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Of Mice and Men and Natural Born Killers
Of Mice and Men and Natural Born Killers
By
Cognitive Dissonance
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We awoke to a terrible commotion at the foot of the bed. It seems Tramp, our eighteen pound Maine Coon Cat, was on the hunt and had something pinned down under the twin dressers across from our bed. I immediately got up and flipped on the light just in time to watch Tramp flip out, snorting and pawing and clearly blood thirsty….or so I thought. If nothing else he was definitely triggered, spurred into action by quick movement and scurrying feet.
Soon enough though he quieted down and the assumption made was that his prey got away. Either that, or there was a bloody mess under one or another of the matching dressers. Best to handle the cleanup in the morning light than to stumble and fumble around after midnight. I mumbled a mixture of bad cat and congrats to Tramp, killed the light and snuggled up to Mrs. Cog. It’s rather comforting having a natural born killer watching the border while I peacefully sleep. Who says I can’t handle the truth?
The next morning I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom, last night’s incident more like a bad dream than a recent memory. It was only when I passed the twin dressers on the way back that the memory crystallized, helped along by Tramp still standing guard at the foot of the bed, pitifully crying for his usual canned breakfast. I steeled myself, then grabbed the flashlight and peered under the dressers, expecting gore and guts and maybe even some blood. Alas my first supposition was correct for the prey, most likely wounded and bleeding, was nowhere to be found and had obviously made his escape.
Out of sight out of mind, I continued with my morning routine; last night’s feline stalking filed away for future reference, hardly the most important thing on my mind at the moment. But deep down inside I knew this wasn’t over, that the mice would continue to play while the cat was away…..or at least sleeping. Mouse hunting was clearly a midnight activity, just as clearly not midday. In all honesty I had no desire to scour the premises for mouse remains, correctly assuming if the prey could escape from under the dresser while the cat stood guard I was not going to be successful conducting my own personal search.
Sure enough the next night the commotion commenced just as we both fell asleep, only this time the activity was particularly intense. Fool Tramp once, shame on the mouse; fool Tramp twice, shame on Tramp. Already primed for the Friday Night Fights by the activity the night before, I first roused Mrs. Cog and then bolted from the bed to light the arena with the overheads. Sure enough Tramp was on the prowl, a whirling dervish of frenzied fur, snorting and pawing and wide eyed with excitement. While Tramp might be middle aged in cat years, tonight he was the heavyweight champ of the world and we had ring side seats with a view to the kill.
Unfortunately it quickly became apparent that a kill was not what I was viewing, but rather feline play time Tramp style, with the mouse the unwilling squeaky toy. Repeatedly Tramp would pounce and swat with his big snowshoe paws, then carefully pick up the mouse in his jaws. Each time when I assumed he was killing I was proven wrong, for he would deliberately release the mouse in order to promote more blood sports. Either I had an extremely bored cat on my hands, or I was severely mistaken about exactly what constituted a natural born killer. Or maybe there was a third option.

At one point Tramp had the brown field mouse cornered in the closet, the big sliding mirrored doors open to the entire bedroom. We were all comfortably gathered up on the bed, safely off the coliseum floor and out of the way so as not to impede the game board while watching the ritual execution. By now the teenage child unit had been roused from her slumber by Mrs. Cog’s alarmed cries, yelps and exclamations for me to do something, anything, and had joined the ‘rents at ringside just in time for round three.
At this point it was never more obvious to me that killing was at best Tramp’s secondary goal, with ‘play’ and the chase the primary purpose of his focused attention. Tramp was now crouched behind an old shoe of mine not more than 12 inches from the mouse (who was plastered to the wall, bug eyed and hyperventilating) waiting for the mouse’s next chess move while clearly enjoying his exertions. I had mistaken blood thirst for Tramp’s instinctually triggered play. Who says the artist can’t enjoy his bloody work?
If you think about this it makes all the sense in the world. Tramp is not food insecure, far from it in fact. He is fed his daily can of Friskies (lots of gravy please) along with the ever present bowl of dry food and a separate endless water dish. His nutritional food needs are most certainly met by me (he trained me well) so the mouse represented recreation, not sustenance. His natural born killer instincts, some might call it survival instincts, had been moderated and redirected towards ritual play rather than survival. While he is still triggered when a small rodent rapidly exits stage right, he has no real desire to eat the damn thing, just get it to play all night.
