Chapter 22.
Daaje, or Dodge, as I call him whenever he's pointing a shotgun at me (which is normal for him) is the pigeon aficionado bar none, pre or post zombie era. He's also got a few screws lose, pre and post zombie era.
His real name is Daaje Benaguese. Second generation Flemish. I always thought his name was Dodge Benodge, until I saw it in print under a picture of him in the Pigeon Fancier rag, with his chiseled jaw and fancy tumbler pigeon.
The last time I saw Dodge was when he and I crash landed a small airplane he was flying us in en route to the promised land. The land of the Amazons. Golly gee, there's a lot to tell. Fortunately for you, whenever I have a shotgun pointed at my face, my life tends to flash before my eyes. So sit back, and enjoy how the back story of my life in Vegas finally closes in on the present story...that is, the one you're reading. And if you've been skipping chapters, making this a ‘choose your own adventure’ zombie book...more power to you. I hate back story. Back story is always about how the last can of beans was found in the pantry. How the guy who took that last can of beans had trouble with the can opener on account of a bike accident he had when he was twelve. Sure, it explains the bald patch of skin on his chin, but it doesn't move the story forward.
Anyway, my life starts flashing before my eyes. I am back at my wedding day. Chaos has ensued...
Chaos is ensuing, and it is brought about by the Slate Girls and a faulty sound system in the gazebo where me and Riley just kissed. Me and Riley kiss, long and sweet. Her belly is hard to reach around, but I make do by standing on my tippy toes, and she bends way down. There's a loud round of applause from Riley's side of the pews. From my side, Zombie Spike Grindstone groans, and the ESPN guys start scrambling to record his every syllable (which is only one...groan. Very monosyllabic, zombies are).
The mouse Director of Ceremonies runs up to the dais, and zombie Elvis goes crazy. He's clawing, and almost gets a good grip on the mouse, and someone yells, "Kill him!" The mouse pokes his head out from behind the podium, and then goes back underneath. Zombie Elvis is frustrated, growling and gnashing his teeth.
Over the speakers, the Slate Girls start playing. Honestly, their singing is hell on earth for me, Satan's Junior High Marching band, sharpening their clawed adolescent fingers on eternity's chalkboard. With massive amounts of feedback and shrieking (and I am assuming that is part of the song, because that is how the rest sounds to me) our party is welcomed with "If You Wanna Be My Lover."
All Riley's Amazon friends start throwing rice as we make our way to the waiting Partridge Family bus I rented for the occasion. I figure, why should me and her get to drive off to the Olive Garden in luxury when everyone else has to coordinate driving in separate cars? This never made sense to me. Plus, this is much cheaper than any limo. Think about it. For the guest of honor at a funeral, you got a long police escorted procession. The dead don't care if you're late. That's the whole point behind that saying, "You'll be late to your own funeral." So what if I am? I won't care if you are. If you're late? Don't worry. I'm not getting up. Well, these days I am...which is why I don't understand how society has not yet embraced switching over the funeral procession (a totally useless endeavor nowadays) to the wedding procession (where the bride and groom have to sit around, thank everyone for coming, dance here, stand there, picture here, throw flowers there)...an event where time is money. Speaking of money, in the back of my head I hear the clock ticking. We have a whole wing of the Olive Garden all to ourselves, and time is money.
As luck would have it, I pick the gazebo across from Treasure Island. Since I am an employee there, my boss had connections and got me the gazebo for a song. And speaking of songs, it just so happens that two of the Slate Girls...that Baby Slate and the karate kicking Gymsock Slate are performing across the street on the fake pirate boat out front. As I understand it, the other Slate Girls are there too, only they've been zombies for some time now, so they're shuffling around on the deck of that fake boat with dog collars around their necks.
So the mouse turns the volume up real loud, and a crowd of people turn from one of the many performances the Slate Girls are doing across the street all this week. The crowd thinks we're part of the show, and they start crossing the street, tying up traffic.
