Breakfast with the Beast #FriWFlip

Every Friday I will be posting a snippet from the sequel to Flipka. If you’re interested in following along, welcome! All feedback, be it fair or foul, is welcome.


“Absolutely … Positively … NOT!”
Hyman shrugged and then continued digging into the one meal he allowed himself a day: Breakfast, which always consisted of (if he could be believed) a barely cooked Porterhouse steak, topped with three eggs sunny-side up and washed down with prune juice. We were in the Headliner Room on the top floor of the resort, hardly a cozy spot at seven in morning with the cleaning crew emptying ashtrays and vacuuming the debris from the night before.

“That proves it,” he said between bloody mouthfuls. ‘You’re crazy. I knew it. All shrinks are crazy.”

No wonder he likes to negotiate deals over a steak, I thought. Watching him tear into raw flesh would intimidate the hell out of anyone. “I won’t debate that point but the answer is still no.” I rose to my feet and took one last look around a room generally off-limits to mere mortals. It was smaller than I’d imagined with decadent, red leather booths and high mirrored ceilings. Perfect for intimate concerts. All of the greats played in the Headliner Room, generally to private audiences; audiences consisting of wealthy, powerful people … some had unfathomable fame while others stood in the shadows and quietly controlled Vegas. After a night of schmoozing, they’d left behind a fog of cigar smoke and costly French perfume.

“Sit Doc. You haven’t been excused. I tell you what. I’ll give you a hour to think on it.”

I slowly sat my bottom back into the chair as ordered. “How good of you but I have to catch a flight at three and I still have packages to ship…”
“I’ve already taken care of your packages. Hell, I even ordered you a limo for the airport.”
“I’ll take a cab, thanks. Last time I got into one of your limos I ended up with a new life and I kind of like the one I have now …”

He looked up from his plate. “ I overestimated you, Butters. I didn’t peg you for the kind of broad to go all Tammy Wynette on me. You know show business. Sex sells. That’s just the way it is.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Tammy Wynette. Listen Mr. Hyman, I don’t understand why you can’t produce this atrocity without me. Get another psychiatrist to act as ⏤ what was it? ⏤ technical advisor?”

“You know all that psychological mumbo-jumbo. Besides I wanna to get my hands dirty on this project.” He motioned to his lawyer who’d been sitting by the stage absorbed in a phone call. The man hung up the phone and walked over carrying a thick notebook. “Just sign the contract. You don’t have to read the damn script,” he said as the lawyer dumped the pile in front of me.


“Bullshit. You know if I put my name on some bogus script that it’ll shut me up forever. But, here’s the thing. I wasn’t planning to say anything, really … as long as the girls are okay who cares what really happened? The government sealed those mines and so their secret is … Wait a minute, you haven’t even told me how Meredith is doing.”
His hooded eyes flickered slightly. “She’s in Switzerland at that fancy psychiatric place. You ever been to that country? It’s boring as shit.”
“But is she okay?”

“Listen, you want more money? Because we can get the mother fuckers to up their offer.” He had no idea how his daughter was doing. Nor did he care. Over the past year I’d often wondered about Hyman. Why had he suddenly shown up in Ely on the day that the girls were “rescued?” And why had he footed the bill for all three girls when he hadn’t even tried to get his daughter’s drug conviction overturned? It just didn’t make sense.

He threw a pristine white napkin into the bloody mess he’d made on the table. ”Simmons!,” he bellowed at the lawyer who was standing a foot away. “Make sure you get the signed contract before she leaves the hotel!”

With that, he plowed out of the room.


Next Friday, August 23: What does Sergei know? Character Study: Sergei … at least what little is known about him.

In Walks Trouble … #FriWFlip


BY DAYBREAK I’d whittled my former life down to ten boxes to be shipped to Chapel Hill. The rest was marked for the Goodwill.

Lopinski had chosen to stay home and I didn’t blame him. Even though Hyman had comped me a suite at one of his less seedy resorts, two days of watching me sort through my past would test the strength of any relationship. Besides, it was the beginning of the fall semester and he had classes to prepare for.

“This was a bad idea,” I admitted when he ‘d called the night before to check on me, “I’ve got about hundred boxes to go through and so far, I’ve only opened one. To be honest, it’s the one I should have saved for last.”
“You’re still coming home tomorrow night?”


Home. What a beautiful word that is. Home. “Yes, professor. I will be home.”

