Astrid was the fatherless child of a tool-pusher named Kirk Frick. Her core story is that she franchised her way out of puberty to merge with a founding partner of Huff Pugh Fuchs. We’ll develop Astrid Frick Fuchs when we need her, but let’s do a little foregrounding first.
It was the fraught decade of the aughts. Trophy hunting was pitiful. All the wild game was virtually shot up. Sportsmen had to plink at domesticated prey to kill anything at all. In this bleak scenario a lucky GOB named Fred bagged a quasi-extinct tundra coney. As he emptied his clip skyward in celebratory gunfire, Fred inadvertently shot off his face.
A search party found Fred facedown in a puddle of smegma-like fluid. The icky ooze had exerted startling antisepsis on his effaced face. The mess of bone and tissue was still pink and vibrant.
They were fixing to trundle the cadaver back to town when a fella named Wayne noticed their dualie was sitting on empty. Fred was rapidly putrefying now on the Dodge’s tailgate. The party discussed thumbing a ride on the interstate. “Let’s try some of this stuff first,” Wayne said.
They scooped fluid into empty hooch cartons and dumped it into the dualie’s tank. It not only got them home, it tripled the truck’s rated MPG and improved its performance. News of the incident got around in good-old-boy circles.
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