Hep, Scroat and now Jim continued North towards Portland. They stopped for lunch at a tiny diner.
"Jim, can you stay invisible?" Hep asked.
"Sure, why?"
"Well, unless you're planning to eat, I don't think the waitress really needs to know you're with us. It might make things weird." Hep said.
"Oh, right." Jim faded.
"That's a good trick Jim. You gotta teach me how to do that sometime," Scroat said.
"I'll see what I can do," Jim muttered.
Hep pulled open the door to the diner and they went in. Hep was pleased to see that they had an honest-to-goodness counter to sit at.
Jim did a pretty good job of staying invisible, although he couldn't help but comment on how good the food smelled when the waitress brought it out.
"Sorry, my buddy here is working on his ventriloquism," Hep said when the waitress gave him a funny look.
"That's right!" Scroat said. "I'm gonna be a star, baby!"
The waitress rolled her eyes and walked off.
"Keep it down, shithead." Scroat said to Jim.
"Sorry. I haven't gotten out much lately." Jim stayed silent for the rest of the meal.
Scroat and Hep were also silent for the rest of their meal. Hep thought about Tommy's visit. It was weird that he'd just showed up; he hadn't seen or heard from Tommy for almost 60 years.
Hep last saw Tommy trying to pick up a waitress in a bar in New Mexico after a disastrous run in with a couple of locals in a nearby town. Hep was along working as Tommy's "driver," even though they both knew he was really there as a heavy - someone to solve problems that couldn't be solved by smooth talk.
"Gentleman, I have a business proposition that you're going to love," Tommy told them. "I'll sell you a supply of cleaning chemicals, and marketing materials. Enough that you can go out and start distributing them to other people who want to go into business for themselves. You can't lose! It's just like being the folks who sold mining tools to prospectors during the gold rush; you're going to make money no matter what."
"How much is all this going to cost?" one of the local men asked Tommy.
"For you, almost free." Tommy grinned and got into some of the finer details of his pitch.
Eventually, they paid him, and Tommy promised delivery of the products. Of course, he never actually delivered on his promise, and didn't leave town quickly enough to get away before they caught on. Hep and Tommy managed to get away from the angry locals and their friends, and blew town immediately. After they stopped for a drink in a neighboring town, Hep decided it was time to go his own way.
***
While Hep was lost in thought, Scroat was busy wondering if he was ever going to get a refill on his coffee.
They finished up, paid the check, left a crummy tip and left. Once they were by the bikes, Jim slowly became visible again.
"You wouldn't believe how much work it is staying invisible. I mean, it's not that bad when you're off by yourself in the middle of a forest, but when you're really trying to avoid being seen..."
Scroat cut him off "Man, don't give us any of that ninja bullshit. You couldn't have been working too hard at it, because you sure didn't have any problem talking. Even though you weren't supposed to be there. And things that aren't there don't fucking talk."
Jim quietly drifted into Hep's sidecar and sat down. He worried that he might lose his ride, and this was the furthest he'd managed to get from the woods since he'd died.
"Are you just gonna take that garbage from him?" Hep asked Jim.
Jim looked at Hep, mildly shocked.
"He's just talking shit. If I were you, I'd hit him upside the head with a hammer. It's ok, he's got a damn hard head. And there's nothing but shit in there anyway. At least, that's what I gather from how he talks." Hep said.
"So you're not mad?"
"Fuck no, you backwoods, shit-kickin' apparition." Scroat chimed in. "I wish you would have kept talking once you had her attention. We already had our food, there was nothing to lose at that point. Shit, we probably would have gotten lunch for free."
"Let's go." Hep said. They started up the bikes again and pointed them North.
Chapter 5
"You shitty, horse-faced motherfucker! What's your problem?" Scroat yelled. "We're on an epic quest here. Do you really need to wake me up that way?"
"I gotta do what I love."
"You're such a dick."
The sun was just starting to rise. Not that they could really see it, being in the middle of a redwood forest, but it was lighter than it had been, so it was time to get up.
Scroat was taking a leak when he heard someone speak behind him.