During the first few months of my exile I’d fluctuated between rage and shell shock. Logically I knew that staying away from Vegas until things blew over was for the best (and I had been well compensated) but shit! Did they have to treat me and Lopinsky like we were pawns on their goddamn chess board? I still had nightmares of waking up in a decrepit farmhouse in Nebraska with no idea how I’d gotten there. And Lopinsky? I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Why hadn’t they just warned us that things were going to be bat shit crazy after the so-called “story” broke and let us leave on our own?


Lopinsky would have left Nevada happily. He had all the materials he needed to work on his book and, the fact that he secured a publishing contract so soon after we arrived in Chapel Hill, instantly removed any anxiety he had about those missing hours of his life or the manner in which he’d been ejected from that state. The book! The book! All that mattered was the book, assembling the photos, researching his sources, creating an outline — all day long and well into the night. He needed me if for no other reason than I made sure he got some fresh air. I must admit, working on his book had been a hoot but, would it have been my choice to go into exile?
Someone knew that it would not. Someone knew that I wouldn’t willingly leave without knowing the truth. Someone knew I’d never go along with the cockamamie coverup. And I had my suspicions about who that someone might be.

I was in the process of labeling the boxes when there was a knock at the door.
“Room service?” I asked. I’d ordered a huge breakfast hoping it would keep me going through a long day of travel after a sleepless night.


There was silence. “Room service?” I asked again

The door opened and in sauntered the man who’d upended my life, the last man on earth I wanted to see: Douglas Hyman, de facto King of Vegas or, to the Russian acrobats, Satana. He scanned the boxes piled on the bed, the floor, and the desk. Basically on any flat surface. “That looks like a shitload of books!


“Our deal was you’d ship out whatever the hell I wanted —-“
“Put your shoes on, Doc. We’re going to breakfast.”
“You’re taking me to the rodeo?”
He was dressed like a wealthy rancher. Pricey cowboy boots; dark Levis, crispy white shirt and a Bolo tie.


“Ha,” He gave me the once over. “Hey, you’re looking pretty good. You probably could lose a few more pounds ⏤ but with your hair long at least guys can tell you’re a dame and not some kind of dyke.”
“Charming as usual. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
“I like to negotiate deals over a good steak.”
“I already ordered my breakfast.”
“And I already cancelled that order.”
“I know this is your hotel but I don’t work for you anymore and —“


He spotted the lavender envelope on the nightstand behind me and edged towards it. Perhaps drawn by the archaic script and Wiccan symbols Antionette always used on her “correspondence.” I grabbed the letter and put it into my pocket. He didn’t need to know all my secrets.


“Butters, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And if I refuse I’m gonna find a horse head in my bed?”
Apparently I’d slipped into that alternate universe where no one dared joke with Lord God Hyman. “Still have that mouth I see. I’m amazed it hasn’t gotten you killed. Just hear me out. What do you have to lose?”
“Let’s see. Because of you I lost a job. A home. My —”
“Some job, some home …”
“Yeah, well it was my home and my job … however humble.”
“I know your history, Butters. You can play a crappy hand better than most, heck, almost better than me. But this is not a crappy hand. This time you’re holding all the aces.”
“Okay, I’ll hear you out but only because I’m like a cat. Too curious for my own good. Besides I’d like to eat.”


Next Friday, August 16th: Hollywood Comes Knocking. Character Study: Meredith Hyman

The SafeStorage man #FriWFlip

THE STUFF OF MY LIFE had been dumped without any thought into cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling in one of those rent-by-the-month storage facilities on the south side of Vegas.  If I hadn’t returned from the dead who knows what would have happened to it. Sold. The proceeds (if any) given to the state.


I turned to the manager and asked, “Are you sure all that crap is mine?”
“Your name is Dr. Fiona Butters, right?  And you lived at 3814 Juniper Drive, Apt B?, Las Vegas Nevada.” He read from a rental agreement on which my signature had been forged. The poor sod sweat profusely in the hot September sun. His polyester SafeStorage shirt was at least two sizes too small, and a couple of strategic buttons were missing … but at least his fly was up.


“Yup, that was my address. Holy Crap. Where did you say those garbage bins are?”
“Listen lady, anything you don’t want just leave outside the gate. Trust me. Some old buzzard will want it.” He was referring to the gents on the street with their shopping carts already filled with discards.
“A lot of this is just crap.”
“Doesn’t matter – they’ll take it. Sometimes they even sell it.”


