Tales from the Truck Stop

Freightliner Fever, Part 2

2009-03-31T16:52:00.002-05:00

I found an old cabin a few miles off the blacktop and bunked up there a couple weeks, mostly just to be alone. It was stocked with a few provisions, I don't know who put 'em there, but I was happy to help myself until they ran out.

Today I left a note thankin' whoever stocked the place for their hospitality, then headed deeper into the hills, not really lookin' to go anyplace except far away from the people out there I had harmed and disappointed.

Heck, I was so poisonous to others that even the Snowman was stayin' outta my dreams.

Anyways, I wandered up into the hills a bit, then back down into a valley I'd never before been to. It was like a pristine place, untouched by any man, except for hundreds of abandoned big rigs just sitting there, some rusted out, some pert near to gettin' there. They was parked under trees mostly, scattered about where there room to fit 'em. Most had weeds growin' up around in 'em, like they'd just been left to lie there for years.

It was like heaven - hundreds of trucks to play in, with nobody around to foul with my dark moods and disposition.

I took a likin' to an old Freightliner parked under a gnarled up oak tree. It had been there a long time - the tree was damn near grown around it, almost like it was tryin' to hold it in place. I had to pry the passenger door open real hard to get a big enough gap to slip in.

Surprisingly, it wasn't too messed up in there, no rats, dead bums, and such. Sure, it was worn a bit, but it had, I don't know, a kind of spirit about it. The windshield was shattered in a spot, but not broken, and not too dirty as to not be able to see out.

I started playin' like I was a real big rig driver behind the wheel. I turned the big wheel around. I put the pedal to the metal. I stuck the clutch and tried to jam it into gear. I pulled the air horn cord down.

"WOOOMP!" it went, kind of weak, as it dumped a bunch of dirt onto the windshield outside. But I'll be damned if'n it didn't work!

"Aw Yeah!" I shouted. I pulled the cord again. "WOOOOOOOMMP!" Nice and loud this time. Sounded like it echoed around the valley a bit.

"YES! Now that's what I call a horn! Shout it out, big fella!"

I pulled the cord a few more times to hear that echo effect around the valley. I had to admit - it felt damn good to be behind the wheel, even if I was just playin' around.

Then somethin' really weird happened. I musta knocked the visor when I was pulling that horn cord, cause it moved just a bit, and what looked like a set of keys fell on the floorboard.

"No way!" I said, knowing how improbable that was. I looked down at the floor to see... Yup, it was a damn set of keys.

I stuck them in the ignition. I pushed my leg down hard on the clutch - I didn't wanna start this thing in gear. I slowly turned the key... there was no way the battery still had any charge... it made a grinding sound, then kind of a moan... then it turned over!

Then, just as quickly, the engine sputtered and stopped.

"WOO HOO!!" I shouted to nobody. I squeezed out the passenger door and scrambled around to the front of the thing. I threw the brush off from around the grill, reached in to find the hood release, pulled it, and popped the hood.

The engine was filthy, and it looked like some rats had taken up residence back near the firewall, but it looked ok. The battery cables was a bit loose - I tightened the negative and climbed back on inside.

I turned the key... and she started up! I gave her a little gas, and she sputtered a bit, then gave a nice roar!

Looks like I had me a big rig, no matter what Big Joe said.

Freightliner Fever, Part 1

2009-02-17T12:48:00.011-06:00

I got out of the truck in the Arkansas hills somewhere - I don't know exactly where. I started walkin' along the road, and Big Joe kept the rig rolling slow along side me.

"Red! Get back in here! We need to talk about your next mission..."

"I ain't coming with you! I ain't fit to be no Protector! I ain't fit for nuthin'!"

I knew I had ruined Guiseppe's life due to my lustful, selfish ways, and was pure ready to wander a spell by my lonesome and think about things, cause I sure wasn't ready to be around other people when I could hardly stand to be around myself.

"Red, don't talk like that! You did your best, you couldn't have known..."

I wasn't ready to hash this out like one of them television dramas with the cryin' and whatnot. Better to just walk away a spell and stew on this like my gut was telling me to do.

"I'm walkin' away, Little Joe. If I had me a gun and a badge, I'd give it to ya! Now let me be!"

"I told you he was worthless, Little Joe. Look at him, running away. Scared to accept his responsibility, I'd say..." said Big Joe, looking all haughty behind the wheel.

Now there's many things I am and I ain't, but being afraid wasn't one of them. I'd faced a crazy, blood sucking demon, Mexican ghosts in a bar, an army of undead, and even a prostie that wasn't quite right in the head, all in the past few months, and I weren't scared of any of 'em. I wasn't about to take that from a dadgum ghost trucker.

"Now hear this, yah dang accursed gear jammer! I ain't walkin' away cause I'm scared! I'm walking away because I'm not fit for the job! I ain't worthy of it! Now turn that sorry old Mack around and get the hell out of here!

That was probably a step too far, since Big Joe loved that old Mack rig in an almost unnatural fashion, but he'd pulled my string and that was that.

"Why you sniveling little truck stop vagabond! You have no right to put down this beautiful rig! That's doesn't mean you're better than me, or this lovely, lovely...lovely Mack. Really, you can't experience the hand-tooled leather of these seats until you sit on them completely naked! It's like a glove for your entire body, almost like a second skin...that's what the police never understood! Nobody understands! NOBODY!"

We just kind of sat there for a second to let that sink in.

Little Joe jumped out of the open door and walked towards me.

"Yeah, Big Joe, that's, uh, really more than we needed to know," said Little Joe. "Red, I understand what you are going through - all protectors experience this. You aren't perfect. Look, take some time, I know how to find you when I need you. But I warn you...there are others that are aware of your presence. Others that will also endeavor to find you. And if they do..."

"If they do, you'll be the first to know. Look, I need to get away from this. I need...to wander a bit. Two weeks, OK?"

He looked at me and showed his teeth a bit like dogs do when you think they are smilin' at you.

"Two weeks," he said, and climbed back up into the truck. "Get this thing moving, Big Joe."

The door shut and the big Mack pulled away.

"Thanks, Little Joe. Bye for now " I said as I waved. "And bye, you Mack drivin' freakshow," I muttered under my breath.

"I heard that!" shouted Big Joe. "Ghosts can hear well! Really, really well!"

I just stood there for a moment, watchin' them drive away until they disappeared in a little flash of light.

Then I turned and headed straight up into the hills.

Freightliner Fever, Part 2

RIP Snowman

2008-09-19T14:26:00.003-05:00

Hey folks, this is Red, been taking a break from my adventures the last few months, “Chillin' Like A Villain” in a small town I won’t mention, possibly or not in one of its many fine jails, somewheres on the backroads and/or byways of this great nation of ours. Well, it came to my attention that Mr. Jerry Reed, one-a my biggest dang idols and inspirations, done passed from this Earth the other day. This is a pure shame, dang to rights. Jerry was just a helluva great finger pickin' guitar man, pert near the best I ever did see or hear, better'n old Faron or Chet or even freakin' Yngwie, least by my judgin'. His playin' warmed your heart, 'specially if'n you was in a faraway place longin' for home, or was stuck in a bad situation, or even was fightin' an enchanted undead army or whatnot. Now, I don't know how to say this without soundin' a bit soft, but he also came to me in dreams sometimes, pointin' me on the right path. So, I would say that I know me a lot about the Alabama Wildman, even though I don't know a whole lot about much else.

One-a them things I do know is that Jerry Reed never, ever, ever opened for Dexys Midnight Runners. I seen this lie kickin' 'round the Internets since the Snowman died, and I am right now gonna nip it in the bud and put a stop to it real quick. How do I know that? Because I have it on high, personal like authority that Jerry tried to kick the crap outta them backstage at the US Festival in 1983, just after the Clash's final set.

See, I was in my state-or-local-municipality-issued bunk the other night, snoring away, when I had another of my fanciful dreams. Now, y'all might think that a simple person like myself would have pretty simple dreams - beautiful ladies, fast semi-trucks, talking dogs, alien blood suckers attempting to torture and/or kill you, etc. - the same dreams everybody has. And you would be right. However, this turned out to be one-a my special dreams, the kind I get ever once in a while that seem to predict events that may or may not occur in the future, and may or may not have to do with some truck stop chorizo I ate earlier in the day.

Anyway, there I was, riding in my dream big rig with a beautiful lady, putting the miles behind me, smokeys a wavin' at me and letting me speed on by - a perfect night in Dreamville. That's when Snowman showed up, billowing out of my dashboard in a ghost-like fashion, ready to tell me somethin' important, no doubt.

"Red!" hollered Jerry.

"What? What do you want, Snowman? Can't you see I's in the middle of one-a my right-fine truck-drivin’ dreams?"

He looked around a bit. "Oh yeah! Nice rig," he said.

"Thanks."

"Red, I've come to you in a dream to tell you something very, very important."

"What is it, Jerry? I got my ears on!" I still love the old CB lingo.

"Well, first, I've done kicked the bucket. Caught a cab. Passed from this Earth. Don't worry about it, it had to happen sometime. See if you can get over to the house and maybe bring a covered dish."

I was stunned. Jerry had never gone so far as to invite me to his house before!

"And secondly, now that I'm gone into spiritual form, I'm gonna need you to do something for me."

"What, Snowman? I'll do any dang thing you ask!" I said, and I would have, too, since he'd done gone and invited me over to the house and all.

"Red, I need you to correct a grievous error for me, a major mistake I made in my life, something I did that's haunted me for years. Red, I just about killed the fiddle player in that Dexys Midnight Runners band one night many years ago, and I need you to make it right for me."

"Uh, sure Jerry. I'll take right care of that for yah. Hey Jerry..." I said.

"Yeah Red."

"Who's Dexys Midnight Runners?"

"Well, Red, lemme tell ya. In 1983, Dexys Midnight Runners was just about the hottest band on sliced white bread. They had a huge worldwide hit with "Come on Eileen", which a lot of people thought was one-a them working class anthems about how poor folk could find love too despite the oppression of rich people, since the band wore a old, sorry clothes with their armpit hair hangin' out, and danced around the street and whatnot. Really, it was about the singer's girlfriend givin' him some kinda pox about the crotchal region."

While I’ve had similar problems with women-folk, notably a Gypsy witch who gave me a case of crabs like you wouldn’t believe, it don’t mean I like to hear about such matters. "Uh, that was very informative, Jerry. Tell me, how did you end up almost killin' the fiddle player?" I asked, but now not really sure it was the greatest idea to help the ghost of Jerry Reed do right by an almost dead fiddle player.

"We was at the US Festival in 1983 - Big Concert, lotta Bands and celebrities. So, David Geffen owed Burt Reynolds a solid, so he got my band on the bill. However, he musta owed Burt big time, because he didn't put us in some kind of obscure slot, he put us on right between two of the biggest acts in the world at that time - The Clash and Dexys Midnight Runners."

Just then another ghostly form billowed out from my dashboard. It was a pasty-faced dude with short hair and bad teeth. This was becoming like some dang ghost convention.

"Hello, Red. I'm Joe Strummer from the Clash. I'm here to confirm that Jerry's story is completely true," said the new ghost. Then he kind of winked at me in an odd fashion.

"Uh, ok, I really wasn't strugglin' to believe him or anything..." I said.

"Oh, don't mind me. I'll just take a listen and hang around 'til you finish. Carry on," said the ghost of Joe Strummer.

Jerry smiled at the new feller. "Hey Joe. Long time no see. Now that I'm dead too, maybe we can hang out sometime. Anyway, back to the US Festival. So, we go on after the Clash. And lemme just say this. We were ON that night. Tight. I was finger-pickin’ and singin' and havin' a damn ball. Hell, we even got that Rock and Roller audience into it, even though they kept callin' me Bandit and wonderin where my dog was. I weren’t even the Bandit until the third dang movie! But that could be expected."

"So, we go off the stage, crowd lovin' it, we’s baskin' in the glow of all that applause, and such. Heck, even the Clash hung around backstage to watch our set. Dexys come out right after us, and got ready to play. The singer grabs the mic, and says, and I'll never forget this because I had to ask Joe here what he meant, he says to the festival crowd...”

“That was right shite, wannit?”

“And I was so taken aback it knocked me breathless.” Jerry looked a might choked up, even now.