Sure enough the mouse made a desperate dash for freedom by way of those same matching dressers, and damn if he didn’t make it partway under when the hand of God, or in this case the paw of Tramp, came crashing down upon his head. But Tramp did not want play time to end and was careful not to kill, only contain. Several times in the next 5 minutes Tramp would scoop up his prey in his mouth, only to let it go in order to start the chase all over again.
How many times did the mouse see his life flash before his eyes I will never know, but I counted at least five and I assume there were many more. On at least two occasions Tramp leapt up onto the edge of the bed, mouse tail and rear legs frantically waving from his mouth. This of course exponentially escalated Mrs. Cog’s verbal exclamations, compelling Tramp to jump back down and once again release the mouse. We all love to show off our handy work to family and friends, so who could blame Tramp for doing the same?
At one point in the festivities the mouse made a run for the kitchen and, unbelievably, managed to secure temporary shelter under the fridge. Tramp, as patient as a saint, parked his butt two feet away and waited for the inevitable. The jeering crowd, having grown impatient by the lack of blood and guts, collectively decided to retire (again) for the night, quickly returning to dreamland despite the unsatisfactory end to the fun and games. You just can’t win them all I suppose.
No sooner did I doze off and begin to dream of old “Tom and Jerry” cartoons when I heard Tramp’s meow intrude upon dreamland. Once again I quickly awoke, although this time I did not need to wake Mrs. Cog who was slightly more skeeved by the night’s entertainment and thus unable to sleep. Grabbing the nightstand flashlight I searched for Tramp, who I could hear but not see. Finally I found him backed into the closet facing out, pitifully meowing as if he had been stranded at the altar, his bride-to-be anywhere but here.

I stood there a good twenty seconds trying to figure out what was going on, and it was only when Tramp reached out a second time and batted at something on the floor did I realize the mouse, now thoroughly deceased, was jammed against the door refusing to play, his lifeless body a mangled heap. Poor Tramp, no one wants to play with him anymore.
Finding pity in my heart for the field mouse, and more importantly not wanting Mrs. Cog to find Tramp’s soon-to-be abandoned and now squeak-less toy in the morning, I grabbed a dust pan from the hall closet and relocated the brown corpse to that happy hunting ground outside. Tramp somewhat reluctantly followed me, perhaps hoping I would revive or replace the mouse, thus starting the game all over again. Obviously I disappointed him, though his still full dry food dish awaited as a consolation prize. Tramp drowned his sorrow in dry and I dragged my butt off to bed……again. Game, set and match.
As one who subscribes to the adage that we can find inspiration wherever we look, my mind snapped to attention as soon as my head hit the pillow. My brain flashed with memories of a time long ago when I witnessed similar behavior in humans. Not killing per se, but more along the lines of deadly play. Those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end.
I was in my very early twenties and most definitely running with the wrong crowd. His name was Vito and he was hired muscle, the man who did the dirty work when you wouldn’t pay let alone play. For most muscle in his position it was just another job, perfectly suited for someone with more brawn than brains. But for Vito it was a calling and one most people thought he enjoyed just a little bit too much. This fact alone made Vito a force to be reckoned with; if Vito showed up on your doorstep you were in a heap of trouble and things were about to get decidedly worse.
The thing was he was paid a weekly retainer rather than on a per job basis since his very presence compelled nearly all to pay. It wasn’t nice to fool with Mother Vito, and nobody in their right mind would even dare. Thus his actual services were rarely needed, leaving him hungry to play but financially sated. During those rare occasions when he was finally given the green light to engage, Vito would play and play and play. In fact Tramp could take lessons on the art of extended game play from Vito, he being a real life pin ball wizard.
Vito’s specialty was allowing his prey to think they might just get away. He was even known to turn his back and take a few shots just to encourage this foolish notion. And who could blame the prey for not grabbing any opportunity, no matter how slim, when plastered to the wall, bug eyed and hyperventilating. To the best of my knowledge Vito never went all the way. After all, dead prey pay no vig. Sometime later I heard Vito had been dispatched to his own happy hunting grounds, having turned his back one time too many. Karma…….it is a bitch they say.