During the time that I’d been gone, the city of Vegas had crept even closer to the airport but in all other ways, had not changed. I asked myself if I missed my old life. Missed the thrill of being backstage during a show, the frantic hustle to feed egos, calm nerves and find missing props, the fouler than foul language, the garlic-tinged sweat, the gasps from the crowds as the acrobats performed fifty feet above them. The answer was … sometimes. Life in a college town on the eastern seaboard had taken some getting used to but … once I found the Starlight Players I realized that theater is theater no matter where you are. Besides, I had Lopinsky.


“Lady, if I were you I’d start with the box behind the door. Every month this broad comes by, hands me a sealed envelope and tells me to put it in the black box. I have no idea what’s inside it but…”
“It’s probably just mail.”
“A year’s worth of mail?  Your credit history must be shit.  Don’t you know that you can have it forwarded?”
“I didn’t expect to be gone for so long.” What an understatement! I hadn’t expected to be gone at all. “I didn’t realize I was such a hoarder! This is gonna take me at least two trips to the car so if you don’t mind…”

He wanted a story. Maybe more. He was the sort of fellow I always seemed to attract. But I wanted to get back to my air conditioned suite. Kick off my shoes, have an iced tea and decide which parts of my old life to save.


Next Friday, August 9th: In Walks Trouble

The Characters in this segment:

Tales and strange facts from the Great State of Nevada (the setting of the original Flipka)

Voting from the Great Beyond

I haven’t been posting lately because I’ve been trying to finish the latest incarnation of Flipka into which I’ve rolled a sequel. Will the sequel answer many reader questions? I don’t know.  Will it be less wacky than the first of which one reviewer wrote:

 

The wacky, utterly unbelievable plot is, however, merely the vehicle for JT Twissel to demonstrate her enviable skill set.

All I can say is, I tried. But how can I write “believable” plots set in a state that elects dead pimps to govern? By a landslide, I might add. 

 

Meet your new legislature Nevada!

Was the other candidate so terrible that the fine citizens of Pahrump are going dig up a corpse and send it to the Nevada legislature?

 

According to this tweet, Dennis Hof, who wrote The Art of the Pimp and was known as the Trump of Pahrump, is going to vote from the “great beyond.”

I know Republicans in Nevada got massacred tonight, but my man Dennis Hof crushed his opponent from the great beyond in AD-36 & we crushed the anti-brothel initiative in Lyon County by about 80%. So pardon me, but I’m celebrating.

Fictional whores celebrating their dead pimp’s glorious victory!

I know those tea party folks have a few wacky ideas, like believing that Donald Trump is the second coming of Jesus Christ, but do they really think the Nevada legislature is going to allow a ghost to vote?  And, how am I going to fit this twist into one of the unbelievable plots of which I am so enviably skilled?

 

Canophile Needs Help

You may have noticed, though probably not, that I haven’t been keeping up with blogging and all the responsibilities implicit in that activity.  One reason is I’ve been trying to finish Flipka II and it has been a struggle.  I set out to try to clear up confusion some readers had with the ending and ended up adding almost 200 more pages. So, it’s definitely not going to be a repub of the first book but an entirely different beast. 

One of my favorite reviews of the first edition of Flipka was from a charming writer named Robin Chambers who has written a series of science fiction novels, The Myrddin’s Heir series, for “children of all ages.” He wrote:

48% into the book, the plot went into hyperspace; but you go with it because you’re on the same spaceship, boldly going where maybe no author has gone before…

The wacky, utterly unbelievable plot is, however, merely the vehicle for JT Twissel to demonstrate her enviable skill set. Highly knowledgeable in a number of disciplines, she is very well read (I’m a sucker for literary references), sharply observant when it comes to individual character definitions, with a wickedly dry sense of humour and a wonderful command of language. 59% into the book you will meet the very likeable pilot Captain Wug, capable of such sentences as “May I ask, mellifluous one, why you want to know about the miasma behind our legendary monadnock?” The entire review is on the Flipka under Reviews

I was delighted with his review, of course, but “utterly unbelievable plot” I took slight umbrage with.  A story’s got to have a believable plot, right? 

And so I tried to insert “believability” into my plot which was impossible in the era of Trump. I guess because believable is somewhat associated with sanity and we certainly don’t have a lot of that going round.