"I can confirm that I told Jerry that 'shite' is English-type English for 'shit'," piped in Joe, still smilin' in that weird way and givin' me a look that mostly creeped me out.

Jerry composed himself and continued. "Well, Red, you know how I'm pretty easy goin' most days and don't take myself real serious. Hell, I starred in the film Highballin' - I can't get too uppity, you understand. But what that guy said, stealin' my joy like that, ruinin' one of the best times I ever had on stage, well, that really set me off, and when you get an old Southern Boy like myself riled up, we get kinda crazy, you understand."

I did understand. I'm one of them Southern Boys.

"So I grab my backup guitar Bessie Sue, and I jump on that stage, fixin' to take a swing at that dumb ass singer in his damn rolled up overalls and no shirt. 'Cept, well, I tripped over a guitar cord and fell back into somethin’ kinda soft. I heard a wimperin', I got up, and I saw the fiddle player impaled on his bow. It was horrible. I kinda panicked and took off. Nobody chased me, and Geffen was able to pin it on a drunk roadie who kinda looked like me."

"Yes, it was quite cowardly on your part there Jerry, quite so," chimed in Strummer.

Jerry shot Strummer one o’ them annoyed looks.

I love ol’ Snowman, but I’d heard enough. "Ok, so what do you want me to do about it, Jerry?" I was gettin' kinda snippy now that Jerry and his weird friend had barged into my perfectly good truck drivin' dream and plum took it over with this nonsense.

"I want you to find that boy and apologize to him, Red. That's all I want you to do. Later, gator!"

With that, Jerry's foggy essence billowed back into the dashboard. Weird Joe Strummer was still hangin' around, though.

"So, Red, fancy rogering a ghost?" said Joe with that weird look in his eye.

I didn't need to speak English-type English to know what this guy meant.

"Get the hell out of here, you Limey fancy boy!" I swung at him, but it just went through his smokey form. He quickly disappeared back to wherever it was he come from.

I woke up from my dream, and resolved to someday honor Snowman's last wish, but being that I was in jail and all, it probably wasn't going to happen soon.

So, this will have to do - Helen O'Hara, Steve Brennan and/or Roger MacDuff, you bein' the three fiddle players in Dexys at that time, whichever one of you was impaled on a fiddle bow on account of a crazy mad Jerry Reed fallin' on yah at the US Festival, Jerry offers his sincerest apology.

Freightliner Fever, part 1

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- The End

2008-03-20T18:46:00.003-05:00

I pulled down hard on the trigger-type device (again, apologies for the military terms) of the flamethrower.

BWOOSH! I could feel the rush of heat on my face as a huge burst of fire took out a nice little mulberry tree in Guiseppe's yard.

"Uh, sorry," I said as the blackened little tree smoldered. "Hope ya wasn't countin' on winnin' yard of the month."

"Go easy on the trigger, Red!" shouted Guiseppe. "A-squeeze it like you are-a holding a little bird! Otherwise you will-a a-kill us-a both!"

Now, lay-a down a line of-a flame over there. Try to-a separate Rosa from-a the group!"

The zombies was close now, close enough to reach the limits of the range of the flame gun. They was givin' off a green glow that lit up the area all around Guiseppe's place. They was moanin' and I could hear the sickening sound of shufflin' feet and cracklin' bones and such. It was totally gross.

And there was hundreds of 'em, but I couldn't see no Rosa.

"Uh, Guiseppe, I wasn't expectin' this big a party, if you know what I mean..."

"Red! The flame! NOW!" screamed Guiseppe.

I squeezed the trigger on the flamethrower, easy this time, just like the little Italian had told me. The fuel shot out much more controlled-like this time, as I commenced to layin' down the flame line as instructed. The first group of zombies near me flinched at the fire and moved away
from the fire-fence deal I'd created. They looked like cattle that just done run into a corral for the first time.

I even torched a couple just for the hell of it.

"Eat fire ya damned unholy evil rotten stupid mindless undead sons-a-bitch bastards!

Just as I was havin' a grand ol' time fryin' dead gyspies, an evil cackle rang out over the zombie hoard.

"Ha ha ha ha ha! Move forward my children! Walk through the fire and overrun the mortal! He is nothing! Nothing!!"

It was Rosa, being carried by a group of zombies on what looked like a type of throne, 'cept it was made of bones and some type of skin... from where or what I don't want to think about.

"Hell if I'm nothin'! Get a load of this!" I shouted. I grabbed one of them grenades off my belt, pulled the pin, and chucked it into the middle of the group with a high overhand heave with my right hand, while I commenced to spray more flame around with my left. I was like one of them action heroes on the TV programs.

BOOM! The grenade exploded, and I saw zombie body parts get blown off and start to flappin' about. This caused even more pandemonium amongst the undead army. They was now milling about even more confused - looks like Guiseppe's plan was workin' like a charm, 'cept I had no idea where the little feller had gotten off to.

That's when I saw him, hangin' down out a high branch of one of his remaining trees, the necklace extended from both arms, ready to drop it down around Little Rosa's neck as she passed below. She was almost there, just another moment, and it would be done.

This was, uh, perhaps the worst possible time to have the fire department show up. What looked to be a 50 year old fire truck pulled up at the curb in front of Guiseppe's place, sirens blarin'. An old codger in a too-big fire helmet and coat got out of the cab. He looked to be just shy of 90 years old or so.

"Hey Guiseppe, I noticed your place a-burnin' from over the hill!" said the old feller as he did not seem to realize he had pulled into a crazy mob of walking corpses.

"Hey friend! Mind the zombie hoard!" I shouted. "I'll run some interference fer yah with this here flamethrower, so's you can hook up the hose!"

I laid down another little flame fence between the truck and zombies, keepin' 'em off the guy so he could run a hose over to the house.

Little dude had that hose hooked up from the hydrant to the truck to here in what seemed like only a year or two. He was movin' real, real slow. I knew I had to help the feller or was gonna be some zombies lunch right quick, so I ran over to the truck and started pullin' hose.

"C'mon, you old geezer! You're gonna get kilt movin' so damn slow!"

"What you doin' with one of them flame guns?" he asked me. "Them things is unsafe, I tell ya! You are gonna burn the whole damn neighborhood down!"

I was in no mood to get lectured by a damn fireman who was probably older than some of these damn zombies. I figgered I'd put the guy to work to keep him outta my hair.

"The fire is over there, Rip Van Winkle. Stick by me an do your thing," I said as I pointed to the mulberry tree I'd torched earlier.

And that's when my crotch got to itchin' again from the crabbies that damn witch-woman gimme, except this time somethin' fierce, an itch and burn worse 'an any feelin' I ever had, especially around them certain parts. I could barely hold the flamethrower upright, as the urge to scratch on my privates was gettin' mighty powerful. I kinda pumped my knees up and down, tryin' my best to deal with the itchin', and to focus on the task of keepin' them zombies occupied until Guiseppe could drop the necklace. It would only be a moment, only a second or two now...

"Eat some more fire! YEEAAAHH!" I screamed as I roasted some more stinkin' zombie flesh.

What happened next, I ain't real proud of.

The itchin' and burnin' in my swimsuit zone was gettin' real, real bad now. So bad I could hardly see. I needed some relief, like instant relief, and I only saw one way I could see to get rid of the itchin' and the burnin' and the dadblum crabs diggin' in my softer parts was a cool squirt of water.

"Gimme that hose, old timer! I need me a crotch bath!"

I grabbed the hose from the ancient fireman with my left arm, keepin' the flame gun steady in my right. With one swift motion, I jammed the thing down my pants.

AHHHH! Sweet relief.

"You better watch it, friend," said the old timer. "The pressure in them things can really vary - one second yer gettin' a trickle, and the next yer gettin' Niagra Falls..."

The old coot was right. Damn right. What had been a cool stream runnin' down my pant leg suddenly became like one a them jets of water you see comin' out of Hoover Dam in the educational films.

"WOAH!" I shouted. All that pressure started the hose to flippin' about wildly, with me on the end of it. I shot about 15 feet straight up in the air, trailin' a plume of water behind me.

Right then ,Guisseppe was leanin' out of the tree, ready to drop that necklace on Little Rosa all with perfect aim and such. Rosa was directly below him. Would a worked out fine, 'cept I blasted the branch he was hangin' onta with a burst of fire. My trigger finger musta slipped when I was thrashin' about, cause I was shootin' flames all over the place.

Guiseppe dropped the necklace, and it fell with a plunk on Rosa's throne.

"Who would dare to put this gypsy trinket around my neck!" shouted Little Rosa in a powerful ghostly voice. "Grab that man and bring him to me!"

She was pointin' up at Guiseppe in the tree, as he was scramblin' out of it to escape the now alert zombie hoard.

"Shut yer mouth, ya zombie bitch from hell! I'll burn all your undead butts!"

I was tired of screwin' around with this here sorry plan anyway. So I poured it on with the flame gun, goin' full blast, on all the zombies I could see. I peppered the whole damn lot o' them with flame, all while flappin' about on the end of a firehouse.

"TRUCK FU!!!!" I screamed.

I'd wiped out most of the hoard inside 10 minutes or so, and also the firetruck, all Guiseppe's shrubs and various plants around the house, the mailbox shaped like one a them gypsy wagons, a couple more trees and most of Guiseppe's hacienda. I didn't see Guiseppe around, but it was hard to tell with all the burnin' flesh pilin' up.

There was only a small group of undead around Rosa. If you believed that zombies could get an "oh shit!" look on their faces, it pretty much described this group.

"Well, ya done gone and burned the entire place up, includin’ my truck, ya jackass!" said the old fireman. "What in the hell kinda idiot are you?"

Just then, the pressure on the hose let up, and I came crashin’ to the ground.
"The kind of idiot that saved your ass, you old geezer. Now duck!"

In the same motion, I grabbed my last two grenades off my belt, pulled the keys outta 'em with my teeth, and spit the keys onto the ground.

"Now, you sorry walking dead. Get ready to get fragged! This is for Guiseppe!"

I tossed the two grenades into the air, right on top of the group holding Little Rosa up in her throne, then ducked, pulling the old fireman down with me. At the last second, they tried to run, but I'd timed it perfect-like, and the grenades blew up just before they reached the ground.

BOOM! Zombie flesh went flyin'. It took a sec for the smoke to clear, and I stood up with my flame gun ready.

All I could see was Little Rosa, with big holes blown throughout her dead body, somehow still able to stand.

"You fool!" she rasped at me. "I can't be killed by the likes of you! I can only be destroyed by one who loves me, and you've killed him! I'll just raise another army of the undead, and return to ravage the world!!"

She turned away, and started to shuffle off back towards the hill. I just stood there, knowin' there was nuthin' I could do, seein' as how I was unfamiliar with the rules of zombie killin' and gyspy witch curses and whatnot, and had screwed things up worse 'en they ever could have been, just tryin' to help out poor Guiseppe.

"Hey look, it's Guiseppe," said the fireman as he stood up.

Guiseppe was tearin' down the hill, ridin' on his flower cart, comin' full speed right at Little Rosa. The little thing musta been goin' 30 miles an hour or so, pieces of wood breakin' off and flowers flyin' everywhere. I couldn't believe what the old man was doin'.

SPLOTCH! It sounded like a piledriver smashin' a sack of rotten bananas. She never knew what hit her, and her various body parts exploded upon impact with the heavy flower cart.

Her head rolled up to my feet. Her mouth was still movin' like she was tryin' to talk, but nuthin' came out since it wasn't hooked up to a body no more. Her eyes was rollin' around, tongue wagglin', teeth snappin'... I gagged a little bit at the sight.

Guiseppe slowly walked over, smoke waftin' off his clothes from where he'd caught some of my flames, half his hair singed off and his face kinda charred. He was lookin' pretty bad.

"Uh, sorry," I said as I shrugged my shoulders.

"Hey Guiseppe," said the fireman, "Did you see this damn fool burn your house down! You shouldn't let him play with your flame gun, it's a fire hazard!"

"Shut up!" Guiseppe and I said in unison.

"Red, bring-a the head over a-here and let-ta me crush it beneath-a the wheel of my-a cart. It's the only a-way to truly end-a her pain."

Forcin' the bile back down my throat, I picked up Little Rosa's head by the hair, careful that she wouldn't bite me, walked over, and put it under the wheel of Guiseppe's cart. He didn't say nothin' to me as we walked over there.