"Hey there."
"Hey there. Before you say another word, I should warn you that I'm pissing. Any funny business, and your day might get a lot more damp," Scroat said.
"Yeah, I can see that."
Scroat shook, zipped and turned around.
"Ok, motherfucker, where are you?"
"I'm right here," the voice said. "Look harder."
Scroat did, and saw a barrel-chested man in a plaid shirt. There was something kind of weird about him though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, unless...
"Say there, you're kind of transparent, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"So, uh, are you a ghost?"
"So it would seem."
"Well, boo hoo, motherfucker. Are you expecting me to run off all scared?" Scroat gave the ghost his best you-and-I-both-know-that-ain't-gonna-happen grin.
"Yeah, I was expecting it, but I'm glad you didn't. I'm really sick of people losing their heads and running off screaming. Don't get me wrong, it was awfully funny for the first five years or so, but it's really put a cramp on my social life lately."
"Uh huh. So is there something I can do for you, or were you just getting your rocks off watching me piss?"
"Nah, I just want to talk to someone. My name's Jim."
"Jim, I've got places to be. So if you want to talk, you'd better just tag along behind me." Scroat started walking back to their campsite. Jim drifted along behind him.
"Hep, this is Jim. He's a ghost, and he likes watching guys pee. Jim, this is Hep. He's ugly as shit, and gimpy to boot. Don't ever ask him to wake you up." Scroat walked over to his bike and started digging around in his duffel bag.
"Hi Jim, what can I do for you?" Hep asked.
"Well, I was hoping you guys could help me find my way out of these woods. I've been here for years, and no matter how many times I try to leave, I always end up back at that fallen tree over there."
"Well, I guess you can ride along with me until we're out of the woods. You aren't going to leave any weird shit on my stuff are you?" Hep asked.
"Weird shit?"
Scroat chimed in, "Yeah. Slime, or ecto-whatever... you know, ghost-jizz."
"Oh. Uh. Ummm. No. I'm not."
"Alright then. Get in the sidecar."
"I gotta do what I love."
"You're such a dick."
The sun was just starting to rise. Not that they could really see it, being in the middle of a redwood forest, but it was lighter than it had been, so it was time to get up.
Scroat was taking a leak when he heard someone speak behind him.
"Hey there."
"Hey there. Before you say another word, I should warn you that I'm pissing. Any funny business, and your day might get a lot more damp," Scroat said.
"Yeah, I can see that."
Scroat shook, zipped and turned around.
"Ok, motherfucker, where are you?"
"I'm right here," the voice said. "Look harder."
Scroat did, and saw a barrel-chested man in a plaid shirt. There was something kind of weird about him though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, unless...
"Say there, you're kind of transparent, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"So, uh, are you a ghost?"
"So it would seem."
"Well, boo hoo, motherfucker. Are you expecting me to run off all scared?" Scroat gave the ghost his best you-and-I-both-know-that-ain't-gonna-happen grin.
"Yeah, I was expecting it, but I'm glad you didn't. I'm really sick of people losing their heads and running off screaming. Don't get me wrong, it was awfully funny for the first five years or so, but it's really put a cramp on my social life lately."
"Uh huh. So is there something I can do for you, or were you just getting your rocks off watching me piss?"
"Nah, I just want to talk to someone. My name's Jim."
"Jim, I've got places to be. So if you want to talk, you'd better just tag along behind me." Scroat started walking back to their campsite. Jim drifted along behind him.
"Hep, this is Jim. He's a ghost, and he likes watching guys pee. Jim, this is Hep. He's ugly as shit, and gimpy to boot. Don't ever ask him to wake you up." Scroat walked over to his bike and started digging around in his duffel bag.
"Hi Jim, what can I do for you?" Hep asked.
"Well, I was hoping you guys could help me find my way out of these woods. I've been here for years, and no matter how many times I try to leave, I always end up back at that fallen tree over there."
"Well, I guess you can ride along with me until we're out of the woods. You aren't going to leave any weird shit on my stuff are you?" Hep asked.
"Weird shit?"
