III: Mormania!
Dixie Doublestacks relaxed in her lounge chair, a makeshift harpoon gun resting on her lap and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Daiquiri in her hand. In the distance a small herd of sheep grazed.
Taking a long drink from her bottle, Dixie raised her gun and took aim at one of the sheep. She fired, watched as it hit its target, and took another drink before starting to reel in her catch.
Dixie sat back in her lounge chair and gazed, content and drunk, at the range of snow-capped mountains in the distance as the airship from which she was hanging soared peacefully toward them. A short way ahead a small plume of smoke drifted up toward the sky. Dixie sat up and looked with something almost like interest.
Below, snug between several large rock formations, was a wagon-train-like circle of trailer homes. Several women mingled in the general area, performing manual labor like hanging laundry, working in various gardens, and fixing cars. Some children played with sticks nearby. One man sat in their midst, in a lounge chair on the back of a pick-up truck. Dixie Doublestacks stared.
“Rex Ponticello, you enterprising whore,” she muttered. She reached for a tin can hanging from a string above her head.
“Doris,” she spoke into the can, “put Mr. Go on the can and tell Clover to get ready to bring her down.”
An old fashioned voice crackled back through the rope. “Just a moment, Ms. Doublestacks,” the voice responded. While she waited, Dixie pounded the rest of the bottle of Boone’s. A moment later Johnny Go’s voice came over the can.
“Ya got one?”
“Yep.”
“Good, cause we’re all outta ninja and I’m starving.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what this is about. You won’t believe who’s set up camp down there.”
“Who?”
“Go to the hatch and see for yourself.”
Up above the hatch opened and Johnny stuck his head out.
“Rex Ponticello, trashin’ it up,” he shouted down to Dixie.
“Look at all those women around him, what the hell is he doing?”
“He’s in Mormon country,” Johnny laughed, “he’s just doing what he does best. And doing it legally!” He pulled his head back inside and could be heard shouting, “Doris, tell Clover to bring it down, and give me a hand bringing Dixie up.”
***
A few moments later the airship Dunstan had landed in a small clearing a few hundred yards away from Rex’s new family. Clover, the large orangutan who served as the ships pilot and navigator, was the first out, and began driving stakes into the ground nearby, tethering the ship. Moments later the side door opened, and the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go, dressed head to toe in a full-on Abe Lincoln suit stepped out, followed by his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks, who was still wearing her Florida dress. You know, the one with the stain on it that looked like a shaved raccoon playing a tub bass.
At the sight of the ship, the children of Rex’s many wives began to crowd the edges of the camp. Barefoot, they stared, whispered, and pointed sticks. Even a few of the women turned to look. Dixie and Johnny took a few brisk steps toward them, but stopped suddenly.
“Why are they staring like that?”
“I think it’s because they haven’t been properly assimilated into society,” Johnny said, looking uncomfortable. “Also, they’re the devil’s spawn.”
“Yeah,” Dixie replied, not taking her eyes off the kids for a second, “it’s like Village of the Damned.” She reached down and picked up a large, red rock. “I’m gonna bring this, just to be safe.”
“Good call. I’ve got some matches, so we can take care of the remains if we-” He stopped suddenly as a voice came over a bullhorn.
“Johnny and Dixie, you no good, Scotch for breakfast, part-time whores! Get your asses over to the throne!”
“Rex!” Johnny shouted back, “We’re scared to walk past your army of mutant weirdo kids. Tell us the password!”
“They’re home schooled. They don’t have any social skills and they’ll flee when you make eye contact,” Rex’s voice crackled over the bullhorn in reply.
Dixie and Johnny did just that, and a moment later they were face to face with their old friend.
Rex sat in the back of an old pickup truck, which was up on blocks and had had the back gate removed. Next to his chair was a cooler filled with ice and some cheap Mexican beer. He had an old shotgun on his lap. He motioned for Dixie and Johnny to join him.
“There’s some chairs folded up in the cab,” he said, taking a long draw from his beer can. It wasn’t until they were situated and had pounded several beers that they spoke again.
“So Rex, I see you got yourself a couple-a wives,” Johnny Go slurred.
“Yeah Rex, how’d that happen, we just saw you a month ago, and you were stickin’ it in that old chick,” Dixie said, as she killed another beer.
“Well, you guys managed to nuke Miami and Margaret died, so my free ride was over. I tossed her in the bay, sold her yacht and hit the road,” Rex looked at his friends.
“So you married all these women?”
“Come on, guys, you know how much easier it is when people do everything for you.” They nodded in agreement. “Besides, they’re kinda like my own personal servants.”
“Wife slaves!” Johnny’s eyes lit up. “Rex, you’re a goddamn genius.”
“What about all these kids, though? Where’d they come from?” Dixie stared, disgustedly, at some small, dirty kids playing with rocks.
“Ah, Dixie, they came with the wives,” Rex answered, “to them, I’m just Uncle Rex. And that’s funny, cause their real dad’s are probably actually their uncles. You see, out here they’re a status symbol; they’re like cattle. The more heads of kids you have, the higher you sit in society. Doesn’t matter how you got ‘em. But don’t get me wrong, I’m hard at work makin’ some more.” Rex paused and took a long drink. “Although, speaking of kids, one or two of my wives may actually be the end result of that time I was passing through here back in ’94, but who am I to nit pick.”