"Red, help-a me push-a da cart. We needa a little more force-a."

I came round to the back of the cart. We pushed. I moved forward real slow a couple inches, then faster for a foot or so. We heard the crunch beneath the wheel.

It was over.

"Guiseppe, I just wanted to help..."

"Red, you've a-caused me more a-harm that I could-a ever have imagined, more harm-a than any man should ever-a-have to bear. Go now, go – before-a you cause-a any more."

He slumped down against the back of the cart and started weeping.

I was gonna ask if it was OK to keep the flame thrower, since it was a right handy tool to have in my line of work, but it didn't really seem like the best idea at the time. So, I slid the straps off my back and placed it on the ground, then backed away, lookin' at the carnage I'd caused, and headed toward the street.

"Next time you'll take care with that thing!" shouted the old fireman. "It's a hazard, I tell ya!"

I turned and walked up the road a piece. At the top of the hill, ol' Phantom 309 pulled up in front of me. The door popped open, and I could see Big Joe behind the wheel, and Little Joe sittin' in his dog seat in back. I climbed in, they didn't say nuthin', I didn't say nuthin'.

I pulled my door shut, and the truck pulled away from the curb, into the half-lit sky, into the sun that was fixin' to rise.

RIP Snowman

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 5

2007-09-27T16:33:00.003-05:00

I could hear the shufflin’ feet and low moans of Little Rosa's zombie army approaching, through the forest I'd just scrambled through. An eerie-type green light glowed beyond the hills behind Guiseppe's place.

"Quick, to the base-a-ment, we must prepare-a for a-battle!" shouted Guiseppe.

We done bolted down the stairs and into Guiseppe's basement. He pulled on the light string, and it revealed weapons of all types - swords, guns, axes, even explosives - perfect for taking on the occasional zombie army or some such threat to our way of life in these parts.

It was almost like he had experience dealing with the undead and such.

"Wow! Where'd you get all this..."

"Shudd-upah your mouth, Red! There is no time for chit-a and a-chat! Is for Gypsy Purposes!"

"OKAY! Jeez, lighten up, Guiseppe. Hey, what's this doohickey?" I said as I picked up what looked like a large tube with some crazy firework sticking out the end.

"PUT-TA THATA DOWN!" shouted Guiseppe. "That's a grenade-a-launcher! You'll kill both of us!"

I put the grenade launcher down as gently as I could.

I saw that the old man was holding somethin’ shiny in his gnarled up ol’ hand. "Look, all you-a need to a-do is keep-a the regular zombies occupied, while I place this-a enchanted necklace around Rosa's neck. It will-a counter the curse of Mama Yaga and make-a the army collapse. Here," said Guiseppe, as he handed me the heavy fuel-tank-on-a-backpack contraption that holds the gas for a flamethrower.

I slid the thing onto my back and held the flame-throwin' nozzle part (apologies for the military terminology words) in my right hand. I felt real powerful-like.

"WOO-HOO! Now you're talkin'!" I said. "Time to bar-b-que some zombie meat with this bad boy! Light me up, Hombre - it's fry time at the zombie grill! AW YEAH!" I shouted.

Oddly, Guiseppe did not seem to share my enthusiasm for igniting up the zombie hoard like month old Christmas trees in a poor house with faulty wiring.

"Red, those-a zombies are a-people I a-used to know, my ancestors and-a family members and-a such! This is a-very painful-a thing for me! Please, just use the flamethrower to keep them at-a bay and away from-a town! Just distract-a them until I can-a get to Little Rosa and save her. It’s-a my one chance!"

Man, right then I felt a bunch of sadness well up in me. This was all my fault - what with my foolish actions with Mama Yaga that caused the zombie army to be raised in the first place. Heck, you could say I even had a hand in Little Rosa's death, even though I was just a kid doin' the good work of timely and courteous interstate delivery.

I just had to do right by poor Guiseppe.

"You got it, Guiseppe. Keep them at bay. Aw Hell - I can do that!"

"Thank you Red. Thank-a you. I'm-a sure you can keep-a them distracted long enough so we can end-a Mama Yaga's curse forever! Now... let's go!"

Guiseppe shrugged and quickly grabbed a few weapon-type items. We burst out of the double cellar doors on the back of his house, ready for action.

Turns out we was a bit early seein’ as the zombie army shambles along pretty slow-like. It was all quiet outside, like one a-them calms before the storm. I would a-enjoyed it, but my crotch was getting to burnin’ and itchin’ again.

“Say Guiseppe, you wouldn’t happen to have any cold water or ice or something I could throw down my pants? See, when I laid down with Mama Yaga, it seems she might have had…”

“Hush-a, Red! The undead-a approach! Ready yourself-a!”

We could see the zombie army coming over the hill, surrounded by a spooky green glow that reminded me of Halloween time. Little Rosa, in all her decayin’ glory and stuff, was leading the way. A low, horrifying moan emerged from the mass.

"Quick, Guiseppe, break out the Zippo on this thing so I can get to divertin' them!" I said.

He took out his lighter and ignited the pilot flame at the business end of the flame thrower.

I was ready.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- The End

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 4

2007-02-02T13:08:00.003-06:00

Mama Yaga pulled me down to the grave and commenced her love makin’ ways upon me. I surrendered to her in ecstasy-type fashion, as she surely led me to the promised land of sexual pleasure and whatnot.

Yup, we was really goin’ at it. Doggie style, the wheelbarrow, some Missouri side-twist, the kangaroo piston glide, the piledriver – basically the best of the Sovine playbook.

After what seemed like twenty minutes or so, but must have been at least thirty, we was layin’ on the soft earth above Little Rosa’s rotting remains in a state of love-making exhaustion, our clothes thrown about like a tornado hit the clothesline. Mama Yaga was snoozing like an angel in my arms when I heard a voice in my head again.

“Red. Red... RED!! Wake up!”

“Huh, is that you, Wildman?”

“Yessir, it’s me. Look, Red, I gotta come straight with ya’. You just done a terrible thing. You’ve desecrated the grave of…”

“… A Gyspy Witch? Of course you have, Red. HA HA HA HA!” Mama Yaga cackled. She was now standing above me, somehow slipping out of my lovin’ arms as I talked to the ghostly Jerry Reed.

She wasn’t lookin’ so hot no more, either. In fact, she looked like the old hag I remembered from my childhood – basically a sack of potatoes if you stuffed ‘em in some stretch pants, then mashed some of ‘em up with a sledge hammer.

She musta been talkin’ in my mind too, since she could hear everything the Wildman was sayin’ to me. Just then she flew into the air with what had to be some magical-type powers. I shot to my feet and tried to pull on my britches, and got them about halfway on doing that hop-around-on-one-leg-while-you-try-to-put-the-other-leg-in-dance.

“Yes, Red, you fool, you have desecrated the grave of a Gyspy Witch, and in the worst way possible – with the body and spirit of her killer. You’ve as much as summoned her soul from damnation to occupy her body again, and to raise an army of the dead to destroy you, your family and all you’ve befriended! They won’t stop until all of your insufferable clan is dead, and I will rule the Gyspy race alone! HA HA HA HA!”

Whilst she was speechifyin’ I quietly picked up a rock about the size of a softball. “Shut up, you old hag!” I shouted, and hurled the rock at her with all my might. It struck her square in the saggers.

“Owww! How dare you assault me with this crude physical attack?! I can rend the flesh from your bones with a mere flourish of my hand!” She moved her arms high above her head, crepe-y arm skin wagglin’ like leathery bat wings, like she was fixin’ to drop all kind of magical bad assery upon my person. I cowered below, but couldn’t look away.

Then, she stopped, looked about with a bemused-type smirk on her face, put her arms down to her hips and floated all smug-like. I heard a faint sound of scratchin’ and diggin’ all around me, but I just couldn’t look away from Mama Yaga to check it out.

“Well, it does not appear that I will have to exert the paltry amount of energy required to destroy you, as you now have plenty of new friends to occupy your time. Farewell for now, Red, and rest assured that, if there is a next time, you will not strike me with such a lucky shot. HA HA HA HA!”

And with that, she flew away at rapid-type speed, over the trees and back towards her house.

“Lucky shot?” I shouted after her. “Not to brag, but my accuracy with thrown projectiles is well known within trucker circles!” I finished puttin’ on my drawers and looked for my shirt.

“Red! You better commence getting’ outta there right quick-like. She wasn’t lyin’ with that bit about new friends!” I almost forgot I had been talkin’ to Jerry when all this hell broke loose.

I looked around me, and could now see what Mama Yaga was talkin’ about and the noises I had heard. Rotten-lookin’ hands were emerging from the ground, digging their way out of the long-settled earth and whatnot above their graves. I could hear terrible screams and moans coming from the ground, as them monsters clawed their way back into the world of live people. I backed away from Little Rosa’s grave, as the ground below me began to quiver.

Suddenly, the ground around Little Rosa’s grave exploded, takin’ that beautiful rose bush with it. Dust hung in the air, mixin’ with a fog that I hardly noticed had settled into the area. I picked up the lantern I’d carried from Mama Yaga’s house and held it I front of me, but I could hardly see three feet in front of my dang face.

“Who dares to call me back from the Land of the Dead?” a raggedy, but definitely female voice wailed from the dust. “Who has defiled this place with that accursed witch whore?”

“Uh, she went that away,” I said, pointing to the sky. “See if you can catch her at home. It ain’t far.”

“FOOL!” the voice said. “It was YOU who besmirched this place! My grave! Prepare to face the wrath of the gyspy army of the undead!”

I had an idea about who the screechy voice belonged to. As the dust cleared, I could see red, glowing eyes all around me, glowing through the fog, unrelenting-like in their stares. And they were getting bigger, getting closer, until finally emerged a walking woman of the dead. I’ll be damned if’n it weren’t Little Rosa herself. Looked just like her picture in the old man’s house, ‘cept for all the rotten flesh and bugs and stuff.

I backed away quickly, stumbling on rocks, and got one of my feet all twisted up in some of Mama Yaga’s discarded unmentionables. I left it wrapped around my ankle as I headed toward where I reckoned the gate was, but was stopped by a wrought iron fence. I was trapped!

The dust was clearing a bit more, and I saw the gate over to my left. If I could just hold them back for a moment or two, I could run for that gate and get the hell out of here.

“Red!”

“Not a good time, Wildman. In a little situation here...”

“I realize that, you fool! I’m trying to help you. Look at your feet, the Tequila bottle! Use it and the uh, whatever it is you got wrapped around your foot to make a bomb, of sorts. Zombies are afraid of fire!”

Of course! One o’ them Molotov cocktails, Mexican style! I grabbed the tequila bottle at my feet, pulled old Yaga’s dirty skivvies off my shoe and stuffed them into the mouth of the bottle. Rosa and the zombies shambled closer, so close I could smell their rotting, stinky flesh. I grabbed the lantern, opened up the shade to expose the flame. I ignited the panty-wick with the lantern, raised the flaming bottle above my head and let them draw slowly closer, closer… then…

“Truck-Fu!” I yelled as I threw the bottle down, shattering against Little Rosa’s gravestone. It ignited into a fireball, catching several of the closest zombies on fire. Rosa screamed a rage-type scream as her zombie companions floundered around in flames. Seeing my opportunity, I ran like hell toward that gate, barely escaping the grasp of the Zombie Rosa.

“It’s no use, running, Defiler! We will catch up with you sooner or later. We’ll never rest until we have taken revenge!” Zombie Rosa screamed as I scrambled away from the graveyard.

I ran like hell through them woods, seein’ as I had to get back to the old man’s place to sound a proper warnin’. I figured it was the least I could do after having sex on his dead wife’s grave and bringin’ her back to life and all.

Thinking about my narrow escape, I thought to Jerry, “Wow, Wildman, how do you know so much about zombies? And you ain’t sounding so much like you’re from Alabama no more, either…”

“Yes, Red, it’s me, Little Joe. The Jerry Reed impression was a ruse. I needed a way to keep track of you, as you have done such an excellent job of losing yourself the last few months. Your dreams were the perfect vehicle. I apologize if you are offended. However, I can see now I was quite foolish to allow you such a long leash. Fighting an army of the undead is hardly the outcome I wished of your little break from responsibility.”

