No. 4
Dwindling Sands: A Love Story
Dwindling Sands: A Love Story
Monday
Today I paid a visit to my longtime friend and mentor, Colonel Albert Futtermann (U.S. Army, retired). I owe so much to this man, for it was through his friendship and advice that I became the blimpman that I am today. He taught me everything I know about taming the skies and surfing the heavens in a lighter-than-air airship.
You see, Colonel Futtermann had been one of the greatest blimpmen back in his prime. He was a decorated veteran of the Korean War, having led an aerial assault on a regiment of North Korean wolf-riders. His blimp was shot down by a singular bullet (an awakening for the American forces that perhaps a balloon is not the best design for a vessel of war), and all of his compatriots died in the crash. Colonel Futtermann, alone for weeks in the Korean wilderness and surrounded by wolf-riders, survived on a diet of squirrel meat and wolf dung and single-handedly fought his way back to friendly territory. He was responsible for the death of over one enemies.
In his ripe old age, unfortunately Colonel Futtermann's family found themselves unable to handle the day to day care he required, especially after the incident where he tried to jump off the roof holding nothing but a "Happy 90th Birthday" helium balloon (no doubt thinking it was a blimp), so they committed him to the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home. I knew my old friend would have a difficult time adjusting to senility, so I decided to pay him a visit.
Honeypoots, my dear wife, actually encouraged me, for she knew how much this visit would mean to both me and him.
"For the last time," she said, "I don't CARE about the difference between steerable propellers and ducted fans! Gosh, you're annoying me."
Then she continued with that lovely angelic voice of hers, "Why don't you go see your friend, you know, that really old guy?"
I took her idea to heart and thought about what a selfless woman she is! A few hours later, I parked my blimp in a nearby field and arrived at Dwindling Sands.
I was a little downtrodden to see the home's run-down facilities and poor upkeep. There were elderly people lounged about in every corner, some staring at paint-stripped walls, others drooling involuntarily, most of them incoherently muttering racial slurs to no audience in particular, and a few who were seated and taking naps (hopefully taking naps). This was no place for such a decorated war hero as Colonel Futtermann. It made me realize how sad our gradual progression toward the wormy grave truly can be.
I met up with Colonel Futtermann in the game room, and he wasted no time cluing me in to some sort of on-going rant he'd been having with himself. He smashed his game of Connect Four with his fist, sending plastic pieces flying every which way, and he shouted things about "liars", "manipulators", and "murderers". When I asked him what he meant, horrified at the possibilities, he explained that the orderlies and other staff were conducting human experimentation on the residents.
He said the Bingo caller, Trent, was the worst of them and had a particularly sinister plot involving poisoned beverages. I glanced over at frosted-tips Trent, and amid his bored call of "B-9" (it's not a tumor!), he seemed completely harmless to me.
I began to worry that my friend, Colonel Futtermann, had started clinging to silly conspiracy theories as a coping mechanism for being cooped up in his placid new digs. I gave him a reassuring smile, some words of encouragement, and explained softly how any "wolf-riders" he may see are simply figments of his imagination.
"I know there aren't any damn wolf-riders around here, you moron!" he shouted back at me. Then in a lower voice he added, "If I only had a blimp to get me out of this place. Oh, how I'd love to fly free once again, conquering the clouds like I once did. Hey, what about yours?"
I pitied his loss of happiness, and even considered my own future - would this same tragic ending befall me too? Would it befall us all? But heck no, I wasn't going to let him borrow my blimp.
I tried to steer the conversation to something more light-hearted. "Tell me, Colonel Futtermann, isn't there anything that you enjoy about this place? Maybe a friend you've made?"
He thought for a long moment (really long; I was just about to call for help from an orderly when he snapped out of his mindless trance), and he said there was one thing he was particularly fond of in this place. It took some coaxing on my part, but I finally got him to pipe up, and he did so with an almost beaming twinkle in his eye.
"Well, there's a woman," he said.
That was a good sign, I thought - a bit of a romantic interest. Then he pointed across the room at an elderly gal in the corner, who was struggling to knit some sort of sweater with her shaky hands.
"That's Estelle Buttersmell. She's the first woman who's ever given me that tingle, ever since Gloria passed away."
Then he went on to describe in copious, pornographic detail for the next forty-five minutes about how Estelle Buttersmell aroused a sexual tiger within him, using words like "loins" and "quiver" and "moisturized neck flaps", and how she made his skin tingle as if he were soaking in a sweaty bath of motor oils.
"Let me guess," I said, "you love everything about her... but 'er smell."
I laughed at my own pun. He slapped me across the face with his hefty, wide-open palm, knocking me to the floor and giving me a taste of that old "Futtermann Fist of Fire."
"Show some respect, you ingrate," he said.
I apologized and returned to my seat, shaking off my slight concussion. The old geezer still packed quite a wallop.
He then went on to explain sadly that Mrs. Buttersmell hadn't even noticed him yet. He was completely invisible to her. Despite my encouragement, he groaned that he just didn't have the courage to woo a woman anymore. He'd been out of practice for so long.
"Plus," he said, "all the gals around here only pay attention to one man - Jerry."
I looked over to where Futtermann pointed, and in the corner of the room was Jerry, seated in a wheelchair and drooling onto his own lap with his mouth agape. He stared blindly moaning at an untouched game of checkers set before him.
Colonel Futtermann shook his head hopelessly. "God, I can't compete with a playboy like that."
After a while, it began to dawn on me how I could lend some assistance to my old friend, perhaps paying him back for the years of generous mentorship he provided to me.
"Colonel Futtermann, I swear a solemn blimpman's vow," I said. "I shall not leave from Dwindling Sands until you have won the love and admiration of our dear Mrs. Buttersmell!"
The Colonel said my oath was futile, but even he could not conceal the hopeful fire within his eyes. He sighed nonchalantly, "Whatever, I guess."
And I sprung into action, literally leaping out of my seat. When he asked me what I was doing, I said I had no time to waste; I needed to call the one person who taught me more about love, compassion, and romance than anyone else. The person whose tender love has made my life worth living.
"Your wife?" he asked.
I shouted back with a resounding no, pulled out my cell phone, and made the call to Mandelbaum. Within the hour, my loyal friend was checked into Dwindling Sands and was ready to help me on my quest.