Several decades later there was Mel, the king of life insurance sales, quickly promoted to sales manager in order to inflict even more damage. Mel, a short fat guy with more brains than brawn, cared not who was hot and who was not in the local office since everyone else was just a flash in the pan compared to King Mel. All he wanted was for his junior sales associates to make the cold calls and set up that night’s prey. He would do the rest.
I will never forget one sales meeting attended by all the sales managers, including the latest office promotion, little ole me. While I had witnessed Mel from a distance, never had I the opportunity or desire to work under or with him. Now I was working side by side on his ‘team’. The district manager was reading us the riot act over last week’s dismal sales, then began running through a list of changes to the officially sanctioned sales practices that had just come down from corporate. You know……plausible deniability in case some rogue salesman or manager came along.
Mel sat next to me doodling the entire time, paying no attention what-so-ever to the meeting. As we were finishing up I leaned over and whispered so only he could hear my naive question, “Aren’t you worried about these new rules Mel”? Clearly startled he turned and looked at me as if noticing me for the very first time, then grinned and spat out, “Rules are for fools and rookies like you. While you’re wasting time figuring out how to color in the lines I’ll just be putting more distance between me and you.”
And over the next several months that is precisely what Mel did. Never let a crisis, or a rules change, go to waste he would say. Not only did he break every sales record in the office that year, but in the state and region as well. And because he was making boat loads of money, so were his various ‘managers’ all the way up the line, each receiving a taste of Mel’s action, thus assuring that the top salesmen/managers remained fed and protected from the long arm of the law. Until, that is, they outlived their usefulness. Then they too were fed to the lions.
The funny thing was that while Mel certainly enjoyed the perks and rewards of his activity, in his case a beautiful home and trophy wife, new clothes, cars and various boy toys, those were not his primary motivation. For Mel it was the hunt, the chase, the score that mattered most. If Mel was holding court about his latest sales conquest it was never about the money and always about the technique used to get this fish to bite or that chump to sign. The more resistance he received from the prospect the harder he worked to get the signature. The only thing that would deter him was a prospect that simply could not pay, and he just chalked the loss up to the numbers game. You lose some, but most you win. Goodbye looser, hello next winner.
He would wax poetic about the look in the eyes of those he was selling to as they capitulated to his will and signed along the dotted line. He reserved a special place in his hell for those who signed, then tried to back out of the deal. While some of his winning ways could be attributed to salesmanship, technique and just plain old smarts, I suspect most of it had to do with pure force of will and that creepy feeling one gets when in the presence of a sociopath. I bet many ‘clients’ did not fully understand who or what was seated across from them at the kitchen table, but they sure as hell wanted him out of the house and would sign just about anything to accomplish that.

Mel would screen all his prospects in advance, grilling his sales associates as to the prospect’s personality and demeanor. He always said that the sale was won in the preparation, not in front of the prospect, and I tend to believe him. Even sharks do not blindly rush in to kill, but slowly circle in order to size up the risk while measuring the potential reward. Mel would say that a bad prospect not only wasted your time, but kept you from making a sale elsewhere, thus killing you twice.
He would always spend the first 15 minutes of any sales appointment in what appeared to be casual conversation with seemingly innocuous questions asked about home, work, family and friends. But under the surface he was examining his prey, sizing them up while he probed for psychological weaknesses. If he found one, and everyone has one if you look deep enough, he would immediately pounce, grind, claw and smack until the prospect relented. While I never directly witnessed his technique in real time, his young sales assistants would return from appointments with tales of sales magic. Some close questioning of his sales patsies usually revealed other clues to his methods.
I have had other close calls with sociopaths, but it all becomes redundant after a while. The genre has been extensively studied, examined and probed with always the same conclusion. As a predatory species they have very few qualms about exploiting their prey’s weaknesses, and for the most part they love to play with their food before grinding the prey’s bones to make their bread. Plopped down amongst a human race already controlled and conditioned to be passive and compliant, we mere humans stand little chance of survival when the Tramps of the world come stalking.
05-13-2014
Cognitive Dissonance
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Tramp, our natural born killer!
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With several cats over the past 30 years, this same event happens at least once a week, maybe even once a day depending on the season.
They are masters of their environment.
That said, it is quite odd and rare that one of them succumbs to one of their overlords, like a fisher cat or coyote.