“So my Space Dog friend can do impressions, too. I ain’t offended. Just disappointed. I really hoped the Wildman was helpin’ me. Man, that would be a kick! Like jammin’ with your idol or somethin’. Can you relate?”

“Yes. In my youth, I once fantasized playing Mind Wars with the galaxy’s grand master, Krepton of Reptus 12. Of course, now I realize that such things are tomfoolery and best left to simpletons.”

“Uh, yeah. What’s next here?” I was running like a bat outta hell through the woods, and it was hard to maintain one of these mind conversations without running flat into a tree.

“First, as you correctly thought, you must warn the old man of what you have done. He’ll need to prepare defenses, both practical and magical. And you’ll need to help him. Second, you must make the zombie army itself the target of your attacks. The Zombie Rosa can only be killed by one of the Gypsy kind, and you, my friend, do not qualify. I must do a few things of my own – I’ll be back in touch soon.”

With those ominous words, Little Joe signed off outta my brain. I was almost back to the old man’s place anyway. I was sure grateful for Little Joe’s help, as he had a right to be sore with me since our adventure with the Chupacabra.

“Giuseppe! Giuseppe! Wake up!” I shouted as I headed for his front door. “We got a world a trouble comin’ this way!”

Just as I reached the door to knock, Giuseppe pulled it open forcefully.

“I'm-a well aware of your-a dealings with-a the she hag Mama Yaga, Red. You have-a done a very bad-a thing with this, yess-a you have!” he said to me, standing in the doorway.

We both stood there for a moment, him angrier than a hornet’s nest dipped in Preparation H, me guiltier than the sin that has no name. I hung my head low. Finally, Guiseppe broke the silence.

“But, I know you did it with-a the best of intentions, Red. I know you was-a only trying to help-a poor Giuseppe. Come in, we have many things to do and very little time to do it!”

He stepped aside and let me in.

I was lucky he did, because besides all the crazy stuff that had gone down this evening, I was feelin’ an itchy fire in my loin area.

I think Mama Yaga done give me the crabs.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 5

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 3

2007-01-05T17:08:00.000-06:00

I aimed to head out into the woods out back of the old man’s place, tryin’ to remember a path I’d seen long ago from the window of my pa’s rig but never had the mind to follow.

First, though, I had to make a stop round the corner to the liquor store, to get some of that Mexican love juice they sold with the worm in the bottle. I figured I might need some for what I had planned for the old witch-woman, cause, well, even ol’ Red can’t charm a charmer all by his-self, if you know what I mean.

######

I didn’t take me long to find the path behind the old man’s place, especially once I found the old gypsy signs marking the way – weird-lookin’ symbols in their ancient language on rocks, nightshade plants, and, on one occasion, one of them blinking light up rent-a-signs that you can write your own messages in with them plastic letters. Soon enough I was standin’ before that old cabin, and it looked much the same as it had all those years ago when I seen it as a boy. I was fixin’ to go ahead and knock at the door when I heard a voice in my head.

“Red.”

“Uh, Wildman?” I said. It was the voice of Jerry Reed!

“Yeah, Red, it’s me. Look, I just wanted to warn you to be careful with this here Mama Yaga. She’s got the power to charm, and she can make a fool outta yah real easy. Keep your wits about you, you hear me?”

“Ok, will do Jerry. Hey Jerry?”

“Yes, Red?”

“How did you know I was here? Are you some kind of guardian angel-type deal??”

“Something like that, Red. Let’s just say I have an interest in keeping you around. Also, that ridiculous ‘Old Dogs’ concept album I came out with a few years ago totally bit me in the ass. Who knew America was tired of Mel Tillis? I sure didn’t. Ha-ha!”

With that, The Wildman’s voice trailed off, back into the heavens from whence it came or something like that. Weird.

Anyhow, I took a moment to comb my hair, straighten out my collar, and generally tidy up a bit before I knocked at the door. I needed to look my best if my plan was to succeed. See, I planned to seduce the old hag! Wouldn’t take much work anyway, since I had the rugged good looks of the Sovine clan, and we looked just as good steppin’ outta the hog pen as we did outta the bathtub, at least that’s what my mama always said.

I rapped on the door with my fist in an authoritative, highly masculine-type fashion.

“Yes?” said a young sounding female voice from behind the door. Not at all what I expected.

The door slowly pulled open, and a ravishing young lady stepped out from behind it. I’m talkin’ hot as hell! Shiny black hair, olive-type skin, eyes green as the sea and stuff like that! And a figure the likes of which would make a dead man sit up and say “damn”.

“What took you so long, Red?” she said.

How the heck did she know my name? I could barely move or speak at first, I was so surprised and she was so beautiful, but I managed to get the words out.

“I’m lookin’ for old Mama Yaga. Y-you seen her, Miss?”

“Yes, she’s here. Why don’t you come on in and we can get acquainted?”

“Why ma’am, I don’t mind if I do,” I said. I stepped inside. She led me to one of them formal parlors you see in the movies. Funny, this place looked way bigger inside than it looked from the outside.

I took a seat on a fancy sofa. It was one of them old-timey type lookin’ deals with wood legs and wood all around it. It other words, not very comfortable.

“I’m Red.” I said. Dang! I slapped my forehead all bashful-like. She already knew my name.

She giggled. “Yes, I know. Hello, Red,” she said. “I’m Mama Yaga.”

Well, it pert near threw me out of the room when I realized this fine creature was Mama Yaga. She weren’t old at all!

“Wow!” I said. “I was expectin’ somebody a might bit, uh, older. You look pure and purty as the driven snow and stuff like that!”

“Why thank you!” she purred, sliding in next to me on the coach.

It started to get a bit warm in my lap-area, if you get my drift.

Seemed like this whole seduction plan was going to be a might bit more interesting than I thought. What was that old man thinking?! This Mama Yaga was one hot young filly, not an old hag! Hell, I’d help that bitter old flower peddlin’ fool every day if it was gonna be this much fun.

I got my gumption up, and said, “Say, would ya like some tequila? I picked some up on the way over. I find it smooths the old conversational parts and settles the mind.”

“Uh, sure,” she said. “What’s tequila?”

I don’t mind saying here that I broke out in one a them Cheshire cat type grins a mile wide after she said that. This was gonna be easy!

“Why ma’am, it’s just about the greatest thing the Mexican race ever invented,” I said, as I poured her a large glass in a crystal goblet sittin’ on the side table.

I commenced to workin’ my man charms on her. After a knockin’ back a few shots, I suggested we retire to someplace a “little less stuffy”. She agreed.

“I know the perfect place!” she said. “Follow me out back!”

We headed down a long hallway and out the back door. I was starting to feel a might bit wobbly after drinkin’ that Mexican fire water so quick, but Mama Yaga seemed fine. It was almost like the tequila had no effect on her.

She took me by the hand and led me on a short path through the woods. After a couple of minutes, we came upon a clearing.

It took me a few seconds to take it all in. This weren’t no ordinary clearing.

“What tha-! Is this some kind of graveyard?” I looked around at the rows of headstones, filled with undergrowth between the plots, with a kind of creepy-type fog about and the biggest rose bush I ever did see.

“Yes, it is!” she said, all delighted-like, as she pulled me closer to her and put her arms around my neck. Man, she felt good, smelled good, and I reckoned she tasted good too.

“Uh, OK, yeah, I guess it is. Them gravestones kinda give it away. You know, we kind of got right down to business back there at the house, but I really did come around for a reason…”

“Oh, we’ll talk business later, darling. Now, we make love.”

She commenced to pull me down on top of one of the graves, and, well, I admit I weren’t fightin’ too hard. So this babe’s into weird stuff – I can handle pretty much anything havin’ to do with the ladies. Hell, I was now almost sort of a special agent to extraterrestrials working to rid the world of evil and all – this kind of stuff always happens on our James Bond-type adventures. Go with the flow, I say.

However, I doubt Mr. 007 would have missed the fact that it was Little Rosa’s grave we were doin’ the dirty deed on.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 4

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 2

2006-06-22T15:48:00.002-05:00

I sat in a smoky nightclub-type place like they show in the old-timey movies. There weren’t no color and everything sounded like I was listenin’ to it out of an old radio.

Just then, somebody come up behind me and gimme a big ol back slap.

“Why, it’s my old pal Red! How you doin’, podnah?”

It was none other than Mr. Jerry Reed, The Guitar Man, The Alabama Wildman, The Snowman.

“Wow! Jerry Reed!” was about all I could get out, bein’ that I was shocked to be in the presence of my idol. “Uh, what are you doin’ here?”

“What are any of us doin’ here, my friend? It’s a question the philosophers and poets alike have been contemplating for the ages. But that’s not really why I’m here. First, before we get any further into this, you should realize that the old feller ain’t Chinese – he’s Eye-Talian.

“No wonder he looks at me like I’m nuts!” I blurted out. Seems like I had no inner monologue in this here dream, and I was making myself look like an idiot with Jerry Reed right in the room. Doggone it!

“Anyway, I know you’ve been stewing over what the old man told you, lettin’ it run round and round inside your head until it made you crazy with guilt,” said Jerry.

Jerry was right. I was rolling them old man’s words around in my head, like one of them metal contraptions they keep the weenies on at the truck stop, knowin’ that something I had done long, long ago, had hurt the old feller so bad he was half-crazy. I could still hear his words in my head…

#####

One morning, thirty years ago today, my beloved Little Rosa woke me up gently. ”Giuseppe, Giuseppe… wake up dear,” she said in the sweetest voice imaginable. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, but she was so beautiful it seemed like the light came directly from her. She smiled and held out a tray with a big breakfast and coffee pot on it.

“Breakfast in bed, for me? Why, Little Rosa? Have I forgotten some kind of special day, or something?” I said.

She said, “No, my Giuseppe. Just because you are the finest and most loving husband a woman could ever want.”

“Excellent pancakes” I said. They really were a-superb.

“Giuseppe”, she said, seeming to gather herself from within. “I am going out this morning to visit with Old Mama Yaga to barter for peace amongst our tribes. We Gypsies need to stick together, after all. This blood-feud has gone on long enough.”

I sat-a up-a so straight I nearly toppled the tray. “No, Little Rosa, Old Mama Yaga is not-a to be trusted! She has the weirding-power over beasts and man, over life and death! The Evil Eye! You know what she did to poor Augusto Tello when he tried to make the peace - covered his flesh-a with a-weeping sores most-a terrible, and he died shortly thereafter in a puddle of his own pus and filth! She has created armies of the walking dead who lust for the brains of their enemies! Do not do this, as your husband I beg of you, my Little Rosa.”

“Giuseppe, I know full well the fate of Augusto Tello; he was my Uncle, after all. Now that he is gone, the duty of making the peace falls to me. I am the last of the Tellos, and while I love you enough to serve you breakfast in bed, and though my power pales in comparison to Old Mama Yaga, you can not order me to abandon my duty to tribe and family!” Her eyes flashed, and I saw the steel in her soul that made her sweetness even more precious. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop her.

The steely look faded, she kissed me on the forehead and said, “My darling, I will be back before luncheon and we will celebrate the newly re-forged Gypsy tribe bonds. This will be a day long retold in story! I so swear to you!” With that, she stood up and turned for the door.

“I love you, Giuseppe, with all my heart.” She walked down the path away from the house, and into the woods.

I wassa a heartbroken that my Little Rosa, just a minor conjurer among-a the gypsies, thought she could broker a deal with the she-demon Mama Yaga.

As soon-a as she was out of sight, I leapt-a out-a bed and threw on my clothes. I was a gonna follow her to make-a sure she would be safe.

I can-a scarcely remember running through the forest, trees a-whipping by and a-leaping over dead logs. I raced frantically down the path that lead straight to Old Mama Yaga's cabin.

I came upon it just in time to see Little Rosa exchange a few words with Old Mama Yaga and enter through the front door. My heart raced! I crept toward the cabin and hid myself just outside the window, which was open.

It seemed to go on for hours, with twists and turns, sweet talk and terrible shouting, but at last they appeared to reach an accord. I could scarcely believe it! Little Rosa was not only an amazing cook and a stunning beauty, but a master diplomat as well! Unbelievable!