#dwindlingsands #futtermannfistoffire #thecolonel #loveisintheair
Tuesday
Mandelbaum and I have been working tirelessly to aid my dear friend, Colonel Albert Futtermann, in winning the affections of the lovely Mrs. Estelle Buttersmell. We decided the first course of action was to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on Futtermann's rival in this romantic endeavor: Jerry. Apparently he was quite the tomcat around the nursing home, wheeling around and schmoozing every grey-haired vixen he could find. So if Futtermann stood any chance, we'd have to find some dirt on this chap.
I assigned Mandelbaum with that task. He posed as a nursing home orderly, totally nailed the interview with the director of Dwindling Sands, and found himself working up the ladder of employment in record time. He started the morning in bedpan changing (literal poop duty), and by lunch he had a prime spot in the game room, the place all orderlies wanted to be. The director was so thrilled with his unstoppable work ethic that he made Mandelbaum employee of the month in only his first day.
Meanwhile, I asked Mandelbaum how the intelligence gathering was coming along. He reported, regretfully, that he couldn't find a speck of dirt on Jerry. Aside from a few "accidents" in the arts and crafts room, he was as squeaky clean as the bedpans that Mandelbaum had just replaced in the dementia ward. Mandelbaum did say he was concerned about an off-limits room in the basement where he was sure he heard screams coming from inside, but I told him there was no time to worry about that.
I directed Mandelbaum to continue his efforts. Meanwhile, I planned to have an interview with Mrs. Buttersmell herself. If I was going to play matchmaker, I needed to know more about this dear woman and what kind of chances my mentor held. I learned through Mandelbaum's employee access that she had a distant relative, a grandson-in-law, who was on her list of registered visitors but who had never once signed the guest log. I figured I could pose as this "Ned Weintraub" and pay her a visit. I went ahead and disguised myself in a goatee, prosthetic nose, glasses, and fake ponytail (I always have a box of disguises on my blimp for such occasions), concealing my identity just in case she might recognize me from my visit to the home yesterday.
Mrs. Buttersmell was so eager to welcome this distant relative into her room that I felt a little guilty for deceiving her. She promptly updated me on "Coote and Franny's visit to Branson" and how "Coote's diphtheria had inflamed again," but I had no idea what she was talking about so I struggled to play along. I thought I had given myself away, as surely this Ned Weintraub fellow would have more to say on the topic of Coote and Franny, but I gradually came to realize that this woman had literally started the conversation somewhere in the middle of a story, and no one in their right mind would have been able to follow her old-lady yammering.
I started to nod off as she went into tediously long detail about her deceased great aunt Beulah or was it great aunt twice-removed who trained circus cats back in 1943 or was it '44 or was it great aunt Bethel, and when I woke up, I only caught the tail end of a stream of word vomit where she was saying, "...and that's all I really hoped for in a relationship. Gosh, it feels good to finally tell someone that. If only there was a man here who was able to do all those things for me."
I quickly stirred up in my chair, kicking myself for missing such key details, and I asked her to please repeat what she just said. She paused.
"Oh, well I was just saying how Coote and Franny just came back from Branson and--"
I rolled my eyes and fell back into my chair. Two minutes later, I was sound asleep. Better luck tomorrow, I hope.
#undercover #nedweintraub #employeeofthemonth #cooteandfranny
Wednesday
A window of opportunity had finally opened for us. Colonel Futtermann explained that every Wednesday evening was date night at the nursing home. He'd never attended as (1) he'd never had a date, and (2) quit tossing around these silly notions that I care about this kind of fandangled, rococo nonsense, I'm a war veteran, you idiot. I assured him that he'd have to sacrifice a little in order to win the heart of Mrs. Buttersmell. Women (I'm told) like this kind of thing.
The Colonel grumbled heavily to himself all the while he was squeezing his short, rotund body into his dusty dress uniform. "The damn thing doesn't fit anymore - must have shrunk."
I agreed, not wanting to upset him further, as I pinned his display of ribbons onto his chest. He tried buttoning his jacket and the middle button sprung off, blasting me in the elbow and leaving quite a welt.
"How do I look?" he asked, worriedly inspecting himself in the mirror.
"Like Colonel Futtermann, the war hero, whose debonair charm no woman can deny."
He told me to quit blowing smoke up his rear and let's get on with it.
We promptly arrived for dinner in the dining hall at 3:46 p.m. The Colonel scanned the room anxiously, working up a sweat. I'd never seen him so nervous. Mrs. Buttersmell crept in a few minutes later, shimmying in on her walker and wearing her nice "dinner slippers." The Colonel turned to run as fast as his legs could take him, but I caught up to him in about three paces and blocked his escape.
I reassured him that I'd walk him through everything he needed to say tonight. I showed him the hearing-aid/two-way directional earwig that Mandelbaum had rigged up for us. (Where was Mandelbaum, by the way? He should have been here by now.) And then I told him how I'd be right next door in the utility closet. Mandelbaum had discovered that there was a CCTV feed in the room where I could watch everything happening in the dining room.
"I'll even tell you what to say. I'll be your very own Cyrano de Burgershack," I said proudly.
Colonel Futtermann calmed down a bit and shook his head in the affirmative.
I made my way into the closet and found Futtermann and Buttersmell on the security feed. I spoke into the microphone, and I could tell by Colonel Futtermann's reaction that he was now hearing my voice in his ear: "Okay, go up to her and ask her if she'd like to join you for dinner this evening."
The Colonel took a few seconds to muster up the courage, and he finally waddled over to Mrs. Buttersmell.
"I'm told women like to eat," he growled.
"No, you old fool!" I shouted. "You're doing it all wrong. Abort! ABORT!"
But to my surprise, Mrs. Buttersmell returned a sweet smile to him and said, "I'd love to join you for dinner, Albert."
I was shocked; it actually worked! As the Colonel took her by the arm and ushered her to their table, I saw him turn toward the camera on the ceiling and give a half-hearted thumbs-up. I returned the gesture, feeling quite dumb afterward as I realized he couldn't see me. They took their seats and sat in complete silence for the next twelve and a half minutes.
"This is really nice," she said.
He replied with a nonverbal grunt.
I knew I had to intervene, so I started feeding him lines. "Tell her how beautiful she looks tonight."
