The Little Screaming Mimi
Der Little Blonde Nebelwerfer
Also known as the Blonde Haired Screaming Mimi or the Little Blonde Fog-launcher -- all of which are accurate and appropriate descriptions of what is about to follow.
You may fire when ready, Gridley . . .
Image courtesy of Pffk#7
Before we get to the story, though, a little back- and fore- ground:
Prologue -- I once had a home in Arkansas
The story today is based on a true story, once again as told to me by my mom’s younger sister, the one from the Dairy Mart episode, Pumped up Kicks.
You know, the one I never knew about until recently. It turns out I had two aunts and one uncle I never knew about. All my mom’s siblings, of course. By the way, I never even met my mom’s actual parents, Winnie and Carbomb, either. The whole family moved around a lot and there are some big gaps. They came from Pineville, Missouri, and Little Rock, then they ended up just outside of Mena, Arkansas for a spell. Yes, that Mena. Before that, they were in Tipton, OK. Then Grants, New Mexico, in the mid 1950s. Then, for some reason, Stratford, Texas, where our story today takes place.
There was also a short stint in Floydada. I know that sounds like a Spanish surrealist painter, but it is a real place. Then to the general Amarillo metropolitan area, where we also moved when I was 14 and just entering High School.
I did pretty well in High School. Go Rebels!
My mom did not, which is just one of the many reasons she hates me. Though, come to think of it, she did win the Football Queen award. One can only imagine what that entailed. . .
Anyway, Here’s me filming the people who were filming me. I was a cheerleader, as you can see.
Yearbook picture; author’s archives
Funny story: a few years ago, probably in 2022 or 2023, I was searching through a dresser in my mom’s room for some missing (and likely purloined) files and instead found my cheerleading bloomers. From like the 1990s! While that might seem odd (yep) and a little bit creepy (ya think?), it is explainable as a trinket. All psychopaths keep them.
My mom Hannibal never talked much about her family or her upbringing, other that (a) she had a bad childhood (inverted reality), (b) her father was an alcoholic (her favorite insult, other than “queso-butt”), (c) her family were thieves and grifters (projection), (d) if they ever show up at the door, they are after money, so don’t answer. I remember thinking, I have no idea what any of them look like, so how would I know not to answer the door?!?!?
So, I just decided not to answer the door at all. That way I could never be wrong and, in theory, couldn’t be blamed. Well, I say in theory, because I got blamed for a lot of things I didn’t do.
Meanwhile Back in Stratford in the 1960s
The following is based on another true story from my unknown aunt and, while some of the events and conversations may be dramatized or even totally made up, any relation to actual persons is entirely intentional.
OK, we’re still in Stratford. In the 1960s. In the last episode, Hannibal, my mom took her sister to the Dairy Mart, used stolen money to get a burger and ice cream, and had a wonderful afternoon. Her favorite treats were the ill-gotten ones, no matter the flavor or form. However, Hannibal had another agenda. By playing the role as the helpful older sister, she just might get her bike back. No dice!
In Devil with a Kickstand, we discussed how Hannibal’s mom Winnie hid the bike next door at her friend Eldna’s as punishment. Hannibal searched all over Chestnut Street and beyond but could not find it. She knew it was nearby. It had to be, and she had to have it.
You see everything is transactional with hannibals, there is no love, just money, trinkets, perks, shiny things -- all of which they use to fill up the bottomless hole where their soul should be. Right now she is missing one of her perks, her bicycle.
Where could it have gone?
Hannibal thought about it. She quizzed her mom and her neighbors and her friends and read their reactions. Psychopaths have what I call Weakno-Vision, which is one of their greatest innate talents. They can look at anyone size them up and sense their vulnerabilities, weaknesses, failings, shortcomings, etc. Like a lamprey sizing up that fat juicy lake trout. When they identify a weakness, they will exploit it. For example, in 1975, when Hannibal met my dad, Fredo, she would have picked up insecurity (yep), a desire to be liked (isn’t, unless he’s paying for it), and a fear he does not measure up (strike three -- you’re outta here!).
On the other hand, sometimes, psychopaths encounter folks who have no weaknesses (like my Hansford Grandparents). That is who they fear . . . and quietly hate. . . and usually target.
Hannibal quizzed her mom, over and over, about the bike. Where is it. When could she have it back. Did somebody steal it. Winnie was not giving in. Not verbally anyway. It took less than half a second, but Hannibal she saw it. Winnie glanced ever so slightly in the direction of her neighbor Eldna’s. The bike was indeed nearby.
It was next door!
What to do?
Simply retrieving the bike wouldn’t work. It would be obvious Hannibal took it.
Hannibal knew, however, there was an opportunity for a truly great exploit.
Maybe some sweets would help her think through the possibilities. Hannibal loves sweets like cookies, malt balls, cherry mash, old fashioned strawberry Coke, maybe a Dr. Pepper.
She waited until Eldna was baking cookies for the Stratford charity food bank and Meals On Wheels. She also knew Eldna’s patterns -- after baking, she would be at the beauty parlor for an hour or so. Like many houses in the area, Eldna’s house had one of those sliding glass doors in the back. Hannibal had long ago mastered the art of lifting and rocking the door slightly to bypass the lock - assuming it was even locked.
Side note: Hannibal told me many times growing up to always double bolt the sliding glass doors and once even demonstrated how easy it was to unlock them. One time when I was living in Fort Worth, I had inadvertently locked my self out of my apartment. Panicking, I called Hannibal, and she walked me through -- over the phone mind you -- the correct and proper method for unlocking a door with a credit card.
Hannibal had broken into Eldna’s many times before on baking day, to mess with cookie count just a little. She could just hear Eldna saying “Oh heavens, I could swear I made 2 dozen chocolate chip and 2 dozen molasses cookies. I must be losing my mind.”
Hannibal loved gaslighting -- and is an extremely skilled practitioner.
Today, Hannibal entered Eldna’s house through the sliding glass door -- it wasn’t even locked -- and as soon as she was inside, a big smile lit up her face an her chin jutted out extra far. There sat her bike! Then white hot steam blew from her ears like the Fog Launcher of the title. The steaming screaming mimi!
Hannibal marched by the cooling cookie racks and opened the upper cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink “you can’t fool me you old bag, I know where you keep your jewelry.” Hannibal laughed quietly to herself, no emotion, as she snatched Eldna’s gold watches from the cabinet and dropped them in her hot pocket.
She also grabbed a cookie. Took a bite. Hmmm, tasty. What to do?
Who do I not like? Who do I want to target? Who do I want to get close to?
She sat down on Edna’s sofa and had another cookie and stared out the window, mulling it over. Hannibal as voyeur -- that is when her best ideas come. Nowadays, she sits in her truck in Wal-Mart, McDonalds, T.J. Maxx and Homegoods parking lots just watching people. (Or at least that’s what she says she does. I have another theory.)
So there she sat, on the sofa, at Eldna’s, with her legs pretzeled just watching passing cars, humming, and it came to her. The perfect plan.
Andrea! Kaboom!
Animation courtesy of PFFK#7