Then, Old Mama Yaga said, “Dearie, to celebrate our newly re-forged Gypsy tribe bonds, as you so put it, allow me to make a special concoction befitting the occasion! Just let me get my cauldron out…”

Little Rosa seemed to stiffen, but went along with Old Mama Yaga's suggestion. “That sounds wonderful, and our talk did leave me a bit parched.” Old Mama Yaga muttered something back to her and busied herself with her task.

“Good, good. Let’s see… three quarts ox blood,” she said, pouring something foul into the cauldron. “Two pints rattlesnake venom… a tablespoon ground killer bee stingers, a teaspoon of new-moon dew, and a pinch of…” She paused, searching frantically around the room. “Where the hell is my mummy powder? This won’t work, I mean, taste good, without the goddamn mummy powder!”

Just then, I heard the unmistakable-a squeal of tractor-trailer brakes as a huge semi came to a halt in front of Old Mama Yaga's cabin. “How the hell…?” I asked myself, not imagining that such a large vehicle could get this far into the woods, let alone park in front of the cabin. As the truck idled, a young boy with red hair and goofy grin hopped out of the truck cab and a-trotted to the door of the cabin. It appeared he had some sort of package, and he knocked on the cabin door. I hid myself more a-deeply in the bushes.

Old Mama Yaga opened the door. “Yes, what do you want? I’m a-busy!”

The boy said a-something to Old Mama Yaga that I could-a not-a make out, and held out to her a clip board and a pen. She scrawled her signature and the little boy tossed a small box to Old Mama Yaga, who caught it with a deftness that belied her ancient appearance.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she said, closing the door. “Here we go, my pretty! The last ingredient to my little concoction.” She pried the box open and dropped a pinch of the gray dust into the cauldron. The cauldron immediately began to a-froth. The old witch dipped a ladle into the steaming mixture, slurped some into a silver goblet, and handed it to my Little Rosa.

“Aren’t you going to have some too, Mama Yaga?” asked Rosa.

“No, no, I’m notta thirsty right now. I’ll have some later.”

Little Rosa smelled it and got-a foul look upon her a-face. “This smells really bad. Are you sure this is fit to drink?”

“Of course, dearie! Don’t-a believe your-a nose – it tastes like sweet apples! And honey! And, uh, strawberries!”

“But you don’t-a like strawberries!” I almost said out loud, which would have exposed me in-a my hiding place.

But Little Rosa, to the credit of her a-tribe, and to the new peace accord, did not-a want to offend Old Mama Yaga by a-criticizing her concoction.

“Well, here goes! To peace!” said Rosa. She took a long, slow drink. Old Mama Yaga looked on greedily, working her hands and smacking her lips.

I could tell Little Rosa was a strugglin’ to keep the drink down. She kind of had a faint smile on her lips, like she was tryin’ to keep her manners about her. She almost did, until…

“Woah!” Shouted my dear Little Rosa. “This doesn’t taste like sweet apples, or honey, or even strawberries, which I hate, by the way! It tastes like dog crap wrapped in rancid bacon, like peanut butter and rotten fish, like moldy socks covered in curry! Yuck! Wow, suddenly, I’m not feeling so well…”

I leapt out-a the bushes and rushed through the front door, just in time to catch my beloved Little Rosa as she fell a-dead in my arms. I felt-a my world tear apart. I looked up at Old Mama Yaga and screamed a blood-oath at her the likes of which have never been uttered before or since. To even whisper it to you now, Red, would kill you. But Old Mama Yaga just a cackled “My fate has been sealed long before this day, you fool! Your pathetic curse will have no affect on me!”

As much as I wanted to a-plunge my gypsy knife deep into the foul heart of Old Mama Yaga at that moment, I had-a no recourse, as I had left it at-a home in my haste. With no weapon, I had-a no chance against the wily she-demon.

“Come, take your wretched little fortune-teller out of my sight!”

Mustering all the dignity I could, I carried Little Rosa out of the cabin back toward our humble home. I passed the huge truck and the little red-headed boy and what looked like his papa were-a unloading large boxes from the truck. The little boy said, “How’s it goin’, Mister!” He didn’t wait for an answer, nor did I have one for him.

I carried Little Rosa home and buried her. As the years have passed, the grandest, most beautiful rose bush this world has ever seen has covered her mausoleum. I refuse to pick those roses, as my Little Rosa was plucked too soon from life. I sell a-flowers now to remind myself that no a-bloom compares to the beauty of my Little Rosa.

That, my friend, is the story of Little Rosa. So may you remember it for as long as you live.

#####

“Yup, that sure was a powerful story, Red,” said Jerry. “Seems like we ought to be able to come up with a plan to help the old dude get revenge on that gyspy witch!”

“Great idea, Jerry!” I said. Surely, the man who played Bama McCall so brilliantly in ‘Gator’ could not lead me astray.

“Alright, Podnah! Let’s get this thing moving, cause I’m late for a hot-tub party over at Dom Deluise’s house, and Ms. Suzanne Pleschette is going to be there, and I don’t wanna miss that, if you know what I mean… "

Suddenly, I snapped awake and the old Italian feller stood above me, lookin’ a bit perturbed-like. My cheek stung worse than a hound dog’s nose after a run-in with a porcupine.

I tried to rub the pain off my face. “Gee whiz, Mister, you didn’t need to go off and slap me upside the head like that!” I was getting a mite sore at being woken up in the middle of dreamin’. ‘Specially a dream with Jerry Reed in it!

“I’m sorry Red, but it’s-a time-a to go. I need-a sell-a the flowers, and you need-a, well, to a-do whatever it-a is that-a you a-do,” said the old man, in a not unkind-type way.

“Yeah, you’re right Mister. There is something I need to a-do, I mean, do. Thanks for lettin’ me bed down at your place. I’ll see you later.”

Yeah, I needed to make things right with this flower-selling gyspy feller, since I owed him a debt. I owed him since that little boy in the truck was me, and there was an old lady in the woods I had a mind to pay a visit to, right now.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 3

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part I

2006-05-03T09:29:00.001-05:00

As I stood on top of the mountain, I looked below and surveyed the countryside. As far as my eyes could see, the land was covered with brand spankin’ new shiny big rigs. I felt a frog in my throat and butterflies in my stomach. The feller in the white coat next to me said, “They are yours to choose from, Red. Go! Go to them. Choose your rig and embark upon your first adventure as a truck driving man.”

“Yessir, I think I will.” Wings done sprouted from my back and I leapt off the mountaintop. Sunbeams exploded through the silvery clouds, doves and stuff flew around me as I fell gently through the cool air toward the semis. I touched down lightly near the truck of my dreams and just as I made to open the door, I felt my whole body shake as if one of them Californy earth-quakes was happenin’. I tried to steady myself - - -

“Hey Mister! You ok?”

I opened my eyes and saw the little boy who had been shakin’ me awake. I sat up on the park bench, stretched a bit, and said, “Thanks, youngun. I’m fine. Get along now, ol’ Red ain’t got a mind to play no kid games. Git!”

The boy shrugged and ran off. I dusted myself off a bit and lurched to my feet. Them benches were hell on my back.

A few weeks had passed since my adventures with Little Joe and the Chupacabra in Oklahoma. I had heard nothing from Little Joe, other than a few crazy dreams that I figured he sent my way. I felt a bit lost, frankly, like one of them rudderless ships in the olden days of yore, or something like that.

So, I was loiterin’ around old Jackson-town, trying to stay out of the notice of the local lawman on account of being a “no account hobo-type” as I was branded back in Greenville-town. Walkin' around the town square I came across an old feller sellin’ flowers out of a street cart. He was a little guy with a big ol’ grin, and he’d holler out at passers-by to get some of his good flowers, all cheerful-like. But on closer inspection, you could see his sad eyes behind the happy voice and easy smile.

“You a-want to buy a-some of my a-flowers, Mister?” he said to me as I strolled up. “These birds-of-paradise a-come all the way from-a my beautiful-a Sicily, a-special for you this a-day. One a-dollar each, just-a for you.” From his peculiar talk I immediately pegged him as one of the Chinese who have come to our great land of freedom, makin’ a better life for themself and their families. Having already befriended various peoples, from Mexicans to ghostly apparitions to space-aliens, I felt sure I could relate to this sad feller just fine.

“I appreciate what you people have done with the numerous railroads and restaurants spread across this here land of ours. I do enjoy me some egg rolls and sweet-and-sour pork on occasion. Yessir.” I said, smiling my friendliest smile.

He just looked at me kinda blank-like.

“Sir, do you want-a some of my a-flowers? Maybe for your a-sweet a-heart, or something, yes?”

Although it’s hard to believe for a lady-killer like myself, I was currently unattached to a member of the fairer sex. Not wanting to admit that, I said, “You better believe it, Mister! Give me one of them good-good roses, and make it red!”

His smile faded in the blink of an eye, and his whole face drooped worse than a 50-year old stripper’s chest. “No, Sir, I don’t a-sell any a-roses. Never roses. I suggest a-you try my a-cousin, Antonio, across a-the street. He sell-a the roses.” He pointed to a feller over yonder with an identical flower cart. Then he started to push his cart away mumbling something about “… people always a-wanting the damn roses…”

Now, I’ve always held, much like the great thinkers at Piggly Wiggly, that the Ku$tomer is King. So this fella walking away got my dander up a bit.

“Say, why don’t you got any roses?” I said,. “Every flower man sells roses. People love roses and yet you don’t sell ‘em. Why is that? How come!?”

For what seemed like five whole seconds, the flower man held still, peering at me with an eye most peculiar. Then, I saw a tear done well up in his China-man eye until it spilled over onto his China-man face, leaving a trail down his cheek until it clung onto the bottom of his chin, which quivered like a hound dog in a blizzard. After about three more seconds, it finally dropped from his chin and fell for what seemed like ten seconds, and splashed upon the sidewalk like a tiny, crystal crown, and fell back to Earth.

That’s how I saw it, at least.

“Hey, it’s ok about the roses, Bub. I’ll just move on down the street now…” I said as I started to slowly back away from the cart.

His head shot up and he shot me a stare straight into my eyes.

“Ok, Mister, I will a-tell you my a-tale. And you will-a regret-a the day you asked a-me to a-share it with a-you. It is-a my a-curse, my complete a-sadness of-a my soul, which cries out to the heavens for a-justice, but remains a-smothered in the ultimate a-darkness of despair, rotting from a-within like a living a-corpse, unable to a-rest. I will tell you the story of my beloved, my sweet-a heart, my a-wife. I will tell you the story of… Little Rosa.”

Aw geez. Another freak. Just what I need. “Uh, sure, go ahead, tell me” I said, my eyes rolling back in my head a bit.

And, boy, was he ever right about the regrettin’ part.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 2

Oklahoma is Not Okay, Part VI

2006-04-03T09:19:00.001-05:00

As the bus drew closer, Big Joe turned the wheel and set us on a course to hit it. I noticed it was one of them short-type buses with the tinted windows and little elevator and whatnot, just like I used to go to school in. I remember one time I tried to talk to a kid on my bus for an hour before I realized the little feller was born without a tongue. I just thought he had some rocks in his mouth.

“I mean it, they are all going to die this time! DIE! DIE YOU BLASTED INSUFFERABLE LITTLE CHILDREN!” screamed Big Joe as blue-green glowin’ smoke streamed out of his eyes. I struggled to free myself from my seatbelt. Luckily, Little Joe had woken up and I expected he was fixin’ to use his mental-type powers to save the poor little retards.

“Stop this madness now, Big Joe! I will not allow you to do this!” shouted Little Joe into my mind. I assumed Big Joe was hearin’ it too, cause he was now lookin’ back all concerned-like at the space dog.

“You can’t stop me, Little Joe! I am in full control of this vehicle! I AM IN CONTROL!!” His trucker cap was hovering a full six inches above his head, a-glow and vibratin’ with ghost power.

“You look kinda outta control to me, bud,” I said, using my unique gift of humor to try and lighten up the situation. I find this works on occasion when dealing with a psycho.

It didn’t work this time.

“You want to find out about control, Red? I’ll show you CONTROL!” said Big Joe. He clenched his fist in the air in front of my face, and it felt like his hand was on my throat. I couldn’t breathe and my face felt real hot. I saw myself turning blue in the rear-view mirror.

