Chapter 3

"So you're telling me that Tommy, the noxious little dick-scab, left his tobacco pouch when he left? Dammit! You'd think that after the fifteen-thousandth time, he'd realize that he's just going to make an ass of himself again." Scroat said.

"You'd think." Hep said.

"Well, shit fire and call it a pound cake."

Scroat was also a god. He didn't have any worshipers, exactly, but he was always pleased when someone chose a small filthy word instead of something more eloquent. Hep liked him; even if he was a bit crude, he was fun to have around.

"Do you know where he is?" Scroat asked.

"Sure, he's at home," Hep said.

"We have to go to Minnesota?" Scroat exclaimed. "That filthy motherfucker! Shit, not only to I have to put up with your ugly ass scaring off all the girls, but I have go and freeze my balls off too?"

"In so many words," Hep replied.

"Well, dip me in shit."

"Are you packed?" Hep asked.

"Of course I'm packed. Are you packed? Got your gimp-cycle all ready to go?"

"Naturally."

Hep was a tinkerer. He'd been a blacksmith for eons. As far back as he could remember, actually. He currently worked on and off as a welder. He really only did that when money got tight, though. What he really loved was building mechanical things, and building them really, really well. Of course, although his arms and brain work just fine, his legs were gnarled and barely functional. He'd been lame since birth, although he could walk with the aid of a staff or cane.

He was also pug-ugly. Our man Hep fell out of the ugly tree, and hit every branch on the way down, to borrow an oft-used cliché.

Hep sure loved motorcycles though. Since he had a little trouble standing, he usually preferred a side-hack or occasionally a trike. His current steed was an unusually beautiful, and eerily fast, side car. He'd cast, forged and shaped every piece of that bike. It was polished to a glistening shine, and required no maintenance. Ever.

Being a god has it's perks.

One problem that he hadn't quite figured out, though, was somewhat comical. Any music left in the side car for more than an hour, be it tape, cd or vinyl, would turn into either Steppenwolf's greatest hits, or AC/DC's Highway to Hell.

Scroat would never admit it, but he had charmed the sidecar, and loved to watch Hep's reaction when he expected to hear Bach, and got "Magic Carpet Ride" instead. He got the idea from a particularly entertaining book he'd read.

Scroat's bike, though also infallibly reliable, was considerably less pristine. It looked a lot like an old Triumph Bonneville, painted flat black and dripping oil as though it were marking it's turf. For all anyone knows, it might just be.

Hep had already packed everything he needed into the sidecar. He was careful to exclude any of his favorite music.

Scroat bungee-corded a duffel bag packed with a couple changes of underwear and some extra cigars to the back of his bike.

"Ready?" Scroat asked.

"Yep."

They fired up their bikes and rolled out into the desert. Hep wanted to see something in Oregon, so they headed north.