Then the mouse turns the music up louder, and right around when the eighth chorus of "Tell me what ya want, what ya really really want" comes out, zombie Elvis breaks free. He devours the mouse, holding him up over his head, lowering the screaming man into his giant lapels. Then Zombie Spike Grindstone sees one of his own chowing down, so he breaks free, races up the dais and starts pulling the poor little screaming guy to pieces.
All the guests stop throwing rice, and turn to look back at what is happening because the mouse's screams are, miraculously, louder than Slate Girls music turned up to eleven. Spike and Elvis look back at the guests; they both share this look of shame. Before the guests can start in with their own screaming, the zombies start throwing bits of the Director of Ceremonies at me and Riley.
By the tenth chorus of "Really really really wanna zigazig blech" the Amazons start pushing everyone onto the bus. Me and Riley are first to get on, so we get crammed to the back by the emergency exit. The driver (a Danny Bonaduce look alike, cost $50 extra with the bus) is smiling.
"Quite a wedding you're throwing here!" he shouts.
As I get crammed in I say, "Yeah, but they are not all with us, so when you see the last tall girl get on, make with the door closing, chief!"
The Slate Girl crowd from across the street has now surrounded the bus, and starts rocking it. I look at Zombie Spike. He's pulling at his collar, and he gets it off. Only the explosive part of the collar remains on his neck, so his head doesn't blow up. He races towards the guests, who are getting surrounded by the Slate Girls crowd.
Riley pokes my ribs as Renee gets pulled back by the crowd. "Look!" she says, almost festively. Today is her wedding day, and nothing is going to ruin it. Not even watching her friend get trampled by a crowd of frenzied Slate Girl fans, and then eaten by a zombie Elvis.
I tell the bus driver, "Hit it, chief!"
He closes the doors, like Noah rising up the ramp on the last pair of giraffes and letting the heathens drown as we drive slowly through the crowd. "I Think I Love You" plays quietly over the bus speakers and the Slate Girls ebb gently away as we make our way down the strip.
Riley and me are looking out the back window as the crowd waves goodbye to us. The zombie Slate Girls, whichever those three are named, the black one, the pretty one, and the British one, are mingling with the crowd. They're chomping off arms that simultaneously reach out for them (as the rock stars they are), and pull back in horror at the zombies they are. Only some of the crowd doesn’t pull back so fast and quickly get autographs in the shape of bite marks.
We stop at the front of the Olive Garden, and then one of the Amazon's speaks up. A tall, exotic Venezuelan goddess, looks like she's going to make a toast. Riley grabs my arm, "I think I'm going to get sick."
"Oooh. Lemme find a bag, here, use my jacket. It’s a rental," I say.
"May I have your attention, please," the Goddess says. The driver turns off the music, and opens the door. Another Amazon reaches up (from the front seat...doesn't even leave her seat) and flips the door handle and closes the doors. The driver stares at her through his rear view mirror. I feel like I am back on a school bus.
"Thank you," the Goddess says.
The bus is quiet. She whispers something to the driver. There's a pause, then the bus lurches forward as the driver grinds his way through the gears.
"Hey!" I yell. There's a murmur through the bus. "Are we taking a detour around back? Did I miss something? Stop the bus!"
Riley holds my hand, "Everything is going to be OK."
"What's going on here, Riley? Did you book another Olive Garden for the reception?"
She answers by looking out the window.
That's when I notice that besides me and
the bus driver, everyone else is Amazons.
"Where's your father? Where are Sissy and Ma?" I ask. "I’m getting a sinking feeling that this ain't the tour of Italy I was hoping for, is it?"
Riley looks at me and pats my leg, "Honest, I didn't know they would pick today to do it, but it makes sense. I wouldn't just leave without taking you with me. But I'm packed. It was clever, you know?"
"What the hell are you talking about? Hey Riley, fill me in with what the heck is going on here."
"We're leaving. The Amazons. We're getting out of the country before it's too late."
"So when did this all occur?"
She’s quiet.
“You’re so cute when you’re zipping it,” I say.
"Thanks, you've always been so sweet to me."
"This almost, heh-heh, sounds like we're saying goodbye. But when did you come to this decision?"