“Any-time-you-want-to-go-ahead-and-stop-this-is-fine-with-me,” I gurgled out to Little Joe as my throat closed up real tight.

The kids was getting close now. I swore could hear ‘em singin’ a song about peanut butter, or else I was on the verge of faintin’ and I was just rememberin’ my own bus rides.

Then I noticed Little Joe had assumed one of them lotus positions you see in the karate pictures, or as close to it as you could get to in a dog body. He started glowing and rose above his seat a few inches. The truck started to shake, as Big Joe fought for control of his ghostly big rig against Little Joe’s powers.

“NO!” screamed Big Joe as he struggled with Little Joe’s mind over control of the steering wheel. “I will run over that bus! I will run…over…those…damned…kids,” he said as he slumped over the steering wheel, trembling, and the big Mack slowly pulled over to the right shoulder.

The short bus safely passed us goin’ the opposite direction, and I heard the little kids’ singin’ fade away. They was safe from this crazy phantom, thanks to Little Joe.

“Big Joe,” said Little Joe, “we have been over this before. It is your duty and your burden to haunt these highways until you have atoned for your crimes. All three hundred and nine of them. You know of what I speak.” Little Joe looked forcefully at the ghost-driver, who was kinda huddled up and, it kinda looked like he was sobbin’.

“Oh yeah?” said Big Joe. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it! You’ll hear from me again, Little One. You will! HAHAHAHA!” There was blue-green flash of firework-type deals, and with that, we went flyin’ from the cab, just like last time I rode with this nutcase.

“Dadgummit!” I said as I picked myself up from the ground. “You said no tricks this time!” I was in the process of shaking my fist at him when a dime hit me square in the forehead.

“Buy yourself a cup of joe on me!” he said. “And tell them Big Joe sent ya! HAHAHAHA!!”

The big Mack pulled away from the shoulder, and kind of disappeared into a greenish smoke. Suddenly, I could see some headlights comin' towards me.

“Not again, Big Joe! Get outta here, ya dadgum stinkin’ ghost driver! Ya hear me!” I shouted as I wandered to the middle of the road.

“Red!” shouted Little Joe into my mind. “That’s not our friend Big Joe. It’s the ranchers coming to check on their goats, and probably wondering what caused the blazing inferno. If they find you, they will throw you in jail. Quick, jump in the ditch!”

I did what he said and jumped in the ditch. As I hunkered down, Little Joe crouched down beside me. A mess of pickup trucks, Sheriff’s cruisers, and volunteer fire trucks sped past us on the way to the old shack. I expected they would be giving me chase once they got a load of the damage I caused.

“Red, you did good work tonight, but I’m afraid you’ve caused quite a bit more destruction than the ranchers were expecting. You’ll have to leave these parts for awhile, until the heat dies down a bit.”

“But what about my special big rig? Am I a Protector now?” I asked, fearing my dream was about to be snatched away.

“Red, you passed the test, but not quite how we were expecting. It will take time for the Council to evaluate your status – you showed us things tonight that baffled, appalled, and, well, exhilarated us – to an equal degree. We honestly don’t quite know what to do with a man of your unique… abilities.”

I took that as a compliment. That’s pretty much what everybody’s been telling me for years, except with fewer big-type words.

“Uh, okay. What do I do now?” I asked.

“Your first priority is to leave this place. We have arranged for transportation to a new location. I’d advise you to lay low there for awhile, until we can contact you with further instructions. Now sleep, sleep Red, until another day…”

His eyes turned back into them spinning vortex-type dealies and I felt myself falling, falling down into a deep sleep. Hopefully, when I woke up, I would be far from Oklahoma.

Hopefully, they’ll be plenty of chorizo and eggs there too.

Little Rosa, Lotsa Trouble -- Part 1

Oklahoma is Not Okay, Part V

2006-03-10T16:47:00.001-06:00

As I carried Little Joe toward the highway, the tractor’s engine began to smoke and sputter. The fields behind us were still afire, with no sign of the Chupacabra I had just dispatched with one swing of poor Little Joe. I could feel the heat on my back, but we seemed far enough way from the main fire to be out of danger for now.

Just as we made it to the highway, the tractor up and died. Probably one of them Jap-o-neeze models.

I put Little Joe over my shoulders, like I was totin’ a fresh killed deer. He was breathing okay, but still unconscious.

Just then, a big Mack truck pulled up, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Need a ride, Mister?” asked a familiar, although horrifyin’, face. It was Big Joe.

“Hey, you’re that ghost driver who picked me up a while back, threw me out of your cab with magic-type powers, then gave me a whole dime for my troubles. No thanks, I don’t ride with no dead people,” I said.

“I see you’re on to me and my true nature,” said Big Joe with a chuckle. “Took you long enough. So, c’mon. You look like you could use a ride. Do you plan on carrying that dog all the way back to the truck stop?”

“Look, Mister, I’ve had what you would call one of them real bad days, okay?” I said. “I just don’t need none of your shenanigans right now. I know you haunt these highways, lookin’ for suckers to take a ride with you sose you can scare ‘em and all. Well, I’m in no mood for such type of nonsense. I gots a space dog in an emergency-type situation here!”

“The dog appears to just be unconscious,” said Big Joe. “I can tell when a creature is close to death’s grip, and I can assure you your pet is in no way near that condition.”

I was almost faint with relief-type feelings. “You’re sure? No monkey-business? No tricks?” I said.

“Ghost’s honor. No tricks,” said Big Joe, solemn-like.

Well, many a wise man has said to never trust the undead, and surely a ghost must count amongst that group. So, I was a little leery of climbing in the cab with somebody who’s on my jackass list. But, he was right, I had a fair piece of walkin’ ahead of me, and carryin’ Little Joe on my shoulders was bound to drag me down even more.

So I lifted Little Joe off my shoulders, put him up into the cab, and climbed in after him. Big Joe put the ol’ Mack into first and began to pull away from the shoulder.

“So, how’s your day been…” I started to say, before Big Joe slammed on the brakes.

“Okay, that’s as far as we go. Time to get out!” he shouted at me, as he blew open the passenger door with what I guess were his magic powers.

“What? We ain’t gone nowhere! I told you I didn’t want none of this bull corn!”, I shouted.

“Look, there’s a busload of kids up ahead, and I mean to swerve into them this time!” he said. “Avoiding that other busload of kids was the worst thing I ever did! It doomed me to become a truck-driving ghost, for all eternity, picking up random hitchhikers and spinning yarns with them! Have you ever picked up hitchhikers? The smell alone will kill you. Plus, I have to carry an enormous amount of dimes to give away.”

He reached over to the glove box, popped it open, and a fountain of dimes spilled onto the floorboard. “See, the whole thing is just stupid. Why have I been cursed like this? WHY! For God’s sake, I’m classically trained…”

And with those words, Big Joe started sobbing uncontrollably, nuzzling himself into my shoulder. I was a mite taken aback.

“Uh, Joe, I, uh, really feel for ya buddy, I do, but it’s kind of important that we get out of here, cause, see, there’s a big fire that’s catchin’ up to us, plus there may or may not be a pissed off midget space invader that I just bashed in the head with my dog comin’ after us. So, if you wouldn’t mind just jammin’ this thing into gear and pullin’ out…”

He appeared to gather himself up all brave-like. “Very well then!” he said as he bolted back up into his seat. “I shall take you down the road ‘a piece’, as the truck drivers say. However, you are not stopping me from swerving into those kids! You hear me, Sovine? YOU HEAR ME?”

He began to laugh in a maniacal-type fashion as he put the Mack into gear. We started a-rollin’ pretty good over the hills when I decided I oughta talk Big Joe outta his school-children killin’ mission. I had enough blood my hands this evening. Admittedly, it was mostly goat and alien blood, but blood was blood in my book.

“Big Joe, you know I ain’t gonna let ya run down a busload of kids, don’t ya?” I said, as we sped down the blacktop. I could just make out the headlights of an approaching vehicle, probably the bus full of kids that Joe was aiming for. Must be on some sorta midnight field trip in the middle of nowhere, or somethin'.

“And how do you propose to stop me, you pathetic mortal? I am figuratively and literally in the driver’s seat. The cards have been dealt, and they’ve come up as Death! HA HA HA HA HA!” As you might have guessed, he laughed in a maniacal fashion again, as was his habit. I admit it was wearin’ on me.

The seat belt pulled me tight against the seat and those back-rubbin’, seat-coverin’ beads Big Joe evidentially had installed since the last time I rode with him. Despite the pleasure derived from the massage action of the beads, I felt all trapped and such. I couldn’t stop Joe if I tried. Meanwhile, we were approaching the school bus faster than a Nolan Ryan heater. Joe surely meant to kill us all.

Then, I heard a voice behind me.

“You’ll kill no one this evening, Big Joe. Now slow this vehicle down before I throw you out of it!”

It was Little Joe!

“Little Joe!” I cried. “You’re OK!”

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part VI

Oklahoma is Not Okay, Part IV

2006-02-08T14:30:00.001-06:00

I saw a short, red midget lookin’ feller pick up a goat, sink his fangs into it, and suck the body dry. He weren't no taller than a front-yard fence post, with short little legs and arms proportionate to his size.

"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

Oklahoma is Not Okay, Part III

2005-12-27T16:22:00.001-06:00

The ranchers picked me and Little Joe up at the truck stop just before dark, and took us out to a lonely shack on top of a hill. There was some goats milling around in a fenced-in little corral deal. There was a tractor parked beside it, and an above-ground propane tank out behind it.

Told me they'd be back at dawn to see how we did. Then they left.

Well, Little Joe and I proceeded to lay out a strategy for when the Chupacabra came lookin' to suck on them critters out in the pen.

Basically, I was to rush the creature and knock him down with a large stick. ‘Large stick’ is what Little Joe called it; he likes to talk all scientific-like. Then, I would proceed to beat him mercilessly until he died or cried uncle or something. I was a little worried.

"How about some dynamite or a set of one of them whatyoucall numb-chucks? Is a large stick enough to beat this thing?"

"This Chupacabra is not that difficult to physically defeat, Red," Little Joe said directly into my mind using his extraterrestrial head-shrinker powers. "After all, their main prey are goats and truckers, notoriously slow and stubborn creatures of limited intelligence. You main goal shall be to overcome your fear and to concentrate on the task at hand."

"Fear? I ain't got no fear." I said, kinda halfway believing it. "I was born ready!"

"Red, it's standard procedure for me to ask you if you are ready before you declare that you are 'born ready'. I had only stated what you were tasked to do. I had yet to ask if you were ready to do it." said Little Joe.

"Sorry," I said. "You kind of implied that you were finished. At least that's what I heard."

Little Joe looked at me kind sort of perturbed-like, if a dog can actually do that.

We kind of let it awkwardly drop.

"Anyway, when's this Chupa-thing showing up? It's gettin' late and I got a hankerin' for some of Miss Betty's chorizo and eggs down at the truck stop."

"Have patience, Red. The Chupacabra will arrive when the moon has reached its apex. For now, I'd like you to drink a cup of this tea. It will help ease your fear and focus your energies."

From out of nowhere it seemed, he pushed a cup of steaming tea over to me with his paw. I downed the thing in one gulp – I like my tea of the iced-variety, but this weren’t too bad. I was mainly eager to get this little experiment over sose I could grab me some eggs and get to my special big rig and all.

I started to feel a bit woozy, then fell into a deep-type sleep. Why did he always have to make me fall asleep? Can’t he just have let me sit there and ponder things?

Next thing I knew, I was awoken by some strange-type sounds coming from the goat pen outside. Little Joe was nowhere in sight, so, fearin' the worst, I grabbed my large stick and headed out the door.

What I was about to see would haunt me for years to come and change my life forever, not to mention the history of music.

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part IV

Oklahoma is Not Okay, Part II

2005-10-20T12:38:00.001-05:00

That night, I had quite possibly the strangest dream I ever had, even weirder than that time I ate a bunch of diet pills on account I thought they was Mike and Ikes.

Little Joe appeared before me, but in the form of an extraterrestrial type fellow. He was gray-skinned with lidless black eyes, and wore one of them robes with a hood on it. I don't know how I knew this was Little Joe - I just did.

"Don't be afraid, Red," he said to me. "I have much to tell you about today’s events and of the future."

