Tracklist:
Missing Cleveland – Scott Weiland
Major Tom (Voellig Losgeloest) – Peter Schilling
Why Does It Always Rain On Me? – Travis
7
The ambulance swayed through the curving mountain highway, lit by occasional flashes of sunset. Dean emptied another bottle of water into his mouth and sprayed it full-force from the passenger window.
“You knew it was Tapatio and still drank it,” yelled Lin from the front.
“Of course, Lin,” said Dean. “I’m not used to people lying to my face.”
The fire in his mouth faded, doused by the water or because every nerve in his mouth had been annihilated. Dean climbed into the back and slumped in an office chair, hoping to gain a few minutes of sleep during the bouncing, high-speed journey to the east. Frantic whispers between Emerson and Fanta interrupted his plan.
“Perhaps you ladies should rest,” said Dean. “Not to be presumptuous or anything, but it’s getting dark.”
Emerson smiled. “We are not sleepy.”
Dean lifted a bag of Funyuns. “Hungry?”
“No thank you. In Kamchatka we call this kind of food ... how do you say in English? Waste from sewer.”
“I see. Since you’ve declined my offer of a tasty treat, how can I help?”
“You and I have to marry.”
“I thought we were beyond that. Didn’t I say yes, at least tentatively? If you’re worried about the Cuban situation, that was cleared up years ago. If it hadn’t, I’d be like a Japanese fog. A bigamist. Big-a-mist? Never mind.”
“We must marry quickly,” said Emerson. “If Duke Nichego catches up to us––he will definitely catch up to us––there is a smaller chance he will commit murder.”
“I agree with the implication that death is something to avoid.”
“You will probably still be murdered. The Duke is like that.”
“Ah.”
“He is very good at catching people, killing people, and stealing socks,” said Emerson. “These are his only hobbies.”
“I see.”
Emerson touched Dean’s cheek with cool fingers.
“Do not be sad, Mr. Dean Cook. If we are caught, I promise we will die together, no matter what.”
“I guess that’s something. Dying alone is so much different from dying together.”
“We will use this,” said Emerson.
She held up a silver-plated, two-shot derringer. Dean used a finger to push the barrel away from his nose.
“I appreciate the romantic gesture and everything, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Emerson pouted. “Can we bribe a marriage judge? They are easy to find in my country.”
“Reno is on the way,” shouted Lin from the cab. “We’ll go through it tonight.”
“And there you have it,” said Dean somberly. “Out of all the crazy things that I expected to happen today, a shotgun marriage in Reno wasn’t one of them. In level of oddity it ranks slightly above being tackled in the airport while dressed as Godzilla, and slightly below a pancake in the shape of Leonard Nimoy’s face. Absolutely shocking.”
Emerson’s eyes glistened. “You don’t wish to marry me?”
Fanta reached forward and slapped Dean in the face, making two people with tears in their eyes.
“That hurt, you big buffalo! Wait, don’t translate that,” said Dean, and held Emerson’s hand. “Of course I’ll marry you. As you know, authors in America have literally dozens of female fans. You’re the most beautiful one of all, as it happens, and the only one to touch my heart or actually be in front of me now.”
“I am not asking for real marriage,” said Emerson. “Only paper marriage. There is colony of Kamchatkan people in West Virginia. If you take us there, we cancel marriage and you continue to be single playboy author.”
“I’ve never heard of Russians in West Virginia, and I think someone would have said something. News travels fast in Appalachia.”
“Do you know Hare Krishna? My people have colony on mountain next door. Every day they are fighting each other like cats and dogs in the rain. They came from Kamchatka to work at clock-radio factory, but when it shut down many people stayed on the mountain.”
“Sounds a bit weird to me.”
“It is not weird. It is honest people making clock radio!”
“Fine, fine. If this colony isn’t too far from Charleston we’ll take you there. Won’t this duke find you in West Virginia?”
“He is picky bird and will not enter the state,” said Emerson confidently. “He says many times on famous TV show Kamchatka Love Talent that West Virginia women are wide like truck and stretch socks to breaking point.”
“That’s exactly how I feel right now––microscopic fabric over an elephantine foot.”
Emerson let go of his hand. “I don’t understand. Are you disgusting sock thief like Duke Nichego?”
“No, dear soul. I’m just tired and stressed-out. Speaking of that, what about your parents? They have to be looking for you.”
