Em Finity stood alone, armed and ready. Her boys were tucked in bed. Their lunch boxes were packed for the next day; PB&J (Peach J) for the older one, with cheetos, a combination that made Em gag but it was what he would eat and what can you do? At least he eats it and drinks his milk. The younger one wanted cold pizza from the night's take-out, which bothered Em, because, well, what would the teacher think when he hauled out left-over pepperoni and not something she made with her own hands? But it was what he wanted, so she wrapped it up in Saran and put a little Smiley-Face Stick-It on the Saran, so they would know she cared.
The last load of clothes was in the dryer, she would fold those and put them away after she slaughtered the Ninjadilloes, who could not possibly know what awaited them, because Em's husband, Brem, had been out of town for three months and wasn't he supposed to take care of the yard? In her view, that meant he should be there to exterminate varmints and these Eastern-trained, Roid-raging, Burrow-making Road-rats certainly qualified as varmints to her. Why wasn't he here to get rid of the varmints? And the yard needed trimming and the rose bushes were just completely out of control after the heavy recent rains, too, and why should she have to do all that heavy work alone?
She was supposed to be able to come home and just be a girl, but, no, she had to ManUp and kill Dilloes in her yard. She might break a nail or worse. Really, she had to do her job, take care of the boys, keep the house, feed them as best she could given the fact their taste in food changed from hour to hour and the little one was lactose intolerant or something because he broke out in hives whenever she cooked something healthy for him and the older one laughed and called him "Measly Little Measles Boy." Now, tonight, she had to deal with marauding NInjadilloes as well.
Also, she could not remember if she had started the dish washer. There might be dirty dishes rotting in her house. She tried to remember if she had spun the little dial on the dish washer as she absently cocked her rifle.
Come to think of it, she might shoot all the Dilloes and the neighbor's dog while she was at it, the dog who barked at her fence line every night, promptly at one a.m., just when she was settling into sleep after finishing the house, the lunch boxes, the boy's clothes and having eight minutes of quiet time for herself to read her devotional book, which she knew she should take more time with it and write her thoughts like pastor said, but, then, after all that, and with her husband gone and varmints in the yard, did she really want to write her thoughts in a devotional book and show them to pastor?
The Dilloes were coming now. They had sent for extra Dilloes, the peasant types, to run ahead of the real warriors and serve as cannon fodder. They were coming in classic Wide-W formation, the cannon fodder Dilloes forming the head of the middle hump of the W, with the real Ninjadilloes, a dozen to a side forming the points of the other loops, twelve to the right and twelve to the left.
Em had to remind herself the middle Dilloes were more than a nuisance or a distraction. If they got too close they could dance across her feet and gross her out with their little paws. She wished for a moment she had decided to put on her running shoes before she came out, instead of her Fuzzy Bunny slippers, but it was too late, the Dilloes were coming and she had to just run the risk of getting Dilloe-Do on her Fuzzy Bunny slippers.
Em dropped the first Ninjadilloe on the right prong with a snap shot. He fell back into the pack behind him, breaking their stride and giving her time to drop a flash-buzz into the path of the massed middle of rampaging peasant dilloes. They panicked and turned directly into the path of the Ninjadilloe Dozen on the left prong, ruining their stealthy onslaught. Em fired repeatedly, her unmatched skill as a markswoman taking a deadly toll on shelled attackers. Dilloe blood was everywhere, their hisses filled the night. Some, stunned by the flash-buzz ran into the road where they were hit by Jersey Terwilliger's tow truck coming back in from his late night run. The heavy rains of late had really helped his business because Texans had forgotten how to drive in the rain during the seven year drought and were just all over the road and into the ditch.
Jersey took out a couple of dozen peasant Dilloes with his tow truck. He never actually noticed because he was laughing so hard at the comedy channel on his satellite radio. He had heard this one before but he always laughed, anyway, because Jeff Foxworthy was telling stories about rednecks and Jersey was pretty sure he knew all of them. Jersey had even done some of the things Jeff was talking about and it was funny, well, because, dang it, it was just so true. Jersey drove on in the dark and the next day washed Dilloe-Do off his tow-truck.
The noise of battle was horrifying. Shells were squishing as her bullets took their toll. The hissing of the Dilloes gave way to the screams and moans of the wounded. The squeal of tow-truck tires gave way to the crunching sound of shells popping on the pavement. Tiny paws scurried right and left without hope of reaching their target. Em Finity was covered with dust and smoky grime from the stampede and her weaponry. She grimly continued the firing, believing she would soon come to the end of the varmints when, suddenly, she heard her son' s voice above the battle noise.
"Mommy," her oldest son was yelling. "Daddy's on the phone from Washington. He wants to talk to you right now."
"Oh, he does, does he?" she wailed at the innocent boy, who would one day grow up to be the absent husband of another poor girl caught in a Ninjadilloe stampede at one a.m., after a full day of work and it was only Tuesday, she had to work three more days and then the weekend, when she would have to spend hours pulling NInjadilloe fragments out of her yard and, she thought, she might save a carcass or two for a special dinner for Brem when he finally came home and he would eat every bight, while she watched with her Glock 9 in hand. He did not have to have ten toes, after all.
"Mommy," her oldest cried again. "Daddy needs to talk to you before he can go to bed."
Em shot two more Dilloes and kicked another, down low, really hard and sent him flying across the yard, like a missed field goal in Cowboy Stadium. She was a bit upset.
"Oh, he does, does he?" she replied. "Tell him I am a little busy right now, Doing His Job."
The little boy turned so pale she could see his face glow white in the dark. He ran in the house.
There were more Dilloes coming.
Em was glad there was no legal limit on how many Dilloes a woman in Fuzzy Bunny slippers could slaughter in her yard in one night.
She intended to make an evening of it.