One gets the impression that it is all about observing, learning and very, very carefully taking the risk to obtain the equity...
I would dearly like to turn them loose on the market.
EB, Im 65, bothered me since young, the Stadia/Stadium/Gymnasium. It was base ball in the arena that bothered me first. Then FootBall, Hockey you name it. Bread and Circus or am I over reacting??
No, you are not over reacting........at least not in my book.
We the People are more domesticated than my cat Tramp.
Think about it this way: Today, if the wrong team wins or loses, you may see a minor riot. Now then, how do you think the masses would react to an August announcement that there would be no NFL games ever again, and they were not going to be replaced by anything? In a sick, twisted way, those athletes with their huge salaries keep the peace, minor riots not withstanding. The question that you should be asking yourself, is the peace worth keeping?
You could have rescued the mouse and released it somewhere instead of standing by while the cat terrorised it. Didn't it feel wrong to you to watch the mouse suffer?
Funny that you would say that. Exactly how do you suggest I would have captured the mouse and released it when there is a cat living in my house and I live on the edge of a mountain surrounded by nature? I am in their domain, not the other way around.
The first time I knew there was a mouse in the house was the night before, when Tramp was stalking the mouse. This is not the first time nor the last I will have mice in the house. They are everywhere on this mountain.
We have bob cats, wild turkeys, deer, moles and ground hogs, bears, possums, copperhead and rattle snakes as well as a dozen other non poisonous snakes etc etc etc. Should I list the bugs as well?
Your idea might work in a suburban setting with one or two mice and no cat in the house. It will not work here on the edge of the mountain. Once you have lived here for a while you will understand the idea of living IN nature rather than living isolated from nature as most urban Americans do. Living and dying is the way of life up here and every local knows it.
Thanks for the reply - I was not judging you and my post should have been worded better.
One of the greatest lies is that "violence does not solve anything." Tell that to the mugger with the knife in your face. Such a belief or attitude is what the sociopath lives off of. Not only don't believe it, but reject it.
Sociopaths only fear "no" backed up with not only the ability for violence but the mindset, the mental preparedness for, violence.
That attitude is what one saw from the Bundys at the Bundy ranch and later by their supporters. They not only had the ability to deliver violence, but were prepared in mind and spirit to deliver it. The DC US' goons on the ground knew it and so abandoned the field. Yes the DC US may come again, but the first round went to refusal and to the audacity of violence by the people.
One must develop an attitude of "no" and a mindset prepared to back "no" up with violence. No other method can work against the sociopaths that are our, the American peoples', enemies.
i think everybody has a little socio in them, but to be a 100 percent all dayer, hmmm.
i worked for one, and learned how not to show up in life...
It's funny Cog. At the start of the article, I thought of Hannibal Lecter's quote:
I was then met by a picture of the bad doctor Lecter. Then, when you started writing about how Tramp was playing, rather than killing, I thought "Well, he's not hungry, and he's a cat." And you brought up food security.
Cats generally don't last too long where I am. The coyotes don't have food security, and they don't play with their food. I had one that lasted a few years, until he started venturing further and further away from the safety of the dogs and the 6' fence. He was a hunter, and he'd stash his half eaten kills in various places, including under the beds.
The other hunter that I had was a feral coy-dog. My mom had observed her, living in the wild, hunting for herself and another feral dog's pups. My mom spent two weeks luring her in with meat and other food, until she (my mom) finally was able to get her into the car. (Normally, feral dogs are bad news and should be put down, but this one wasn't packing up.) Somehow, I ended up with her. She was an excellent mouser in her younger days, and when I had squirrels getting into everything, she and I did a number on them together. She was never a "domestic" dog though. She acted wild. When she first got to my place, she started taking out after the ducks, and knowing that she was not domestic, she was going after them with the intent to kill. I'm sure that duck and goose (as well as cat) was on the menu when she was in the wild. All it took was me running after her, yelling at her twice, and she never went after them again. I was the alpha male in her pack, and it was against the rules to attack the ducks. And she had food without having to kill them. It's funny how critters are more willing to behave when they don't have to worry about food. Including two legged critters.
