Marion Magnum

The sound of the heavy wooden door creaking open echoed out into the dark, starry night.  For a brief moment in time her profile stood in the glowing moonlight, slumped in the doorway, just a dark flash of hunched shoulders and hanging head, before the bang as that door closed out the clear night, and all that was left was the dim yellowed light of gas lanterns and a bar that had seen better travelers, better drinks, better days. The kindest description of the characters therein was "unsavory". The majority of them would be described more accurately as blackguards from the very depths of hell.

All eyes watched her as she stalked over to the bar stool, the weariness ebbing and flowing in fierce battle with her usual confident gait. At first glance an untrained eye might assume her days as warrior were over, the burp cloth hung limply from her shoulder and had the appearance of a week's worth of vomit upon it, despite only being pulled from the dryer an hour before.  Breast milk spattered her thighs in the way that liquid does when falling from directly above, one large perfect circle, with tiny splatters all around. Strawberry jam streaks the front of her shirt. All buttons, zips and snaps were haphazardly assembled or not, as though she'd dressed in the dark with someone screaming in her ear. Her hair hung stringy and limp against cheeks chapped by days of hard work and neglect.  A second and more thorough glance however, would reveal strong shoulders, a well oiled holster with the dull gleam of a loved revolver inside, a clean and loaded shotgun strapped to her back, at the ready. Most telling of all however, were her eyes, weary though they may be, watchfully scanning, never resting, constantly searching for the first signs of trouble, and feet ready to leap into action as needed.

She sat down on the wobbly bar stool, and hooked her booted foot around one of the legs. Her pointed gaze around the room sent all the other occupants back to their drinks and muted conversations with a guilty start. Turning back to the bar, an eyebrow raised, coin between her fingers, she gestured to the bartender. He was roughly the size of a troll, and his disposition infinitely much more hostile. With dirty, hairy hands he filled a shot glass, and she threw it back, that golden liquid a welcome fiery bath, burning it's way down to soothe, first one, then another, then another, before slamming the glass down, and flicking it casually with her finger. In slow motion, it tips, and rolls on its side, one spiral roll around the dusty bar top, then another, before it dropped of the back edge to the floor below, joining dust from several decades, and glass shards from countless bar fights through the years.

A ruckus from across the room catches her attention, and she turns in her stool to face the room. Ever watchful, she lounges back against the bar, until her eye catches the glint of a revolver in the hands of an aggressor, making her way from the crowd of unsavory blackguards in the corner. Swift boots, heading her way, arm coming up to aim and without hesitation, without thought, she draws, she fires and she re-holsters in one smooth, well-oiled motion that shows years of experience and instinct. The bartender slides a beer down the bar as she sits back down. A "What's yer story?" is his gruff request, he likes to know who's drinking at his post.

Since she's taken up residence at his bar she gives in to his question- her voice is gravelly and rough-exhaustion, the dust from the trail, lack of food and water. Her name is Marion Magnum. Her day started long before the sun's, and beside lack of sleep it has included having her breasts devoured by the resident piranha child for almost 12 hours straight, and listening to the violent, freakishly loud screaming that comes when the piranha isn't feeding. She'd also discovered holes in her backyard where an unauthorized search for dinosaur bones took place before she was able to stop it, an early morning water fight among her charges that resulted in every towel in the house being soaked through and mysteriously spread through every corner. Her older charges are also hungry little vipers, and have eaten one breakfast and three lunches already today. The vilest of insults a human can utter-- "NANA NANA BOO BOO!" has been thrown around repeatedly... it turns out all are on edge, the lack of schedule and purpose and the general disorder is driving the sanest insane.

Will our heroine survive? And an even more serious question, will these words written today be the beginning  of her murderous confessions, or the beginning of a loving mother's memoirs?! Only time will tell...

Disclaimer #1: I'm not actually going to kill anyone.

Disclaimer #2: If you're considering having children, please don't let this post sway your decision. Not all days are this bad.

Some of them are infinitely worse.

And, some are better. I think. It's all a little foggy about right now.

Disclaimer #3: The characters in this post bear no resemblance to any real persons. Or any sort of reality. Don't read between the lines. There's nothing there. Don't search for double meanings, we don't do double meanings. This is simply the result of a lady who is altogether otherwise right now, and has done nothing but breastfeed for 12 hours, and is tired of her phone, and falls asleep when she tries to read a book. Again, however, there is no resemblance to real persons in this post.  If however, Marion Magnum were real, her life would be the greatest thing ever.

Thank you.