***
Troy drove towards his destination into the bordering coniferous that circled Awful, Ohio, searching for the man that he sought to help him complete the script. But, before he could enter the coniferous, Mad Ted’s Uckin Hot Auce warehouse stood before him, with routine attempting to lure Troy and his blue hatchback back into the parking lot.
Troy had dismissed his hot sauce career that morning, which he had replaced with the ambition of the script. As Troy approached the warehouse, he could see the first shift flooding from the parking lot into the warehouse like an eager mob, fighting to be first for a changing chute that would prep them for a strong eight hour work period, exchanged for a requisite of monies for a fraction more of their lives.
The third shift swarmed from the exit doors, fresh from the changing chutes, like a wild herd with eager eyes exploding from their skulls, held back with optic-nerve restraints, yearning to pollinate Awful, Ohio with their newly earned monies. They all raced to their cars, ready to embrace their materialistic lives, surging from the parking lot like stampeding wildebeests. Troy rode his hatchback like an overseeing sheriff on horseback, cautiously approaching the entrance of the warehouse that the fleeing prodigals were exiting.
“Yah!” Troy said, as he pressed the gas pedal like a cracking spur tearing into the hide of a flesh-filled horse. Routine was a black hole that attempted to suck Troy and his life back into the parking lot of the hot sauce warehouse, returning him and Lacy to their desolate existence, as he drove down the road towards the entrance.
However, the hatchback, fueled with perseverance, had over powered the vacuum force of the entrance of the parking lot, quickly cruising past the entrance, and merging with the other vehicles that were released from the gates. He had broken free from the routine tracks that had been directing his every movement, dictating his life from marionette strings. Troy Slushy was released from the life enslaving reigns of his job by denying the eternal reoccurrence that had firmly structured his life for that past twenty one years. His rusty, blue hatchback sputtered away freely, never again having to be caged within the confining parking lot of the hot sauce warehouse.
He rode steadily with the other evanescent riders, embracing the traffic light that attempted to cease them from their destiny. They lined up like the start of a NASCAR race. The light was brimstone red, blazing with force and demands, strong enough to damn the onslaught of rampaging consumers, eager to exchange their recently received paychecks for materialistic property.
The left arm of Troy dangled from the idling hatchback window. The cool air of freedom felt good, gently combing a breeze through the hair breaking through the skin of his arm. His heavy head fell back, searching for the headrest, as it landed softly on its torn fabric, soaking in the peace while waiting for the traffic light’s release. Troy’s moment of relief cleared his mind from the hot sauce anxiety. The secession from routine was enlightening, expanding through the newly renovated, cognitive space, which Troy devoted to the progression of the movie script, thinking about how he was going to complete it. He analyzed the purpose of a movie, its societal impact, and psychological influence that it would tarp over the audience, pitting the critique of all viewers against the correctness of the movie in a cinematic combat, contending the prestige and realness of the movie against the pouty opinions of film aficionados. And with this, Troy Slushy was able to conclude: “A script needs to be authentic and accurate with its story, exposing the plot and characters honestly.”
Troy Slushy was pleased with this diagnosis, raising his eyebrows in delight, revealing the whites of his teeth through a pure smile. And with this presumptively accurate hypothesis, the completion of the script earned a little more security, when Troy Slushy determined that the most effective way to construct an accurate, authentic and honest story would be to extract it from his authentic surroundings.
His plan was to have Baltazar Garcia recite lines from the script to anyone who was uninvolved with the script. The person that was uninvolved with the script would react naturally to Baltazar as he recited the scripted lines, and Troy could observe from a distance that natural reaction of the uninvolved person. They would do this until all of their recordings would construct the authentic script that Troy and Lacy Slushy needed.
“That is it!” Troy enthusiastically thought, as the rewards of exhuming his mind from the demands of Mad Ted were already paying off. His relief poured like a broken damn, swelling his mind into a saturated sponge of pleasure and accomplishment. For twenty one years, Troy Slushy had been a victim of the demands of Mad Ted’s Uckin Hot Auce. And for the first time in twenty one years, Troy Slushy had been relieved of every anxiety that had birthed from the conveyor belt duty. He was charmed at the results of his first attempt to think beyond the best interest of Awful, Ohio, as he was immediately rewarded with the return of his life.
“Hey Troy, showing up a little late, aren’t ya?” hollered Lou Stooles humorously, gloating from a brand new, mint-conditioned convertible, idling directly beside Troy and his blue hatchback. The sobering sound of Lou Stooles hog-tied Troy, returning him back to Awful, Ohio from his self rewarding accolades, as he lifted his head up from the headrest and looked out the passenger window to see Lou Stooles puffing on a cigarette with his miniature hands. His smile was twisting in pretension, with an ostentatious laugh exhausting in an ejaculating cackle that squirted inside of the blue hatchback that Troy was resting in.
Sickness had overcome Troy at the repulsive sight and sounds of Lou Stooles. He wanted to curl to the bottom of the hatchback floor, regressing into a prenatal entity, that was immune from the infections of Awful, Ohio. But Troy remembered Lacy, and her sleeping body, safely hiding from the light-exposed ghouls of day, relying on Troy to bring back an award-winning movie script, developed with Baltazar, for him and her to acquire the Behicle, so that they may reside in perpetual darkness, drifting in their newly discovered westward way. Troy knew that the longer it took for the script to be completed, to deliver them to their destination, then the sooner Lacy may wake up without having a script, redelivering her to a permanent relapse that she was vulnerable of having.
“I know what you’re thinking,” responded Lou, still smiling and cackling. “Leather interior, vinyl dashboard,” Lou explained, assuming that Troy was anxiously interested in the new acquisition of his visually appealing, cherry red lipstick colored convertible, just like everyone else had in the warehouse. Lou Stoole’s head was bobbing up and down like a buoy, with arrogant syllables continuously pouring from his mouth in the form of words. He spoke while his hand was caressing the car door like the hips of an adulterous lover. Troy fought off the infected, battling Lou Stooles and his redundant diatribes of vomit, preventing infection with images of Lacy repeating through his mind. But Lou kept talking, “powered windows, heated seats,” elevating his materialistic possession of what was only uniquely folded metal into a higher echelon.
Troy was having a difficult time vaccinating off the utterances. Troy Slushy’s insides were compressing, ready to purge, feeling the infected flowing into his car like seething lava, burning away his objective, with every advertised feature of the new car pretentiously being released from the twisting smile of Lou Stooles. Troy Slushy closed his eyes, ready to surrender, ready to accept everything, wrapping his arms around his cold, shivering body, mumbling, “forgive me, Lacy.”
But the stop light must have been listening to all the features that Lou Stooles was reciting, as it transformed its authoritative hue of brimstone red, into envious green that released the cars from idleness. Troy slammed on the gas pedal, and the rusty, blue, petrified hatchback quickly fled from the other cars, towards the thickly forested coniferous that surrounded the outer banks of the outskirts of Awful, Ohio, where he hoped to find Baltazar Garcia. Lou Stooles took notice of the envious, green light, and remained idled in traffic, reciting more features of his new automobile to the light.
Chapter 9
Your purpose in
life is to discover the purpose of your self.