It was a fool’s mission, friends. However, Fi Butters does get to the bottom of the mystery that the CIA, ICE, FAA or Federation of Planets is so anxious to protect.

The second reason I haven’t been blogging is that I’m planning a trip.  Some people are Anglophiles and some are Francophiles but I am a Canophile.  My favorite singer/songwriters (Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen) are from Canada as are many of my favorite actors.  

Last but not least, my favorite book as a child (Anne of Green Gables) was set in Canada.  So I’m planning a trip to Nova Scotia and boy oh boy, if you think my plots are wacky and unbelievable, so are the trips I plan.  I’ve got us flying into Montreal, taking an overnight train to Halifax, biking all over Prince Edward Island, flying back to Montreal and then taking an overnight train down to NYC.  Already I’ve spent quite a bundle and we don’t even have places to stay.  Or any idea where to eat. The last time I went to Montreal I was a poor college kid and we lived on canned soup. Our entertainment was wandering around Mt. Royal.

So I’m asking all my Canadian buddies for suggestions.  What are the things we shouldn’t miss?  Foods we must try. Fun places to stay.

Many thanks in advance.

A tip for time travel

I keep dreaming up stupider and stupider ideas for the ending of The Return of Flipka.  My latest had her time traveling from 1978 to 2016 as a part of an FBI plot to stop the presidency of Donald Trump  and yes, aliens were involved. Obviously I’m in a slump.  If the weather were better I’d forget my writing gig and go down to the teahouse and paint.  But the teahouse has no heat.

I write this sniveling, whiny post while listening to Rachmaninoff, someone so gifted that he could not possibly have ever suffered from writer’s block.  Or so one would think.

Of course, he did. As a young man he needed therapy for a depression that plagued him for four years and came and went  throughout his life. One of his most famous pieces, The Bells, was inspired by another famously depressed artist, Edgar Allen Poe. 

I don’t know nearly as much about classical music as I’d like but luckily my husband once belonged to one of those CD of the month clubs. I don’t know why as most of the hundred or so CDs he received are still wrapped in plastic but his loss is my gain. So now I’m going through composer by composer and trying to learn something about each one.

First I was hooked on Bach (whose birthday is coincidentally today).  His compositions aren’t as rhapsodic and soulful as Rachmaninoff but it is possible to listen to them over and over again. Try listening repeatedly to Rachmaninoff’s  Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, I dare you.  That piece is so achingly romantic it’s been used as the sound track for many a movie, including Somewhere in Time

In this movie, for those of you who haven’t seen it, Christopher Reeve is a playwright who’s approached after his debut show by an elderly woman who hands him a pocket watch and says “come back to me.” He forgets about the incident until, while on vacation, he becomes obsessed with the portrait of a woman who lived in the early 1900s.  Many plot convulsions later he manages to hypnotize himself and go back in time and meet her. Unfortunately he can’t stay back in time forever.  He has to return to present day where he finds out his true love has just died of old age. After this point the plot goes into an infinite loop of past and present spinning like tops and all because of a little self-hypnotism. 

Okay, I guess my time travel idea for the Return of Flipka is not so crazy after all, is it?  (yes, it is!)

Murder by Cat

After spending two hours at a tax accountant’s with a 90 year old who can barely remember her first husband’s name I’ve decide my next Fi Butters’ mystery will be Murder by Cat, the strange tale of Ubiquitous K of Babylon Heights.

th-1Synopsis: A series of murders takes place at Babylon Heights, a retirement village where all the residents and in particular the owners have skeletons in their Depends. Reluctantly former psychiatrist Fi Butters is called on scene when one of the residents, her elderly aunt, convinces the others that Ubiquitous K (a Norwegian Forest cat whose owner has recently died) is the cold-blooded murderer. 