Being semi-wild, she wasn't too keen on strangers. You knew you were accepted when she would come up to you in my house. Other than that, she would come up to see who was coming in, and then she would skittle off, not wanting to be near the stranger, though she did like the elderly. Hence the name Skittles. Every once in a while, somebody would rub her wrong though, and it was deep growls and beared teeth. (My dane is like that too, but she was also a pup around Skittles. She's normally a chicken, but I've seen her with somebody who she doesn't like, and it is kind of scary. She had one crack-head who was casing the neighborhood literally shaking with fear, and that was with my hand on the collar as to ensure she was not released.)
One funny story with Skittles began one fine morning when I walked out the back door, only to be hit by a wall of skunk stench, and I saw the skunk waddling across the yard, unconcerned. And the dogs, including Skittles were out there, stinking to hell. Now, I'm not one to put up with skunks spraying shit in my yard, so out came the 22. As I was getting to where I could shoot it, I saw Skittles running full speed at the skunk, not giving a shit that it had already sprayed her and was going to spray her again. Without thinking, I started to run to intercept her, yelling "SKITTLES NO!" After about 4 or 5 times repeating that, Skittles stopped, and I realized I was getting kind of close to the skunk. That's three pounds of pure terror, so I damned near made skidmarks going from a sprint to moving backwards. Then I shot the skunk, and it fell over and kind of quivered. After about 10 seconds of me not wanting to get too close to it for the obvious reasons, the damned thing got back up and started making a line for the back fence. So I shot it again, and it kept on going. It made it 70 yards to the back fence, leaving a blood trail the whole way, where it finally expired. It had also sprayed my neighbor's dog, and when I told her that I had shot it, she said "Good!" The damn thing was a menace.
The moral of the story is that skunks are very tough and very terrifying for their size, and feral dogs don't give a shit. Oh, and keep a .410 handy, as 22s don't cut it unless you hit them in the head or heart.
You can never have enough cat stories on the internet...heh.
The cat was just the delivery vehicle. Vito and Mel were the gravy. :)
Great read and not unlike most of the Jamies, and Lloyds of our day. Personally, I never underestimate the potential for disaster. It could happen at any second, the .308 carbines, .12 guage auto, two .45's etc.. within reach with two dogs who can give warning are still not a match for these guys. I will be happy to ensure I get to see someone end up blasted before I go. So, Cest la vie. the game goes on. Just be a watchman as the thief comes in the night.
Great read and not unlike most of the Jamies, and Lloyds of our day. Personally, I never underestimate the potential for disaster. It could happen at any second, the .308 carbines, .12 guage auto, two .45's etc.. within reach with two dogs who can give warning are still not a match for these guys. I will be happy to ensure I get to see someone end up blasted before I go. So, Cest la vie. the game goes on. Just be a watchman as the thief comes in the night.
Be careful of the Geithner's those mice leave laying around. You can get sick.
"Be careful of the Geithner's those mice leave laying around. You can get sick."...
+100
Points well taken.
I've been pushing this Operation American Spring in Washington that was supposed to begin on May 16th, then I got the bad news.
http://bobpowell.blogspot.com/2014/05/countdown-to-operation-american-spring.html
If this is true and I believe it is, how many existing military, CIA and FBI are willing to sell us out for that "paycheck", especially after more than twelve years of the Patriot Act(s) and NDAA and a potential World War?...
At this point the only thing that will fix it are the State(s) but when and how far are they collectively willing to go to abandon the Fed?
Another great read CD.
Now you need to write the one about the sociopaths when they go too far and get what they deserve?!!!
The American people need to raise their collective ire before it's too late, and I'm of the opinion that the only way that can be achieved is when you are in the faces of those sociopaths and you let them know you've finally had it and that you won't leave until you have the change you came for. Americans need to take it to Washington D.C. before it's too late. Phone calls don't work as they just listen to your rant and hang up and voice messages just get deleted. Visiting your Nation's Capitol but with reservations for an extended stay is all that will work at this point, and it can't be the kind of visitation where you meet your anointed House and Senate members and leave the same day giving yourself a well earned pat on the back for giving them a "piece of your mind"...
Still believe we have time even though it's few and precious at this stage. This is a great summary from Rense on what is unfolding in Ukraine and why Americans need to be much more attentive to this crisis then they are showing. Like your wonderful powers of description of VITO, I have this rather well founded view that what is now taking place between the U.S. and Russia is a close approximation to the movie Rocky where his trainer before the fight urges Apollo Creed to watch the TV where Rocky destroys the piece of hanging cattle and Apollo ignores him as if he's already won the fight!!!...
