"Hey Pee Wee," I said, all confident and such. "Why don't you put the goat down and suck on this!"
I gave him my best Rick Monday swing with the stick, right upside his head. It bounced off his skull like I had hit a bricked up mailbox with a one by two, shattering in my hands.
He stood there staring up at me, with a look like I just called him about his long distance rates during supper time.
Just about then I did one of the craziest things I ever tried, and I have no idea why, other than it could be that silly tea that Little Joe gave me.
"Whachu say, Mister?" I said as I assumed a combat-type position. "Get a load of the newest martial art - I call it 'Truck-Fu'!" I got into a crouch and launched this karate kick at him. "Hee Yaw! Hee Haw!" I shouted for some reason.
Needless to say, it didn’t work worth beans.
The lil red midget easily avoided my blows, jumping around like Jackie Chan or some such Chinaman in one of them movie shows. I swung at him until I fell to the ground, exhausted.
He walked over and casually stood above me, putting a hoofed foot on my throat. “Ah, I see another Protector has come around to subdue me, and has, yet again, failed. As you can see, I’m not so easily dispatched!” he laughed. “I doubt you could land a telling shot on me if I gave you a month of trying!”
“Please, before you kill me, how about you givin' me one of them last requests?” I gasped, as he pressed down on my throat.
He laughed at me again. “Do I look like I am in a position to offer you charity?” He said with a sneer. “Actually, come to think of it, I am. I have you at my mercy. You are obviously a pathetic creature, with little chance of causing me harm. Yes, I will grant your last request, before I drain you of blood and throw you out with the other refuse.”
He pointed in the direction of a pile of dead goats. Not exactly a dignified way to go for ol’ Red.
“Well, come on man! What is your request?” he bellowed, lifting his hoof off my throat.
I sat up and rubbed my aching neck. “I propose a contest, a musical-type contest. If I win, you skedaddle away from here forever. If you win, well, you can drain me of my dang blood.”
“HA! Why would I agree to such a bargain? I can take your blood at my leisure! You are completely within my power as it is!”
“Then why you frettin’ about it?” I said. “About the least it can do is amuse you before you kill me.”
He stood and pondered my proposition for a moment.
“You are correct, Protector. I agree to your contest then. Amuse me!”
“I’ll need my guitar.” I said, as I slowly stood up.
“You shall have one, then!” He made a sweeping type of hand gesture, and a guitar appeared in my hands with a puff of smoke.
Huh.
I started strumming a simple waltz tune. I was sure hopin’ that wherever Little Joe was, he would start helpin’ me now. I was gonna need it.
(strum, strum strum)
I began to sing. Well, it was more like talkin' to some music, as if I were tellin' some kind of story to somebody, or something like that.
“Well, I was heading down the highway one day / When I was surprised by an odd call on my CB.”
(strum, strum strum)
“Breaker, breaker, this is Teddy Bear. Come back.”
“Well, boy was I surprised, it sounded just like some type of young kid.”
“Hey Teddy Bear, this is Ol’ Red. What’s your 20, good buddy?”
(strum, strum strum)
“I’m here in Greenville Town, and I’m talking to truckers cause I ain’t got no feet. / And my Daddy’s dead, and my Mom works a lot. So forth and so on. Hey, why don’t you come over and pick me up, and take me for a ride?”
“Uh, Teddy Bear, that seems like a mighty unusual-type request for a kid. For all I know, you could be some type of criminal, or possibly one of them pros-tit-toots. And, as you may know, it’s against regulations for a long haul trucker like myself to associate with those types of people. I would recommend you seek help at a local social services agency, possibly the Boy and Girls club…”
“STOP!” shouted the Chupacabra. “I can’t take anymore! That was terrible! I could do better with a 44oz. Big Gulp cup held against my backside!”
He was right, of course. It was terrible. All I had come up with was based on my run-in with the creepy skinny feller a while back. Little Joe had not intervened to help me. It seemed I was truly on my own.
“Now, you shall witness a true musician at the height of his form! Step aside, pathetic Protector!” shouted the Chupacabra.
With another sweep of his hand, a vintage-type Fender electric guit-tar appeared in his hands, dang near as big as he was. He started laying down some of the hottest blues licks I had ever heard. Suddenly, a group of sucked-dry goats from the pile joined him as a backing band – it was the tightest five piece these ears had ever encountered, and I’d been to many a barn dance and hoe down. Sparks were flying from the Fender’s strings as they started to glow with heat from the incredible speed of the Chupacabra’s playing.