Emerson shook her head. “I am orphan found on piece of floating wood after storm. My parents are probably fisherman from Japan––this is why other children in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky call me squinty-eye yellow devil girl––but nobody knows. I am raised by Red Star Children’s Home. Many times American couples come to home and try to buy me, but I kick and scream, and they go away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I frightened a couple last week very bad,” said Emerson. “I think I sent the woman to a nervous hospital.”
“Last week? I thought you worked in a department store.”
“Yes, of course I did. How else does orphanage increase revenue stream and provide yearly return on investment?”
“How old are you again?”
“Why do you ask? Are you disgusting child-pervert?”
“Of course not. But you have to be eighteen to get married, at least in Nevada.”
Emerson and Fanta engaged in a bout of heated whispering. At last Emerson nodded and turned back to Dean.
“I am eighteen,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Fanta cracked her knuckles in a quite obvious fashion and stretched her arms, displaying substantial musculature that did not go unnoticed by Dean.
“Eighteen! Yes, of course,” he said. “Lin? Perhaps it’s time for me to drive.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pull over as soon as possible. In fact, the next second or two would be extraordinarily satisfactory.”
Unsecured objects and passengers flew through the air of the back compartment as the ambulance swerved to a stop. Lin jumped out of the driver’s seat, sprinted to the side door, and swung it open, causing Dean to tumble out the door and onto the concrete shoulder.
“Not that fast,” he groaned.
“You’re covered in blood!”
Gobs of red liquid covered Dean’s face and front of his shirt. Horrified, he stared at his hands, then raised them dramatically to the sky like in Platoon with Willem Dafoe, only not as good because he wasn’t in Platoon or Willem Dafoe.
“Why? I’ve got so much left to give. I just need more time!”
Emerson waved a red bottle with a missing cap.
“It is ketchup, not blood.”
Dean nodded. “Of course. I knew that.”
He scrambled to his feet and took the bottle from Emerson in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, then tossed said bottle into the dark mountains in another manner he hoped was considered also nonchalant.
“I hope you weren’t hit by any condiment missiles,” he said.
“I am good girl!” said Emerson. “How dare you say that!”
“Sorry, I meant a bottle of ketchup or mustard, not that other thing.”
Emerson blushed and said nothing as she cleaned Dean’s face with a handkerchief.
“Can I ride in front with you?” she asked.
“Only if you’re ready for a cr
azy good time, little lady. Are you?”
“No.”
Dean shrugged. “You can still ride in front.”
He eased into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel. He remembered what his tai chi teacher had said about meditation, and inhaled a lungful of air.
“Are you feeling sick to stomach?” asked Emerson.
Dean let out the breath he’d been holding. “Me and cars ... it’s not a good combination. Not like peanut butter and chocolate, or marshmallow and chocolate. Actually, anything and chocolate. I don’t have good experiences with moving vehicles. Or chocolate.”
“But everyone in America loves the car,” said Emerson. “Route 66, Boss Mustang, Chevy Is a Rock, and Rider of Knights starring Comrade David Hasselovich.”
“Luckily, I’m not everyone in America.”
“Stop gabbing, Dean, and get a move on,” yelled Lin from the back.
Dean put the ambulance into gear and jerked the wheel onto the freeway amidst blaring honks from passing cars.
“Are you afraid to drive?”
“Not in the technical sense of the word,” said Dean. “It’s just that there are too many negative memories and federal court cases associated with my family and cars. I’ve always avoided driving in general and especially on my birthday, but we should be fine. This isn’t agricultural equipment or a van in the shape of a Tapatio bottle.”
“Today’s your birthday? Happy birthday!”
“Thank you, but it’s never happy, pleasant, or even safe until it’s over,” said Dean. “My birthdays are always filled with the worst cataclysms and accidents of happenstance, if a man in the twenty-first century can use that phrase.”
“Even so, I hope you have a happy one,” said Emerson.
“You’re very kind. Wait a moment––what time is it?”
“Eight-oh-three,” said Emerson.
Dean twisted a knob on the radio. “Of course a girl named after a clock would know. We’ve only missed the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“You’ll see.”
The speakers in the cab popped loudly and Dean lowered the volume.
“––tragedy. The nation is mourning tonight as we learn of the passing––”
“That’s not it,” said Dean, and flipped around the dial.
“–––host of Space Questions and hero to millions of children around the world, suffered the unfortunate but all-too-common fate of celebrities in America––”
“Oh my God,” said Dean.
An electric nervousness filled the voice of the radio announcer, the excitement of a man who knew with factual certainty that this was the high point of his career, but was also oblivious to the other factual certainty that this was the high point of his career.
