Clash of the Figments - Chapter 11

I heard a “ding”  first and then a voice told me that the seatbelt sign was off, but it would be preferable if I remained seated unless I had something important to do.  Not those exact words, but I get paid to read between the lines. 

Not sensing any treaties between world powers needing immediate facilitating, I heeded the advice.  Instead, I slowly opened my eyes and looked around.  Rows of seated people.  Small confined space.  Steady vibration & mechanical noise in the background.  My initial assessment – that I was on a bus – was quickly replaced when I looked out of the window and noticed a pronounced absence of asphalt anywhere in the near vicinity.  Accompanying this in close proximity was a serious lack of any land, apparently hanging out wherever the asphalt was.  There was, in fact, nothing but a lot of feet and the blue ocean below.  And me without my swim fins. 

The presence of a wing was the final piece of the puzzle.  In case you’re not used to detective work, let me spell it out for you: I was on an airplane. 

Like I said, I get paid to do this. 

Not a lot of difference between a bus and a plane.  Sure, your survival rate is a little higher on a bus if the engine suddenly decides to quit, but overall, not too different.  We were stretched out in first class, me on the aisle and Simon next to me fogging up the window.  I decided Simon had milked out this hangover thing long enough and taped over his mouth and nostrils.  It took almost three minutes before his brain registered that it had no oxygen supply and would be legally dead in another 60 seconds. 

His eyes popped open.  “Mggfleduh,”  he said. 

“What?” 

“Mggfleduh!  Mggfleduh!” 

“Look, Simon,”  I said.  “If I want to talk gibberish I’ll strike up a conversation with Jimmy.” 

He looked at me quizzically which I thought was a pretty funny way to look and told him so.  At about the same time that I realized he couldn’t breathe, he realized that his hands were not tied together behind his back and he reached up to rip the tape off his mouth.  We both breathed a sigh of relief.  Him, because life giving oxygen was again pouring into his lungs.  Me, because his silly Groucho Marx moustache was ripped off with the tape.  I thought it was an improvement.  Simon then screamed, either in agreement or pain.  Remembering my first aid training, I put a handy alcohol swab on his upper lip. 

“Welcome back Simon.” 

“Yes, thank you.  And a good morning to you as well.”  He removed the remaining strip of tape from his nose, pulling out a fair quantity of nose hair with it.  Good tape. 

“Looking a little green this afternoon,”  I said. 

“Ohhh, my head.  Where are we?”  he asked. 

Since I had already figured this one out, I shared the answer with him. 

“I can see that we’re on an airplane,”  he snapped, “  but why are we on it, how did we get on it, and where are we going?” 

See, this is the thing with Simon that pisses me off.  I mean, if he was so sure that we were on a plane, then why did he ask in the first place?  And you notice how he immediately throws in not one, but four – possibly three – more questions on top of it that he knows damn well I haven’t had time to work out yet.  Just goes to show you can’t believe what they tell you about Ivy League schools. 

I shoved a knuckle sandwich down his throat and the questions stopped real quick. 

Though I hated to admit it, Simon had brought up some valid questions.  I decided that I should probably address them.  But first, I had to satisfy a more important question.  Like, where was Jimmy? 

Fortunately, with only a few surreptitious glances around the cabin (this is where a trench coat and fedora work wonders), I spotted him across the aisle two rows back.  For the next several minutes I got a little ticked off since the words “aisle”  and “isle”  sound alike, but are spelled differently and have completely different meanings.  Not to mention that both of them have a silent “s”  for crying out loud which is just about the stupidest damn thing since the entire plot of the James Bond movie Moonraker.  No doubt some uppity Brit with nasty teeth had thought up both things.  Probably Roger Moore.  I mean, he never quite “got”  Bond, so why should he know shit about spelling?  Didn’t hold a candle to Connery.  And don’t even start on that dickhead in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  That was the lamest Bond movie ever.  Not only does he have the gall to replace Connery, but he falls in love and gets married?  Please.  Bond get married?  Why?  At least they knocked the chick off before the end of the movie. 

 

But I digress. 

I spotted Jimmy across the aisle two rows back.  Dammit, I already said that and now I’m pissed off all over again.  Have you ever seen a boy named “Kaisle”  or “Kisle”?  No, never, it’s “Kyle”, always Kyle.  Silent “s” my ass.  The English language is so fucked up. 

