Off Topic
Travelblog of Thom S. Hunter
Editor’s Note: Dammit. Far as I can tell this idiot idea of a beat reporter is going to stick. Guess he’s got low friends in high places. Or at least high friends. And I like to eat, and I got a wife and three kids (that I know of) who need clothes and sneakers. So I got nothing to do but to let the guy write whatever he writes. Good luck reading it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The trunk screeched open, and the sunlight was like a shank straight to the brain.
As these things do, everything happened at once, but in a slow, steady stream. At least I’d been ready. Even though I couldn’t see shit, I sensed where the lanky form of Foghorn was, and I figured he’d be a helluvalot more surprised than me at this point—which was the only lever I had. So I pulled that sumbitch, and I pulled it hard.
The sound of breaking beakers filled the air as I launched myself into bright golden yonder, fists out aheada me like I was the next coming of Deadpool. Exactly as I planned, my flying Hammer of Thom gut punched Foggy, and he went down with a humpfh and a moan that would have been louder if he had any air left in his body. Exactly as NOT planned, my true level of athletic prowress raised its ugly head, and both feet caught on the lip of the Cutlass’s trunk, making me weave and fall and tumble and rumple, flat on my face, and shoulder and rolling co I’m sure I’ll have bruises over half my body. A fiery pain came to my left butt cheek, telling me I done rolled over a goddamned cactus.
At least I was breathing, though, which is a little more than I can say for forlorn Foghorn, who was rolling on the ground and wheezing like he was trying to suck air through a soda straw.
My choices now were (1) stay and try to talk sense into a pissed off psychopath, or (2) get the hell outta Dodge. Don’t know about you, but (2) seemed like the right idea for me. That is until I got up and tried to run with about 7.3 billion cactus stickers in my ass.
Let’s just say baby Jesus used language like a goddamned pro.
But first he tumbled to the ground and wept.
The whole thing lasted just long enough for little Foggy to get his act together and approach with a fresh set of vengeance in his eyes that said applying the Hammer of Thom to the man’s gut may not have been the smartest thing I ever done. At least I was breathing right, and I had a handle on the pain. For now, anyway. I rolled up to my knees.
Foghorn drew close. Fists clenched. “Thom S. Hunter,” he said as the desert wind took his thin hair this way and that. “The fuck you doin’ here?”
“Thought you might need a shampoo,” I said, amusing myself at the idea of the bottles stashed so randomly in the trunk.
Foghorn’s expression screwed itself counterclockwise and back. “What?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, scrambling to get my thoughts flying in the same direction. “And I’ll be glad to tell you over margaritas and daiquiris when we get to Sacramento, but first I think you need to rethink dumping L-Pain here.”
“You been eavesdropping.” He reached to the back of his belt loop and unsheathed a switchblade that made a particularly dry scratch as it extended, telling me that this news didn’t go over so well.
“Can’t turn off my ears, buddy, and you guys are loud as shit when you’re feeling good and bragging. If it wasn’t the water, what the hell happened to him?”
“Like I’m gonna tell you shit?
The blade glinted in the sun, and the taste of Joshua trees rode on the dry wind. As Foghorn stalked me, I squinched up my but muscle to see if I could make a mad burst. No.Fucking.Way.
I swallowed all three molecules of spit that my mouth created. Then let my hand first reach languidly down to rest on the grainy dirt of the desert floor, then close softly over a handful. Muscle memory. Right. I’d only get one shot. With luck I could blind him and grab the weapon.
“Look, Foghorn,” I said. “You really, really need to rethink this thing. The green-eyed lady is going to rip you bigtime if you don’t get the body to her. And while I know you’re the once job-shopping out to her now, we both know the word about what happens when you piss her off is not good.”
Foghorn hesitated, shivering. “Bitch makes things happen.”
“That’s right. She does,” I said, my voice taking on velocity like it doesn when I know I’ve hit a vein and just need to let my brain go where it’s gonna go. “And none of things are good for guys like you and me, right? Guys like you and me, I mean, we’re like everyday regulars on championship teams, right? The guys who grind it out every day just to hold onto their place on the roster. And people like her, well, she’s like the owners, right? Don’t care about nothing but their owndammnedthing. And that means guys like us gotta stay together. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about L-Pain, man. Think things through, you know? Collaborate.”