“How many times have we heard the sad story,” continued the announcer, “of a man shot in the back twelve times and falling from a Las Vegas balcony into a truck packed to the brim with frozen treats? Too many, far too many. For those who have repeatedly emailed our studio, no, the ice cream is no longer for sale. It was confiscated by the police, many of whom suffered indigestion and stomach cramps in the line of duty. Chief Detective Christopher Parsons made quite a scene while on scene by screaming, ‘Do you seriously want these delicious frozen treats to go to waste?’ ”
“This is horrible,” said Dean. “I thought my birthday couldn’t get any worse.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My favorite actor, Nando Phoenix. He’s done it all: TV, movies, books, all the way to Space Questions, the number one show on evening radio. Now he’s dead.”
“What is this Space Questions?”
“Does it even matter? The show is nothing without Nando! Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s hard to explain. You could say it’s a quiz show in space.”
“––brought one of Nando’s oldest friends onto the show tonight. Not that he’s old, I didn’t mean that.”
“Young at heart and old of brain,” came a higher-pitched male voice through the speakers.
“Yes, quite right,” said the interviewer. “Sergio Martinez, known to you in radio and TV land as Dr. Winthrop Braintree of Space Questions, joins us tonight on the broadcast. The final episode of the radio program follows this interview and was recorded only last week. Mr. Martinez, I won’t ask how you are doing tonight because I know that, like all of us, you’re in the depths of despair. Nando’s sudden passing has been a shock to all of us.”
“Well, Alan––”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, of course. I never expected to wake up at three in the afternoon and find my closest friend dead and covered in Orange Creamsickle,” said Martinez. “Unless I was the one who did it, of course. In that case it wouldn’t have been a surprise, that thing that I did.”
“Did what?”
“Nothing. Let’s scrub and go again. Roll tape!”
“Mr. Martinez, this is a live broadcast,” said the host.
“Of course. That was another joke. Just to make it clear, the thing I said about killing Nando was a joke, and that other thing was also a joke. I’m full of jokes this morning. Evening.”
“Mr. Martinez, I don’t believe humor at this early stage––”
“Is very inappropriate, but that’s how I grieve. Yes, that’s it. I’ve turned my grief into humor and I’m sorry. It was all a joke and quite inappropriate but you must forgive me because Nando was my dearest friend and I’m still dealing with the shock. Not as great a shock as diving headfirst into a truck of delicious, creamy treats, but still a shock. Sorry! That was another joke which I see now and was also inappropriate, Steven.”
“Charlie.”
“It’s ironic that Nando was more of a chocolate Fudgesickle and Magnum fan, but ended up as an ice cream sandwich. Sorry! That was an improper thing to say, I see that now, but it’s also true and I saw it with my own face. Eyes. I meant eyes.”
Emerson sighed. “Can we listen to music? This is boring to death.”
“My dear fake fiancée and future fake divorcée, it’s only a short program that just happens to feature my favorite actor of all time on this entire planet who just died,” said Dean. “Could I listen for a few minutes, please?”
“But I don’t understand these people who are talking. Who is Martinez?”
“He’s an actor,” said Dean. “He and Nando Phoenix starred in a television show thirty years ago called Space Trails. Nando was the captain of a starship exploring the galaxy, and Martinez was his science officer. The show was canceled after only two seasons. Nando went on to star in other television shows, but Martinez struggled to find work. Five years ago they started this radio program called Space Questions, although there was always a strange tension between the two of them, probably because Nando was always in demand as an actor and Martinez wasn’t.”
“Still bored to death,” said Emerson.
“This will only take a few minutes, I promise.”
A passing eighteen-wheeler showered the windshield with mist. The shine of headlights on the water reminded Dean of the moving star-field in the opening of Space Trails. He felt a lump in his throat, possibly from melancholic nostalgia, but probably just indigestion from Tony’s Red Indian Juice.
“––also inappropriate, I agree, Nelson, but as I mentioned before, that’s how I grieve and don’t take that away from me in this terrible moment. That would be cold of you, as cold as frozen stalagmites of orange and vanilla impaling your nostrils. I’m sorry!”
“This could go on forever,” said the host under his breath. “For the twelfth time, my name is Charles Danforth Rice. Don’t go anywhere, faithful listeners, because the final episode of Space Questions is coming up next.”
“Sorry, Charlie.”
“Shut up.”
An orchestral fanfare vibrated the speakers.