I heaved a sigh of relief at finding Jimmy, though whether that was because he was with us or because he wasn’t at large among the general public I couldn’t tell and would rather not speculate on. 

About this time I also noticed that I was a humming a song.  It was either Meet Me in St. Louis or Metallica’s Enter Sandman, both classics in their own right.  Regardless, the humming was a trigger, and it all came back in a rush; Rok Hard, the Barking Spider, Stinky Pete’s mysterious disappearance, and some damn fine two part harmony if I do say so myself. 

Rok was going to provide me with some information on the Spy Moose.  Something to do with a foreign country.  He must have given me a lead or we wouldn’t be on this plane, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what. 

My mind was blank between my late night warbling with Rok and waking up on this airplane, and try as I might, I couldn’t fill in the gap.  It was almost as if an entire portion of my memory had been erased. 

That’s when I noticed Chapter 10 was missing. 

“What do you mean Chapter 10 is missing?” exclaimed Simon when I informed him.  “What the hell happened to it?” 

“Two possibilities,”  I told him.  “First, we must take into serious consideration the fact that it may have been removed by the Spy Moose to conceal vital information as to his whereabouts.  Obviously, something important happened in Chapter 10 or he wouldn’t have risked taking the whole thing.” 

“Is he capable of doing that?”  asked Simon skeptically. 

“I don’t know,”  I replied, “but we have to assume that he may have powers that weren’t included in his dossier.” 

“That’s pronounced ‘dos -ee – ay’, Dick,”  said Simon, “not ‘dos -ee – er’.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

“What’s the other possibility?”  he asked. 

“Well, this is only an outside theory.  And it’s a little vague.  But it may be that the author wrote the first nine chapters on an IBM compatible laptop that he was using from work.  Then, when he left that job for another one and turned the laptop in, he continued writing on an iMac at his home which, as we all know, doesn’t have a floppy drive to back up his work.  Then, in a fit of anger, and in an effort to purge the iMac of all of the unnecessary files that their 16 year old son had downloaded from the internet, his wife deleted almost everything on the hard drive, including the aforementioned Chapter 10.” 

“You’re right, that is a little fuzzy around the edges.  A little far-fetched too, don’t you think?”  Simon asked. 

“Yeah, I think.  My money is on the moose.” 

That settled, we began to contemplate where we were going and what we were going to do when we got there.  About that time Jimmy stood up and announced to the entire cabin that he owned a planet.  Apparently the fact that no person, country, or entity had yet claimed any of the planets had just struck him.  Or maybe it had struck him a few days ago and he had been secretly plotting since. 

“You what?”  I asked Jimmy. 

“I want Saturn.  I’m just letting everyone know now, so it’s like, official and everything.” 

“Explain.” 

“Well, I was just thinking, you know?  About how in the old days dudes like Columbus and Magellan and Socrates used to just land on these countries, you know?  And they’d like, say, ‘Hey all you dudes, this land is like, mine and shit’.  So, I was thinking that, like, well, there’s nothing left to claim, you know?  Except, like, you know – whoa dude – who owns the planets?  Like nobody, you know?  So, I want Saturn.” 

Whoa dude, indeed.  I was amazed.  Not so much at the prospect of Jimmy wanting a planet as him stringing together over 50 words in one stretch. 

“I see.” 

“Yeah, you know, I mean, I think it’s fair and all.  I mean, nobody’s claimed it yet have they?” 

I assured Jimmy that no one had.  I looked over at Simon to see if he had any input.  He said nothing, but I noticed that he continued to breathe my air. 

“So.  Cool.  It’s mine.  So if anybody ever asks, you know, like, who owns Saturn, it’s like, hey man, Jimmy does.” 

“Okay.  But why Saturn?” 

“It’s just way cool, you know?  I mean, like the rings?  They’re like, you know, ‘Get back’ dude.” 

Get back indeed.  I assured Jimmy that we would register his claim with the Federation of Planets at the first opportunity.  Just to make sure it was on record.  Jimmy seemed satisfied, but as a precaution, stood up and went around getting signatures of witnesses to his proclamation. 

“So, okay, you guys can have, like, the other planets,”  he explained to the other passengers.  “Jupiter too.  I just want Saturn.” 

