Timmy had been institutionalized for some three years, had undergone extensive electro-shock treatment and counselling and was, according to the director of the institutes department of Neuropathology, ready for release. Dr. Fritz Schulz, who looked like a Punch cartoon of a German psychiatrist, steel rimmed glasses, a face as round and flat as a plate and topped by short grey hair. Dr. Schulz even had the ritualistic sabre scar across his cheek bone. With proffered hand, Dr. Schulz wished Timmy luck as he departed the institute adding soberly, "don't forget to take your pills, Herr Timmy, ve like you, but ve don't vant to see you ever again...Ha!" As soon as Timmy arrived back home and without removing his coat he plunged into his beloved shack. Had the therapy worked .. had all those terrible electric shock treatments cured him of the dreaded "List" virus that had poisened his brain? With hands trembling Timmy snapped on his 781 and spun the dial across the 20-meter band. All the twenty meter Lists were in action. Timmy paused on his favourite to listen with some nostalgia to the List manager call out "Good Contact, Good Contact." A shudder ran through his body as he heard those familiar sounds. Some Dx weasel had just worked Jamaica, who was 40-over in Timmy's shack. In another time Timmy knew he would have been unable to resist getting on that List. He drew a big breath and sighed in relief. Yes, he had been cured. Peeling off his coat he proceeded to spin across the familiar band, hearing old friends and exchanging greetings. Further up the 20-meter band Timmy knew the real test would come when he encountered a red-hot pile-up in full swing. He had been in the shack for some two hours when he landed on a frequency that boiled with activity. The tell-tale sounds crackled in his headphones, "He's listening up." "Get off his frequency, lid." "Wrong VFO, jerk," all the familiar sounds came rushing back. "Had I taken my medication?" The idea crossed his mind ... could I do it? Deftly, Timmy moved up ten to listen for an opening in the pile-up, it was the kind of mayhem that would have formerly driven him off the band. It reminded Timmy of the horror he felt when he once witnessed a child's puppy fall into a quivering river of piranhas. The thrashing of the feeding frenzy, the child's pitiful screams, and the redness of the water made him ill. Timmy felt the sudden flush of excitement as he dropped in his call sign ...... again..... again. It happened, he heard his call sign in his headphones loud and clear: "QSL the 59, your're also 59, 73" He'd done it. For the first time in his life he had done something on his own. Striding out into the kitchen, where Ol'Dynamo was preparing dinner, Timmy snapped, "What's for eats, baby?" Dynamo wheeled around and staring in disbelief said "My lord, you have changed," Grabbing Dynamo by the hand, Timmy snorted, "put the grub on hold baby, we've got things to do .... upstairs." The metamophosis of Timmy the Twerp was complete. Late that night Timmy scribbled off a note to Dr. Schulz in which he confessed, "it's as though I feel the blood of Viking Sea Kings coursing through his veins." Timmy's love of hyperbole had apparently not been diminished. ----------------- The foregoing is a fictional account of the life of Timmy The Twerp. Any resemblance to persons living or otherwise is pure coincidence. Reproduction of this or any part of the T.T.T. books is granted by the author, following written application. ...- .- I wish to thank Joe, VE3ABG, for his consumate support and encouragement during the the trials and tribulations creating the saga of "Timmy The Twerp" 73, Don, VE3HGN
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