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Who's on a roll? ME. ME MEMEMEMEMEME.

The Mana Farms story line frequently contains mature language, topics, and situations. The characters within are fictional beings with weaknesses and faults, and I cannot promise you that you will like them for what they believe, say and do.

Join the community of MANA readers! Start from the beginning. (New readers, it is strongly recommended you begin this series from the very first story...which can be found here: [link] ) Thanks!


PREVIOUSLY ON:



It wasn’t going to take Wyatt Miller long to figure out a girl was coming over.

“Go through the garage!”

“What?”

“The garage!” Brett repeated at the blonde haired giant.

Wyatt stared blankly at him for a few seconds, his misshapen jaw hanging half open in surprise as he stood on the front porch of the townhouse. Brett pointed to the side door, “You stink, Mills! Go through the garage door, take off your shoes, and leave that moldy duffel bag of yours on top of the washing machine out there.”

Wyatt held his bag closer to him like a puppy. “It’s not moldy.”

“Oh yeah? Is the lettering on there supposed to be orange?”

Wyatt glanced down at the bag he was carrying. The words “Greenville Road Warriors” printed over what looked to be a viking may have been white once. Wyatt groaned.

“Dude, get your ass in the garage.”

Wyatt turned like a disappointed stray and took a few steps down the stairs towards the garage. He was almost there when he stopped for a moment and glanced at Brett shutting the door behind him. “Is that frenchie girl of yours....?”

“No,” Brett answered.

“The dancer from Blue Maroonies? The one with the...”

Brett put the entire front door in the middle of Wyatt’s unfinished question. It closed between them with a loud huff. Ignoring the muffled voice beyond the door, he double checked the brass chain on the door in case the smelly bastard decided to break in anyway. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. Brett wasn’t sure when she was planning on coming over and, when he allowed himself to think about it, he still wasn’t sure where to put her in their small townhouse for the next few nights without every suggestion making him come across like a pervert. He glanced at the bachelor pad behind him and groaned. Visualizing where she would drop her pants for the night was tempting, but there were more immediate environmental concerns at hand. Brett quickly grabbed a bouquet of empty beer bottles, the week old tower of pizza boxes, and a greasy brown bag stuffed with something resembling rancid peanuts and tossed it all into a black garbage bag and then shoved it into Wyatt’s broad farmboy chest the moment he came through the garage door.

“Out.”

“I put my duffel bag on the washing machine, Brett. Like you said.”

“Out.”

Wyatt scanned the half open bag in his arms. A gravelly sound of dismay erupted from his throat. The jaw and brain may have been a rocky mess, but his eyes still worked like an electron microscope. “These are cajun soybeans, Brett.They’re expensive.”

“Then don’t leave them on the table for weeks, dumbass. They’ll give you fucking e.coli at this point. Do you want a new colon? Take this shit out now.” The giant disappeared back into the garage and Brett returned to the kitchen. Lit a candle. Smelled it. Seemed fine enough. Waved the rest of the match around and flicked it into the sink. He grabbed a glass tumbler sticky with orange juice and opened the dishwasher. “Wyatt, fuck...seriously? You can’t turn a dishwasher on?!” God. They were disgusting. Matt. Wyatt. Even himself. Well, maybe not Matt.

“What?” Miller replied, reemerging from the garage. He pressed a button and the door rattled closed behind him.

“The dishwasher. When it’s filled you take one of these,” Brett reached under the sink and fished out a little blue and white biscuit and shook it at him, “stick it in here and then press the fucking ‘on’ button.”

Wyatt blinked at him. “Wow. I didn’t know. Does it hurt having an ass that tight?”

“It’s not rocket science, Wyatt,” Brett snapped. He threw both hands up in the air like he couldn’t even believe the blatant penalty being ignored in their midst. Wyatt opened his mouth and pointed down the hall, but Brett cut him off instantly, “Don’t blame Matt. Matt takes showers,” Brett growled displaying the bottom of the tumbler to him, “doesn’t leave raspberry heffs in between the couch cushions there’s not even any room for this glass in here...at what point, Mills?”

Wyatt gave him the middle finger and a silent fuck you. He climbed up onto a barstool and sat there like a bear hanging awkwardly from a birch while Brett rearranged the top shelf of the dishwasher, shut the machine and with a dramatic flourish, turned it on. Wyatt snorted at him, “Is it Tiny Tits? What’s her name? Tawny?”

Brett grabbed a plastic knife from a drawer and started scratching at a glob of dried protein shake glued to the counter.

“Awww well whoever she is, you wanna fuck her....bad.”

Brett continued to ignore him.

“It’s not Matt is it?”

Brett made a half-hearted lunge at him with the plastic knife below his smirking disfigured face, but the old enforcer leapt off the barstool and shoved Brett back a foot or two with a laugh. “Come on Brett, who is it? Do I get to meet her?”

“Yeah,” Brett mumbled, already back to rubbing off the dried protein shake with the plastic knife, “you do. She’s moving in tonight.”

That stopped the bouncing, smirking giant. “Tonight? When?”

“So soybeans, ass shoes and the fucking hockey bag and beer robot over there need to go.”