He was received with a few smiles and not a few looks of utter bewilderment, but Jimmy didn’t seem to notice.  Instead, he slipped the passenger next to him – an attorney as it turned out, but is that really surprising when you think about how many of those little bastards there really are? – a smooth Abraham and had him start preparing the official paperwork for his claim. 

Simon informed me that he had to pee and asked if I had noticed whether anyone had recently gone to the bathroom, because if I knew they were occupied, he would just wait until he saw someone come out rather than stand outside the door, which would be not only embarrassing to him (since people would be looking at him and obviously would know why he was standing there) but might also make whoever was in the bathroom feel pressured, which might cause them to freeze up and actually take longer to go –

I could feel a brain embolism coming on if I didn’t get away from him. 

“Listen, Simon, not that you’re boring me to tears or anything, but I’m gonna have a look around this tank,”  I said getting up.  “Something here doesn’t feel quite right.” 

“You mean .  .  .” 

“Yeah, Moose-Business.  Antler hanky panky.  Call it what you want, it ain’t good.” 

“But how can you – ” 

“Hey, with the fucking questions already.  Just a hunch, okay?  I’m gonna do a little looking around.” 

And with that I pulled the brim of the fedora over my eyes like the little kids playing T-ball for the first time do.  You know, pull it down all the way to your ears and just over your eyes so you have to tilt your head back to see.  Makes you look like a geek, but the little geeky boy look has landed me some prime tail in the past.  And if my hunch turned out to be nothing, maybe I could score with some chick back in coach.  It’s all about priorities and options. 

Timothy Dalton was okay, I guess. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 12

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 9 (Part 2)

 “Rok Hard?”  Simon repeated, his head wobbling slightly.  “What kind of stupid name is that?” 

“Simon, I’m sure Rok here didn’t pick his own name,”  I said. 

“Actually, I did,”  Rok said.  “Fits me don’t you think?” 

“Rather smacks of sexual innuendo, I’d say,”  Simon said.  He turned to me.  Apparently forgot why.  Turned back to Rok. 

“And I suppose your wife’s name would be something along the lines of ‘Vixen’?”  he asked, suddenly having a difficult time keeping his eyes from working independently of each other. 

“Nah, her name’s Areola,”  Rok answered. 

“Ah, that would have been my second guess.”  And with that Simon fell off the stool. 

“He’ll be okay,”  Rok said to me.  “Won’t be worth much for a few days, but he’ll be okay.”  He leaned back onto the bar in front of me.  “Now, maybe you can tell me what you want here?” 

The first thing that popped up in my head was a strawberry shake.  No lie.  I didn’t have the balls to ask for one of course, but if I had I would have been justified since I really did have a hankering for one at the moment and he did just ask me after all.  However, my vast experiences with establishments such as this coupled with my will to live told me that an order for a cool and fruity strawberry shake would probably be interpreted as a request for some inbred genetically defective redhead hillbilly to come over and beat the crap out of me. 

So instead of actually sticking my head up my ass and petitioning a death sentence, or worse, my very own Barking Spider (or whatever other arachnid type potions that might lurk in the bowels of the recipe file), I decided to go straight up with the man.  So I threw out the whole story to him; the D.C.  suits, the renegade Russian farm animals – the whole nine yards, plus a couple of extra feet that, while completely fabricated and untrue, gave the story a little more pizazz. 

When I finished, I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray – when the hell do I keep lighting these things? – and drained the rest of my beer.  Old hindquarter arms, aka Rok, just stood there staring at me.  I hoped that he was considering how to answer my request for information and not trying to decide how much of me he could stuff into a glove compartment.  He finally reached up to his face and plucked out what was either a hair or a small fir tree from his nose. 

“Come on in the back,”  he said to me, motioning with his big ole’ Andre the Giant head.  “Your friends ain’t going nowhere.”  This was true.  Jimmy’s drool line now ended in a pool large enough to stock with bass.  Simon was still laid out cold on the floor; a pedestrian speed bump. 

I followed Rok into the backroom and felt as though I had stepped into another world.  Instead of a dirty slaughterhouse filled with meathooks and chicken feathers as I was expecting, it was as sterile as a bank waiting room.  Same muzak too.  Shiny clean linoleum flooring fit enough for Officer’s County on any ship covered the floor.  Four high powered computers with big color monitors hummed in the corner around a set of desks, and a large status board showing the layout of the globe hung tacked to the wall, many countries an explosion of red colored pins.  The computers certainly looked impressive, though I must admit that I feared them more than I understood them.  As far as I was concerned, a hard drive referred to interstate travel in a Hyundai.  ROM was something you mixed with Coke. 