"I was told you can't go. When we do go, I mean. To South America. But not today. We can't leave today. We're just married," she says out loud. Then she says it louder, "Sophia, we're married. Doesn't that stand for anything?"
Sophia is the Venezuelan Goddess; she just looks coldly at us from the front of the bus. Her head sways with the rocking bus like a cobra; she lulls us into submission with her swaying beauty and cold metallic stare.
"So what are you saying, this is it? Let me guess, we're going to the airport, but no little boys allowed?"
"You're the biggest man I know," she starts with the waterworks.
"Don't do that, you'll make a mess of your mascara. You don't want to look like a raccoon on your wedding day."
"Our wedding day," she sniffles.
"Sure it is," I say. There's a long awkward silence as we drive toward the airport. Some of the girls have stripped down to mid riff shirts, shiny silver and gold halter tops, and skimpy outfits. They wear clothes that gather stares from afar, and divert stares from nearby. Nobody wants to be accused of ogling such beauty. These are the girls that, when they walk in a room, conversations go quiet, women cling to their men, and men assure their women with lies. There is nobody prettier than a Vegas show girl. Except maybe a Rockette, but that's another chapter, and it's coming up soon.
We get to the airport, and the Amazons are all business. They were the first organized gang to take action. They had their operation wired tight. We all get off the bus.
"Riley, where in the Amazon are you guys setting up shop, I would think...being your husband, I have a right to know, don't I?"
She looks down at me and shakes her head. Then she hugs me, and starts with the water works.
"So I will never get to know little Riley Jr., huh?"
The water works stop as Sophia walks close, and puts her arm around Riley. Riley's demeanor changes.
"It's not like that. This is about survival," Sophia says.
"Can it, lady. I'm talking to my wife of all of 45 minutes, the least you can do is let us have our goodbyes."
Sophia puckers her lips and blows me a kiss. I swat it away. Riley smiles.
"See?" I say. "Stay here with me. We'll manage. You know we can survive together. I got good ideas."
"I know you do, but this is for now. For now, me and Riley Jr. have to think about making it through the tough times ahead. The girls have planned it all out. You have nothing to worry about."
“I grew up without a dad, Riley. My parents divorced when I was a kid. So did yours. You remember what it was like growing up with your dad around once or twice a month, don’t you?”
“I’m going with the best odds here,” she says, waving her pretty hands around all her friends.
“Odds. Well, when in Vegas, you gotta go with the odds,” I mutter.
I look at her and she starts in with the water works again. We hug. Then I have one of my pigeon epiphanies.
"The doves!" I say.
"Oh Gawwwd," says Riley...whenever I talk birds, it brings out the New Yorker in her. "Now is not the time to talk about your birds."
"Aha," I say. "Now is the perfect time. The doves over here," I go over to our wedding luggage...well, Riley's luggage. One bag is mine. Not really a bag, a small cage. Two of Spike Grindstone's best white pigeons.
"These guys are Spike's strongest flyers. Now if ever there comes a time when you need me...you have a change of heart, or suddenly you girls realize you need men to propagate the species, you just let these birds go, and they'll fly back where I'll be waiting."
"You're brilliant!" she says.
"Shh. We don't want to bring suspicion down on our little scheme. So you remember how to care for them?"
"I know, I know, it's all you ever talk about."
"OK, good. Make sure no one ever tries to eat them, and you don't have to let both go at once. That way you can send a message out at a time, and we could converse. There will be some lag, of course."
"How much lag?" she asks.
"Depends on how far south you guys end up. Months, maybe. Never give up hope that these birds will find me. They will. Spike had them flown in from New York on their own wings."
She hugs me and almost breaks my spine, "I feel so much better knowing now we're not saying goodbye forever."
"Me too."
So that is that. I rub her belly goodbye. She gets on the plane. I help some of the straggler show girls escape as the weeks wear on. That's how I became a slave, remember?
It was one of those days when I stopped being a slave for the Prince that I got word back from Riley. I was making the Prince hot tea, which, in the desert when it's a thousand degrees, doesn't go over very well…
"Fancy Pants," the Prince said, stirring his tea, "our time in this desert has come to an end. I...I set you free."