“Alebraham Beercan?” Wyatt cried. He pointed to the roughly man-shaped beer tower behind him. “You’re killing the President?....Again?!” Brett shot him a look. “She’s a prude? Is she a fucking prude? It’s bad enough we got Matt.”

“She’s nothing like Matt.”

“Fuck.” Wyatt stared down the hallway for a moment before he caught Brett opening the fridge and pulling out meat and bread. He stared. “And you’re making sandwiches with sprouts for this girl? You sonofabitch. You never make us skinny sandwiches.”

Brett leaned over to a nearby cabinet and pulled out the tabasco sauce and set it down on the counter near Wyatt. He shot him another small look, a wordless one, the kind you give a man when you hope the pass you just sent his way is going to connect. And with Wyatt’s history of head injuries the chances were simply fifty fifty.

Wyatt Miller’s cloudy blue eyes settled on the little red bottle. “Santa? Santa’s moving in?” Today was a good day for Wyatt.

“Yeah.” Brett smirked at the giant kid from Saskatchewan as it became his turn to run his hand over his mouth and survey the disaster that was their house when Matt was out of town. The big guy let out a long soft stream of swears and Brett snorted at him. “Yeah and I’m thinking she’s going to turn down the offer of either of our rankass beds so if you could remove the smell of cum and piss from the couch that would be great, Mills.” He handed the speechless man a tall red can of carpet cleaner and a wad of paper towels. “Do it.”

They worked that way for another hour. Mills in the living room and Brett making sandwiches in the kitchen. Mostly he was trapped in there debating whether or not she would want a beer or wine or a cup of water and which of those options had the potential to send mixed messages. When another hour went by and he’d already compromised with Wyatt about relocating the beer man to the back porch, he found himself picking up his car keys and then putting them back down and then picking them up again and spinning them around on the edge of his fingers. Wondering whether things were alright at her house or if she had changed her mind and if she had changed her mind then it was apparent she did not feel he was high up enough on any rung to warrant a courtesy call. Probably she assumed he hadn’t done much since she asked to move in but kill a few random strangers on Call of Duty with Mills. And no, he told himself, we aren’t calling her. Eventually, he realized the sandwiches had dried out so he took out saran wrap and covered them up. He found Wyatt sleeping in a sagging lawn lounge on the back porch.

“Mills, come on Mills, just get to your room.”

“What time is it?”

“Late, man. Go to bed. I’m not waking your ass up tomorrow so go set your alarm.”

“Where?”


“Your room, Mills. First door on the left.”

He watched the big guy shuffle along through the kitchen to the hall and into the first door on the left. “Don’t forget your alarm!” The door shut behind him.

Brett meandered over to the couch and sat down on it. It was still a little wet from the carpet cleaner, but he didn’t care....he just wished he had brought a beer with him from the kitchen and maybe one of those dried sandwiches. He flipped on the television and watched the late night news. Big Sur. Big Sur. More Big Sur. There was the occasional announcement of upcoming football and baseball scores and that tomorrow would be another hot and dry day, which wasn’t good for the wildfires raging up north. Eventually Jay Leno came on and he and his chin began poking fun at headlines and gun control and the latest nipple reveal by some young starlet, which would have been much better if they had bothered to actually show the audience the said offending nipple. Brett switched to HBO promptly after that. HBO had no problem with nipples.

A soft knock came at the door. If a dragon princess hadn’t been stepping out of a tub at that moment he might have leapt off of the couch to answer the door, but he was trapped staring transfixed at the screen. He was probably hearing things anyway.

The knock came again. And then, a little more hesitantly, again. Brett turned off the television and stood up, brushed back at his mop of copper curls and headed over to the door, he peeked through it. Santa was standing there with an old blue suitcase and the look of a woman who had gone for a jog and seen a cougar on the trail. Naked dragon princess evaporated. He quickly opened the door.

“Santa, you okay? It’s like two in the morning. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I got a little lost. Exits.”

“You wanna come in?”

“Sure.”

He grabbed her suitcase and noticed the tremor in her hands when he took it from her. He looked her in the eye. “There’s sandwiches. I..made...sandwiches. They’re....they have sprouts and Wyatt is sleeping already and Matt...Matt is coming in on a red eye so...” he glanced over his shoulder, “You want some sandwiches?”

“No, Brett, I really...I’d really just like to take a shower and get some sleep if that’s okay.”

“Yeah sure, you know, whatever. You can take my room or the couch or you know, whatever works.”

“Wow, did you guys clean up or something?”


“Huh? No. Wyatt just spilled a beer on the couch so he just cleaned it up that’s all. No big deal. It’s dry now if you wanna sleep on the couch or something but wherever...wherever you want it’s cool.”

“Shower?”

Brett pointed down the hall. She promptly walked down the hallway and locked herself in the bathroom, leaving Brett alone with her suitcase. He looked down at it hanging there in his right hand and he set it down by the couch, glancing at the crumpled claim tags as he did so: Maxwell Turner. He heard the shower turn on, muffling the sound of Wyatt snoring from across the hall. The dishwasher was proudly announcing with a green light that it was done. Sandwiches were still sitting on a plate on the counter. He walked back into the kitchen, peeled off the saran wrap and dumped them into the trash. For a moment, he realized that Matt would be home from the airport any minute and he should have left the sandwiches out for him. But whatever. The house was clean. Welcome home.


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