He grumbled something about her cataracts looking better than usual, and I face-palmed myself. As the dinner of Salisbury steak and lime jello wore on, I continued to feed Colonel Futtermann some more suggestions any time there was a lull in the conversation. He'd ignore me and go off book, improvising and bringing up topics like bowels, swelling, and various war stories all involving ridiculous amounts of gore; but I quickly course-corrected.
"Stick to talking about her, Colonel."
He thought for a moment and asked her, "What do you fear most about death?"
Cripes, no! I was just about to rush in there when I heard her respond over the microphone.
"Honestly, Albert. I'd hate to spend this last bit of time alone."
I paused, surprised at her reaction and admiring her tender honesty. The Colonel replied softly, "Well let's make sure that doesn't happen."
She smiled and slowly reached a shaky hand across the table and placed it on top of his meaty paw. He smiled.
A tear was welling up in my eye when the closet door suddenly flung open wide. It was Trent, that sleazy bro who ran the Bingo games.
"Hey, you can't be in here! This room is off limits. Geeze, first there's that big dude snooping around in the basement and now this?! Why don't you get back in your ridiculous blimp and get the hell out of here?!"
I wasted no time rushing out the door, but I felt extremely guilty leaving my old friend behind with no assistance on his date. I took one look behind me as I fled and saw that Colonel Futtermann had actually removed his earwig and placed it on the table.
He was leading Mrs. Buttersmell away with a tender hand on her walker. I smiled the whole way back to my blimp. Hopefully Mandelbaum will show up soon so I can tell him the news of our success.
#loveisintheair #futterbutter #trentisahater
#datenight #whereismandelbaum
-----
Mandelbaum's Surveillance Log (Wednesday):
6:20 wake-up call
6:30 sponge-baths and bedpan-changing
7:10 breakfast (curds, boiled eggs, side of prunes)
7:40 morning medicine and vitamins
8:00 Nurse Howard puts on an episode of "Burn Notice" for the Alzheimer's ward
8:30-8:40 Trent goes into basement
9:00-10:00 recreation time in game room
9:17 Colonel Futtermann and Jerry get into an argument over a game of dominoes
10:00 Nurse Howard puts on the same episode of "Burn Notice" for the Alzheimer's ward
10:30 lunch (porridge, cole slaw, leftover curds)
11:00 Trent goes into basement again
11:15 screams coming from basement
11:30 Trent exits basement
11:35 picked lock to basement door
(end of log)
Thursday
I stayed all night aboard the Eurydice and waited for Mandelbaum to return, but he never did. Normally, I would have been worried for my friend, who is always quite punctual, but I couldn't help but find myself reveling in my high spirits regarding the day's success. I came out here to help Colonel Futtermann find love, and so far everything was going splendidly. I was so glad his date with Mrs. Buttersmell went well, and I could only imagine what the rest of the night held for them after my departure.
Did he have any trouble finding all the right things to say? Was she still interested in him, despite his grumpy demeanor and uncontrollable flatulence? Did they have a wild and crazy night until they tucked into bed around 7:30? And furthermore, were those separate beds or not? (I tried journaling my thoughts over a glass of absinthe, but couldn't find a single bottle in the hold. That's strange, I could swear I brought at least one crate from home...)
Anyway it was somewhere in the wee hours of Thursday morning when I noticed a note pinned to my captain's desk. How did I not see this earlier? It was from Mandelbaum. In the note he said he'd uncovered something sinister happening at the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home, and he needed to deal with it immediately. If I needed him, I could find him in the game room.
I quickly snuck back into the facility, worried about what the problem could be. Inside, I ducked behind a stretcher to evade detection from a few orderlies. As I moved closer toward the game room, I could hear an unsettling commotion happening in the room. When I peeked inside the window, you won't believe what I saw.
I'm still overcoming my shock, and it's hard for me to share with you in detail exactly what I beheld. I may need to see a psychiatrist after this because the horror no doubt caused a bit of post-traumatic stress.
All I can say is that every resident of Dwindling Sands was piled into that room, and not a single shred of clothing was anywhere in sight. The elderly people were writhing on each other in some sort of drunken rave. As they danced to The Andrew Sisters' rendition of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" played over the speakers, their mass of wrinkly, liver-spotted flesh melded together in an amorphous blob of mushy madness. Bodies of nude old men and old women were indistinguishable from each other in the pulsating bare-fleshed mob. There was so much gummy, toothless kissing and drooling tongues and rubbing of fleshy flaps doing the Charleston and arthritic fingers wiggling about that I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a raw chicken wing ever again without whimpering in fear.
I glanced around the room and saw the causation of this unnatural atrocity. Old wheelchair-bound Jerry was whizzing around the room waving a bottle of absinthe over his bald head. As he kicked back the last swig, I realized that it was my bottle of absinthe! Somehow they'd gotten into my crate of '67 Coeval that was stored in my blimp. But how?
That's when I saw Trent and a few other staffers perched in the corner of the room, wearing white lab coats and holding clipboards. Trent was muttering something about, "Subject 517 is responding now to the effects of the hallucinogenic wormwood we administered. Subject 786 is passed out. Meanwhile 829 and 411 are getting to second base on the Parcheesi table."
I was appalled at this level of inhumane experimentation, but I felt helpless to intervene. Suddenly, I was startled by a large palm gripping my shoulder from behind. When I turned, it was Mandelbaum, still in his orderly uniform. He rapidly explained that he had just escaped from the basement, where he'd been locked away as a prisoner all day, because Trent and the others had realized he uncovered the truth about their illegal scientific operation. Mandelbaum said the nursing home had been taking part in all sorts of horrendous money-making schemes using the elderly as their lab rats.
I asked how we could help these poor people, but Mandelbaum was already one step ahead of me, per usual. He pushed himself into the room, sliding past the piles of wrinkly skin in each direction, punched a few orderlies who tried to intercept him, and then he grabbed hold of a water fountain mounted on the wall. Using his behemoth strength, he ripped the water fountain from the wall, pipes and all, raised it high above his head, and hurled the contraption straight through the nearest window.
Glass shattered everywhere, and I shouted, "Walk at a reasonable pace! Walk at a reasonable pace for your lives!"
The elders screamed and started piling through the new exit five at a time. Trent screamed futilely for them to come back, but by then, the whole parade of naked seniors had poured out into the streets.
