Fights of Fancy

I wish my imaginary friend would find someone else to talk to. I've blocked her IM and email many times, but she just creates more accounts and renews her attempts to drive me batshit crazy. Now she's got my number and she's not afraid to use it. Her ability to sense my moods is uncanny- she can tell when she's not welcome. That is when she calls.

I had a great but tiring weekend- two radio shows and a recording session with local Irish troubadours Poisoned Dwarf, who were a treat to record. They'll be the featured artist on an upcoming radio program...details to follow...anyway, I was trying to catch up on the news- which doesn't seem to have changed much since 1988- when Fancy rang.

"Hi!"
Oh shit. She's perky today. I'm not loving the perky.


"Hello. What." It's not a query.
Perky, meet Surly.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad the Mormons didn't kill you."

"The Mormons?"

"Yeah. The tornado that just missed you, the truck that almost smooshed your brother. The Mormons were behind those."

"Fancy", I say with exasperation," that tornado missed me by twenty miles."

"A tornado is a lot harder to aim than a truck."

Then she drags up an incident from my past that I wish had stayed forgotten. As a very young man, I lived in Park City , Utah, which was sort of a Utah Green Zone for non-Mormons; the LDS would lob weekend missionaries into town like black-jacketed mortar rounds. If you were unlucky, a pair of these white-shirted projectiles would hit your front door on Saturday morning and ask you to donate 10% of your income -for life- to the Mormon Church.

I was very unlucky. For weeks, the Mormons attacked. I usually felt pretty rough every morning, Saturday being no exception, and I resented these intrusions. At first I was semi-polite, no...thanks...goodbye...slam...but they persisted. They'd send fresh faces- one kid looked over my shoulder and saw my guitar, asked if he could check it out. Nice try. No.

One cold Friday night I filled a large saucepan with water and carried it upstairs to my bedroom.
The next morning, I heard the knock of Mormons. I opened my bedroom window- the one above the front door- and dumped water on the missionaries.
Keep coming back!
They came back. I don't live in Utah anymore.

"How did you know about that?", I ask Fancy after she finishes telling my story.

"It's all in the Mormon archives. With pictures and audiotapes. I gotta say that long hair is not a good look for you."

"Fancy, you are full of shit."

"Really? Do you remember what happened later? The shoot-out? The brawl? The ski chase? There's a bullethole in the hood of your parka where they almost got you."

"Yeah...well, that hole is from a joint. The wind blew it out of my mouth and it burned a hole in the side of the hood. I never had a shoot-out with Mormons. I don't even ski. If you really had access to the archives, you'd know why I left. You'd also know that I can't discuss it."


"Yes, I know", she conceded, " but there are other things that you can discuss. This church, for example. It's the one in Texas where the authorities took custody of the kids. I'm sending you the pic now. Does this look like a happy place to grow up?"



"Geez, yeah...if you are Stalin. Or The Joker. Are they digging a moat around it? It looks incomplete without a moat. Is the climate in El Dorado suitable for alligators?"

"Yes. Did you know that Texas Child Services has found thirty-one underage girls who are pregnant or have already borne children? I'm guessing that DNA tests will prove that these girls
were raped by adult Fundie Mormons. It's a shitstorm for the Prairie Bhurka crowd."

"Hmmm", I mulled this over, "that's awful. Those poor kids are screwed-up no matter what happens next."

"I know", she replied.

I hate it when I agree with Fancy.

"I don't think this will end the FLDS, though. They'll just move again...perhaps to another country. Is Guyana still a country?"

"Yes", said Fancy. Then she fell silent.

I hate it when I agree with Fancy.