This chihuahua bit Inger’s truck. He’s the nervous little dog with a hard-on for a girl that once triggered, can’t self-soothe. The tantrum has to complete the emotional fever. There is no other way. For Tate, it is victory or death. Chihuahuas must defend their honor—full stop.
Guys can’t lose against a girl. It’s already an epic face loss to challenge a girl to a fight. Lose? Instant fall into the beta cuck tier. The only girls who riz with that tier have hairy erm . . . arm pits.
And Blue Luna butterflies. That girl driving the obscene, belching truck said the butterflies are just pupating. wtf is that? Sounds like some sexual meme thing. Gross.
Still Hungry
Breakfast was interrupted by the Right Honourable Tate Donnelly—Chihuahua Redux. Somehow, two women headed for San Lorenzo, CA were an existential threat to butterflies. A train of logic only the rarest ideological captives could love: there no butterflies and a unicorn: a diesel powered pickup truck !driven! by a girl. So absurd it’s either a prank or its true.
@T8Walker blew up the Pulse with more rants about racist Southern Girls, obscene trucks, and the absense of butterflies after his embarrasing encounter with Inger. Inger and Tala, after leaving Mimosa House had two problems. They were still hungry and the dustup with RHTD ate their morning with still miles to go.
So . . . attempt duo to get something to eat and resupply. 7-Eleven/Chevron was the next stop. No, Tate, it’s not five stars. But they have coffee and breakfast. Bonus? No self-righteous soy boy chihuahuas desperate to prove themselves to a girl. RHTD lives in Davis, less than an hour from Mimosa House. Though, running into Chihuahua Bit (es) on a Monday seems unlikely.
Vacaville
Their hotel was a half-hour from Davis. Far enough away that an encounter couldn’t be chance. Plenty of good food options as well. They made the hour(ish) drive a liesurely one. Check-in was 3pm and the desk said they were still making up the room.
Black Bear Diner looked good to Inger. So they went to eat there while they waited. Inger had a second go at biscuits and gravy. Tala wrinkled her nose at the menu. No banchan. The usual fries of various sorts, and onion rings. She ordered the soup of the day and unsweet iced tea.
For Tala, a little annoying because Vacaville, where they had a hotel room, has a good selection of Asian places. It’s not really a meal without banchan or rice. But . . . when in Rome . . . am I right? The food came. Her soup was black bean, topped with sour cream and cilantro. Tala took a gravy smothered biscuit from Inger. Not bad.
Graffiti
Outside the diner, Tate found Muteki parked, looking weak and vulnerable. Fucking grey stupid truck. Like the builder couldn’t decide so he picked the most non-decisive color possible—metallic grey. And not a nice, clean, well kept grey. No, a grey color so desperate for a repaint it’s painful.
Stupid bitch thinks she’s hot shit rolling up in this junker? Time to teach it a lesson. Tag that obsenity, “MURDERER!” Show her vibes have consequences. Save the butterflies!
Tate’s buddy giggles as he starts filming with his tablet, “Yeah BOY! This will go so viral Get it, Tate!” The truck looks vulnerable—parked crooked, long bed tonneau shut, no alarms chirping, no lights flashing. Perfect target. Tate starts spraying the words with red paint.
Nanites
As he sprays the weirdest thing happens. The paint lands then dissolves. As he sprays more of it dissolves mid-air. More weird shit, the air seems to shimmer as first the nozzle then the can rots away in his hand. It doesn’t stop there. His hand starts to itch like knats bit it. WTF!?
The itch spreads. First his hand, then his wrist, then up the soft inside of his forearm where the skin is thin and tender. Tate yelps—an actual, high‑pitched yip—and drops what’s left of the can. It hits the pavement with a wet plap, half‑melted metal folding in on itself like a dying slug.
His buddy keeps filming, “Bro, what the hell—are those bugs?” Not bugs. Nothing nature ever made. The air shimmers again, this time coalescing into a tight, humming cloud the size of a softball. It hangs there, vibrating with purpose. Tate backs up, hands raised, because even he can tell this is not normal.
