Thursday, August 27, 2009

Scene 66

Q had been unwilling to give up all aspects of his retired life. He bought the bus for a song and quickly built a business chartering the thing out, with an emphasis on golf tours to very nice but reasonably priced public courses in the Eastern half of the United States. He got to play several times a week, made decent money, and put himself in a position to monitor the ongoing mass swindle being executed by SBE, Ltd. He’d gotten a tip about an unusual course in the general Columbus, Ohio area and had driven up from his last charter stop to have a look.

Now Q is barking at his former employee. “What in the hell are you doing here, Myron? One minute I’m driving along trying to find Route 13, the next I’m mixed in with a crowd of crazy bastards at some drug-oriented event. Then I look over and it’s you, running for your life!”

“It’s hard to explain,” says Myron by way of understatement.

But he gives it a whirl. The basic rundown, post-O P & Q to now. Perfidy, time travel, consuming fire, paranormal crap.

“I’ll be damned,” remarks Q. “You went and got yourself a spine, Myron.” He grins his old grin.

Myron swells and almost pops in a burst of pride and common-feeling. Q—the sole surviving Homeric Man of the postwar period—approves!

“So what do you say,” offers Q, “let’s go make more trouble for those swindling bastards.” Myron whoops in agreement. Exhausted but totally giddy, he stumbles his way toward the back of the bus. “I always knew that Colfax character was a corrupt sonofabitch,” barks Q over the sound of the bus. “I never liked his show.”

Blinky is curled up in a seat in the back.

Myron sits down in the row in front of him as Q barrels on.

Blinky rolls over and says, “I feel super weird.”

Based on your appearance, thinks Myron, I’m not surprised! Blinky looks oily. And he’s a funny color.

“Jesus,” says Myron.

“I think maybe the Octos gave me a shot or something.”

Myron squats down close to him. They do not touch.

“Something’s happening to me.”

Myron nods.

“They’re lost,” says Blinky. “They’re looking for a way out.”

Myron takes this in.

“Who,” he says.

Blinky makes a weak gesture to himself, as if to say, who do you think?

“Can I get you anything?” asks Myron. “You want some Gatorade?”

Blinky shakes his head. “Maybe some clams. Or small fish.”

“Clams? Really? Like fried clams?”

“No,” says Blinky. “Live ones. In a bucket of water.”

Suddenly the bus slows down. Q shouts toward the rear, “Is this your Indian? Up here on the right?” Dazed and nauseous, Myron turns away from Blinky and peers outside. Sure enough, Little Turtle has materialized up ahead, at a roadside stand marked “Indian Corn.”

“Pick him up!” hollers Myron.

No comments:

Post a Comment