"Uh, OK," I said. "You are just about the weirdest lookin' dog I ever did see."

He laughed. "The Earth-dog is just a form I assume to keep close to certain humans. The truth is that I am not of this Earth. I am from a planet far away, but I have interests here that must be protected. You are part of those interests."

"You see, my people have been fighting a war against an aggressive, colonizing race of creatures. We know not where they come from, only that they seek to destroy all that stand in their path. One of the creatures they use for that purpose is the Chupacabra. The Chupacabra threatens not only the ranchers’ goats, but truckers as well."

"Goats and truckers? What the heck do they have in common?” I wondered aloud.

“Well, they both are hairy, have beards, and pretty much eat anything.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” But I was skeptical; I ain’t seen nothing about this in the papers. "Sounds like job for the Army or somethin'. I'm just a guy with a guitar and limited prospects, looking for a ride out of town."

Despite my flawless logic, he kept after me. "No, Red, you are much more than a rideless, guitar-carrying vagabond of marginal skills, although that is one of your charms. You have the potential to be a Protector. A Protector of truckers."

"Huh?"

"Red, we need the Earth’s trucker-enabled transportation system to further our plans. So, while the interstate trucking system is bringing goods safely and efficiently to all Americans, it is also helping us protect the Earth. Exactly how truckers help us protect the Earth is something you don’t need to know right now, just rest assured that truckers are very special to us," he said, and he ain’t blinked once.

"Wow! I've always kinda thought that truckers had an air of destiny about 'em. It's like they are a chosen-type people or somethin’, destined from birth to aid all mankind and stuff like that."

"Well, yes, Red, they are a chosen people, so to speak. People who chose to take an easy, affordable 6-week course at one of our schools located at various points around the country. After that, it’s only a few short steps to obtaining a Commercial Driver’s License, or what we like to call ‘The License to Your Future!’"

"You're those guys? I didn’t know space-dogs ran that place!" I said, flabbergasted. "Wow! 'The License to Your Future!' I love that line. Never had the courage to call, though. I just didn’t think I could make it through that course."

"Thanks. I came up with it myself. But I digress. Red, we need you to help protect truckers from threats like the Chupacabra. We’ll arm and train you, and give you assignments throughout the country, with alternate weekends off. We'll pay all expenses, of course.”

“Wow! With an offer like that, how can I turn you down? I’ll take it!” I said enthusiastically. It was like I had found my perfect job or something.

“One caveat, though, Red. If you become a Protector, you automatically preclude yourself from ever becoming a trucker. While you’ll have a big-rig of your own, and a very special one at that, you’ll never be able to live your dream of hauling large amounts of goods, liquids, or animals from one locale to another.”

Well, I have to say that Little Joe had thrown me quite a curve ball with that last bit. One of the reasons I hung around gear-jammers and truck stops was the hope of one day ownin’ and operatin’ my own big rig and loading it full of boxes and whatnot and driving it somewhere and then watching fellers unload it, like at a grocery store or some-such. Well, it looked like Miss Destiny had another plan in mind for ol’ Red.

“If I can help truckers to be the best they can be, to bring goods timely to market, to pilot the lonely blacktop of this country on nothing but diesel fuel, willpower, and a handful of uppers, then I am glad to help. Honored, in fact. Sign me up, Little Joe!”

Little Joe’s slit of a mouth formed just about the nicest smile I had ever seen. This dog was somethin’ else! He ought to be in movie-shows like Benji!

“Excellent! Your training will begin immediately.”

“Do I have to go to some type of school or somethin’?” I asked, hoping it would be one of them easy 6-week type deals he mentioned.

“No, Red. Your training shall consist of one assignment, which will form a lifetime of lessons. You will slay the Chupacabra this evening.”

“Uh, slay? As in kill?”

“Yes, Red. I mean kill.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.” One night! Sure better than 6 weeks! But somethin’ was still nagging my mind. “Say, can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, Red. I shall do my best to answer.”

“It was you who took control of my body, right? Who made me promise them ranchers I would take care of the chupa-whatever. Who made me throw that mop pert-near through the back wall.”

“Yes Red, that was me.”

“Well, what if I said no to your offer? What if you made me do all that stuff, and I turned you down flat? What would you do then?”

Little Joe smiled. “Red, it was never a possibility that you would decline our offer. It was written in the stars that you would be our champion. Now, Red, I’ll let you rest for the balance of the evening. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow. Now, sleep, sleeeeeeep…….” His eyes made big spiral designs and started spinnin’. Who taught this dog all these tricks?

I woke up refreshed the next morning, the best night of sleep I ever had. It was like I was energized or something, and I ain’t even had my eggs and biscuits yet. And Little Joe was right there beside me.

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part III

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part I

2005-10-04T17:05:00.000-05:00

If you have ever traveled the Oklahoma territories, you know them to be mostly lawless, desolate places, teeming with dangerous animals, wild folk, and other unexplained phenomena. It was at a truck stop outside of Tulsa where the following tale occurred.

I had been hanging around the place for a few days, hoping to catch a ride out West. I hadn't been able to procure such a transportation, as few truckers were willing to give the likes of myself a ride - I had acquired the reputation of a "cooler", the type of fella who gives bad luck to all those who come across him.

This was mostly due to an incident in town the previous week involving a stuffed beaver and a flamethrower that was surely not my fault; it could even be described, as, well, inevitable. However, that is a tale best told on ‘nother occasion. Let’s just say I was a marked man among the local gear-jammers, and was not about to be offered companionship on a long journey down a lonely highway.

So, circumstances being what they were, about the only friend I had was a mutt named Little Joe. Little Joe had been hanging around the truck stop for as long as anyone could remember, and existed to bring good cheer to many a tired trucker or lonely wanderer. Hangin' around Little Joe could cure even the worst of blue moods. Being as I was pretty much damaged goods around there, he seemed to naturally cotton to me - we were damn near inseparable.

Feelin' I was the victim of unfair persecution, Ms. Betty, the manager of the cafe, saw to it that I could stay in an old shed out back and get three squares a day, as long as I washed my weight in dishes the night before. As this was the best deal I had at the time, I readily agreed.

A couple of nights later, I overheard a conversation in the dining room. A group of local ranchers was havin' their weekly coffee and were far more excited than usual.

"I tell ya, the blood was sucked right out of them goats like it was water! They was all dried up and shriveled like they had been dead a month in the sun, when I for sure saw them alive and well just the night before! Somethin's out there - somethin' bad!" said a mustachioed old duffer.

Another said, "That's three of these attacks in three weeks. The Sheriff has to listen to us now."

I suddenly heard a strange voice. “Red, offer to help these gentlemen. This is your chance to win their confidence back and reverse your fortunes.”

I spun around a few times to see who was talkin’, but nobody was there but me, a mop, and a wash bucket. I looked in the wash bucket but all I seen was my own ugly mug. Little Joe had poked his head out of the kitchen door to watch me, but I didn’t pay him no mind.

“Red,” the voice said again, “you must seize the day. It is your destiny to face the Chupacabra.”

“The chupa-who?” I said to no one in particular. What the hell did Chupa-chup suckers have to do with dead goats?

“Did you say something, mop-boy?” one of the ranchers asked. “This is a private meeting. If you ain’t got business here, then get the bleep out.” He actually said ‘bleep’.

Seein’ as I had no business there, I turned around to leave, but suddenly found I couldn’t. In fact, I walked to the front of the room and started talkin’. It was like I had no control of my bodily parts and speech makin’ abilities.

"Take it from someone who knows - that Sheriff can't give ya the time of day without sneezin'. I'll get yer goat-sucker for ya. All I require in return is passage out West."

"Oh yeah?" a smart-ass type from the back chimed in. "Whataya gonna do, mop it to death? Har har har!"

‘Why yes, in fact. In my hands, any device can be a weapon. Observe!” No longer in control of my body, I threw the mop with such force into the back wall that it stuck in place like one of them javelin deals you see in the Olympic-type games.

The ranchers let out gasps and “oohs” in awe of my superhuman strength and janitorial prowess. One even appeared to swallow his chaw.

"I promise that your goat-sucker will be history once I'm through with him. Can that redneck Sheriff say the same? My offer still stands - see me in my office if you're innersted." With that, I turned on my heel, pulled my still-thrumming mop off the wall and went back through the flapping kitchen door. My exit would have been sorta hero-like, if’n I hadn’t knocked over a busboy carryin' a load of dishes as I passed.

I stumbled over to the dishwashin’ station to catch a breather. For the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my arms around what had just occurred. I thought maybe the moppin’ fumes had got the best of me. Maybe them eggs I ate this mornin’ was tainted and I had me one of them walkin’ fever dreams.

A few minutes later, the ranchers sent in a man with an offer. He seemed a mite frightened and all respectful-like, and handed me a note. I was to report to Jeb Sanderson's place at sundown.

I tried to turn him down, wantin' to say that I was happy dishwashing for now, not killin’ goat-suckers, but thanks for the offer. Instead, I said, “Your offer is accepted. Tell your rancher friends their worries are over. I mean their worries about goat-type matters, of course.” What the hell was I sayin’? I felt as spent as a Mack truck pullin' loads of grits over the Rockies to Shelley Winters’ house.

That’s when I noticed Little Joe, hidin’ behind my dishwashin’ station. Our eyes met, and I saw a kind of glowing-type deal around his face. I ain’t never seen a dog glow quite like that, at least not when I ain’t popped a handful of greenies. I heard that voice again in my head. “Red, you must confront the Chupacabra. Our fates depend upon it. Trust me to guide you on the proper path.”

Didn’t seem like I really had a choice.

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part II

High Times in Houston

2005-09-06T13:55:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago, I was down in a bar down in Houston, Texas. I had been on a run of bad luck, and stopped in to use my last bit of cash to drown my sorrows. Yeah, I was in pretty sad shape.

No sooner had I sat down in the place, I was approached by a comely, though rather large, senorita.

"Hey guapo, you buy me a cerveza, OK? I'll sit with you, OK?" she either purred or slurred or both.

"Sure, sister. I'll buy you one." I couldn't believe my luck! I had just walked into this place and already the chicks were all over me. Like I always said, some guys have it, and some don't, and this guy HAS IT!

She returned from the bar with a longneck for me and a beer in a glass for her. I liked that - classy broads don't drink from the bottle.

"You very handsome, that's why I call you Guapo. You know what that means?" she asked.

"Well, I'm pretty sure it means I'm a good-lookin' hombre." I said, knowing this to be true in every respect.

She laughed. "I like you, senor. You make me laugh! My name is Juanita," She grinned. "Say, you buy me another beer?"

I hardly noticed she had gulped the first one down so quick. Man, this babe can put the Colorado Kool-Aid away.

"OK." I said.

"I'll go get us some more." She leaned in closer; I could smell the mix of beer on her breath and kind of sweet smell of her sweat. "If a big gringo comes around asking for me, tell him you don't know Juanita. Tell him you haven't seen her around."

"Sure thing, Juanita." I said. I certainly didn't want to mess with a big drunk gringo in a bar I had never been in before in a town as dangerous and crazy as this one.

She headed over towards the bar, and I followed her with my eyes the whole way.

That's when I saw a huge hairy lookin' gringo dude makin' a beeline to my table.

"Hey, pal, you been talkin' to my Juanita?" He bellowed, his beard covered with fresh spit that come out in a spray.

"Why, no, friend. I was talkin' to another girl, one who looks just like Juanita, but isn't. No sir, it's not her." It's a skill of mine to be pretty quick on my feet with a lie when I need it.

"You sure you weren't talkin to Juanita?" he asked. He seemed a bit confused by the whole Juanita look-a-like horseshoe I had deftly thrown around his neck.

"Get out of here, Weldon!" shouted Juanita as she rushed towards us. "This is my new man now!"

Weldon's eyes lit up with a type of fire I ain't seen since I told my daddy I wanted to devote my life to leather and vinyl repair.

"You gonna die, Mister!" bellowed Weldon, as he brought a huge fist crashing down on the table in front of me. I jerked up in reaction, and fell backwards into a table of Mexican fellers behind me.

One of the Mexicans from the table stood up. "Hey Gringo, why don't you calm down and have another cerveza?" he said to Weldon. "This loser didn't mean nothing by talkin' to your girl."