The room smelled of disinfectant and the air was cool.  A backup diesel generator sat by itself, ready to start up should any loss of power occur. 

“Wow,”  I said, but it came out “Holy Shit.” 

Rok smiled and winked at me.  “Yeah, pretty impressive, ain’t it?  My own private war room.  Have a seat.”  He motioned to a chair and we both sat. 

“I was wondering when you’d show up,”  Rok continued,”  Stinky Pete said you would.” 

“You know Stinky Pete?”  I asked. 

“Knew.  Yeah, I did.  Stink and me went back a long way.  Desert Storm, Grenada, Somalia, Vietnam, the Six-Day War – ” 

“You’re Jewish?” 

“What?  Oh, no.  Just looked like a good time.  So we got circumcised, grabbed a couple cases of Coors, and hit the beach.  Not real sure who we were fighting there, but we blew up a lot of shit.” 

“Oh.” 

“Listen, me and Stink were following this moose fella since he attacked that first farm in Germany.” 

“I thought it was in Spain,”  I said. 

“Yeah, Spain, Germany, whatever.  What’s the difference?  Can’t understand a damn thing they say either place.  A foreign country, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“This Zodar dude is one bad piece of business.  Got everyone scared.  Brass don’t know what to do about it.  So me and Stinky started listening in, getting the hi-pri dope and keeping track of this guy.  Figured we stay on top of the situation and hang tight until the suits come and ask us for help.  Everything’s going just like we planned and then last night Stinky disappeared and his place turns into a parking lot.  Nobody knows nothing.” 

“Oh come on, someone tore down his whole bar, carted the rubble away, and paved the whole thing in a single day?  That’s just a bit fast don’t you think?” 

“Work was contracted by Disney.” 

“Oh.  Well, I guess that makes sense.  Also explains why you can’t get any answers about it.  Disney’s tighter than an inner mob circle.” 

“Don’t I know it.  Anyway, I’m glad you finally showed up.  I got some stuff that might help you nab this Zodar character.” 

“What about you?  Aren’t you still planning to go after him?’

“Well, you know, now with Stinky gone, someone’s got to mind the bar.” 

It was refreshing to see where national security and the threat of global extinction of all animal life on the planet fit in to Rok’s priority list. 

“Hey, no grog without a grogmeister,”  I noted. 

“Damn straight.  I consider myself a pubic servant.” 

“You mean public servant.” 

“Nah, pubic.  Kind of goes with the name, you know?” 

I did. 

“So, back to the moose.  What kind of information do you have on him?” 

“Not so fast, friend,”  Rok said.  “I don’t have much company back here now that Stinky’s gone.  Let’s maybe you and me sing some Neil Diamond songs before we talk shop.” 

“Stinky’s only been gone a day.” 

“Yeah,”  he said.  “Still .  .  .  “ 

I could see that Rok was in the mood for a duet and without much else going and a couple of beers in my gut I had to admit the prospect of a little two part harmony was inviting.  Four hours and three six-packs later, we had successfully crucified several dozen top 40 favorites before going coma.  The rest of the night was spent filling the room with the sonorous snores that sloppy drunks are known for. 

And before you ask I’ll let you know right now that just because we were sleeping in the same room doesn’t mean that any of that "Brokeback Mountain" stuff was going on.  So don’t even think about it. 

Next Week:  Chapter 11

 

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 9 (Part 1)

The Barking Spider was typical of the much celebrated hole-in-the-wall dives that we were accustomed to.  Located about three blocks down from where the Roadkill had been, it was more importantly blessed with an agreeable location.  That is to say, it was the first dump we ran into. 

A prestigious collection of Harley-Davidsons, El Caminos, and two beat-up Ford pickups that resembled mud plows graced the parking lot and told us we were dealing with the edge of society.  Not the top edge mind you, but definitely an edge.  No faux-Euro aerodynamic styled vehicles here; just basic, down home, tobacco chewing, Rebel flag flying transportation. 

