by G S Oldman
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?how the distributor cap was nicked from his trusty Rover on a crisp January day. A special-order part, he'd make do with his newly purchased busman's Harley! Cheerio! A sporting chap and a fan of yankee bluster, he could do with a bit of the old wind in the face. Good for the reputation and for chatting up the birds. Nod, nod, winkie wink, off to the races and the Ah, Musica Americana festivities!
He noticed the unidentified driver on a night of libation lambasting and CD releasing and rambunctiously romancing the Armadillo Dream. A strange car on the street outside La Roza Cantina, it was just another Austin night, another outcast in an old Ford, lights dimmed. As he rode away on his bike, the curious machine tailed him but was given the slip, and no sleep was lost over the matter.
But it was only the beginning.
Again and again, nighttime, daytime, always behind him, he'd hear the car more often than see it. "Dull, Stygian paint and a very distinct sound," said Rondo. "The long, low rumbling of the well-heeled American V-8. A decidedly potent machine. I'm not a paranoiac but one begins to sense a bit of concern. And one day I spied the demon vehicle idling in an empty parking lot. It began tailing me and I sensed genuine alarm. I couldn't seem to shake the bloke no matter what I did. He followed me north past Highway 183 until he disappeared. Vanished. Into thin air. Not a trace. Not a sound."
The literate among the town's fools would read whatever their seminar-quoting minds wanted, but "?he was a madman from who knows where, I tell you. I had become the prey in a cat-and-mouse game, stalked for weeks. I called the police but they wanted details I couldn't offer. I definitely got the impression they thought I was bloody daft. I was afraid to leave my house thereafter."
One night in early February, Von Questador ventured to a local nightclub to see The Aldo Truvedo Band, where he fell asleep. He had slept through their set again! One of his favorite songwriters, Aldo was a good friend. "This was horrible. And after all those polka pancake and beer breakfasts we had shared on appropriate Sundays? This ordeal with the car had taken its toll on me. I was emotionally exhausted, man!"
Leaving the club, his nemesis was waiting-lights dimmed and engine rumbling. A weary Von Questador fired up his Sportster and took off down the deserted street. Rondo was coerced far south down Lamar Boulevard "?like the great mythical whale leading me to my doom past the edge of town. Suddenly the car whipped in front of me and stopped. I stopped and waited for him to make his move. He gunned the engine thrice. A hand thrust from the window and motioned me toward the empty highway. Trapped. What could I do? I kicked into gear and stuffed it, screeching around and screaming, 'I ACCEPT YOUR BLOODY CHALLENGE! COME AND GET ME!' A chance I could outmaneuver him, I raced ahead and didn't look back until ten miles down the road?and he was gone. Disappeared again."
RVQ slowed to gather his wits and "take stock of the situation" but the dark menace boomed in the distance getting "louder, ever louder." It came airborne over a hill at a blinding rate of speed, headlights extinguished. The hapless biker sped up and pushed his machine for all it was worth. "Let me tell you, the chase was on in earnest."
On Highway 290 heading west, Von Questador could neither shake the Ford nor reverse the direction of travel. They were then speeding down Interstate 10 in the pre-dawn hours. He hoped some cop would pick them up on radar, but that hope grew as dim as the shapes of sleeping diesels huddled in rest areas and truck stops. Whenever RVQ slackened his 100-mph pace, the black grill would be inches from the bike's rear tire.
The car repeatedly disappeared from behind Rondo, allowing him to refuel and gain the slightest respite from the chase. "He was toying with me," said Von Questador, "but I didn't have the luxury of figuring out why. Maybe he was trying to kill me. Maybe not. I hadn't a clue! Maybe he didn't mean to kill me!"
At sunrise RVQ was standing by the side of I-10 30 miles east of Sonora, not an automobile in sight. He shakily mounted his bike and tried to travel back to Austin. Within minutes the "fuel-powered rhinoceros" charged back, exploding from the great ball of fire balancing on the eastern horizon. The pursuit lasted through the day and into the night and past Las Cruces, where the 4-wheeled bully vanished, not to reappear. Von Questador took sanity-stricken cover in the area for almost a week and would not say how he returned home.
Had any locals seen the car? No. Or none were telling. A few stories of unexplainable distributor cap thefts in the area surfaced. RVQ could only wonder if there was a connection to what had befallen his Rover. Coincidence? Or did he just want to stop running, and stay alive?
He never saw the driver's face. The matte black Ford had heavily tinted windows and "?it was impossible to detect any more than the shadow of a human outline." Certain that someone was in the vehicle, he flatly stated, "I'll not allow myself to believe this was some fanciful 'headless horseman'! That would be bloody preposterous! I know what I saw-an inexplicable madman driving a lethal weapon!"
Von Questador reported that the car had personalized license plates with the letters JHH. Police turned up no such designation within an eight-state search. Speculating on what became of the driver, he said, "Only the coyote witnesses can explain. I guess he got his sick jollies and went back to his cave."
