by James Curcio
They pulled up in front of a pub in the outskirts of the Philadelphia suburbs, right in the spot where the Venn diagram of WASP, redneck and Amish country overlapped.
“This place work?” Loki asked.
Jesus noticed there was a tractor in the parking lot. That wasn’t a good sign. “You have cash?”
“Yes.” Loki sighed.
It was a busy night. From the look and sound of it, half the place was half lit, and the rest were about ready to make sweet love to a toilet seat. There was a small stage and the setup for a band, but the band was nowhere in sight.
Jesus headed straight for the bar.
“I thought you were hungry,” Dionysus said.
“Liquid bread!” Jesus exclaimed, grabbing the last free bar stool. The rest of them clustered uncomfortably behind.
“When we go on, man?” someone to their left asked. Jesus turned towards the voice. It was a group of three guys, red necks, would-be cock-rockers two decades past their prime. Her favorite sort of assholes.
“I don’t know. Where’s Rich?” another asked.
“Rich?”
“Rich! You know, the guy that run the place. He disappeared with that girl with the...” He made the universal ‘large breasts’ hand gesture.
“Fuck if I know. Not here?”
Jesus turned to the bartender, a sadly energetic woman that looked like she had taken one too many “falls down the stairs.”
“DRINKS ALL AROUND!” Jesus exclaimed.
Loki rolled his eyes. “Sure. Why not?”
“What’ll ya have?”
“Stouts and whiskey,” Jesus said.
A redhead that had been listening in to the conversation leaned towards Jesus. “Can you count me in on that, babe?”
Dionysus stared at her, slack-jawed.
Loki elbowed him. She either didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care.
“Drinks for the musicians, too. You’re the entertainment, right?” Jesus asked.
With a grin, one of them nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The three of them carried their drinks to a nearby table, leaving Jesus to her peculiar carousing.
“I swear I’ve seen that woman before,” Dionysus said.
“Who?” Loki asked.
“The smokin’ redhead at the bar, I’m guessing,” Cody said.
“Eh,” Loki said.
“I’m not kidding. It’s on the tip of my tongue...” Dionysus said.
“I’ll bet it is,” Cody said. He lit a smoke. “Nice to be somewhere civilized, where you can kick back, light up a smoke–”
“You’re not listening to me,” Dionysus said, refusing to let it drop.
“I’m just saying, you’ve been locked up for a year...”
“Right, which makes this all the stranger. I’m sure I’ve seen her. Recently,” Dionysus said. He squinted suspiciously.
A waitress approached them. “What’ll it be?”
Jesus passed yet another drink to the band. Just “one of the guys.” Har-har. She made exaggerated manly gestures and gave them a wide smile. Anyone who knew her would recognize the smile as bitingly insincere, but it was already too late for this lot.
“No, no, no. What I’m saying is–” One of them started, but he was overrun by a series of guffaws.
“Liquididated bread!” his friend screamed, still laughing. The laughter turned into a gurgle as a stream of alcoholic vomit lurched out of his stomach. Waitresses scrambled to the site of the incident as the band rolled and slipped on their regurgitated fluids. The ensuing series of events would surely haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives.
“Why are you– Wait, we’re the band! Where’s Rich?” one of them yelled.
His friend mewled and wheezed like a newborn, muttering “ma...ma...ma...” with each desperate breath. Horrible alcohol poisoning, clearly.
The bouncers went into motion, escorting them rather impolitely out the door.
“Don’t you remember? You guys already played! Awesome show. No, really fantastic. Now out you go...” Jesus said, sitting back down on the bar stool.
“Ah, I love doing that,” she said, sipping her stout. “It’s like the tortoise and the hare. Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Nice performance,” the redhead said.
“Oh. We haven’t gotten started yet,” Jesus said.
She gave a crooked grin. “Is that right?”
“Jesus. Pleased to meet you.” She bowed and did a sarcastic, Renn-faire hand-gesture.
“Lilith. Likewise.”
“Lilith... Really?” Jesus asked.
“You go by ‘Jesus’ and you want to give me a hard time?”