Murder by Cat, the strange tale of Ubiquitous K of Babylon Heights 

“One thing I’m certain of, she was not killed by a cat!”
“She wasn’t killed by a hat?”
“No dear, a cat.”
      Martha was one of those little old ladies who questioned everything she heard and thus it was impossible to get through a conversation without saying the same thing at least three times and she wasn’t alone. 
      “Well isn’t that the darndest thing.  Killed by a hat.”  Mr. Fassenbinder chimed it.  He’d long since lost his hair and hearing but refused to wear an aide because “there wasn’t much good to hear in the world, so why wear the damned thing?”  I had to agree.    
      The residents of Babylon Heights had assembled in the very same community room where holiday parties and bingo games were held. I figured there had to be at least forty folks which was fine; the room could easily hold a couple hundred.  Heavy furniture provided comfy seating which meant a few in my audience would probably doze off, but regardless, after my auntie introduced me I launched into an attempt to quell the panic that rattled their aging bones. 
     “Nobody was killed by a hat or a cat or even a bat!”  I chuckled which clued them in that something funny had been said.   A few followed suit with a chuckle that sounded painfully forced. Okay, Butters, I thought,  the last comedian to crack these folks up was probably Bob Hope.   “First of all, despite my aunt’s kind introduction, I am not a detective.  I am, or was, a psychiatrist.”
     “Was a psychiatrist?”
     “Yes Martha. Was.  But I won’t bore you with the gory details of my many career changes…”
     “Gory details?”
     “Well not really gory. . . “

Okay, that’s as far as I’ve gotten on this bit of silliness.  If I’m going to continue I need some appropriate character names. Do you have any suggestions? (other than – stop now Jan before you embarrass yourself any further!)

#ThursdayDoors: Ely Nevada

ElyDoors3This door leads to the Nevada Northern Museum and Historic Train Ride in Ely, a town of about 5,000 people in eastern Nevada. Ely got its start as a Stagecoach and Pony Express stop. Then copper was discovered nearby in the early 1900s and times were good. But, as with any mining boom, eventually it went bust and the town had to turn to other sources of revenue, the Old Ghost Train run by the Nevada Northern being one of them.

GhostTrain

The engine of the Ghost Train going out for a test drive.

This train runs during the summer and on certain holidays, such as Halloween and Christmas. The round trip to the Ruth mine covers about 14 miles and takes about 90 minutes (that’s not bad considering it’s the oldest still-running steam engine in America). We were there when no runs were planned but happily they were testing the engine.

ElyDoors4

Back doors to the platform.

The Old Ghost Train is most famous for Halloween runs, when employees dress in Victorian garb and tell ghoulish tales from Nevada’s colorful past, however there are other themed rides, for example:

  • The Polar Express (with a real live Santa, caroling, etc.)
  • Rocking Rolling Geology
  • Wild Wild West (of course).

ElyDoors

Shack across from the train station. Not sure what it was used for.

Ely is famous for many other things:

  • The birthplace of Richard Nixon’s wife Pat
  • The eastern end of Route 50, the Loneliest Highway in the World (and it is lonely!)
  • The setting for the climatic scene in the movie, The Rat Race. 

And it’s famous for one more thing as well.  Let me think. What could that be?  Ah yes, it’s the setting for that wacky mystery Flipka! (okay, maybe not famous yet but a gal can always dream.)

th-1

Another great thing to do in Ely! Cocktails and Cannons! Oh boy!

But before you get all excited about hopping on the Ghost Train or racing people in a bathtub, keep in mind Ely is a six hour drive from Reno and a four hour drive from Las Vegas. There are plenty of hotels nowadays but my favorite is the original Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall.  They have a huge sign in front that reads “We love Bikers.”  To a hotel staff used to catering to the Hells Angels, Joel and me in our Prius were like visitors from another planet!

This post was inspired by Norm Frampton’s wonderful #ThursdayDoors prompt.  Check out other doors and their histories! 

Wicked Wanton Wug’s Wake

Writers face many challenges when their characters are based on real people. The first challenge is, what if the person recognizes themselves and takes umbrage? Then you’ve lost a friend, a brother, a father or maybe an uncle. The second challenge is, how to integrate those characters into a work of fiction, making it clear that the actual person never said the words you put into their mouths nor did the crazy things you made them do.

There are two characters in FLIPKA who are based on actual people. The first is the character of Fi Butters.  I gave her the voice, mannerisms and cocky attitude of a dear friend who actually had an MA in psychology and worked back stage at a Vegas show (she even spoke a little Russian).  She did not, however, travel to a girls’ reformatory to solve a mystery involving bat caves, a 100 year old journal, and government secrets.  I gave her that adventure after she passed away too young.

The second character is Captain Wug.  To him I gave the voice, mannerisms and love of vocabulary belonging to a man by the name of Worlin Urquhart Grey my father’s flying buddy.

unnamed.jpg

“I don’t think I have learned enough to advise you. Just observe the nuances of culture as you go through life. Everything changes. Things happen. Sometimes it seems like it is the end of the road, but it isn’t.”