“Space ...,” intoned a deep voice. “Questions. The ongoing journey of Captain Sparx and the crew of the U.S.S. Partridge. Imprisoned in an
alien broadcasting studio at the outer rim of the known universe, these brave men and women struggle to escape while at the same time maintain ratings among Rilluscan males in the 280-344 age bracket.”
“Starring Nando Phoenix as Captain James L. Sparx, Thurston St. John-Smythe as Lord Deathclaw, Sergio Martinez as Dr. Winthrop Braintree, and Diedrich Bader as Interrogation Subject 312. Special guest this week: Famed British actor Nick Frost as Thg’thg’thg.”
“Having failed to escape with disastrous results the previous evening, Captain Sparx lay on the floor of his cold, damp cell, and waited for the inevitable summons of Lord Deathclaw.”
“The despair of this dripping, stinking corridor in the center of Asteroid 42 is broken by a quiet tapping sound. The enigmatic Dr. Braintree is using Morse code to communicate with his comrades, believing quite erroneously that an alien civilization capable of interstellar travel cannot understand a few plinks on metal.”
“I know, Braintree,” says Captain Sparx. “But I’m still angry at you.”
“The pattern of metal taps continues.”
“Next time reverse the polarity of the spoon before you hand it to me,” says Sparx. “Dammit, Braintree! You almost blew my face off.”
“Braintree’s repeated, hammered apology is interrupted by the tramp of heavy boots.”
“Good evening, Captain Sparx,” hisses a slithery voice in a British upper-class accent. “I see your laser burns have healed.”
“Come a little closer, treacherous fiend, and I’ll show you,” snarls Sparx.
“Not now, my dear. It’s time for the latest episode!”
Applause and the theme tune boomed through the speakers. As the clapping faded, the slithery voice spoke again.
“Welcome, audience, to tonight’s episode. Captain Sparx and Dr. Braintree face off against Interrogation Subject 312 and our newest captive, Thg’thg’thg.”
Something burbled like a malfunctioning aquarium aerator.
“Save your questions for later, Thg’thg’thg, or I’ll exterminate the last of your disgusting race, who just so happens to be your dear Auntie Melba.”
The crowd applauded.
“First question: When Proxima 427 went supernova, how did the U.S.S. Partridge––”
A loud beep vibrated the speakers.
“Ejected our warp core into the sun,” said Captain Sparx.
“Correct,” said Lord Deathclaw. “That earns you the right to pick the next category.”
“ ‘Ancient Earth Synth-Pop Bands’ for five hundred,” said Sparx.
A frantic bubbling filled the speakers.
“Shut up, Thg’thg’thg,” said Deathclaw. “By the Gods, you’re the most annoying creature on this plane of existence. The Creators were either on strike or visiting the Paris sewers when they designed your disgusting race. Now everyone, for five hundred points, here are the lyrics to a song of ancient Earth: Staring at my shoes, feeling so confused, shot down without a gun, victim of a hit and run, won’t you––”
A horn tooted.
“ ‘Call Me,’ ” said a young man’s voice. “The year was 1985 and the band Go West.”
The audience applauded.
“Interrogation Subject 312 is correct, for once,” said Lord Deathclaw. “The spiders I released into his cell last night have done wonders for his mental clarity.”
A snide burble was followed by a high-pitched blast and the sound of sizzling fat.
“Now the Thg’thg’thg people really are extinct,” said Deathclaw.
“There’s still Aunt Melba,” said Interrogation Suspect 312.
“Her? I lied––she’s been dead for ages.”
“For God’s sake, man! You didn’t have to kill him,” said Captain Sparx. “You could have laser-castrated him like Braintree. Let him knit doilies or collect flowers the rest of his life.”
“Buckets of fun and rose-colored glasses,” whispered Dr. Braintree.
The speakers crackled.
“This is Charlie Rice with breaking news––a young girl has been kidnapped in California, right before her marriage to the richest man in Kamchatka. This strange tale becomes even stranger when you consider that I didn’t know there was a place called Kamchatka until ten seconds ago.”
“Take a left at Siberia, Charlie, and you’re there,” came the voice of Martinez.
“How is he still here? Security! Where’s security?”
Dean shut off the radio. “Well, that’s done it.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Emerson. “If we are stopped by American police forces, just pay them in cigarettes and whisky.”
“Good plan but for two points: one, I don’t have any cigarettes or whisky, and two, I don’t have any cigarettes or whisky. We need a new ride or we’re as flushed as a goldfish the day before vacation.”