Dick C. Thatcher was the corvus crow guru authority of the Northeast. He called himself an Easton. Firstly: because he like the national past time baseball. When he played little league he used Easton bats and gloves and balls and clothing and equipment. Being and calling himself an Easton reminded Dick C. Thatcher of baseball and thus reminded him of his childhood and little league days. Secondly: he hated custom. There is nothing he hated more than meeting someone from the North East - as his ears were crushed by the concept hackneyed propagating through the air in the form of sound waves - that introduced themselves in that way. For example: "Hello I'm Fred from the North East," which the conversation would promptly lead to a white trash white chipped paint dilapidated porch sitting crud head grumbling about the damn Nor Easters and cold bones. What ignore Easter? What a Norseman Easter where Loki is hatched out of an egg in the form of a skunk and gases the children the death when they open up a discovered egg?
And Dick C. Thatcher was a blind hypocrite too as he went around his town in a hyper-militant aggressive belligerent way leaving no corner unturned, no nook and cranny infested, no basement flooded searching out and destroying or deprecating everything hackneyed as if it were the devil and evil. At the bar, The Twisted Bloated Vine, the bar tendress - a luscious, skinny, callipygian, full busomed beauty who hadn't been "picked up" yet by some handsome beau with business potential dash and dollar symbols raining in his future or was quaint, enjoyed the small town charm, refused to be a sorry lonely teary eyed girl, and did not expect nor see much prospect in union with the opposite sex - nobody could tell as she was genuinely and flagrantly open about her lack of desire for promiscuity on all fronts. She always attempted and usually succeeded at being intelligent and witty - and if not a charming laugh or smile adequately served as a palliative - when Dick frequented the place and talked as purely lacking in custom as possible so as not to strain his nerves with the hackneyed.
Anyblah Dick C. Thatcher was a hypocrite because the first name Dick is about as hackney as it goes and comes and stays and should be going death of style here anytime soon: like yesterday! He also was unaware that if you said his first name and middle initial in a certain way or listened in a certain way one heard Dick-see. Now this is the equivalent of pan-zee, or skirtsy, curtsy, or girly and Dick would have become irate had he known that townspeople talked of the effeminate sound and nature of his name - but no one said a thing. And did I mention he had crow issues. He certainly was not a crow jackdaw lover. In fact, he hated crows despite the fact that he had written volumes and volumes of animal crow adventure books for children in his spare time when he wasn't ridding the world of the hackneyed which was his official title around town in the slovenly laudable dimpy Derby next to the enchanted town of Ansonia and the Walled In Pond. Following his years in college in which he studied UFO-ology and minored in cartoonology hoping to follow in the footsteps of Walt Disney, he worked for a Nature Conservatory which did not study the Spotted Owl or the endangered iridescent cat from Calicutless, but, dealt instead with more pressing problems: the local crow infestation.
Dick C. Thatcher had 20 scare crows in his yard. He hated crows. He put carrion ankle deep in the yard to mess with their instincts. He sat in his viewing tower at the top of his house with binoculars and telescopes watching the crows flock around his property too scared to approach and eat the carrion due to the scare crows while concurrently causing their hunger instincts to drive them loco mad loco. One time a neighbor made a complaint of the horrid toxic wretched smell emanating from the yard of Dick C. Thatcher. The first cop who showed up saw Dick in his tower with a gas mask on. The cop exited his car and promptly took to vomiting and fell over onto the gravel driveway overcome by the stench. Dick promptly called an ambulance. The next day two more cops arrived this time with gas masks as the ambulance attendants had to be put on breathing machines over night due to the mustard gas in the air emitted by the carrion. The cops agreed to let Dick keep the carrion in the yard as it was a scientific study to determine how best to eliminate the crow infestation problem in Derby.
One day a suitor of the bar tendress, the bar tendress basking in the lime light of the appellation Luscious, was walking his dog near the C. Thatcher property. His dog smelled the carrion and loosed himself of his leash and ran head long and tail short into the ankle deep carrion. Dick C. Thatcher was then in his lookout tower at the top of his house playing a plastic crow call like hunters use to trick and kill and shoot and shoot and brag and proudize themselves by killing bucks and ducks, eating the body bone meat and hanging bloody heads and organs on walls for a good proud laugh mock beating of mother natures face into her own ground. There was a ruckus amongst the hundreds of crows drooling over the carrion and Dick thought he had made some scientific sound insight into the crow psyche that would help eliminate the crow infestation problem permanently. But then he heard the dog of the suitor of Luscious ravenously eating some carrion fragment. Provoked and caw cocked, Dick promptly pulled out a shot gun he had bought at Dick's Sporting Good's, lamely enough, realized it was already shot, and then pulled out loaded primed gun, and shot the poor suitors dog still cold dead in an unnoticeable flash of lead. The cops arrived on the scene to an initially irate youth who now lay indisposed and incapacitated in a pile of his own vomit. After he was revived in the hospital there was nothing that could be done as there was a sign at Dick C. Thatcher's property warning all that any animals who enter the premises will be promptly deadified.