Foghorn paused long enough to let me know he didn’t like the idea of killing me in cold blood too much better than I did. The knife edge dropped a centimeter or two.
“You want to partner up?”
“Two heads are better than one,” I quoted sagely.
“What do you think we otta do?”
My brain snapped to phase two. “First thing first, I agree we gotta get Louey there under wraps. But if we dump him here we’d need to dig a big-assed hole to keep the buzzards from getting him…and if we do that the desert’ll just eat him up anyway. So instead we open the shit up of that trunk there, and roll old L-Pain in. Then, get the tarp down and put all the shampoo and chemistry set crap ya got in there all over the top of him. That oughta be enough that even if we’re caught we could get by.”
“Maybe,” Foghorn said. But I could see his mind was settling.
“Don’t tell my haven’t done the three-shell Monty on a police officer or two.”
He settles. Then we drive together, nice and slow, you know, tie into traffic control like regular law abiding folks and even let the auto-drive algorithms take some of the wheel.”
“Ain’t no robot gonna drive my fucking Cutlass.”
I raised my hand. “It’s good cover, Fog. Trust me. You’re the genius here. You’d come to it too if you get yourself settled down. This is where two heads are better than one, right?”
I could tell I had him then.
A few minutes later, he agreed to start cleaning out the trunk, and I limped to the passenger seat to see about getting L-Pain laid out. When I opened to door he fell halfway out, and his phone slab slipped from his breast pocket to clatter to the desert’s hard surface. Wincing in pain, I bent to pull him all the way out.
But the phone pealed then. The ring tone was the Sacramento theme song “Just Another Victory Pope.”
“What the—” I stooped painfully to pick it up, and saw that Louey was stupid enough to leave it unprotected. I didn’t recognize the calling zone, but it had a number that said it was in one of the Carolinas. I clicked it on.
“Hey,” I said, listening.
“It’s Walt,” the voice on the other end said. “Things are moving fast. I’m going to need the shipment of Long Beach water moved up to this week.”
“Um…’ I said. Foghorn was beside me now. “Who the hell is Walter?” I said.
“Excuse me?” the distant voice said.
Then the call disconnected.
The trunk screeched open, and the sunlight was like a shank straight to the brain.
As these things do, everything happened at once, but in a slow, steady stream. At least I’d been ready. Even though I couldn’t see shit, I sensed where the lanky form of Foghorn was, and I figured he’d be a helluvalot more surprised than me at this point—which was the only lever I had. So I pulled that sumbitch, and I pulled it hard.
The sound of breaking beakers filled the air as I launched myself into bright golden yonder, fists out aheada me like I was the next coming of Deadpool. Exactly as I planned, my flying Hammer of Thom gut punched Foggy, and he went down with a humpfh and a moan that would have been louder if he had any air left in his body. Exactly as NOT planned, my true level of athletic prowress raised its ugly head, and both feet caught on the lip of the Cutlass’s trunk, making me weave and fall and tumble and rumple, flat on my face, and shoulder and rolling co I’m sure I’ll have bruises over half my body. A fiery pain came to my left butt cheek, telling me I done rolled over a goddamned cactus.
At least I was breathing, though, which is a little more than I can say for forlorn Foghorn, who was rolling on the ground and wheezing like he was trying to suck air through a soda straw.
My choices now were (1) stay and try to talk sense into a pissed off psychopath, or (2) get the hell outta Dodge. Don’t know about you, but (2) seemed like the right idea for me. That is until I got up and tried to run with about 7.3 billion cactus stickers in my ass.
Let’s just say baby Jesus used language like a goddamned pro.
But first he tumbled to the ground and wept.
The whole thing lasted just long enough for little Foggy to get his act together and approach with a fresh set of vengeance in his eyes that said applying the Hammer of Thom to the man’s gut may not have been the smartest thing I ever done. At least I was breathing right, and I had a handle on the pain. For now, anyway. I rolled up to my knees.
Foghorn drew close. Fists clenched. “Thom S. Hunter,” he said as the desert wind took his thin hair this way and that. “The fuck you doin’ here?”
