Weary told Billy Pilgrim about the Iron Maiden, about the drain in her bottom--and what that was for. He talked to Billy about dum-dums. He told him about his father's Derringer pistol, which could be carried in a vest pocket, which was yet capable of making a hole in a man "which a bull bat could fly through without touching either wing."
Weary likes to brag, to tell Billy stories, to try to prove how naive and stupid Billy is. As with all stories, there's a certain amount of exaggeration that's included in the telling. A mixture of reals facts and alternative facts (to borrow Kellyanne Conway's Orwellian nomenclature).
Tonight, my book club meets at my house. We'll sit around, eat, and discuss Emma Cline's The Girls. It's a great story, better than Roland Weary's little tales about the Iron Maiden of Nuremberg and his dad's Derringer. Cline's book is a fictional retelling of the Charles Manson killings from the point of view of a 14-year-old girl. It's a brilliant novel.
Because it's January, we are having a soup potluck this evening, to stave off the cold night. Every person is supposed to bring a different kind of soup. We made Wisconsin cheese and beer. My sister made chicken noodle. I think that there's a potato soup and a chicken dumpling soup making an appearance, as well. Throw in some chocolate, a big caramel apple, and some crackers, and you have the makings of a book lover's wet dream.
There's something very comforting about book club nights for me. I think it's because I'm surrounded by like-minded people. Readers who get excited about the idea of talking about a novel. It doesn't hurt that most of the members also share my political leanings, too. With the food and literature, book club discussions take many digressions. I'm sure our new Commander-in-Chief will come up a few times this evening.
So, Saint Marty is looking forward to a night of good stories and good soup, with some homemade biscuits thrown in for good measure.