I caught sight of Mrs. Buttersmell trailing behind the rear of the crowd. I quickly covered her naked body with a blanket, and I could tell she was starting to come out of her absinthian delirium. I asked her where Colonel Futtermann was in all of this raucous, as I hadn't seen him anywhere, and she replied groggily, "Oh, poor Albert took off as soon as the shindig started."
"Did your date not go well?" I asked.
"Oh heavens no," she said. "It was a marvelous time. But after one drink of that delightful green stuff, Albert said the wolf-riders were coming, and he needed to get the blimp ready for battle. Whatever on earth do you think he meant by that?"
I told her firmly to describe to me in exact, unaltered detail about what happened next and where the Colonel had run off to, but in all honesty, the truth was already clear enough to me. I needed to retreat back to the Eurydice, for I feared my blimp was no longer where I left her.
#whereisfuttermann #freedom #seniorgy #attackofthegreenfairy
Friday
I raced back to the Eurydice, hoping to cut off my dear Colonel Futtermann before he did anything too rash, but I'm afraid I was moments too late. A storm was beginning to roll in. My blimp was already taking off from her parking spot in the field, and Colonel Futtermann was behind the steering wheel.
I thought all was lost, but then I noticed that in his hasty take-off the Colonel had failed to retrieve the rope ladder. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and leapt just in the nick of time. I was only barely able to cling onto the final rung of the ladder. The Colonel's piloting was erratic and nauseating, and it took me ages to scale the ladder and finally climb aboard the main deck.
When I did, the Colonel was up there wearing nothing but an adult diaper and his Army beret.
"You were a fool to chase after me," he shouted over the thunder and rain. "We're going into battle and there's no way in hell either of us is coming back alive!"
I shouted to him that it was all a hallucination, that wolf-riders were nowhere to be seen, and it was time for us to return safely to the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home before it was too late.
He hissed, saying, "There's nothing for me there in that godforsaken place!"
"But what about Mrs. Buttersmell?" I said. "The two of you were hitting it off so nicely, weren't you?"
The Colonel paused for a moment, and I hoped some amount of reasoning had sunk in. "She was a fool to ever love me," he replied. "What have I ever done to deserve a gorgeous woman like that? Nothing! But I'll show her that I'm no dandy! When I rain hell upon these wolf-riders, she'll know that Colonel Albert Jeroboam Futtermann went out in a blaze of glory!"
Before I could try to talk any reason into him, he yanked the steering wheel, rapidly changing the blimp's course and sending me tumbling onto the deck. I regathered my footing and realized he was steering us toward the mob of nude seniors who were escaping from the nursing home, no doubt still running wild from their absinthe-induced stupor.
"There they are!" he shouted. "A whole battalion of those (racial expletive deleted) wolf-riders! And they must have shaved themselves to throw me off their scent!"
I shouted desperately, "Those aren't wolf-riders, Colonel! Those are your friends! Mrs. Buttersmell may even be in that crowd!"
But he wasn't listening. He kicked up the blimp's speed and lowered the nose so that it was pointed directly at the crowd of innocent people below. I cried for my Mandelbaum, knowing that it was pointless, for he was still dealing with the chaos on the ground below and there was no way for him to help me.
As our fatal crash seemed imminent, I found myself scrambling for ideas. Even in his old age, I knew I couldn't physically overpower the Colonel. But suddenly, an idea struck me. Yes, yes, this might work.
"Colonel," I shouted, and he turned to face me. "If you're going into battle with wolf-riders, then I'm right here by your side. Consider me your wingman, in romance and in battle!"
He told me to quit being a fool and leave this battle to him alone.
"It's too late for that, Colonel. Where would I even go? I'm here aboard the blimp just like you are. If you crash, I crash."
It was only then that the logic of our situation finally began to register with him. He stared at me with a look of pity in his eyes. The rain was beating down relentlessly on both of us, but I refused to back down. I watched intently as the look of madness in his eyes suddenly transitioned into a pitiful regret.
"I can't take you with me," he said solemnly.
"Then let's turn this blimp around," I said. "We'll live to fight wolf-riders another day."
He scoffed at me and shook his head, but we were still plummeting dangerously fast toward the ground below.
"I know there were never any damned wolf-riders," he said, rather ashamed.
I nodded. "You're right. I think you were just looking for some sort of adventure, Colonel. One last hurrah to get you as far away from Dwindling Sands as possible. You wanted wolf-riders, but there weren't any. But you know what is an adventure? Love. It's the greatest adventure of them all. I know it's frightening, yes, but you have it laid out before you."
We continued to dive closer, closer, closer toward the earth. I probably could have dived forward at the last moment, yanked the steering wheel and altitude levers, and saved us from the crash, but I knew this decision had to be the Colonel's alone. As we descended, now yards away from the ground, Colonel Futtermann made a lightning-fast move toward the levers and changed our trajectory at the last possible second. We gained altitude and ascended narrowly above the oblivious crowd below us.
...
It's taken me an entire day to finally get around to making this post, as I was still reeling from the emotional ending of our saga. But I was ultimately able to steer the Eurydice back to Dwindling Sands and deliver the Colonel safely home. Mandelbaum was there, and he had heroically resolved the situation on the ground. Trent and the other scheming orderlies and nurses were tied up in ropes, awaiting their arrest with the local authorities. Mandelbaum was speaking with the director of the nursing home, who assured him that Trent's plot was completely against the home's policy, and he was completely unaware that the illegal experiments were even taking place. He assured Mandelbaum and me that he would hire a whole new staff (hoping for Mandelbaum to be his head orderly, though the request was denied), and he would help make Dwindling Sands a nicer place to live for all the residents.
Meanwhile, Colonel Futtermann and his lovely Mrs. Buttersmell were reunited. She thanked him for a "lovely evening" and then retired back to her room. The Colonel was standing there alone, unable to contain the smile on his face.
"What a woman," he said, as she waddled on her walker away from us.
I patted him on the back and he turned to me. With a last bit of sage advice, he said, "Don't ever lose sight of love, kiddo. And more importantly, enjoy urinating pain-free while you're still young, because my bladder's as swelled up as a blimp balloon after all that absinthe."
I nodded respectfully, trying my hardest to ignore the second half of his comment, and I looked toward Mandelbaum, thankful for the blessing of his love and companionship. Until we meet again!