Neon signs in the windows of the bar informed us that Pabst, Miller, and some unknown brand called ‘udweiser’ were spoken here.  Frequently and in great quantities from the smell that greeted us as we walked in. 

I sidled up to the bar as inconspicuously as a stranger in an outdated hat and trench coat could and took a stool.  Beverly Hills 90210 and Baywatch victim followed.  We sat there looking around and nodding like three dorks who knew they had no place being here.  Judging from the looks from the local clientele, there was no argument. 

A tall, bearded barkeep that made Richard Marcinko look like a Broadway queen successfully ignored us from his spot on the corner of the bar.  The guy had Navy Seal written all over him.  Literally.  Tattoos covered virtually every square inch of his biceps; a substantial amount of real estate that resembled Earl Campbell’s thighs.  I had always thought the great Oiler’s running back had retired, but was now convinced that he sat leg-less in a wheelchair somewhere, this choirboy having pulled his legs out from their sockets and now wearing them as arms.  Cover this guy with a shag carpet and you have Chewbacca on steroids. 

Suffice to say he was a large man. 

“Let me do the talking,”  I whispered to Simon and Jimmy.  Jimmy nodded his head, either in agreement or as notification that he was about to take a nap.  Simon, of course, ignored me and decided to take charge of the situation. 

“Excuse me,”  he called out.  “We’d like some service over here.  Pronto, if you please.” 

I winced.  Jimmy snored.  The bartender eyed his magazine for a few more seconds and then turned his massive head slowly in our direction.  Metal on metal, the bearings in his neck screamed. 

Oh shit.  Simon, you idiot.  I concentrated on keeping my sphincter securely fastened.  The room became as quiet as a Sprint commercial and several people who looked like they had just broken out of prison headed for the doors.  This gave me a pleasant feeling not. 

When he came over and leaned on the bar in front of us, I felt like that dude in Jurassic Park that got sniffed by the big T-rex.  I continued struggling to maintain control of bodily functions. 

“Well now, what do we have here.  ‘Couple of respectable gentlemen.  And in a hurry by the sound of it.”  He looked us over for a moment, then said.  “What can I do for you?” 

If his words sounded like an offer of assistance, the tone indicated otherwise.  Simon either pretended to be an idiot or genuinely was one. 

“Need some drinks, Jeeves.  A draft for my friend here,”  a thumb in my direction, “and a pillow for this one.”  Another thumb for Jimmy who by now had his trademark drool line running into a small pool on the bar. 

I shook my head back and forth.  Godzilla noticed. 

“What’s your problem?”  he asked me.  His voice had that low, gravelly, you boys got 30 seconds to live quality to it. 

“No problem,”  I said quickly.  “I just wanted to state for the record that I’m not his friend.  Never seen him before, actually.”  I turned to Simon.  “Who the hell are you, mister?” 

“Please, Dick, don’t indulge the hired help.  Know your place and they’ll know theirs.” 

I could envision my place soon to be in an abandoned refrigerator in a long forgotten landfill.  Whether safely tucked away in it or dead, at present I felt confident enough in that future address to go ahead and forward my mail. 

The bartender seemed unaffected by Simon’s remark and if he hadn’t been staring directly into my eyes I would have thought that our chances of survival had improved.  The pits of hell, however, never looked so bleak.  “That’s right, Dick.  I’m here to serve.” 

Gravel.  Lots of gravel.  The bottom of a rock quarry during a landslide. 

He turned to Simon and stood up to his full height, making several low flying aircraft change course.  “Sir, may I recommend the house specialty?” 

“That sounds fine, thank you.”  Simon turned his head slightly to me and whispered, “Proper breeding exudes power over even the most savage brutes.  Notice how docile he is now?  Really, Dick, you have to trust me in these things.” 

Dr.  Docile returned in a moment with a beer, a pillow, and the house specialty.  The beer looked safe enough but of course could have been poisoned, and the pillow, while seeming innocent, could certainly be used to suffocate Jimmy.  But any fears that I personally might have had were forgotten when I saw what was placed in front of Simon. 

“A Barking Spider.  On the rocks,”  the bartender said.  “House special.”  He leaned in close to Simon until their noses almost touched.  “Enjoy.” 

Whatever a Barking Spider was, it was not pretty.  I found myself feeling sympathy for the ice cubes; they looked in pain.  For that matter, so did Simon. 