Just when the Chupacabra and the Dead Goat Band was reaching its noisiest point, that familiar voice appeared in my head. Thank goodness, Little Joe ain’t forgot about me!
“Red, you must listen to me. Now, the gas lines in back of the shack – you can rupture them with a strong blow from your stringed instrument. The sparks from the Chupacabra’s stringed instrument will ignite an explosion. It’s your only chance, Red.”
I quietly began to move toward the back of the shack. The Chupacabra was so engrossed in his licks that he hardly noticed that I had skedaddled. When I got out of his view, I made a bee line for them pipes.
I reared back and swung that guitar with all my might. Bam! Again. Bam! Again. Then, a small hole opened up in the pipe. Another swing, it would be spewing gas all over the place. Bam! The hole was big enough to fill that place with gas in a couple of minutes. Time to high-tail it out of there, real fast-like.
“Red, jump on the tractor and get out of there!” said Little Joe in my mind. “The keys are in the ignition. If you wait too long to start it, you might ignite the gas and kill us all!”
I headed up the little hill to the tractor and turned the key. It started right up. I could see the Chupacabra and the Dead Goat Band down below, still jamming like they was at the Woodstock or some such hippie concert. I pointed the tractor towards where I thought the highway was and slowly started moving away.
“Red, pick me up at the bushes near the scraggly tree. I’ll be waiting for you there,” said Little Joe into my mind.
“Sure thing, little buddy,” I said.
Just then, I heard a thunderous shout from the hollow.
“What is this trickery? Protector, where are you...” the Chupacabra shouted, just before a huge explosion cut him off mid-utterin’.
A ball of fire headed toward the tractor, and did a right singin’ of my back and hindquarters before it moved over my head and into the fields around me. Suddenly, the drought stricken grass caught afire, and I was surrounded by flames and whatnot.
That’s why I never saw poor Little Joe, standin’ there by the tree, waving at me frantically to stop.
“Red, stop the tractor. Stop! Auugghh! My leg! You dolt! You ran over my leg! You idiot!” shouted Little Joe into my mind.
I began pulling at levers and knobs and stuff until I was able to stop the tractor. Unfortunately, it was too late for Little Joe’s leg, which I had managed to crush beneath the big tires of the tractor. I jumped down to pick the little feller up. Poor Little Joe! Tears streamed down my face. Little Joe was in no mood to take my charity, however.
“You are a complete moron, Sovine! How could you not see me there waving?” shouted Joe.
“You weren’t waving! You were hidden in them bushes. I would have seen you if you were waving,” I said, sniffling through my tears.
“I was too waving! I was dog waving! We’re not too tall, you know! Arrrrgh!”
“Look, fine, let’s talk about the waving later. Now, we got to get out of this fire before we look like a couple of roasted weenies.”
Just then, I heard an evil scream from right behind me. A chill ran up my spine and my blood ran cold and the like.
“Protector!” shouted the Chupacabra. “I offer you an honorable way to die, and you choose treachery! Prepare to be destroyed!”
He swung a heavy fist at me and knocked me clear through the air about 10 feet. I got up quick, and saw him, heavily burned and bruised from the explosion and fire. He seemed, well, really pissed off.
I have to intervene for a moment to explain what happened next. See, there’s times when a man is desperate to survive, when he’ll grab any weapon at hand in order to defend hisself from certain death.
Even if that weapon happens to be an intelligent space dog with magic powers and a busted up leg.
I picked up Little Joe and swung him as hard as I could at the Chupacabra.
“You cretin, you're not actually going to...” was about all Joe got out before I smacked him into the Chupacabra’s head. The Chupacabra went down in a heap, Little Joe went limp and the Dead Goat Band collapsed like truckers after a cross-country haul. I must have knocked out poor Little Joe! I walked over to the tractor and put him on the back, behind the seat.
Then, I walked back over to the Chupacabra feller. He was bloodied, but a stirrin’. He appeared to be all weak-like from his wounds.
“Your treachery has surely killed me, Protector, “ he said. “You are a contemptible race, worthy only of being conquered! Your planet is truly filled with valueless creatures, save for the lovely goats! Lovely, lovely goats…” his voice trailed off as he collapsed backward.
“Oh yeah! Well, at least I ain’t gonna ...burn up in some field!” I shouted. I really should have come up something better to say, like in one of them hero-type movies, but I was out of time and needed to get the heck out of there.
I jumped on the tractor, put her in gear, and headed up over the hill to the highway.
I never saw the Chupacabra get up.
Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part V