#theend #futtermannandbuttersmell #futterbutter
#truelove #blimpchase #trentgotbusted
Today I paid a visit to my longtime friend and mentor, Colonel Albert Futtermann (U.S. Army, retired). I owe so much to this man, for it was through his friendship and advice that I became the blimpman that I am today. He taught me everything I know about taming the skies and surfing the heavens in a lighter-than-air airship.
You see, Colonel Futtermann had been one of the greatest blimpmen back in his prime. He was a decorated veteran of the Korean War, having led an aerial assault on a regiment of North Korean wolf-riders. His blimp was shot down by a singular bullet (an awakening for the American forces that perhaps a balloon is not the best design for a vessel of war), and all of his compatriots died in the crash. Colonel Futtermann, alone for weeks in the Korean wilderness and surrounded by wolf-riders, survived on a diet of squirrel meat and wolf dung and single-handedly fought his way back to friendly territory. He was responsible for the death of over one enemies.
In his ripe old age, unfortunately Colonel Futtermann's family found themselves unable to handle the day to day care he required, especially after the incident where he tried to jump off the roof holding nothing but a "Happy 90th Birthday" helium balloon (no doubt thinking it was a blimp), so they committed him to the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home. I knew my old friend would have a difficult time adjusting to senility, so I decided to pay him a visit.
Honeypoots, my dear wife, actually encouraged me, for she knew how much this visit would mean to both me and him.
"For the last time," she said, "I don't CARE about the difference between steerable propellers and ducted fans! Gosh, you're annoying me."
Then she continued with that lovely angelic voice of hers, "Why don't you go see your friend, you know, that really old guy?"
I took her idea to heart and thought about what a selfless woman she is! A few hours later, I parked my blimp in a nearby field and arrived at Dwindling Sands.
I was a little downtrodden to see the home's run-down facilities and poor upkeep. There were elderly people lounged about in every corner, some staring at paint-stripped walls, others drooling involuntarily, most of them incoherently muttering racial slurs to no audience in particular, and a few who were seated and taking naps (hopefully taking naps). This was no place for such a decorated war hero as Colonel Futtermann. It made me realize how sad our gradual progression toward the wormy grave truly can be.
I met up with Colonel Futtermann in the game room, and he wasted no time cluing me in to some sort of on-going rant he'd been having with himself. He smashed his game of Connect Four with his fist, sending plastic pieces flying every which way, and he shouted things about "liars", "manipulators", and "murderers". When I asked him what he meant, horrified at the possibilities, he explained that the orderlies and other staff were conducting human experimentation on the residents.
He said the Bingo caller, Trent, was the worst of them and had a particularly sinister plot involving poisoned beverages. I glanced over at frosted-tips Trent, and amid his bored call of "B-9" (it's not a tumor!), he seemed completely harmless to me.
I began to worry that my friend, Colonel Futtermann, had started clinging to silly conspiracy theories as a coping mechanism for being cooped up in his placid new digs. I gave him a reassuring smile, some words of encouragement, and explained softly how any "wolf-riders" he may see are simply figments of his imagination.
"I know there aren't any damn wolf-riders around here, you moron!" he shouted back at me. Then in a lower voice he added, "If I only had a blimp to get me out of this place. Oh, how I'd love to fly free once again, conquering the clouds like I once did. Hey, what about yours?"
I pitied his loss of happiness, and even considered my own future - would this same tragic ending befall me too? Would it befall us all? But heck no, I wasn't going to let him borrow my blimp.
I tried to steer the conversation to something more light-hearted. "Tell me, Colonel Futtermann, isn't there anything that you enjoy about this place? Maybe a friend you've made?"
He thought for a long moment (really long; I was just about to call for help from an orderly when he snapped out of his mindless trance), and he said there was one thing he was particularly fond of in this place. It took some coaxing on my part, but I finally got him to pipe up, and he did so with an almost beaming twinkle in his eye.
"Well, there's a woman," he said.
That was a good sign, I thought - a bit of a romantic interest. Then he pointed across the room at an elderly gal in the corner, who was struggling to knit some sort of sweater with her shaky hands.
"That's Estelle Buttersmell. She's the first woman who's ever given me that tingle, ever since Gloria passed away."
Then he went on to describe in copious, pornographic detail for the next forty-five minutes about how Estelle Buttersmell aroused a sexual tiger within him, using words like "loins" and "quiver" and "moisturized neck flaps", and how she made his skin tingle as if he were soaking in a sweaty bath of motor oils.
"Let me guess," I said, "you love everything about her... but 'er smell."
I laughed at my own pun. He slapped me across the face with his hefty, wide-open palm, knocking me to the floor and giving me a taste of that old "Futtermann Fist of Fire."
"Show some respect, you ingrate," he said.
I apologized and returned to my seat, shaking off my slight concussion. The old geezer still packed quite a wallop.
He then went on to explain sadly that Mrs. Buttersmell hadn't even noticed him yet. He was completely invisible to her. Despite my encouragement, he groaned that he just didn't have the courage to woo a woman anymore. He'd been out of practice for so long.
"Plus," he said, "all the gals around here only pay attention to one man - Jerry."
I looked over to where Futtermann pointed, and in the corner of the room was Jerry, seated in a wheelchair and drooling onto his own lap with his mouth agape. He stared blindly moaning at an untouched game of checkers set before him.
Colonel Futtermann shook his head hopelessly. "God, I can't compete with a playboy like that."
After a while, it began to dawn on me how I could lend some assistance to my old friend, perhaps paying him back for the years of generous mentorship he provided to me.
"Colonel Futtermann, I swear a solemn blimpman's vow," I said. "I shall not leave from Dwindling Sands until you have won the love and admiration of our dear Mrs. Buttersmell!"
The Colonel said my oath was futile, but even he could not conceal the hopeful fire within his eyes. He sighed nonchalantly, "Whatever, I guess."
And I sprung into action, literally leaping out of my seat. When he asked me what I was doing, I said I had no time to waste; I needed to call the one person who taught me more about love, compassion, and romance than anyone else. The person whose tender love has made my life worth living.
"Your wife?" he asked.
I shouted back with a resounding no, pulled out my cell phone, and made the call to Mandelbaum. Within the hour, my loyal friend was checked into Dwindling Sands and was ready to help me on my quest.