Jesus laughed. “Touche.”
“Anyway, it’s Lola Rose Parsons. But that’s a fucking mouthful. Who are your friends?”
Jesus led her over to the table. “This is Loki, Dionysus, and...Cody.”
They looked at one another awkwardly. Dionysus scrutinized her, and made a decision. “This is going to sound like the oldest line in the book. And it’s not a good line, or book, but...Do I know you from somewhere?”
Lilith smiled. “Sure. We fucked like crazed alley cats.”
“We... did?”
“Maybe in a past incarnation,” she said. “Can I have a seat or...”
Dionysus moved over in the booth to make room. “You’re a Buddhist? The idea of karma-as-ethical-imperative seems really childish to me. No offense. Under whose authority am I forced to be reincarnated as a shrew based on my actions in this life? And how can a particular ant be such a ‘good’ ant that one day it gets to be joy of joys – a human?”
Lilith watched him talk, amused. “Is this how you hit on all the women?”
Loki snorted. “And it works. Go figure.”
“Listen,” Jesus said. “I just sent the band out the door full of enough alcohol to kill Leonard Cohen three times over. You want to steal the stage, or argue about reincarnation?”
“Finally, one of you says something I can fucking understand!” Cody exclaimed, leaping out of his seat.
They approached the stage. No one seemed to notice, or care. Cody, Dionysus and Jesus began tinkering with the gear. Loki went off to find the mythical “Rich” character. Lilith sat on the side of the stage, kicking her legs back and forth. Dionysus noticed it, and nearly dropped his drum sticks. Like the girl in his dream. That’s where he’d seen her!
Before he could say anything, she stood up and grabbed the mic. She had the bottle of tequila in her other hand. “You guys ready?”
Jesus and Cody nodded. Dionysus just looked stunned.
“Let’s see if you know this one...Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes...snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes...Silver white winters that melt into springs...These are a few of my favorite things...” Cody followed right along, savant that he was. Jesus and Dionysus struggled at first but quickly caught up, and before they knew it, they turned the Sound of Music into a rampaging, psychedelic monster.
It took the audience several minutes to realize that music was playing, but by the time they figured it out, an unusual thing happened. Casual nodding became whiplash-inducing headbanging. Dancers started peeling off their clothes, which in several cases was a less than good thing. A kissing couple fell on a table, rolled off and went right on to fucking on the barroom floor. Drunks circle-danced around the pair, scream-singing along with the chorus to some song, a song that had nothing to do with the music that was playing. The bartender poured liquor from bottles straight into open mouths.
And that was when things got really crazy.
Eventually, the white trash hurricane ran out of fuel and dispersed to the four corners of the Earth. The bar was a disaster. Bouncers carried those who couldn’t carry themselves, leaving them in the field behind the parking lot. Several tables were splintered. Bottles and glasses smashed. Quite a few laws broken. But no one was seriously injured, and most of the damage was superficial.
Du
ring the show, Loki had found Rich. He was sauntering out of what could have been his office, or a closet. From the looks of it, he’d just finished doing a whole lot of coke with a cheap whore. She was hanging on his arm and had makeup smeared nearly down to her overabundant cleavage. The smile on her face said she wasn’t minding her job at the moment.
Loki figured things could go either way. There was a full-scale mob in his bar, and a band was playing that he hadn’t scheduled for the night. He braced himself for the worst.
As it turned out, Rich was in a benevolent mood. So, rather than working on an escape plan, Loki casually introduced them all after the “show.”
“I don’t know who the hell you are. But that was great,” Rich said.
“We’re Babylon,” Lilith said casually.
Loki eyed her. Dionysus and Jesus shrugged simultaneously.
“Don’t think I’ve heard of you. Anyhow, I’ve got to take damages out...But I’ve got somethin’.” Rich said. He held out a wad of bills that simply insisted on re-rolling themselves into little cylinders when left alone.
“Sorry about the mess,” Loki reiterated.
