Sunday Scribblings "Covert"

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “covert.”

cov·ert adj
not intended to be known, seen, or found out
noun
1. a thicket or undergrowth in which game can shelter or hide
2. a shelter or hiding place
3. a small feather around the base of a quill on the wing or tail of a bird. Also called tectrix
4. a flock of coots

Mothers in Arms
I get home early from choir practice to discover my mother is a covert operative.
She’s mixed up is some ultra-radical homemaker’s reform faction, apparently a leader in the movement. Sheesh.
The kitchen table is spread thick with an orgy of evidence: pamphlets and leaflets, various household cleansers, powders and chemicals, parts of an old alarm clock, bits of wire and her wooden recipe box, her blue-ribbon-winning recipe for tater-tot hot dish sticking up from the shuffle.
I pick up a leaflet, which is inscribed with a quote by Che Guevara: “I don't care if I fall as long as someone else picks up my gun and keeps on shooting.”
The leaflet goes on to describe – in detail – how to make napalm out of gasoline and Styrofoam. On the back, there’s a 50-cent-off coupon for Styrofoam plates, as well as a recipe for “Dee’s Easy Goulash.”
I put the leaflet down, pick up a can of powdered cleanser, when my mother rounds the corner, puts a hand to her mouth, then smiles.
“Oh, you’re home early,” she says. “Dinner’s at 6. It’s your favorite, cheesy green chili enchilada casserole.”
She’s dressed in a black tunic, belted with a .45-caliber APC Kimber Ultra Tactical II sidearm, what looks like black pajama bottoms and a black beret with red embroidery, a flaming skull above a crossed mop and broom.
I open my mouth to protest, think better of it. She holds her ground, hands on her hips, her manicured right hand a little too close to the .45 for my comfort. Her red-painted lips part in a motherly smile.
“Go on, silly, get yourself a snack,” she says and she swats my backside with a handful of pamphlets. “I’ve make a lovely batch of double-fudge cupcakes, with whipped peanut butter icing.”
A delicate hand clamps down, painfully, on my shoulder and twists me to her with ease. She puts her other hand - in a loving embrace - under my chin and with a stern gaze says,
“Mind you, stay away from the ones packed in Tupperware. Those are for the church bazaar – and they’re loaded with lysergic acid diethylamide and ketamine hydrochloride. A little taste treat for the Bourgeoisie scum.”