"Free, as in...free man?"
"As far as I'm concerned. My uncle told me there would be no room for you on the chopper. I leave you to your own devices. I wish you well on your journey, and remember, never let the camel in your tent at night."
"My what in who?"
He sighs. "Your camel in your tent. The old Arabian parable. The Sheik is in the desert with his camel. He sets up camp. It is very cold at night in the desert. The camel, cold and shivering, pleads with the Sheik to allow him to warm just the tip of his nose in the tent. The Sheik relents to the camel's begging. Then, after the Sheik falls asleep, the camel awakens him. He pleads to let him warm his ears. The Sheik again relents. Then the camel asks to warm his neck. Then his first hump. Then his second. Until, it is the middle of the night, and the Sheik finds himself sleeping out in the cold as the camel takes up all the room in the tent. Remember this story on your journey. Goodbye."
"The uh, who's the camel in the story?" I ask.
"That is for you to figure out. You are a free man as far as I'm concerned. Be wary of those you meet on your path."
"Don't trust whitey, right?"
He winks at me, "You got that right, baby."
Speaking of babies, I rush to Spike Grindstone's house outside of Vegas. It's in a suburb that has been abandoned of both zombies and marauders. It was abandoned long ago in the great Foreclosure drought during the Occupy whatever movements. It's been weeks since I been here, and my freedom could not have come sooner, because I know the bird seed I left out had run out long ago.
I used my head. Spike's water was never turned off, so I set his irrigation system up to water a bunch of the seed in his back yard. And sure enough, a small flock of pigeons scatters as I run through the yard feeding off the seeding plants.
I scare them up to their coop on the roof. I look inside for white pigeons. None. Days turn to weeks. Weeks to months. But only two months. In the heat of July, I see a white pigeon circling overhead. I climb up to the roof, and scatter the birds from the coop. They fly up, higher and higher. The white pigeon is twice as fast. I let Spike's birds go soft with lack of regular exercise. There is no one around in this desolate time of mine to even talk to, much less race pigeons against.
Then I think about Dodge. Dodge, the arr
ogant. Dodge, who threw a hissy fit when Spike left me his birds. Dodge who told me in no uncertain terms the next time we met, he would shoot me where I stood. I laughed at him, and said I would do the same to him if only he could stand. He wheeled into his bunker and shut the metal door. When the door closed, it sounded with the ceremony of a gong ending our friendship.
That's when I see a flock of birds fly out from the far southwest towards my flock.
"Dodge's birds," I say to myself. "Will I be damned."
Dodge lives about thirty miles from Spike's house, deep in the desert, in a home that he converted into an handicap accessible apocalypse bunker.
Dodge's birds race towards mine, and mine are too slow to do anything but shift directions, hoping to confuse the new flock. It doesn't work. Now all the birds are one huge flock, including the white pigeon. They circle over and over, trying to tire each other out.
That's when I see the white pigeon hitting his stride. He is toying with my birds and Dodge's all along. He starts leading them clockwise, then he tumbles, it looks like he's falling from the sky, and he shifts the flock counter clockwise. I start getting up hope. Sure enough, half of Dodge's birds fly into the coop when I open the door and signal the birds to come in.
I wait, and when I see the white pigeon sit up on the highest part of the coop, I go in with the birds. I chase the bird around the coop, and then I corner him and grab him. There's a note on his leg. I pull it off, and it's sprayed with Riley's perfume!
On one side of the note has longitude and latitude numbers on it. They don’t make sense, I assume it's where Riley is staying at. On the back is a small drawing in ink, with Riley holding a baby in her arms. Wow. My heart skips. Then my heart sinks.
Dodge is the only within walking distance who can get me down south fast.
Mental note to self: Do not bring up walking distance to Dodge. Use a different expression.
I scribble a quick note and attach it to one of Dodge's birds. One that looks like a leader perched high in the coop.
I throw the bird in the air and clap my hands as he tries to go back in the coop. He's a well-trained bird, loyal to this part of the flock. His girlfriend must be inside, but I'm not letting her out. He needs a reason to come back. Finally the bird goes up high and starts circling around. He's doing this, thinking the other birds are going to somehow magically escape the coop and join him. He gives up after an hour and makes a beeline towards Dodges.