“Are you kidding?” Rich laughed. His face was redder than Santa Claus. “Our bar is cleaned out. Maybe some of it was on the house, but I’ve never seen anything like that. And I was at the original Woodstock. Fuck man! What a fucking party!” he clapped his hands together.
“I tend to have that kind of effect on people,” Lilith said.
“I can see... that.” He fumbled for something witty to say but found nothing, so he just moved on. “We’ll be closing soon, though. I’d offer you drinks, but...”
“No worries,” Lilith said. When Rich sauntered off, she leaned in and spoke conspiratorially. “That worked out nicely. You guys want to go pro?”
“Guys?” Jesus asked sharply.
“Bipeds,” Lilith said. “Sorry.”
“What else are we going to do?” Cody asked.
“Looks like we’ve already got some gear,” Loki said, motioning towards all the equipment the drunk band had left behind.
“Sure.” Jesus looked around the room, frowning. “I’m hungry.”
Loki sighed and handed some of the cash to Jesus.
Trevino was signing paperwork for a clerk. The clerk was staring over his shoulder, his mouth half-hanging open to reveal a set of buck teeth.
A children’s chorus stood in front of the Motel, singing an off-key version of Annie’s “Tomorrow.”
“Length of stay?” the clerk finally asked.
“Two days. When’s checkout?” Trevino answered. The clerk didn’t respond. “Hey. When’s checkout?”
“Eleven. ...Is that what they mean by mongoloid?”
Trevino finally looked over his shoulder at the procession outside. “Mongol...?”
The children’s chorus was set up on temporary bleachers. They were developmentally disabled to various degrees, but all of them were unquestionably the happiest children to butcher “Tomorrow.” Behind, a banner read “The Holding Hands Chorus! WE LOVE YOU!” A small crowd of parents and onlookers clustered around the children, waving miniature American flags. Trevino also noticed a mobile broadcast HQ and the expected entourage of press, cameramen, and interns that came along with such a media travesty.
“Downs. Not mongoloid,” Trevino said.
“So what’s mongoloid mean?”
“Downs. But it’s insulting.”
A technician in overalls walked up to the mobile broadcast HQ from behind, opened the driver’s door, and hopped in.
The clerk furrowed his brow in thought. “So ‘mongoloid’ is like ‘nigger,’ but for retards.”
Trevino fixed the clerk with a level stare. Behind them, the mobile broadcast HQ rumbled to a start. With looks of horror, the reporter and cameraman put down their equipment and ran towards it, but were forced to dive to the ground to avoid being crushed. Trevino barreled out of the door, surveyed the scene, and stopped in his tracks.
The mobile broadcast HQ did a tire-squealing turn around the bleachers, honking wildly. A horde of children scattered, cried and applauded. Straightening out, it ran over the camera equipment and accelerated to escape.
Trevino drew his weapon, but struggled to get a clear shot. There were just too many waffling, wailing fucking mongoloids. “IIIICE CWWWEAM TWUCK!” one of them screamed, pathetically trying to give chase.
Jesus clung to the rear door, waving a scimitar and bellowing incoherently as they drove off.
“Tranny cunt,” Trevino growled. The clerk raised his eyebrow at him.
Stonesifer Autobody was located in an old shipping warehouse just outside of Grand Junction, Colorado, amidst a thick tangle of trees, brambles and the rusted hulls of old cars and vans, strewn about like boats after a tsunami.
From the outside, the structure looked abandoned. Indeed, it was a rare night that the thin tendrils of headlights would slither down the nearby street. However, walk up through that brush and put your ear to the sliding doors on the backside of the building, and you might hear the whirring sound of pneumatic winches, or the huffing of hydraulics. Inside was a sprawling complex of automotive gear, bunks built out of wood from flats, and rusted barrels full of everything from gasoline to ether.
Beside this garage was a small office done up like any other red-blooded American mechanic’s reception area: potted plastic plants, various muscle car and pin-up magazines, a coffee pot that gurgled sludge and a fake, conspicuously-stained leather sofa. “My Way Or The Highway” was written on a giant placard, lashed, for no apparent reason, to a bunch of steer horns and some empty bottles of Southern Comfort.