The next day, Dick C. Thatcher went down to The Hemorrhaging Vine for a drink as his trigger finger was tired. The bar tendress, Luscious, with her firm, perky, chic C breasts, the previous day had been in a book shop at the time that her suitor's dog had been soul excavated from planet earth by Dick. She had found a children's book about jackdaw crows in revolt against and at war with innocent human settlements, pulled it off the shelf, and read the author's name - Dick C. Thatcher - at the exact same time that pellets of lead entered the dog in a flash second ending it's life. She asked him about the book when he came into The Bleeding Vine. Dick promptly belched out, "Don't ever mess with them crows! Stay as far away as possible," in the same white trash white chipped paint dilapidated porch sitting crud head grumbling as mentioned earlier. Luscious became even more intrigued with the man after this comment and may have even been slipping into inclinations to couple lasciviously with Dick C. Thatcher.
Also occurring the previous day: two deadthdical jet black crows greeted Luscious as she left her dwelling in the morning on errands and she landed stumbled crashed instantly in love as they cooed so sweetly to her and caw caw cawed like flying reptilian dinosaur raptors. Her favorite color was black and the ease and clarity charm and purity of the crows voices and handsomeness impressed her much. Luscious had never seen or heard a crow before in her life. And then she found Dick C. Thatcher's crow children's books and spent the whole rest of the pre-night vespers reading it and was very excited to see Dick in The Exploded Vine the following day. She was riding a wave of unprecedented uncanny ironic experience alongside black feathery sexual excitation. Luscious then talked to Dick more of her adventures involving her finding his book and how eerie it was to see the two crows beforehand and how she had fallen in love with the black birds.
Dick's first response was silence and if Luscious had looked in his eyes she would have seen the craziness and ire building and the raging, fiery, red vein warhead wire on his forehead. But at that very moment her phone rang. And nothing do you know but it was her suitor beau who was in the hospital and had fallen from a vomit attack and had just had his dog blam blam blammed to the other side of the ghost realm by one Dick C. Thatcher. He explained to Luscious what had happened over the phone as she scolded and chided him for bad tonguing Dick C. Thatcher - caw sure there was some egregious mistake - and promised that he was the sweetest kindness most lovable golden heart-ed man in dimpy Derby after reading his riveting children's books about crows full of youthful frolics, enchantment, and never never land adventures involving the destruction and extermination of innocent peoples settling too proximitous to crow talon territory.
At that point the convalescing suitor became infuriated and started screaming full rocket fuel blast into the black hole ear of Luscious. And Dick at that very too moment was loosed from earthly consciousness bindings, shieldings and hypnotical mirrors thinking that Luscious was an alien hybrid sent earth to haunt the humans and destroy them with the hackneyed as Luscious continued to say repeat, "All right, I'm sorry, All right, I'm sorry," to her suitor beau to calm him but forgetting the decorum between her and Dick dictating that she not to say such filthy hackneyed things.
Dick C. Thatcher lunged over the bar of The Whacked Bedlam AWOL Vine and strangled Luscious to death apparently brought to a point that broke after being around a newly professed crow lover, which was the anvil that broke the ants back, causing Dick C. Thatcher to find the deep end go off and his true psychological preoccupation (aside from his hateful crow hate fetish): eliminating and warring with the hackneyed, overtook his autopilot drive entirely, red wrath seethed jetted torpedoed through his veins and he committed murder. Dick C. Thatcher now resides in a bedlam ward far from civilization. There are 30 scare crows in the yard of the ward. Any crows seen on the hospital grounds are promptly gassed by the bedlam ward guards equipped with gas masks and nerve gas shard grenades. His children's crow literature books are still widely read. Luscious's beau was found weeping in the Walled In Pond Woods one day by a Gaea Goddess Which Crone Witch and never never reflected photons into the retinas of another dimpy Derby citizen although one curious book propeller and visitor of Dick C. Thatcher at the bedlam ward claimed one of the scarecrows was a bandit and looked similar to the suitor beau himself. But that is ambivalent speculation by a space pirate cadet anonymous mind. The Whacked Bedlam AWOL Vine was renamed to The Hollow Pumpkin.