist thoughts of crumpled cars and spilled wreckage are banished from your mind. You are safe in your home. Your toes are toasty in your fuzzy tartan slippers. Today is a stay at home day for you. Work from home on your under capitalized home business; tomorrow it is back to your temporary, part time job working for Shitty Ego Crushers and Company. You are safe, and your family is safe from this ill-omened icy driving weather.

Inside your home, down in your recreation room, you are happy. You are not driving. Your family is asleep, upstairs, warm in their beds. No driving for you today, and for them that you care about. There, on your recreation room coffee table, is a half eaten box of Smarties. Half full, as they say.

Shake out ten. A chance selection of colors. To each of the ten, you could assign the identity of ten people you know. Ten people who are risking their lives out on the ice shod and fog clouded roads this Ontario morning shrouded in darkness. Darkness. Except for you, warm with toasty toes in your tartan slippers.

Different numbers of colors. It is like a math problem in school, only this is fun math. Fun! Two red smarties. Who could they be? Your two friends who are public sector workers! Pensions! Platinum benefits! Paid, cumulative, indexed to inflation, sick days! Still, they risk life and limb like the rest of us. If (and when) Black Lives Matter launch a machete attack on the gas station where they are buying gas and a homo sugar free green tea, they will die, exsanguinated as they lie in a pool of their own blood, vomit, and guts, waiting, waiting, waiting, for EMS to get clearance from the Ministry of Labor because of slip hazards.

Math is fun! There are a few blue smarties. A few brown. The colors always vary, and the number always adds to ten.

Somewhere out there, on these slippery, icy roads, someone is going to die. You push aside the blue smarties. Perhaps a snowplow operator, distracted by a cell phone text message, will disembowel some pedestrians in the seniors standing only section of a bus stop. Only in Toronto, but always an event of chance. There are brown smarties, too. They do not take public transit. No chance of public disemboweling for them today. Somewhere out there in Continental North America, someone will douse themselves in cooking oil and set themselves aflame. Could be them, those brown smarties. It is all math. Math is fun.

Accidents happen. What is to blame is the left to responsible municipal and state safety authorities. Who benefits is the study (and practice) of the Cultists of Set, the Snake God. It is math. And with Set, the Snake God as your tutor, math is financial fun. Yay!

Then there is that lone, green, smartie. The boy that is dating your daughter. He spent the weekend smoking dope and drinking your vermouth, trying to work up the courage to tell your daughter that he has syphilis. He has a job, this week. He will be driving, hungover from liquor and drugs, all the long icy way from your home to his ‘job’. When he worked for you in your struggling business, he fell asleep at the sales table and a crack whore stole the daily receipts. You had to borrow money from your father-in-law, Goof Trollsen, to buy Christmas presents this year. Thank you, green smartie. You hold up the green smartie, and think about what it represents.

Really, it is murder to let this human being on the road. He has a fat splif rolled and ready in his pack of smokes. His car tires are bald, dangerous even in a parking lot. You have to remind yourself constantly to check the cap of the fruit juice container of gasoline that is kept under the back seat. His taste in music: loud, is distracting. He never stops texting his harem while driving.

You could warn the youth to drive carefully, cautiously. The hollow where your favorite coffee shop is located is particularly treacherous. Would sense penetrate his skull? You look into his blood shot eyes. Talking sense is rape. It is 2016.

You could forbid your daugher from seeing this boy, but that would be a hate crime. It is 2016.

What can you do? Harpsichord music plays in your head. There is mathematics in the chords and octaves. Harpsichord music.

You are going to pay a hefty price when this green smartie meets his certain doom. Your daughter will mourn the passing of this hollywood grade ape with the diseased pecker. And the stench of charred human flesh and choking plastic stink will penetrate the little hollow where your favorite coffee shop is located. You know this. It has happened before. How can you enjoy jam filled Tim Bits from now ’till spring?

There is not much you can do to avert tragedy. Bad luck and bonne chance. The responsible authorities have done everything bureaucratically possible. Fine. Fine, they are responsible. Accept it.

As you see the green smartie to his car, you hand him his fully charged cell phone (‘Thanks Dad!” he says in a cloud of vermouth breath). Check to make sure he has some lighters and a new pack of smokes to complement the half pack of weed in his front pocket. A quick check of the backseat (ostensibly to get the ice scraper) to liberate any items of clothing stolen (your good loafers [now blasphemed with unholy dog turd]) and secure the fruit juice container (it is ‘righty loosie; lefty tightie’ and wedge the container in that special way between the seat springs.

You wave smiling, as the green smartie, the hollywood ape with the diseased pecker, heads off. Good Bye, you wave. You worry about Chance. Bonne chance you say to yourself. You have faith in the teachings of the cultists of Set, the Snake God.

In the basement of your house is your secret shrine to the Emerald Eyed One, Set, the Snake God.

You pop the green smartie into your mouth.
(Some people like to savor them; some crush them in their teeth. Spider or Crocodile we say in the rituals of Set, the Snake God).

Accept this offering,” you intone before the lit candles. Using tongs, you hold a Hot Wheels car and pass it through the flames. You look at the ritual bottles of hot sauce, ketchup, relish, mustard, and one special shaker of cumin for special events. “I, the chef, offer this entree“.

Your spiritual practices done,
you return to this world. Time for your mornings first Rum and Coke … on your back porch on this bad weather day.

Outside.

Oh dear. A cloud of smoke in the distance. The hollow where your favorite coffee shop is located.

Then, a phone call from your fellow cultist of Set, the Snake God. The insurance broker from your family friendly neighborhood branch of the Bank of Palermo.

A casual observer would report that you are laughing, and tears of joy are coursing your cheeks. Appearances can be deceiving. This is the laughter of sadness, and crocodile tears of grief. Conveniently, there are no witness. No witnesses. Rum and Coke.

Oh dear. Another Rum and Coke. Open a bag of chips. The expensive ones you save for special occasions.

The insurance payout is barely adequate to soothe your grief. Poor green smartie, eaten, gone. The octuple indemnity will pay off your mortgage, recapitalize your small business, allow you to quit your hated day job, pay for your daughter to attend the elite Ian Paisley University, and get you a new pair of loafers. The Complete Closed Casket Coverage (ask your broker today!) will shield those weak of stomach from barfing at the viewing. Maybe nobody should go. Tomorrows forgotten nobody. It is for the best. The state and the municipality will, maybe, maybe this year or next, erect a cautionary sign in the hollow. They are responsible. You are merely the benefactor of Chance. Nine smarties left.

Such are the many Tales of the Tree Chipper, shared amongst acolytes of the cult of Set, the Snake God, where Math is Fun! and Bonne Chance!

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

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