I'm old enough to remember the 1970's when journalists were still technically journalists and not hired prostitutes for pay who told us potential realities of what a conventional war with another superpower might look like and how it could easily escalate into something far more devastating.
cheers
http://investmentwatchblog.com/ukraine-nwo-sponsored-bloodbath/
daniel elsberg and the pentagon papers
david Halberstam and the best and the brightest
Anthony Sampson and the Seven sisters; the arms bazar, the money lenders.... all good.
Tramp was nothing next to his little sister, Lady. Now there was a psychopath. The runt of the litter, she was seven pounds at best. She could line up a whole family of bunny corpses on the front step and still saunter around is if she were prim and proper... very Blythe like.
LOL! Female cats are usually better hunters since they have to feed their kittens. My male Maine Coon crashed into furniture and woke everybody up in the middle of the night when on a hunt. I think he scared most of his prey to death.
Tramp is a beautiful Maine Coon and behaves just like the one I lived with for almost 20 years. They are like supervisory cats who must observe and have an opinion on all activities taking place on "their" territory. Here's Merlin's web page a friend put up years ago.
http://cheapschmitt.com/merlinpix.htm
Look into that canned cat food and check if they are adding wheat gluten - it can contribute to feline diabetes. Friskies sells a Special Diet variety for the same price and the ones without gravy usually don't have wheat gluten. My Maine Coon loved the Friskies Beef and Chicken paté flavor which helped keep him healthy for a long time.
Excellent monograph as usual CD.
If it doesn't have gravy Tramp ain't interested. I blame Mrs. Cog for that one. She spoiled Tramp years ago with the water juice from cans of tuna.
He's not interested in the food unless it absolutely can't be separated from the gravy. :)
I tried tech sales out of school. There was a skinny old alcoholic Willie Loeman type who always used to say "YTM." It meant yield to me. Same personality you described. Did not like it when I did not yield to him. Also said he was looking for a job when he got there and would be looking for a job when he left. Turned out he was wrong. He was escorted out after he fell asleep in his chair after lunch smelling like gin. I had to leave sales, I could not compete in the race to the bottom.
I hate cats - they kill everything that moves. Sociopaths, on the other hand, are 1-in-10 of the population. Them I feel sorry for.
Being a sociopath is a force multiplier.
Ummm...Go Seahawks?
My thought too. Amazing how our professional sports are like gladiatorial matches, just without the swords and tridents.
It would be more honest, wouldn't it? It would certainly allow more to come up through the ranks rather than have so many millions dream of being a "star" while not doing their homework - only to not make the cut and end up on the streets.
And people wonder why so many young people are shooting each other and pledging allegiance to gangs and killing someone for a jersey or a pair of Nike's.
I hope the cat kills Mel next.
If you aren't the cat's (or Mel's) prey he's kinda cute.
Watch out for ticks man. They're bad news and hitch rides on mice.
We'll be having 15 Pearl Guineas romping around here soon for the purpose of reducing them. It's anecdotal but I'm told they work wonders on ticks...and mice...and snakes. Hopefully they'll get along with RI Reds and three snappy dogs.
(we just had a brush with a copperhead too)
chunga, -- you may soon learn that 15 Guineas are too many. The upside is no ticks and much less insects generally. If you plan on eating some of them, you must first catch them, or shotgun them to smithereens. They are as good as any gamebird that I have eaten.
Good luck. And you will have fun with your birds.
We're looking forward to it. (edit: when they get bigger they will free-range and we do have predators) That Lyme is really nasty and CDC downplays the risk because it's bad for tourism, hikers, etc. I think Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and STARI are all offshoots of Borrelia Burgdorferi. That shit can mess you right up.
I had to build one of these to get it out of our lives. rife.org
Sorry for stinking up your thread CD...just finished lugging water buckets around...just in time for pouring rain.
That Lyme disease is nasty shit, and we even have it out here in FEMA region X. An aquaintance of mine came down with it a few years ago, he was pretty fucked up for a while. He seems to have mostly recovered now. Mostly.
Lecter for VP 2016 and I care not what clown is P