I sit on the roof and wait. About an hour later his bird flies back, and he circles for a bit, then lands on the coop. I entice him to the ground with some birdseed I scrounged up when I was bored these past few weeks. Picking at the ground with my birds, hoarding what I could. Anyway, I grab the bird once he's filled, and turn him over and take the note off his leg.
The note reads, "Haha!"
I scribble another note, and me and Dodge talk for a few days. It's that gay, bromance stuff that happens between two guys who have known each other for a long time. I'd rather not get into it. A lot of inside jokes, a lot of ego stroking. Soon enough, Dodge invites me to his house/bunker.
I borrow a bike from one of Spike's neighbors, and it takes me about half a day of biking through the scenic routes to get to Dodge's. Scenic routes are dried washes and back alleyways. When I arrive, I hear a noise that is hardly heard anymore: the sound of an engine. It's his turbo charged, swooped up GMC van. Diesel. Working as a generator. Electricity. Solar panels everywhere. Then I see a camera perched on a pole swing towards me as I bike up his driveway. I smile and wave at it.
I walk up to a stone fence, and follow the fence around to a metal gate. If anyone really wanted to get in, the fence is only six foot high. It's all part of Dodge's delusion of everyone wanting what he has. But right now I need him, so I fight the urge of hopping his rickety fence to show how futile his efforts at stopping bandits really are.
I hit the buzzer, and his voice crackles over a speaker.
"State your business, please." Another camera above the gate swings down at me.
I look up at it, and resign myself to interacting with Dodge, "Tis I, my lord, your humble and faithful servant."
"And who do you serve?"
"Come on, man, let me in."
"Who do you serve?"
I swear to myself, and then press down the buzzer. "I serve Lord Dodge, Supreme Master of the Universe, more powerful than Skeletor, and able to leap...you know what? Forget it, I can't do this anymore."
I start walking away and Dodge cackles over the speaker, "Wait. Where are you going?"
I walk back and hit the buzzer, "Dude, I said some things I shouldn't have said and I'm sorry. But making me grovel and beg to see my wife and kid, I'm not doing it anymore. You see this ring around my eye?"
The camera lens spins slightly.
"Yes, what is that? You get into a fight? You look like that dog on the Little Rascals."
"Yeah, Petey. I'm a slave now. If you owe a debt that you can't pay, people make you a slave. This is the mark of a slave. For the past three months I've been groveling to eke out a meager existence."
Dodge's voice, ever condescending, "So what is any different about your circumstances now?"
I stop and think, "I got my pride, you know. I can make it down south on my own. I was just curious if you wanted to come along is all. But I see you're the same old Dodge. Living a fantasy life where you just don't accept who you are today because you were a fool when you were younger and got your legs lopped off. Like that was some divine act of mercy."
"It was, though. It forced me to grow beyond my rugged good looks and use my mind."
"But Dodge, being in a wheelchair didn't humble you at all; it just made you more arrogant."
Long story short, back when I first moved to Vegas, I was all set to profess my love to Riley. I meet up with Dodge, this was before he became a paraplegic. He was rich, financially set for life. His dad was a plastic surgeon. Boob jobs. I convince Dodge to go with me in one of his many sports cars to a club (I met Dodge parking cars, he always had the coolest rides). This one club is where I know Riley goes on Saturday nights. Long story short, Dodge is blathering on about how he doesn't need money, or women, or cars, or friends...or eyes or hands to drive his precisely made fine German engineered BMW. He swerves head on into a minivan, kills a mother on her way to work at the 11-7 night shift at Our Lady of Mercy General Hospital. The same hospital the paramedics take me and Dodge to. The nursing staff has no mercy on us once they find out who Dodge killed. His legs were mangled to the point they had to amputate them that night. His dad was furious, because he knew his son’s legs didn’t really need to be lopped off. He takes his anger out on me, though not directly. I went through the windshield, and my already ugly mug is nothing but minced meat. He recommends one of his doctor ‘friends,’ who it turns out is one of the worse plastic surgeons in the country. This guy not only makes me look more like Paul Williams, he also grafts half my scalp over my face, making me bald as a cue ball. Why he didn't take skin off my butt? I'll never know. That's what bad doctor's do. But fortunately, I could walk after the accident. With Dodge? He claims the accident made him super human, like he has proven he is immortal.