Scroat chimed in, "Yeah. Slime, or ecto-whatever... you know, ghost-jizz."
"Oh. Uh. Ummm. No. I'm not."
"Alright then. Get in the sidecar."
Chapter 4
Around midnight, they hit the edge of a redwood forest. Hep turned down a barely visible road and Scroat followed. They looked for a good spot to sleep for the night, set up camp, and were deeply asleep within seconds of laying down.
They were somewhere near Arcata, California, about 90 miles from the Oregon border. They didn't know it yet, but something was watching them from high up in the trees.
They were somewhere near Arcata, California, about 90 miles from the Oregon border. They didn't know it yet, but something was watching them from high up in the trees.
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.
"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.
Chapter 2
The night before, an old acquaintance dropped in to visit. He was unexpected, and marginally welcome. Tommy, though fun, was always trouble. His main problem was his desire to impress other people.
More importantly, he wanted other people to owe him favors.
Tommy had been around as long, if not longer, than Hep and Scroat. He was also a bit of a creature of habit. He had a bag of tricks, and although it was small, he loved each one of them and used them as much as he could.
So after he'd enjoyed Hep's hospitality, he planted his tobacco pouch on Hep's bookshelf and waited until the time was right to make his exit.
By the time Hep found the tobacco pouch, Tommy was long gone.
When Hep noticed the addition to his bookshelf, it took him a while to figure out where it came from. When he finally realized that Tommy had left it behind he muttered something profane to himself, and started packing.
He had to return Tommy's property. He couldn't have kept it even if he'd wanted to. No, he had to play the game, because as a god, he had no other choice.
More importantly, he wanted other people to owe him favors.
Tommy had been around as long, if not longer, than Hep and Scroat. He was also a bit of a creature of habit. He had a bag of tricks, and although it was small, he loved each one of them and used them as much as he could.
So after he'd enjoyed Hep's hospitality, he planted his tobacco pouch on Hep's bookshelf and waited until the time was right to make his exit.
By the time Hep found the tobacco pouch, Tommy was long gone.
When Hep noticed the addition to his bookshelf, it took him a while to figure out where it came from. When he finally realized that Tommy had left it behind he muttered something profane to himself, and started packing.
He had to return Tommy's property. He couldn't have kept it even if he'd wanted to. No, he had to play the game, because as a god, he had no other choice.
Chapter 1
Ezekiel 13:20 - Wherefore thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, I am against your pillows...
Most people, when woken by a five pound hammer slamming down next to their head, wake up terribly frightened. Scroat, however, was accustomed to such methods, having been awakened daily for the last 200 years in precisely this manner.
"You shitty, horse-faced motherfucker! What's your problem?" he yelled.
Hep, Scroat's friend and roommate for the last 200 years, was similarly accustomed to Scroat's morning curse.
"Get up and pack. We've got an epic quest to begin." Hep started to leave the room, swinging his hammer as he walked.
Scroat rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and climbed out of bed.
"What the fuck are you talking about, motherfucker? An epic quest? Aren't we a little old for that? More importantly, aren't we a little forgotten?"
Hep turned and said, "You'd think so, but here we are."
He left the room, and soon Scroat heard him rattling around in the kitchen.
"Fuck," Scroat said.
Most people, when woken by a five pound hammer slamming down next to their head, wake up terribly frightened. Scroat, however, was accustomed to such methods, having been awakened daily for the last 200 years in precisely this manner.
"You shitty, horse-faced motherfucker! What's your problem?" he yelled.
Hep, Scroat's friend and roommate for the last 200 years, was similarly accustomed to Scroat's morning curse.
"Get up and pack. We've got an epic quest to begin." Hep started to leave the room, swinging his hammer as he walked.
Scroat rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and climbed out of bed.
"What the fuck are you talking about, motherfucker? An epic quest? Aren't we a little old for that? More importantly, aren't we a little forgotten?"
Hep turned and said, "You'd think so, but here we are."
He left the room, and soon Scroat heard him rattling around in the kitchen.
"Fuck," Scroat said.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)