The owner and sole proprietor was surrounded by an array of electrical equipment and half-read sci-fi novels.
The phone rang. His secretary didn’t seem to know what the noise was. It had obviously been a while since their last paying gig.
“It’s the phone Courtney,” Gregor said, chuckling to himself as his lazy eye drifted in her direction and caressed her young frame. He whipped out a Camel Wide and lit it with his Zippo in the same practiced motion. “Answer it, hon.”
“Stonesifer Autobody: My Way Or The Highway, how can I help you? Yes…yes… Okay, one moment. Phone call for you, sir…” Courtney said, resting the receiver on her shoulder as she pressed on the hold button with an artificial pink fingernail. “Sounds like he might be drunk,” she whispered.
He took the phone. “Yo,” he said gruffly.
She pursed her lips at him quickly, winked and walked away. Nodding his head, he pulled off his baseball cap and ran the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a black, sweaty smear in its wake.
“Fuck,” he said. Then, “What? Oh, no, not you. Go on. I just soiled my purdy self. Yep, yep. Alright, well, let me know the budget and when you’ll need’r by and I’ll fix it up real special...Someplace to lie low while I’m working on it? Fine. Fuck.”
He pulled out a notepad and frantically took notes. When the list was complete, he said, “Don’t dare tell me how a bunch of good-fer-nothings like yerselves got out of the loony bin. I don’t need to be an accessory to God-knows-what. And in return I won’t tell you what I done with my sexretary last night,” he grinned and hung up.
He wiped his hands with the oil-spattered rag meditatively, as if the action helped him think. It certainly didn’t make his hands any cleaner. The smear on his forehead remained, forgotten. After a couple of minutes of contemplation he looked up and started rummaging around piles of equipment in the garage.
The call came at 4 o’clock in the morning. Gregor flipped open his phone, still singing in a falsetto along with his Journey ring-tone.
“–Stop... believin’. Hold on to the feeeeelin’. For chrissakes, it’s four in the morning and this is my personal line. I’ll sing whatever the fuck I want to sing. You almost here with your legally acquired mobile broadcast... You want to call it ‘The Behemoth’ and paint it like a bumble-bee? You’re high, aren’t you? Yea
h, I can do that.” He closed the phone.
“Put on the coffee, Courtney,” he yelled. “It’s gonna be a long fucking night.”
They all stood under the fluorescent lights in his office for a minute before anyone spoke.
Dionysus broke into a grin and hugged Gregor, clapping him on the back. “You smell like you’ve been fucking chimpanzees for a week. As usual.” Though he was tall, his forehead still knocked against Gregor’s chin.
“You too. So, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Gregor whistled when they walked into the garage. “This is like one of those C-40-X2’s...Though I guess it’s a newer model. My thing is muscle cars, you know.” He walked around it. “This vehicle is the fucking tits. Bumble bee pattern, you said?”
Dionysus and Jesus nodded eagerly. Loki sighed and shook his head.
Gregor laughed. “Talk about hiding in plain sight, huh? Bunks for how many?”
“Eight, more if we’re getting cozy,” Lilith said.
“Weapons?”
“Subtle,” Loki said. “If we have to use them, it’s probably too late.”
Gregor looked slightly disappointed. “Well, we can still have a little fun.” He pushed play on a nearby boom-box that dangled from a chord on the wall. The theme from the A-Team blared from the speakers. “Inspiration music. Let’s go.”
He handed a pair of welding goggles to Dionysus.
“Are you kidding me?” Loki asked.
“Oh, we’re gonna have a shit-ton of fun!” Gregor took a pull off a bottle of Southern Comfort. “Let’s start with the armor.”
Almost a week to the day, they stood in the room, marveling at what they’d done.
“We turned an instrument of the devil into a bohemian’s paradise,” Dionysus said.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t end like Bohemian Rhapsody,” Loki said.
“You’ve been a grump this whole damn time,” Lilith said.
“I just...I have a deep phobia of imprisonment.” Loki scowled.