"Why, that's a mighty fine idea," Weldon said. He took a big gulp of that Mexican's beer, and then spit it in a spray all over him.

"Why don't you mind your own beeswax, Seen-Yor!" laughed Weldon in a maniacal-type fashion.

Well, what happened next can be put in dispute by the experts, historians, troubadours and whatnot, but I'll attempt to portray it as I saw it, limited as I was by my position on the floor lookin' up at the action.

I saw the Mexican reach behind his back and pull out a large knife, real quick-like, and slash at Weldon's head with an upward motion. I didn't see exactly what that thrust did to poor Weldon's face, but I sure could figure out most of the consequences, as Weldon's ear landed in my hand.

Now, in nature, animals got what they call a "fight-or-flight" instinct. I too got me one of them things, but it's mostly geared toward the latter part of that, especially when I'm in the middle of a fight between a drunk and crazy Bigfoot-type and a Mexican with a damn hand machete.

I took off runnin' as fast as my feet would take me, and didn't look back until I was a couple of blocks of hopped fences between me and that run-down cantina. I walked around for a while to calm down, not sure what to do with myself for the rest of the evenin'.

That's when I noticed that I had Weldon's ear in my shirt pocket. I must have stuck it there when I was a runnin' for my life.

I don't know if any of you have ever been faced with such a dilemma. What to do with a man’s severed ear, that ain't yours, that you may have indirectly been the cause of gettin' it cut off in the first place. After all, I didn't need to be carryin' on with the man's woman that way.

I needed to make this right. I needed to give Weldon his ear back. It might not be too late to re-attach it, possibly with one of them new space-age glues. I'd hate for him to be a jug-headed lookin' feller for the rest of his life.

So, I headed back over to the cantina, hoping to find out where Weldon was, hopin' he wasn't dead by way of a beer-soaked Mexican with a pig sticker.

What I did find was mighty peculiar, let me tell you.

That old cantina was boarded up, like it hadn't been open for years. The lights were off, the parking lot deserted. I climbed up to a window to peek inside. In the moonlight, I could see the chairs on the tables, and the inside covered in dust.

Just when I was thinkin' I must be confused and at the wrong spot, I heard a voice behind me.

"Hey friend. You come to give me somethin'?"

It was the unmistakable voice of Weldon. I turned around to see him, but in the moonlight he looked pale and ghostly.

"Uh, yeah. Guess you've been missing this." I said, not familiar with what to say to man who wants me to give him his ear back. I pulled the ear from my pocket and handed it to him.

"More than you could possibly know, my friend."

He held it in his hand, then turned and walked away, fading into the moonlight. I followed after him, maybe wantin' to apologize, maybe to chew him out for tryin' to kill me, but it was like he was gone. In fact, it was like he was never there at all, cause I didn't see no footprints in the dirt parking lot, other than my own.

Which was disappointing, since I was gonna ask him where I could rustle up a few eggs around there. Man’s gotta eat, you know. Thems the thanks you get for giving a man his ear back.

Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part I

Don't Always Believe What You Hear on the Citizen's Band

2005-08-18T15:27:00.000-05:00

I swear to the Big Trucker in the Sky, I don’t know what the world’s a-comin’ to. Pull up your stool and get a load of this.

The other day, a few of the regulars at the truck stop were gathered round the Citizen's Band.

"I'm looking for a friend." said a high-pitched voice on the radio. "Would you be my new Daddy? My daddy's done gone away, and I need a new trucker to be my daddy."

Well, I don't have to tell you that just about broke my heart. Poor little fella! I lost my own Poppa to an out of control tire changin’ machine when I was young, so I felt the poor kid's pain. So I up and decided to do something. I wish some trucker had done the same for me.

"Say, let's get together and help that young pup!" I said to the crew.

Now, I wasn't expecting them to all jump up and shout boo-ya or somethin’, but this group was downright puzzling in their reaction. I confess to being a mite disappointed.

"Sure, Red," Jimmy snickered. "You go right ahead and tell him Big Joe sent ya!"

They'd been givin' me the business since I arrived a few days ago, with my tale of catchin' a ride with the ghostly gear-jammer.

"Well, if ya'll ain't the most jaded bunch I ever saw! I'm gonna find out where that kid lives and see if I can help him out!" I bowed-up, and they backed off like little panty-waists.

One of the older long-haulers at the counter motioned me over.

"Listen, the guy on the radio's handle is 'Teddy Bear'" he whispered. "He has a place in town. But first, you need to know something about him..."

"I don't need to know anything other than where I can find him," I said "That kid's in trouble, and needs a friend, and I'm gonna be that friend!"

With that, I walked out of the cafe, and caught a ride with a driver headed toward town. I had him let me off at the oil station on Main and 1st to ask for directions. I saw an old Mexican feller sittin’ by the newspaper box, waitin’ on customers. Having befriended the Mexican race in my numerous trips down to Houston-town, I felt no fear in approachin’ him.

"Say, Poncho, I'm lookin' for Teddy Bear. I hear he needs a new daddy, and I aim to be it." I said to the Mexican pump jockey.

"Uh, really?" he said. "Another one, eh? Jeez, you truckers really can't help yourselves, can you?"

"I don't get what you mean, Sen-Yor," I said to him, slightly annoyed at the dadgummed indifference people seemed to show for poor Teddy Bear's plight. "Look, I need to know where to find him. I need to daddy that youngster now!"

A look of disgust spread over the Mexican feller’s face.

"Just head up 1st Street to the top of the hill, it's the house with the big CB antenna. And pal, do me a favor, inform your community that I am not this guy's agent, and to stop asking for directions here." He made that quotation marks gesture with his hands when he said "community", then walked back into the station and shut the door behind him.

I had considered the Mexican peoples to be particularly wise and caring, but began to reassess my assessment.

Anyhow, I headed up to the house on the top of the hill, and loudly rapped on the door.

"Teddy Bear? Teddy Bear? Come on out here and meet your new daddy!" I shouted.

A slight man with a thin mustache opened the door. He had a scrawny build, very smooth lookin’ hands, and I noticed that his trousers were a mite tight in the junk.

"May I help you?" he enquired, in a voice I thought I recognized as that of the unfortunate boy. Surely I was mistaken. Perhaps my hearin’ was still screwy from my run-in with that damn ghost trucker.

"I'm lookin' for Teddy Bear. I heard on the Citizen's Band that he's lookin' for a daddy. I come here to daddy me some Teddy Bear," I said, hoping against hope that this little wormy guy wasn’t Teddy Bear’s “Uncle” or some-such semi-relation.

"Well!" said the guy. "You certainly seem to be an eager beaver, Mr. Big Man. Come inside and we'll discuss how you can start being a daddy."

The invitation seemed a bit odd, but I stepped into the parlor anyway.

"What can I call you, Big Daddy?" asked the man.

"Uh, you can call me Red."

“Well, Red, would you mind stopping off in the washroom for a moment? I require cleanliness with all my clients, especially newbies.”

It was a bit of an odd request, but maybe this guy is a clean freak, and if it means getting Teddy Bear some daddying, well, washing my hands ain’t too much of a price to pay. So, I headed to the bathroom and began washin’ my hands. That’s when I noticed a few odd items strewn about the place.

First, there was a big sign on the wall. It read: All patrons must wash hands and genital areas.

What the hell? Is this feller some sort of sawbones or something?

Next, I saw what appeared to be a special device that I had only seen one previous time at my grandma’s place. It was one of them bags you use to wash out your backside contents, I think its called "givin yerself an enemy", on account of you would only wish that upon your enemies.

Next to the sink was a big box of something called “Man2Man Condoms and Super Dork Lube”. Wow, this dude was some sort of freak show, leaving stuff like this layin’ about.

I decided to park myself on the can to ponder a bit. That’s when I saw ‘The Menu’.

Next to the can lay a fancy laminated card with a list of curious soundin’ terms on it.

"Pork and Beans (Beans Optional) " - $100.

"Greek Style Shake and Bake" - $125.

"Bolivian Moon Shot" - $200. Bolivian Moon Shot? What's the South American space program got to do with this?

Then, it hit me like a Mack truck rolling over a puppy farm: This place wasn’t no home for a lonely kid; it was house of sin, a house of the devil! And not only that, but man-lovin’ devilry! I knew I had to make my escape quick-like, so I pulled the bathroom window open, and slipped away back down the hill.

Now, I ain’t one to judge much. I seen some crazy stuff in my time on the road. And I like to think I got a good heart, and try to help people when I can. That bein’ said, I would have loved to save that kid, but I ain't about to get into man sex to do it.

Even drifters have standards.

High Times in Houston

Big Joe, Certified Nutcase

2005-08-11T14:31:00.000-05:00

Well, just the other day, after a long day of thumb-ridin' (don't ask) come along an old Mack Truck driven by, well, shall we say, a big man, at least 6' and 220 pounds if he was an ounce. Although, in many respects, he strongly resembled a corpse, we rode along and talked awhile. Well, "Big Joe", as he strangely asked me to call him, was chock full of stories of the good old days, all of which, kinda curiously, ended about 10 years ago with the story of a horrific tractor trailer crash.

Whenever I'd try to get around to discussin' other topics, he would dismiss me and come back to talkin' about the crash. He was all like "Well, no, I am not familiar with 'I Want to Be a Hilton', but, as I was saying, just up ahead, where this terrible crash involving a truck just like this, on a night just like this, where the driver swerved to avoid a busload of kids..."

I was thinking, Yeah right, Big Joe. I ain't heard tell of no busload of kids driving around in the middle of the night, less they was on one of them retard buses. By the way, Joe, you really, really need to look into some of that whatyoucallit "derm abrasion". You look like the living dead, Mister. And could you turn up the heat in this cab? It's freezing in here.

Anyway, Big Joe must taken tired of me, since he up and demanded I get off about a half mile away from a truck stop ahead, saying "This is as far as I go", all cryptic-like.

"Uh, sure thing, Joe, but are you sure you can't just drop me off at that truck stop? It's kind of dark out there..."

"No!" he shouted. "This is a far as I go! This is it! The end!"

"Well, I'm just sayin', is all," I said.

Then, a hellish glint appeared in his eyes, as if he were summoning some type of dark magical forces.

"Begone!" he cried. "I have had enough of thee!"

I flew from the cab as if propelled by sorcery of some such. I landed on the side of the road, but was curiously unhurt. My travelin' bag landed beside me.

"My Travelin' Bag!" I said, kind of because I didn't know what else to say.

"Here's a dime. Buy yourself a cup of coffee, and tell them 'Big Joe sent yah!" he cackled, as he flipped a coin out the open door, then turned that big Mack around and disappeared into the night.

Wow, a whole dime. What kind of dog dirt-tasting coffee costs a dime? Thanks, Rockefeller.

"Screw you, you ugly bastard!" I called out after him, my fist raised in anger.

As I walked the half-mile or so to the truck stop, I tried to imagine what kind of head case would be out picking up hitchers in the middle of the night, then ejecting them from his cab with what seems like magic. Man, this creep could have totally killed me. And what about his weird obsession with that accident. It's almost as if...

Nah. Couldn't be.

Well, about that time I made it to the truck stop, and I was plum tuckered out. I was ready to drink just about anything, including some terrible coffee that only cost 10 cents. "Fresh cup of joe, Sally!" I cried to a waitress who may or may not have been named Sally. "Big Joe told me it's the best around."

The formerly bustling cafe ground to a halt.

"Did you say 'Big Joe'?" a burned-out looking geezer sitting at the counter said to me.

"Yeah, old-timer. Some crazy gear-jammer dropped me off about a half mile back, threw me a dime, told me to buy some coffee with it, and to tell you people 'Big Joe' sent me. Well, I'm tellin' yah. I figured it was some kind of discount program for truckers or the like," I lied a bit, trying to stretch that dime into a bottomless cup of liquid energy, and possibly a sympathy fried egg or two.

"Well, Big Joe died ten years ago, on a night just like tonight, just over that hill. See, he locked up his big ol' Mack truck tryin' to avoid a busload of kids..." sputtered the old timer.

I cut him off. "Shut it, Gramps! Can't you see I'm trying to order! Sally, how about a cup of mud for a weary traveler!"

I really needed that cup of joe to justify the shakin' in my lower quarters.

Don't Always Believe What You Hear on the Citizen's Band.