Only problem is the chicks were no longer digging Dodge's new wheels, and he sank into a depression masked with illusions of grandeur. I could go on and on with stories about Dodge, but deep down, I blame him and his arrogance for giving me riveting headaches once a month. Or when I look in a mirror, and it ain't me staring back. I try to forgive and forget, but this guy just doesn't learn.
I walk away, this time for good, and I hear the electronic lock on the metal gate click open. I go in, and there's an audible chirp as I pass through the gate. I walk up the ramp that leads to his front door. Another camera, another electronic lock buzzes, and I open the door.
His house is small, and well maintained. I have to give the guy credit, for someone without legs he gets a lot more done then most people. His walls are adorned with
oil paintings of different birds that he painted himself. Self-taught. Some in flight, others perched. There's one abstract painting that he says is an egret hunting a frog, but I don't see it.
Dodge wheels into the living room, "Howdy."
"Hey," I say.
"Well, come on in, I got lunch just about cooked."
We eat roasted pheasant and fresh mashed potatoes, food that Dodge grows out behind his house in that dusty desert. His border collie with the one white eye and one blue eye comes over for table scraps. I oblige her with a pheasant carcass.
"Why...why do you do that when I specifically say 'Do not feed the dog at the table?'" he asks. "It's like you're a little kid."
"So what, Dodge? You still have that girl what's her name around?"
"No, she ran off a few months ago. I've been flying solo, less to worry about. Also gives me time for my studies. I learned Aikido. I can hip-throw you if you try to grab me," he says matter of fact, robotic like.
His hair has started receding, more than when I saw him last, "Two years, has it been?"
"Three. I couldn't make that one convention; there was a doctor in Michigan who was making real advances growing artificial limbs by using a 3D printer. Then, like I promised, apocalypse. Wow, I can only imagine all the suffering of the idiots who never listened to me. Apparently, some of what I taught you must have rubbed off. You're still alive."
So are a lot of people, I want to say. I fall into old habits, "If it weren't for the heads up, I would be a goner."
"How is it out there? I get mixed reports on my radio." Ever since become handicapped, Dodge has weaned himself off from the masses of idiots, as he calls them. First, it was just blogs, a habit that was completely foreign to me. Whose life is so important that people read their day to day events? Mind boggling. Then he got off the internet, and started just doing HAM radio stuff. At some point, he was planning on going just carrier pigeon.
"Hey, remember that idea you had about pigeons being the main source of communicating?"
"Communique," he corrects me.
"Communique? Communication, right?"
"No, people need to be brief with what they need to say. Save their breath. Streamline humanity. Strive to simplify the language. Cut things to the bone. People should communicate as I do. Brief. To the point. Direct. A news headline, nothing more. Exactly the type of message to transport by way of carrier pigeon. Who. What. Where. Why, and sometimes how. Why? Have you implemented my idea?"
"Sort of, only I went the route of flooding the skies with nonsense. Like twitter, and facebook."
"How mundane. No doubt there are droves of morons who are sending up pictures of kittens with subtitles such as, 'Hang in there' and 'I hate Mondays', correct?"
"Yeah, there's a market. Anyway, Dodge, let's get down to brass tacks. I'm married now."
"I already knew that."
"Yeah, well, the thing about it is-"
"You already told me why you're here, there is no 'thing about' needing a favor of me, is there?"
"Well, I suppose, when you put it that way, yeah, you would be doing me a favor...but there's something in it for you too."
"Malaria? Mosquitoes? Gangrene? Starvation? Marauding? Sexual deviancy? Cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery? Move to a land where a non-native will likely die of bloated intestines within a week, or days?"
"Well, I don't know about the sexual deviant part so likely to happen, you know."