This man really loved words. In fact he loved them so much that he spoke in long strings of obscure words often alliteratively.   I first got to know Wug when I attempted to babysit the Bellicose Barbarians…er… his four youngest sons, all of whom were under the age of eight (in fact, Dirty Dealing Dougie, was in diapers)  They lived in a two story house that wasn’t nearly big enough for the trampling mischief that four energetic boys can cause, thus Wug left me the first evening with this admonishment:

“Should these pugnacious jackanaps  lead you to perdition, unnerve the rabble-rousers with mention of the Black Snake.”

“The Black Snake?”  I asked.  He opened the door to the pantry and pointed to a long, thick, black leather belt hanging menacing on the back of the door.  I was horrified.  “I can’t do that!”

He chuckled.  He had a low voice and cackle that reminded me of a Welsh poet I was enamored of (Dylan Thomas.)  “You’ll not need to do the deed my dear, just issue a dire warning with injurious intent.”

He was right. The boys would all settle down (except for Dirty Dealing Dougie) if I even uttered the phrase:  “Black Snake.”  I can’t say that they became perfect gentlemen but they did cease and desist from clubbing each other to death.    As a practical joke I bought him a three foot long stuffed snake for Christmas one year. snake.jpgHe retaliated by bringing me back a ring in the shape of a cobra from Thailand (he was Pan Am pilot whose route was the far east).  It had sapphire eyes and a tiny ruby at the end of its tail.  I lost the ring or it was stolen and I’m sure the stuffed snake has not survived but I’ll always have the memory.

He recently passed away.  Below is his obit. Of course bagpipes were played.

Wug

WugandDad

Flying Buddies

Final answers…

Blogger’s Note: This is the last post regarding answers to this quiz.

6. Halloween is important to 
Nevada because:
a. Pumpkins are its major
cash crop.
b. On October 31,1864 Nevada 
was admitted to the union.
c. It's Alien Appreciation Day

b.  Halloween is Nevada Day.  When I was a kid we always got the day off from school to watch the cast of Bonanza –  Paw, Adam, Little Joe and Hoss   – parade down Virginia street on their horses along with a whole bunch of other mounted men and women shooting off their guns. Now the Gay Rodeo, Hot August Nights, and River Run festivals are the big deals.  How times change.

7. Bat Guano is used in the following ways:
a. Fertilizer
b. Explosives
c. Laundry detergent
d. All of the above
e. What the heck is bat guano

Oh my, this is my favorite question!  The correct answer, believe it or not, is d. All of the above.  In fact not only has bat guano been used to create fertilizer, explosives and laundry soap but it is so over-mined in parts of the world that legislation has had to be passed to regulate the industry. (See Guano Islands Act in 1856, which gave U.S. citizens  exclusive rights to deposits they found on unclaimed islands.)

Unfortunately the mining of bat guano is causing damage to many species of cave-adapted invertebrates who rely on bat feces as their sole source of nutrition, destroying local paleoclimatic records in strata that have built up over thousands of years, and endangering the bat colonies themselves. Bats are highly vulnerable to regular disturbance to their roosts. Some species, such as Phyllonycteris aphylla, have low fat reserves, and will starve to death when regularly disturbed and put into a panic state during their resting period. Many species will drop pups when in panic, with subsequent death, leading to a steady reduction in population.

lehman1

The Lehman Caves – image from climb-utah.com

The bat caves in FLIPKA were inspired by the Lehman Caves which are located in the Great Basin park some thirty miles southeast of Ely Nevada. Indians tried to protect these caves by claiming they were the sacred caves of the dead, guarded by a “little man with a blue beard” who would bring “dire consequences” to anyone who entered. It worked for a while.

Unlike the fictional caves in FLIPKA, these caves are open to the public, however their location –  at least five hours from Vegas, Salt Lake City or Reno – ensures they get so few visitors that conservation has not been an issue.  And mining is not an issue because it’s a National Park.

Other fun facts about bat guano:

Bat Guano Tea

Not really tea. Do not add hot water. Do not drink.

But without a doubt the most bizarre use for bat guano:  Bat Guano tea.

In this case the “tea” is actually a fertilizer.  Yikes, I hope someone doesn’t take the manufacturer literally.