Farmer Bob

THE

CUP

AND

SAUCER

ACTION

NEWS

PREVIOUSLY:

1. The Department of Regulated Industries vs. Everything good and decent in the world. Plus: how Jill overcame a phobia (hint: it was by passing out.)
2. In which Jill gets in trouble with a temporary staffing service. PLUS: Chico gets hired. ALSO: Paintings of the walking dead.
3. A Season of Baby Ashley
4. Terminal Fatigue
5. Sexxxy
6. Andee is a Genius
7. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 1
8. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 2
9. The Long Happy Life of Mr. Fantasma, Part 1

“I just don’t understand how you can sell it so cheap,” I said to the guy at the Chevrolet dealership. “It’s in such completely excellent condition.”

“Well, I won’t lie to you,” he said. “This particular vinyl body-wrap lowers the value a bit. Okay, quite a lot, actually. In fact, we can’t get anyone to take it off our hands as-is. It’s in otherwise beautiful condition. You won’t find another one like it at this price.” Confidentially, he added, “Believe me — at this point, my boss just wants to get it off the lot.”

An egg sailed past us, smacking the van’s side, tossed from a passing car. A girl leaned out of the passenger seat shouting, “FASCISTS!”

It was a 2002 Chevrolet Astro Van with only 24,000 miles on the odometer. They were only asking $15,000 for it because the previous owner, Operation Rescue, had decorated the sides of the van with a gigantic image of an aborted fetus. Tip for Smart Shoppers: Truth Trucks don’t have a lot of resale value.

“The only issue we have here today is your credit rating,” the man said. “Without a co-signer on the forms, there’s no way our finance manager can approve you.”

“My cosigner is named Claudio Fantasma,” I said.

The man’s eyes widened. “Claudio Fantasma?” he said. “That will do nicely.” I was coming to learn that Claudio Fantasma’s excellent reputation preceded him everywhere.

I took the papers to the Cup and Saucer during Chico’s shift that night. “Now, why do you need a truck all of a sudden?” he asked, hastily scribbling Claudio Fantasma’s name on every line I’d marked with an X.

“Because I asked Amy out on a date. And I don’t have a car. I didn’t want to seem like a complete loser by asking her to drive.”

“Is this a picture of your new van?” said Andee, sitting down on the stool next to me.

“Yep,” I said.

“It sure makes me want to punch you in the head.”

“Well, if you can just try to see past the– OW!” Andee punched me in the head.

“DON’T LIKE ABORTION?” she shouted. “DON’T GET ONE!”

“Dammit, Andee, try to see past the giant aborted fetus. This is about personal freedom. A van says I’m an adult, now. I’m a functioning member of society with a job and his own apartment and also his own brand-spanking-new Truth Truck. OW!” She punched me in the head again.

“With today’s hectic lifestyle, I guess a guy does need his own Truth Truck,” said Chico.

“KEEP YOUR THEOLOGY OFF MY BIOLOGY!” shouted Andee, and took a swing at my head, which I ducked. I grabbed the papers from Chico. “Thanks, man!” I said.

“What in the hell are you going to do with a Truth Truck?” said Andee, removing her jacket.

Backing away from her, I said, “Well, I’m gonna customize the interior. Some sweet retro shag-rug carpeting, a double-bed, wet-bar, disco ball. That kind of thing.”

“You’re turning a Truth Truck decorated with an aborted fetus into a LUV WAGON?”

“Well that’s the long-term goal,” I said. “Short-term, I need it to pick up Amy for our first date.”

She stopped circling me and lowered her fists. “Chris — I’ve never believed that you were smart. But honestly: You’re finally going out with the woman you’ve been obsessed with for months, and you’re picking her up for your first date in a Truth Truck? Has someone been punching you in the head?”

“Uh, apparently you missed the part about the freedom and the responsibility of adulthood. And also maybe you’ve heard of the romance of the open road? OW!” she managed to get past my protective stance and punch me in the head.

The next morning, we closed the sale on the Truth Truck. Chico and I climbed in, unrolled the windows, and cranked “Low Rider” while driving slowly down the street. I was buzzing with the pride of ownership.

My date with Amy was that night. I was taking her to dinner, followed by an emergency gallery opening booked by Chico’s fictitious agent. Chico needed a new car stereo, and was also suddenly interested in getting some “sweet rims.” It was a group exhibit featuring Chico’s zombie paintings and the work of the surprisingly talented Jill Erickson.

“I wish I could get Jill to do a few more paintings,” said Chico as we drove the Truth Truck back to the City Market from the Chevy dealership. “They’re really good. And Claudio Fantasma totally gets 15% of every painting she sells tonight.”

“Why didn’t you report Clive Criswell to the police?” I asked Chico.

“Oh, I’ve got plans for him,” he said. “That guy’s really messed up.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“No, I mean really messed up. One night he got drunk on Cosmopolitans and told Andee that his mom had Munchausen by Proxy by Proxy Syndrome.”

“You mean — isn’t that just Munchausen by Proxy?”

As it turns out, they’re different. Muchausen by Proxy involves the fabrication of illnesses or symptoms in a child by a primary caretaker, who enjoys receiving sympathetic attention from doctors and others.

On the other hand, Munchausen by Proxy by Proxy involves a primary caregiver tricking or convincing another person to do all the dirty work. It’s also known as Factitious Disorder by Proxy by Proxy.

“Apparently, Clive’s mom paid his uncle’s compulsive home-improvement debts if he’d agree to feed Clive tile cleaner,” said Chico.

I had to admit that was pretty messed up. We were stuck in traffic on Main, and I was about to ask Chico if he wanted to stop for lunch when a rock hit the windshield.

“Hey!” I yelled at the large cluster of women who were approaching the Truth Truck. “I just bought this Truth Truck!”

Unfortunately, the traffic jam had stopped us in front of the downtown Planned Parenthood, where a sizable Christian protest group had been facing off with pro-choice counter-protesters. Both groups had spontaneously decided I was there on the behalf of the pro-lifers, for some stupid reason.

“I’m non-aligned,” I yelled out the window, but nobody heard me over the all the activists. The truck was suddenly surrounded by the counter-protesters, who began rocking the Truth Truck from side to side.

“Crap!” I yelled.

“Maybe we should turn on the hazards,” said Chico helpfully. He flipped a switch on the dashboard, and the van’s speakers began playing “Pop Goes the Weasel.” I guess Operation Rescue was outfitting their Truth Trucks with the same sound systems as ice cream trucks.

“There’s a feature the dealership forgot to mention,” I said.

“I’M GOING TO PUNCH YOU IN THE HEAD!” yelled one of the counter-protesters. It was Andee, and the threat had the ring of truth. I hastily rolled up the windshield.

Chico and I were surrounded on all sides by angry, violent pro-choice activists with whom we pretty much agreed.

“How did this happen?” I said.

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