#dwindlingsands #futtermannfistoffire #thecolonel #loveisintheair
Tuesday
Mandelbaum and I have been working tirelessly to aid my dear friend, Colonel Albert Futtermann, in winning the affections of the lovely Mrs. Estelle Buttersmell. We decided the first course of action was to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on Futtermann's rival in this romantic endeavor: Jerry. Apparently he was quite the tomcat around the nursing home, wheeling around and schmoozing every grey-haired vixen he could find. So if Futtermann stood any chance, we'd have to find some dirt on this chap.
I assigned Mandelbaum with that task. He posed as a nursing home orderly, totally nailed the interview with the director of Dwindling Sands, and found himself working up the ladder of employment in record time. He started the morning in bedpan changing (literal poop duty), and by lunch he had a prime spot in the game room, the place all orderlies wanted to be. The director was so thrilled with his unstoppable work ethic that he made Mandelbaum employee of the month in only his first day.
Meanwhile, I asked Mandelbaum how the intelligence gathering was coming along. He reported, regretfully, that he couldn't find a speck of dirt on Jerry. Aside from a few "accidents" in the arts and crafts room, he was as squeaky clean as the bedpans that Mandelbaum had just replaced in the dementia ward. Mandelbaum did say he was concerned about an off-limits room in the basement where he was sure he heard screams coming from inside, but I told him there was no time to worry about that.
I directed Mandelbaum to continue his efforts. Meanwhile, I planned to have an interview with Mrs. Buttersmell herself. If I was going to play matchmaker, I needed to know more about this dear woman and what kind of chances my mentor held. I learned through Mandelbaum's employee access that she had a distant relative, a grandson-in-law, who was on her list of registered visitors but who had never once signed the guest log. I figured I could pose as this "Ned Weintraub" and pay her a visit. I went ahead and disguised myself in a goatee, prosthetic nose, glasses, and fake ponytail (I always have a box of disguises on my blimp for such occasions), concealing my identity just in case she might recognize me from my visit to the home yesterday.
Mrs. Buttersmell was so eager to welcome this distant relative into her room that I felt a little guilty for deceiving her. She promptly updated me on "Coote and Franny's visit to Branson" and how "Coote's diphtheria had inflamed again," but I had no idea what she was talking about so I struggled to play along. I thought I had given myself away, as surely this Ned Weintraub fellow would have more to say on the topic of Coote and Franny, but I gradually came to realize that this woman had literally started the conversation somewhere in the middle of a story, and no one in their right mind would have been able to follow her old-lady yammering.
I started to nod off as she went into tediously long detail about her deceased great aunt Beulah or was it great aunt twice-removed who trained circus cats back in 1943 or was it '44 or was it great aunt Bethel, and when I woke up, I only caught the tail end of a stream of word vomit where she was saying, "...and that's all I really hoped for in a relationship. Gosh, it feels good to finally tell someone that. If only there was a man here who was able to do all those things for me."
I quickly stirred up in my chair, kicking myself for missing such key details, and I asked her to please repeat what she just said. She paused.
"Oh, well I was just saying how Coote and Franny just came back from Branson and--"
I rolled my eyes and fell back into my chair. Two minutes later, I was sound asleep. Better luck tomorrow, I hope.
#undercover #nedweintraub #employeeofthemonth #cooteandfranny
Wednesday
A window of opportunity had finally opened for us. Colonel Futtermann explained that every Wednesday evening was date night at the nursing home. He'd never attended as (1) he'd never had a date, and (2) quit tossing around these silly notions that I care about this kind of fandangled, rococo nonsense, I'm a war veteran, you idiot. I assured him that he'd have to sacrifice a little in order to win the heart of Mrs. Buttersmell. Women (I'm told) like this kind of thing.
The Colonel grumbled heavily to himself all the while he was squeezing his short, rotund body into his dusty dress uniform. "The damn thing doesn't fit anymore - must have shrunk."
I agreed, not wanting to upset him further, as I pinned his display of ribbons onto his chest. He tried buttoning his jacket and the middle button sprung off, blasting me in the elbow and leaving quite a welt.
"How do I look?" he asked, worriedly inspecting himself in the mirror.
"Like Colonel Futtermann, the war hero, whose debonair charm no woman can deny."
He told me to quit blowing smoke up his rear and let's get on with it.
We promptly arrived for dinner in the dining hall at 3:46 p.m. The Colonel scanned the room anxiously, working up a sweat. I'd never seen him so nervous. Mrs. Buttersmell crept in a few minutes later, shimmying in on her walker and wearing her nice "dinner slippers." The Colonel turned to run as fast as his legs could take him, but I caught up to him in about three paces and blocked his escape.
I reassured him that I'd walk him through everything he needed to say tonight. I showed him the hearing-aid/two-way directional earwig that Mandelbaum had rigged up for us. (Where was Mandelbaum, by the way? He should have been here by now.) And then I told him how I'd be right next door in the utility closet. Mandelbaum had discovered that there was a CCTV feed in the room where I could watch everything happening in the dining room.
"I'll even tell you what to say. I'll be your very own Cyrano de Burgershack," I said proudly.
Colonel Futtermann calmed down a bit and shook his head in the affirmative.
I made my way into the closet and found Futtermann and Buttersmell on the security feed. I spoke into the microphone, and I could tell by Colonel Futtermann's reaction that he was now hearing my voice in his ear: "Okay, go up to her and ask her if she'd like to join you for dinner this evening."
The Colonel took a few seconds to muster up the courage, and he finally waddled over to Mrs. Buttersmell.
"I'm told women like to eat," he growled.
"No, you old fool!" I shouted. "You're doing it all wrong. Abort! ABORT!"
But to my surprise, Mrs. Buttersmell returned a sweet smile to him and said, "I'd love to join you for dinner, Albert."
I was shocked; it actually worked! As the Colonel took her by the arm and ushered her to their table, I saw him turn toward the camera on the ceiling and give a half-hearted thumbs-up. I returned the gesture, feeling quite dumb afterward as I realized he couldn't see me. They took their seats and sat in complete silence for the next twelve and a half minutes.
"This is really nice," she said.
He replied with a nonverbal grunt.
I knew I had to intervene, so I started feeding him lines. "Tell her how beautiful she looks tonight."
He grumbled something about her cataracts looking better than usual, and I face-palmed myself. As the dinner of Salisbury steak and lime jello wore on, I continued to feed Colonel Futtermann some more suggestions any time there was a lull in the conversation. He'd ignore me and go off book, improvising and bringing up topics like bowels, swelling, and various war stories all involving ridiculous amounts of gore; but I quickly course-corrected.
