Yes, the title is an Angela's Ashes reference. If you haven't read it, do so please, it's amazing.
Anyway. Stripey made me realize something yesterday. Our email conversation before I really started my getaway led to a Harry Potter metaphor when I said that my policy with the mask was the same as how the trio handled the locket Horcrux in the last book. And the metaphor really works in a lot of ways, too, not the least of which being that I'm a Chosen one. Get it?
Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked again. I asked him where my Dumbledore was and he said that he'd killed him and Voorhees ate the body. Well, I realized that I have never really had a Dumbledore, and could really use one in my current situation. But who do I know that's so wise and can teach me things to help out against all those hell-bent on my destruction?
Then I remembered that my grandfather is a former member of the freaking IRA. He kept all his memorabilia, too. Including his weapons. A burglar tried to rob him a few years back. Grandpa shot him in the chest before the guy knew he was there.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Goodness, Doc, the Irish Republican Army was a group of terrorists! Wouldn't associating yourself with them - and using their tactics, no less - go completely against that moral code, you know, one of the main reasons you refused to join the Commune in the first place?"
First off, FREEDOM FIGHTERS FOR THE GLORY OF THE GREATEST NATION ON TH' FACE O' TH' EARTH, not terrorists. If you ask Grandpa, at least. Second, I don't have many more options left. Even I can't run forever. Not like this, anyway.
So we showed up at his house this morning. He opened the door only a crack, as he always does, and when he saw me his one visible eye widened. "Jaysus, Hanna, what happened to ye? Ye look like hell!" So he let us in and I explained the whole situation. He just took it in solemnly, nodding every now and again. After I finished, he said, "Och. I was hoping ye wouldn't get wrapped up with these guys, you were always such a nice and peace-lovin' girl..."
"You...wait, you know about these guys?! Why haven't you said anything?!"
"Och, aye, I'll tell you all about it later. Right now we need to get packed and outta here. An' we'll be takin' my vehicle, your puny little thing is ruddy worthless for combat 'n holdin' th' supplies we'll need 'n all sorts o' odder things..."
The friend I have codenamed Liz, who happens to own the car, didn't like that. "Hey! My car is awesome! It's gotten us this far, it'll go forever!"
He just gave her an amused look. "You won't survive long in a war with that attitude, lassie. Sacrifices have to be made sometimes, an' if ye don't like it, you can see if th' enemy's any better."
That shut her up. Which was kind of amazing, because usually nothing shuts her up when she's mad but the other person's surrender. Of course, my grandpa's still in great shape. He could destroy a lot of guys less than half his age in a fair fight if he needed to. Which is good for our sakes.
So we moved our stuff to his vehicle, which happens to be a modified truck of some sort, and he grabbed some stuff for himself to pack. Among his luggage is a crate that, when asked what it contains, he'll only give us a devilish grin.
He's promised to teach us how to fight back as best as he can and as fast as he can. And he, in turn, made me promise that, in the ("rather likely") event of his death, I'm to scatter his ashes back home in Ireland.
We're back on the move now. Grandpa's happier than I've ever seen him. Crazy old bastard.