"Oh! Humor as a defense mechanism? Well here's a joke for you. My answer. No. Go on without me. I wish you luck in your journey."
"So it's like that, is it Dodge?"
He starts wheeling his way into the kitchen, his wheels squeaking on the marble tile. His upper arms are huge from years of wheeling and lifting weights.
"You know”, I say,” the last guy that wished me that had a story about a camel. Something about not letting your camel into your tent at night, otherwise you'll find yourself out in the cold. Only I got a different anecdote my mother taught me. It's easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than a rich man to make it through the gates of heaven."
"Religion. Marvelous? Which should we talk about?"
I have him, I sink to old habits. "Well, we could talk about the all-powerful, omnipotent Dodge. But that one's been talked to death. Instead, let's talk about the rubber meeting the road, right Hotshot?"
"Go on," Dodge says, spinning around to face me. Sitting in his chair like a chariot, ready to run me over as soon as I make a mental slip up, or make a straw man argument, or misquote, or state a statistic with no footnote.
"You're always talking about how people are leeches, right? Morlocks? Welfare, ruining the country, how the scaffolding to the heavens is built with the souls of the damned?"
"I stand by my arguments of days gone by, and Zombies proves my point. People will flounder and die without help."
"I'm not going to debate you, Dodge. I've lost enough arguments-"
"I'd wager to say you haven't won any," he says, raising his eyebrows smugly.
"But I will say this. You're half the man you claim to be not because you sit on that chair like some brainiac King. But because you do nothing...nothing with all that knowledge you claim to have. You know. You sit and wheel yourself around here, and call into town, and befriend some schmuck like me to come and paint your house. Or work on your car, like that one guy you had coming over. And sure, some of the work you do yourself, but where you are limited, you're just as much a leech as the next guy. People need people, you know. There's another saying. Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Go down south. Teach people. Teach people to be better, you're so smart. You don't need legs to influence a child, or teach an old person new tricks. I'm offering you hope, the chance to rebuild. A new world. Or would you rather sit around here pointing out how hopeless everyone is but you?"
He looks at me, and then he laughs. He folds his yoked up arms up behind his head, and casually glances at the mountainous biceps poking up.
"I thought so," I say. "Have a nice life, pal. See you in the funny pages."
I go to leave. I expect him to stop me, but he doesn't. I go past the gate, and anticipate his baritone voice to say, "Hold on"...no voice. I get on my bike and peddle away.
I make it down towards the scenic route, which is basically a dry wash that runs towards Grindstone's suburb. I figure biking will be the easiest way to go down south. Load up a little cart with supplies, few spare tires, some tools, some of that canned food I've been dining off of. In a year, I will be in the Amazon. Maybe less even if I get a boat. A sailboat.
I'm day dreaming about life in the Amazon with Riley and Riley Jr. when a Piper twin engine Seminole glides up behind me, and comes to a rest. A door pops open, and me and Dodge fly off.
"No dog?" I ask.
"Streamline," he answers.
I shrug.
He lands the plane just a few minutes later on the long road leading into Grindstone's subdivision. What took me hours to peddle took us only minutes in the plane.
"How soon before we get to these coordinates?" I show him the note from Riley. He immediately flips it over to look at the picture. He says nothing; he looks at the picture like a Xerox machine scans a piece of paper.
He hands the note back, "Two weeks, figuring stopping and securing fuel carefully. We're a flying billboard up here, you know. There are tradeoffs with everything...even taking advice from parking attendants has some pluses and minuses."
"Meh, my argument was pretty weak, you have to admit?"
"I'm just giving you a lift. I have no intention of dying in the jungle and wandering around as a corpse. You've scratched my back more than once. We're even after this, deal?"
"Well, just give me a minute."
He kills the motor, and I run off into the ghost town subdivision. I make it to Spike's house, and don't worry, I won't scare you with a story like, "I creep inside, peering around each room as I make my way to the roof, wondering if Zombie
Spike Grindstone has finally returned, sitting in his favorite chair in his living room."
Nope. No need, as soon as I walk up the driveway, there is Zombie Spike Grindstone, off to o