“Thought you might need a shampoo,” I said, amusing myself at the idea of the bottles stashed so randomly in the trunk.
Foghorn’s expression screwed itself counterclockwise and back. “What?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, scrambling to get my thoughts flying in the same direction. “And I’ll be glad to tell you over margaritas and daiquiris when we get to Sacramento, but first I think you need to rethink dumping L-Pain here.”
“You been eavesdropping.” He reached to the back of his belt loop and unsheathed a switchblade that made a particularly dry scratch as it extended, telling me that this news didn’t go over so well.
“Can’t turn off my ears, buddy, and you guys are loud as shit when you’re feeling good and bragging. If it wasn’t the water, what the hell happened to him?”
“Like I’m gonna tell you shit?
The blade glinted in the sun, and the taste of Joshua trees rode on the dry wind. As Foghorn stalked me, I squinched up my but muscle to see if I could make a mad burst. No.Fucking.Way.
I swallowed all three molecules of spit that my mouth created. Then let my hand first reach languidly down to rest on the grainy dirt of the desert floor, then close softly over a handful. Muscle memory. Right. I’d only get one shot. With luck I could blind him and grab the weapon.
“Look, Foghorn,” I said. “You really, really need to rethink this thing. The green-eyed lady is going to rip you bigtime if you don’t get the body to her. And while I know you’re the once job-shopping out to her now, we both know the word about what happens when you piss her off is not good.”
Foghorn hesitated, shivering. “Bitch makes things happen.”
“That’s right. She does,” I said, my voice taking on velocity like it doesn when I know I’ve hit a vein and just need to let my brain go where it’s gonna go. “And none of things are good for guys like you and me, right? Guys like you and me, I mean, we’re like everyday regulars on championship teams, right? The guys who grind it out every day just to hold onto their place on the roster. And people like her, well, she’s like the owners, right? Don’t care about nothing but their owndammnedthing. And that means guys like us gotta stay together. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about L-Pain, man. Think things through, you know? Collaborate.”
Foghorn paused long enough to let me know he didn’t like the idea of killing me in cold blood too much better than I did. The knife edge dropped a centimeter or two.
“You want to partner up?”
“Two heads are better than one,” I quoted sagely.
“What do you think we otta do?”
My brain snapped to phase two. “First thing first, I agree we gotta get Louey there under wraps. But if we dump him here we’d need to dig a big-assed hole to keep the buzzards from getting him…and if we do that the desert’ll just eat him up anyway. So instead we open the shit up of that trunk there, and roll old L-Pain in. Then, get the tarp down and put all the shampoo and chemistry set crap ya got in there all over the top of him. That oughta be enough that even if we’re caught we could get by.”
“Maybe,” Foghorn said. But I could see his mind was settling.
“Don’t tell my haven’t done the three-shell Monty on a police officer or two.”
He settles. Then we drive together, nice and slow, you know, tie into traffic control like regular law abiding folks and even let the auto-drive algorithms take some of the wheel.”
“Ain’t no robot gonna drive my fucking Cutlass.”
I raised my hand. “It’s good cover, Fog. Trust me. You’re the genius here. You’d come to it too if you get yourself settled down. This is where two heads are better than one, right?”
I could tell I had him then.
A few minutes later, he agreed to start cleaning out the trunk, and I limped to the passenger seat to see about getting L-Pain laid out. When I opened to door he fell halfway out, and his phone slab slipped from his breast pocket to clatter to the desert’s hard surface. Wincing in pain, I bent to pull him all the way out.
But the phone pealed then. The ring tone was the Sacramento theme song “Just Another Victory Pope.”
“What the—” I stooped painfully to pick it up, and saw that Louey was stupid enough to leave it unprotected. I didn’t recognize the calling zone, but it had a number that said it was in one of the Carolinas. I clicked it on.
“Hey,” I said, listening.
“It’s Walt,” the voice on the other end said. “Things are moving fast. I’m going to need the shipment of Long Beach water moved up to this week.”
“Um…’ I said. Foghorn was beside me now. “Who the hell is Walter?” I said.
“Excuse me?” the distant voice said.
Then the call disconnected.