“Perhaps I’m not as thirsty as I thought,”  he said. 

I leaned into Simon and did him the favor of a return whisper.  “You know, Simon, if you don’t drink it, the power shifts from the proper breeding back to the savage brute.”  I gave him a second to dwell on that and then set the hook.  “Face, Simon.  It’s all about saving face.  Be a big boy.  Show him who’s the boss.” 

A grim but resolute look set Simon’s face.  The sucker was going to drink it.  He glanced up where Earl Campbell’s crotch should have been and forced a smile. 

“Cheerio,”  he said, and kicked it back.  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  Set the glass on the bar.  Straightened his back. 

“Well, now.  That wasn’t so bad.” 

The bartender had a strange look on his face.  I didn’t recognize it at first because I never thought it would be there.  But sure enough, he started to smile.  Then he started to giggle.  Then he started to flat out laugh his ass off. 

“What’s so funny?”  Simon asked. 

“I can’t believe you actually did it,”  he said, wiping tears from his eyes.  “I can’t believe you really drank that.” 

“Why should that be so surprising?” 

“Because you’re such a wimp.  You have no idea what that drink is going to do to you.”  He knocked his laughter down somewhat.  “But I do.  Hope you don’t have to operate any heavy machinery in the next day or two.”  He broke out into a fresh gale of laughter.  About a “7” on the Beaufort scale. 

Jimmy, meanwhile, was observing everything with all the attention that you’d expect of someone who was dead asleep. 

Finally, the bartender got himself under control.  He seemed to be in a good mood, almost cheery.  It’s strange and moderately frightening to see a man large enough to pop your head off like a zit look at you with mirth in his eyes. 

“Sorry about that boys,”  he said.  “I don’t get to enjoy myself that often.  Been a while since I had the chance to get someone to drink one of those.”  He nodded to Simon.  “Your boy here is in for a wallop.”  He picked up the glass, wiped down the bar, and then stuck out his hand to me. 

“I’m Rok Hard.  I own the joint.” 

Next Week:  Chapter 9 (Part 2)

 

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 8

The rest of the trip was uneventful and we arrived in Charlotte around midnight.  A low haze from the steel mills blanketed the city, giving the lights an eerie lime green hue.  Hue is also a village in Vietnam, but I think the slopes pronounce it “way”.  Don’t say I never taught you anything.  Cars drove up and down Independence Avenue and we almost hit a stray dog that came out from behind the Super Wal-Mart.  Yeah, the Queen City was just as I’d remembered it. 

Everything was looking good and going as planned until we arrived at our destination, the Roadkill Pub & Deli.  That’s where we ran into problem #1.  The whole essence of the problem, I mused, was that the Roadkill wasn’t there. 

At all. 

As we sat idling in a parking place where one of the eight pool tables had once been, the ever perceptive Simon seemed to perk up on the fact that something was wrong. 

“What’s wrong?”  he asked. 

“The bar’s not here,”  I replied.  Never give them more information than you have to if you can make them beg for it instead. 

“What do you mean, ‘the bar’s not here’?”  Simon pressed. 

“Like I said, it’s gone.” 

“You didn’t say ‘it’s gone’, you said ‘the bar’s not here’,”  Jimmy chimed in. 

“Shut up, Jimmy.” 

“Okay.” 

“The bar is gone,”  I continued.  “Apparently an overabundance of surplus asphalt coupled with the need for convenient downtown parking overcame the public’s desire for fine dining in a family atmosphere.” 

“And strippers,”  Jimmy added. 

“And strippers,”  I echoed.  A desolate sigh rang out from all three of us simultaneously as we stared into the heavens and thought of what might have been. 

“Such a waste,”  I said.  “So senseless.” 

“Well what the hell do we do now?”  Simon asked.  Just full of questions, this guy.  “I thought this was your “big source”  of information, your “wired in”  contact that was going to set us off on the trail of this moose guy.  What do we do now?” 

“I don’t know, Simone.  I don’t know.” 

“Don’t even start calling me Simone again.  You know I hate that.” 

“Sorry.  I’m just a little shaken up about this.  Annoying you takes my mind off of it.” 

“Well you need to get your mind back on it and think of something fast.  Three white guys sitting in a parking lot in this neighborhood at three in the morning is asking for trouble.” 