Knat Speak
The cloud stretches, flattens, sharpens its edges, letters form, “BACK THE FUCK OFF!“
Tate freezes. His buddy whispers, “Dude… dude… DUDE…”
The swarm shifts, “WE WON’T TELL YOU TWICE!” Then the cloud collapses into a glittering rain of motes that scatter across the truck’s surface, eating the last traces of red paint like piranhas stripping a carcass.
The tonneau cover begins rolling back to reveal a cube that starts to unfold into a bipedal, somewhat human form with kevlar fiber bones. Where its hair would be is an LED light fixture that begins a blinking chase pattern of alternating red and blue lights. No face, just a small digital camera lens and a 15cm x 9cm curved screen. The skeletal Tavro unfolds in one fluid sequence: joints clicking into place, torso rising, limbs extending like a spider uncurling.
“Bro, we gotta go,” his friend says. Tate slaps at his arm. The itching is now a burning. Angry red bumps rise in clusters, swelling fast. Clear fluid beads at the edges. His skin looks like it’s trying to cry. Tate and his friend head for his car. This much itch and rash is too much.
Lunch Achieved
Inside, Inger glances through the window once. Sees the Tavro folding back into the bed, tonneau sealing. Sees Tate flailing. She takes another bite of steak, chews slowly.
Tala doesn’t even look up from her coffee. “He’s picking fights with the furniture now?”
Inger shrugs. “Truck handles it. Muteki doesn’t like being touched by strangers.”
“Why was that guy flailing like he got attacked by a swarm of wasps?”
“Because he was. Not biologicals, Hive nanobots. Dude picked a fight with a truck and collected two enemies—the Hive and Saito-Gumi. He’s lucky the Hive sent nanobots after him. That Tavro is built for combat. Fighting it could put him in the morgue,” said Inger, “Not a smart move for a soy boy.”
They finish lunch unhurried. Black bean soup to-go for the road. The Tavro is back in place before they step out—skeletal frame stowed in its place in the bed, tonneau cover rolled over it.
Byeee Tate!
Inger called the server, asked for the check, tapped her phone on the worker’s tablet, and thanked her with a generous tip. When they got back to the truck, she messaged Sal to say they were an hour out, “I’ll be ready,” said Sal.
The Cummins clattered awake, straight-cut gears whining as Inger eased the clutch. Muteki rolled out of the lot, faded Sparkle Silver catching the midday sun in faint metallic ghosts—still pristine, still mocking. Tate’s crossover was long gone, probably peeling toward urgent care or a frantic Pulse thread about “Hive tyranny” while he scratched raw. His rep score was cratering; the swarm didn’t forget repeat offenders.
Tala leaned back, cradling the black bean soup to-go. “You think he’ll learn?”
Inger downshifted, the dog box howling in protest. “Chihuahuas don’t learn. They yip until something bigger yips back. Then they run.”
San Lorenzo
The road stretched west toward San Lorenzo—61 miles, give or take an hour if traffic behaved. Inger’s foot steady on the pedal, the truck’s mechanical heart thumping like it had no patience for drama. Tala sipped soup from the lid, warmth chasing off the morning’s residue. Inside the cab, the kawaii touches softened the beast: glitter tree flickering on the dash, lavender wafting from the crocheted flower, Hello Kitty headphones swaying like a talisman. Inger’s world—unflinching competence wrapped in quiet whimsy.
Tala broke the silence. “Sal ready for us?” “Always.” Inger’s voice low, matter-of-fact. Tala nodded, watching the landscape blur—fields giving way to suburbs, then the slow creep toward the Bay. Muteki ate miles without complaint, biodiesel scent faint through the vents.
Behind them, Tate’s tantrum was already fading into irrelevance. Victory or death? For him, it was neither—just another quick-fold, another itch he couldn’t scratch away.