"Stick to talking about her, Colonel."
He thought for a moment and asked her, "What do you fear most about death?"
Cripes, no! I was just about to rush in there when I heard her respond over the microphone.
"Honestly, Albert. I'd hate to spend this last bit of time alone."
I paused, surprised at her reaction and admiring her tender honesty. The Colonel replied softly, "Well let's make sure that doesn't happen."
She smiled and slowly reached a shaky hand across the table and placed it on top of his meaty paw. He smiled.
A tear was welling up in my eye when the closet door suddenly flung open wide. It was Trent, that sleazy bro who ran the Bingo games.
"Hey, you can't be in here! This room is off limits. Geeze, first there's that big dude snooping around in the basement and now this?! Why don't you get back in your ridiculous blimp and get the hell out of here?!"
I wasted no time rushing out the door, but I felt extremely guilty leaving my old friend behind with no assistance on his date. I took one look behind me as I fled and saw that Colonel Futtermann had actually removed his earwig and placed it on the table.
He was leading Mrs. Buttersmell away with a tender hand on her walker. I smiled the whole way back to my blimp. Hopefully Mandelbaum will show up soon so I can tell him the news of our success.
#loveisintheair #futterbutter #trentisahater
#datenight #whereismandelbaum
-----
Mandelbaum's Surveillance Log (Wednesday):
6:20 wake-up call
6:30 sponge-baths and bedpan-changing
7:10 breakfast (curds, boiled eggs, side of prunes)
7:40 morning medicine and vitamins
8:00 Nurse Howard puts on an episode of "Burn Notice" for the Alzheimer's ward
8:30-8:40 Trent goes into basement
9:00-10:00 recreation time in game room
9:17 Colonel Futtermann and Jerry get into an argument over a game of dominoes
10:00 Nurse Howard puts on the same episode of "Burn Notice" for the Alzheimer's ward
10:30 lunch (porridge, cole slaw, leftover curds)
11:00 Trent goes into basement again
11:15 screams coming from basement
11:30 Trent exits basement
11:35 picked lock to basement door
(end of log)
Thursday
I stayed all night aboard the Eurydice and waited for Mandelbaum to return, but he never did. Normally, I would have been worried for my friend, who is always quite punctual, but I couldn't help but find myself reveling in my high spirits regarding the day's success. I came out here to help Colonel Futtermann find love, and so far everything was going splendidly. I was so glad his date with Mrs. Buttersmell went well, and I could only imagine what the rest of the night held for them after my departure.
Did he have any trouble finding all the right things to say? Was she still interested in him, despite his grumpy demeanor and uncontrollable flatulence? Did they have a wild and crazy night until they tucked into bed around 7:30? And furthermore, were those separate beds or not? (I tried journaling my thoughts over a glass of absinthe, but couldn't find a single bottle in the hold. That's strange, I could swear I brought at least one crate from home...)
Anyway it was somewhere in the wee hours of Thursday morning when I noticed a note pinned to my captain's desk. How did I not see this earlier? It was from Mandelbaum. In the note he said he'd uncovered something sinister happening at the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home, and he needed to deal with it immediately. If I needed him, I could find him in the game room.
I quickly snuck back into the facility, worried about what the problem could be. Inside, I ducked behind a stretcher to evade detection from a few orderlies. As I moved closer toward the game room, I could hear an unsettling commotion happening in the room. When I peeked inside the window, you won't believe what I saw.
I'm still overcoming my shock, and it's hard for me to share with you in detail exactly what I beheld. I may need to see a psychiatrist after this because the horror no doubt caused a bit of post-traumatic stress.
All I can say is that every resident of Dwindling Sands was piled into that room, and not a single shred of clothing was anywhere in sight. The elderly people were writhing on each other in some sort of drunken rave. As they danced to The Andrew Sisters' rendition of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" played over the speakers, their mass of wrinkly, liver-spotted flesh melded together in an amorphous blob of mushy madness. Bodies of nude old men and old women were indistinguishable from each other in the pulsating bare-fleshed mob. There was so much gummy, toothless kissing and drooling tongues and rubbing of fleshy flaps doing the Charleston and arthritic fingers wiggling about that I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a raw chicken wing ever again without whimpering in fear.
I glanced around the room and saw the causation of this unnatural atrocity. Old wheelchair-bound Jerry was whizzing around the room waving a bottle of absinthe over his bald head. As he kicked back the last swig, I realized that it was my bottle of absinthe! Somehow they'd gotten into my crate of '67 Coeval that was stored in my blimp. But how?
That's when I saw Trent and a few other staffers perched in the corner of the room, wearing white lab coats and holding clipboards. Trent was muttering something about, "Subject 517 is responding now to the effects of the hallucinogenic wormwood we administered. Subject 786 is passed out. Meanwhile 829 and 411 are getting to second base on the Parcheesi table."
I was appalled at this level of inhumane experimentation, but I felt helpless to intervene. Suddenly, I was startled by a large palm gripping my shoulder from behind. When I turned, it was Mandelbaum, still in his orderly uniform. He rapidly explained that he had just escaped from the basement, where he'd been locked away as a prisoner all day, because Trent and the others had realized he uncovered the truth about their illegal scientific operation. Mandelbaum said the nursing home had been taking part in all sorts of horrendous money-making schemes using the elderly as their lab rats.
I asked how we could help these poor people, but Mandelbaum was already one step ahead of me, per usual. He pushed himself into the room, sliding past the piles of wrinkly skin in each direction, punched a few orderlies who tried to intercept him, and then he grabbed hold of a water fountain mounted on the wall. Using his behemoth strength, he ripped the water fountain from the wall, pipes and all, raised it high above his head, and hurled the contraption straight through the nearest window.
Glass shattered everywhere, and I shouted, "Walk at a reasonable pace! Walk at a reasonable pace for your lives!"
The elders screamed and started piling through the new exit five at a time. Trent screamed futilely for them to come back, but by then, the whole parade of naked seniors had poured out into the streets.
I caught sight of Mrs. Buttersmell trailing behind the rear of the crowd. I quickly covered her naked body with a blanket, and I could tell she was starting to come out of her absinthian delirium. I asked her where Colonel Futtermann was in all of this raucous, as I hadn't seen him anywhere, and she replied groggily, "Oh, poor Albert took off as soon as the shindig started."