“It’s midnight Simon,”  I said.  “Not 3 a.m.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Says so at the beginning of this chapter.” 

“Alright, midnight then.  In any case we might as well hang up a great big banner with flashing lights that says “ROB US”. 

“Okay.  Hey Jimmy, we still got that banner in the trunk?” 

“Yeah.  I think so,”  he answered. 

“Oh, stop it!”  Simon said.  It appeared that our playful jocularity was wearing thin.  “What are we going to do?” 

“Hey,” Jimmy said, “how did you find this place anyway?  I mean, you know, in the first place?” 

“Just dumb luck,”  I said.  “A couple of years back I stopped in for a drink.  Got to talking to the barkeep & realized I’d stumbled on to a wealth of untapped information.” 

“Well, why don’t we just go to another bar?”  Jimmy asked. 

Simon threw up his hands in despair.  “What a bunch of idiots!  What are the odds of finding another bar with a bartender who also happens to be an ex-Navy Seal computer whiz who keeps up on the current status of international espionage?” 

I threw up my hands in exasperation.  “Do you have a better idea?” 

Jimmy threw up.  “I don’t know about all that,”  he said, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, “I just wanted a beer.” 

“Oh my God,”  Simon said, “  I can’t believe I let myself get talked into this.  I want out.” 

“Out of the car?”  I asked. 

“No, out of this book!” 

“Hey, hey, look, we went over all this earlier.  You can’t go anywhere now.  That case is closed.  Besides, I think Jimmy may be on to something.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding!  The odds, Dick, the odds.  It’s simply implausible that we’ll find another source of information in a run-down bar.  It would be too much of a coincidence.  No one would believe it.  And no self-respecting author would insult the intelligence of his readers by implying as much.  It’s just too ridiculous!” 

“Actually it’s no more ridiculous than anything else that’s happened so far.  But that’s not what I was agreeing with Jimmy on.  I kind of liked his ‘getting a beer’ idea.  And if we happen to run into a good bartender, all the better.” 

“I can’t believe it.  What am I doing with you two?”  Simon fumed.  “You don’t know how to run an investigation.” 

“Like I said, you got any better ideas?” 

“Actually, yes - ”  he started saying, but before he could get any further Jimmy threw an Army blanket over his head and we spent the next few minutes beating the crap out of him. 

 

Now, I know that sounds a little harsh.  Maybe even a tad cruel.  Possibly totally unwarranted.  But .  .  .  .  .  .  okay, it was.  Violence for the sake of violence, pure and simple.  What’s your point?  Hey, somebody shot Bambi’s mom for no reason too, so don’t go non-linear on me & Jimmy just for throwing a blanket party and kicking the snot out of some uppity Ivy Leaguer who, BY -THE -WAY, had it coming. 

Simon decided not to share his ideas with us after all. 

We cranked up the Impala and went looking for a bar. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 9

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 7

It was eight o’clock when we finally hit the road for the Queen City.  I didn’t figure we’d be there long, but it was a critical stop since we didn’t have any leads to follow on this Zodar fella.  Not that we’d really looked yet.  Actually, I didn’t really figure to pick up any leads there either, but I wanted a new Panther’s jersey and my mom lived close by so if we wanted a home cooked meal or needed to do some laundry we could score on that count. 

And then of course, there was Stinky Pete. 

There’s a little bar just out of downtown that I’ve used before as a source of hard to get mission critical information.  I’ve also used it as a source of cheap mission critical booze, so it had the advantage of dual purpose.  The bartender there was an ex-Navy Seal.  A big biker lookin’ fella, Stinky Pete stood about six feet-four and weighed maybe 275 pounds soaking wet.  Worked a second job as a jack stand at Jiffy Lube.  Strange source of information, I know, but he was plugged into the seamy underworld of international espionage like a lava lamp. 

“Okay, you got me into this thing, so where are we going to start?”  Simon asked.  Sounded like a question to me. 

“Charlotte,”  I replied. 

“Charlotte?  Why there?”  he asked.  Another question.  Simon was starting to be a nosy little bastard.  I started thinking maybe our trio was one too many.  Lots of country road ahead, plenty of places to dump a body.  But maybe killing him would be overdoing it a little.  I decided to fill him in instead.  That’s the kind of guy I am. 

