Real

No one criticized how they lived out there, off of County Road 314, and it was no outsider's business why a rundown farm would have a designer hangar in the back scrub near the forest (large enough for a 747). Some asked ("This Gen-Whatever is a goll darn pain in the ass," Vern would whisper to his wife shuffling to answer the door), but none were told ... and some went missing for snooping around, 'cause you can't fix stupid (mostly never, but especially in a crunch). "You'd be surprised what kind of outbuilding materials you can get for cheap or free," Lillian would say, getting an occasional visitor all fired up to comb scrap sites and the local dump. "Keeps 'em busy; comes off as inspiring instead of rude," she'd said (when Vern grunted). The farm kept giving them corn and beans, onions and potatoes in the fenced bit, and gold. Always gold. But the neighbors left that alone; never went poking for greed nor trouble; you kept it pleasant and shut yer piehole in the company of the REAL (father and) mother of dragons.