"Did your date not go well?" I asked.
"Oh heavens no," she said. "It was a marvelous time. But after one drink of that delightful green stuff, Albert said the wolf-riders were coming, and he needed to get the blimp ready for battle. Whatever on earth do you think he meant by that?"
I told her firmly to describe to me in exact, unaltered detail about what happened next and where the Colonel had run off to, but in all honesty, the truth was already clear enough to me. I needed to retreat back to the Eurydice, for I feared my blimp was no longer where I left her.
#whereisfuttermann #freedom #seniorgy #attackofthegreenfairy
Friday
I raced back to the Eurydice, hoping to cut off my dear Colonel Futtermann before he did anything too rash, but I'm afraid I was moments too late. A storm was beginning to roll in. My blimp was already taking off from her parking spot in the field, and Colonel Futtermann was behind the steering wheel.
I thought all was lost, but then I noticed that in his hasty take-off the Colonel had failed to retrieve the rope ladder. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and leapt just in the nick of time. I was only barely able to cling onto the final rung of the ladder. The Colonel's piloting was erratic and nauseating, and it took me ages to scale the ladder and finally climb aboard the main deck.
When I did, the Colonel was up there wearing nothing but an adult diaper and his Army beret.
"You were a fool to chase after me," he shouted over the thunder and rain. "We're going into battle and there's no way in hell either of us is coming back alive!"
I shouted to him that it was all a hallucination, that wolf-riders were nowhere to be seen, and it was time for us to return safely to the Dwindling Sands Nursing Home before it was too late.
He hissed, saying, "There's nothing for me there in that godforsaken place!"
"But what about Mrs. Buttersmell?" I said. "The two of you were hitting it off so nicely, weren't you?"
The Colonel paused for a moment, and I hoped some amount of reasoning had sunk in. "She was a fool to ever love me," he replied. "What have I ever done to deserve a gorgeous woman like that? Nothing! But I'll show her that I'm no dandy! When I rain hell upon these wolf-riders, she'll know that Colonel Albert Jeroboam Futtermann went out in a blaze of glory!"
Before I could try to talk any reason into him, he yanked the steering wheel, rapidly changing the blimp's course and sending me tumbling onto the deck. I regathered my footing and realized he was steering us toward the mob of nude seniors who were escaping from the nursing home, no doubt still running wild from their absinthe-induced stupor.
"There they are!" he shouted. "A whole battalion of those (racial expletive deleted) wolf-riders! And they must have shaved themselves to throw me off their scent!"
I shouted desperately, "Those aren't wolf-riders, Colonel! Those are your friends! Mrs. Buttersmell may even be in that crowd!"
But he wasn't listening. He kicked up the blimp's speed and lowered the nose so that it was pointed directly at the crowd of innocent people below. I cried for my Mandelbaum, knowing that it was pointless, for he was still dealing with the chaos on the ground below and there was no way for him to help me.
As our fatal crash seemed imminent, I found myself scrambling for ideas. Even in his old age, I knew I couldn't physically overpower the Colonel. But suddenly, an idea struck me. Yes, yes, this might work.
"Colonel," I shouted, and he turned to face me. "If you're going into battle with wolf-riders, then I'm right here by your side. Consider me your wingman, in romance and in battle!"
He told me to quit being a fool and leave this battle to him alone.
"It's too late for that, Colonel. Where would I even go? I'm here aboard the blimp just like you are. If you crash, I crash."
It was only then that the logic of our situation finally began to register with him. He stared at me with a look of pity in his eyes. The rain was beating down relentlessly on both of us, but I refused to back down. I watched intently as the look of madness in his eyes suddenly transitioned into a pitiful regret.
"I can't take you with me," he said solemnly.
"Then let's turn this blimp around," I said. "We'll live to fight wolf-riders another day."
He scoffed at me and shook his head, but we were still plummeting dangerously fast toward the ground below.
"I know there were never any damned wolf-riders," he said, rather ashamed.
I nodded. "You're right. I think you were just looking for some sort of adventure, Colonel. One last hurrah to get you as far away from Dwindling Sands as possible. You wanted wolf-riders, but there weren't any. But you know what is an adventure? Love. It's the greatest adventure of them all. I know it's frightening, yes, but you have it laid out before you."
We continued to dive closer, closer, closer toward the earth. I probably could have dived forward at the last moment, yanked the steering wheel and altitude levers, and saved us from the crash, but I knew this decision had to be the Colonel's alone. As we descended, now yards away from the ground, Colonel Futtermann made a lightning-fast move toward the levers and changed our trajectory at the last possible second. We gained altitude and ascended narrowly above the oblivious crowd below us.
...
It's taken me an entire day to finally get around to making this post, as I was still reeling from the emotional ending of our saga. But I was ultimately able to steer the Eurydice back to Dwindling Sands and deliver the Colonel safely home. Mandelbaum was there, and he had heroically resolved the situation on the ground. Trent and the other scheming orderlies and nurses were tied up in ropes, awaiting their arrest with the local authorities. Mandelbaum was speaking with the director of the nursing home, who assured him that Trent's plot was completely against the home's policy, and he was completely unaware that the illegal experiments were even taking place. He assured Mandelbaum and me that he would hire a whole new staff (hoping for Mandelbaum to be his head orderly, though the request was denied), and he would help make Dwindling Sands a nicer place to live for all the residents.
Meanwhile, Colonel Futtermann and his lovely Mrs. Buttersmell were reunited. She thanked him for a "lovely evening" and then retired back to her room. The Colonel was standing there alone, unable to contain the smile on his face.
"What a woman," he said, as she waddled on her walker away from us.
I patted him on the back and he turned to me. With a last bit of sage advice, he said, "Don't ever lose sight of love, kiddo. And more importantly, enjoy urinating pain-free while you're still young, because my bladder's as swelled up as a blimp balloon after all that absinthe."
I nodded respectfully, trying my hardest to ignore the second half of his comment, and I looked toward Mandelbaum, thankful for the blessing of his love and companionship. Until we meet again!
#theend #futtermannandbuttersmell #futterbutter
#truelove #blimpchase #trentgotbusted
© C. Blake McIntire and Blimp Tales, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to C. Blake McIntire and BlimpTales.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