“There’s a little bar just out of downtown that I’ve used before as a source of hard to get mission critical information.  I’ve also used it as a source of cheap mission critical booze, so it has the advantage of dual purpose.  The bartender there is an ex-Navy Seal.  A big biker lookin’ fella, Stinky Pete stands about six feet-four and weighs maybe 275 pounds soaking wet.  Works a second job as a jack stand at Jiffy Lube.  Strange source of information, I know, but he’s plugged into the seamy underworld of international espionage like a lava lamp.” 

“Okay,”  Simon said, “but do you really think he’s gonna know anything about a spy moose?” 

“If anybody knows, he will.  And Simon?  If you ask me another question I’ll break three of your fingers.” 

“Okay, okay, don’t get so bloody hostile.” 

“Hey, man,”  Jimmy piped up from the back, “why don’t we put on some tunage?  Help everybody relax.  Here, I brought my 8-tracks.”  He passed a bright orange case up to Simon. 

“The only thing more remarkable than you having an 8-track tape collection is that this car has an 8-track player,”  Simon said. 

“Well, you know, you can’t throw out, like, classics man,”  Jimmy replied. 

Simon opened the case and I took a peek.  Typical Jimmy:  The Angry Samoans, Violent Femmes, Black Flag, and, of course, the Sex Pistols to name a few.  No Neil Diamond though.  Simon would be disappointed. 

Jimmy saw Simon studying the titles with a confused expression.  “Didn’t think I’d have a collection of musik like that, did you?”  he said. 

“That’s ‘music’, with a ‘c’, and no, I must admit that most of this was beyond the realm of my Music Appreciation classes.” 

“Yeah, it’s a royal collection alright.  Here,”  he pointed, “I haven’t heard that one in a while.” 

Simon reluctantly complied and soon we were cruising to the melodious sounds of the Meatmen, the gentle rhythm of War of the Superbikes wafting through the night air. 

Jimmy relaxed in the center of the back seat, arms draped out to each side, nodding with the beat. 

Simon looked as if he were fighting the calling of a large bowel movement. 

I drove. 

“Yeah, man,”  Jimmy said, “I remember one night when we were opening up for the FPV’s, before STI got famous, - ”

“The who?”  Simon asked. 

“Naw, not 'The Who' man, the 'FPV’s',”  Jimmy replied. 

“What is an ‘FPV’?” 

“It’s not a what, it’s a them, dude,”  Jimmy explained.  “You know, 'The Phantom Panty Vipers'.  They were out of El Lay I think, had this real freaky looking dude playing lead guitar.  Wanted everyone to call him Duke ‘cause he wore this big thick collar around his neck and thought he was a dog.  We called him Johnny Forehead instead ‘cause he had this forehead that just kinda kept going back, and back, and back, you know?  Used to piss him off a lot –” 

“’Phantom starts with a ‘P’, not an ‘F’,”  Simon informed us.  “They should have been the ‘PPV’s’, not the “FPV’s’.” 

“Yeah, whatever man.  I mean, nobody said we were like English majors or anything.  We played tunes, man, you know?  We were musicians.” 

“Another debatable point that probably wouldn’t hold up to cross examination.” 

“What?” 

“Some people might make the argument that you weren’t musicians,”  Simon clarified. 

“Like who?” 

“Like anyone who ever heard you play.” 

Jimmy was silent for a moment.  Luckily, being in the backseat, he was downwind from me, or I might have gagged under the smoke that was no doubt belching from his ears as the fragile gears in his cranium ground together in a desperate attempt to determine if he had or had not just been ‘dissed’. 

Apparently, he had. 

“Oh yeah?”  he said. 

“Yes,”  Simon replied. 

“Well .  .  .well . . . you are.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, uh-huh.  Don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about now, do ya?  Wish you did though, don’t you?  Huh?  Don’t you?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“See!  See!  It’s killing you, ain’t it?” 

“Dick,”  Simon said to me, “what the hell is he talking about?” 

I looked at Simon and puffed thoughtfully on my pipe for a few seconds, surprised that I was smoking one and wondering when it was exactly that I had bought it. 

“You are,”  I said. 

Jimmy started laughing so hard he threw up all over himself. 

Simon retreated without another word to the far side of the car where the air temperature was now over 110 degrees. 

I drove. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 8