***
Rex, Dixie and Johnny were sitting in the back of the truck, getting progressively drunker when one of Rex’s wives approached the group in a shy fashion. Her eyes met Dixie’s for a moment and she blushed, lowering them to look at her feet.
“Mr. Ponticello, will your guests be staying for supper?”
“Yes, Hannah, I believe they will. If you need an extra set of hands, I reckon Sheila’s about finished rebuilding that carburetor.” The woman nodded and took her leave of the group.
“Hey Rex,” Dixie said, “what’s with the dresses?”
“Oh, the prairie garb? Their heavenly father sayeth they need to be pure and keep the eyes of other men off of 'em. And he’s right, cause they’re mine. But also, and I’m here to tell you that the legends are true, they’ve got to wear that goddamned sacred underwear when they’re out and about. Like a burlap sack. They don’t have to wear it with bikinis, though, so I make ‘em wear ‘em from dusk till dawn.”
Dixie stared open mouthed after Rex’s wife. “And here I am with my boobs and arms and neck hanging out. I’d better go change.” She jumped up and, stumbling, made her way toward the airship.
When she returned a few minutes later she had, indeed, covered her chest, shoulders and arms. She now wore an Indian-inspired linen tunic with a high neckline and flowing long sleeves. It was, however, little more than a long shirt, stopping barely below her crotch. In addition, she had traded her peep-toe red high heel for the more sensible knee-high, fur-lined moccasins. On her head she wore a tiara made of emeralds and corn. Dixie staggered back to the truck.
“Brought some bourbon,” she said, cracking open a new beer and pouring bourbon from the jug into the can. She handed the bottle to Johnny next.
“Nice tiara,” Johnny commented, taking the bourbon from her, “did you get that when you lived in Zanzibar?”
“No,” she replied, “Barkley Square.”
As Johnny passed the bourbon to Rex, a bell rang out across the compound.
“Dinner,” a woman’s voice called out. A stampede of children’s feet followed, headed toward the main, large trailer. Dixie Doublestacks shuddered.
“How do you eat in there with all those dirty kids?"
"Most nights I prefer to take my dinner in my throne out here on the veranda," Rex said, reaching for another beer, "Alpha Mae!" Another of Rex's young wives approached with her eyes lowered to the ground.
"Alpha Mae," Rex continued, "my guests and I will be dining on the veranda tonight. Please bring our dinners out to us." The woman nodded and turned away. Johnny looked after her.
"A guy could get used to this."
***
Chichay Milano reclined in the deep beige expanse of the bench seat of the ‘96 Regal wearing a black wife-beater and a languidly feline manner. She was applying lipstick, using a Sonny & Cher CD as a mirror. Having finished her ablutions, she put the CD in the stereo. Sweaty Mulligan was steering nervously, sipping from one of those little glass eye-drop bottles, which was filled with a phosphorescent, highly viscous gel. They motored down a sparsely populated highway that could have been anywhere.
“You know how sometimes, you’ll just drift off” he asked, “thinking about last Wednesday or how cool you would look on a motorcycle? And then you snap back to reality? I wake up and I’m a six year old boy tied to a pig in 13th century Russia. I always thought it was just interesting, but now…” He paused as he and Chichay exchanged a glance.
“It’s getting to be kind of a problem.”
Before he could continue, Chichay’s cell phone squealed through the soft strains of “I Got You, Babe”. At the touch of a button, two photos flashed across the tiny screen. The first was of a fat, red-nosed elf, like a shaved Santa in a cheap blue suit. The second resembled a Berlin used-book store owner, all cheekbones and tortoise shell frames.
Speeding by on the median, a white dog coupled with a discarded stroller. Chichay scrolled through pages of encrypted files. Sweaty considered the unlikely roadside romance.
“Sorry, babe,” she said without looking up, “now we’ve both got problems. We have to make a little detour in Rapid City. I’m gonna need gear. There’s someone I can use in Sedalia. Head south on 65; two exits down.” There was no response.
“Mulligan?” She jerked her head to look at the driver’s seat, “oh, not again!”
Its driver having disappeared, the sedan veered toward the concrete piling of an overpass. Chichay leapt into the driver’s seat and threw the wheel hard to the right in a last-minute bid to dodge certain doom. The side mirror was shorn away in a shower of sparks and glass but, thanks to her mongoose-like reflexes and lifetime of training in the deadly arts, she and the car were otherwise unharmed. As she righted the vehicle, she spotted a rumpled silhouette shuffling over the horizon. She pulled over next to him and rolled down the window. He was at least five years younger he’d been a minute ago. The tattoo on the back of his hand of a baby asleep on a stingray was new. Same Misfits t-shirt, though. Chichay smiled.
“Sweaty, what the fuck am I gonna do with you? Now we gotta ditch this car.”
“Did you see that dog?!” he asked, eagerly.
***
Two days later Dixie and Doris stood on the balcony of the airship looking down on a second, smaller circle of trailers next to Rex’s. One trailer in the center shook violently from side to side. Directly below the ship a small group of scruffy, barefoot kids stood, staring wide-eyed. They reached their hands trying to grab the ship; some were even jumping pathetically in the air as if to climb aboard. Disgusted, Dixie poured the remainder of her whiskey bottle off the balcony on to the kids. They scattered for a moment before returning to stare at the ship.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with them kids, Ms. Doublestacks,” Doris commented in her nasal 50’s accent, “they just swarmed the ship like they was ants or somethin’.” Dixie continued to stare disgustedly below, so Doris continued, “They sure don’t act like kids. They ain’t playin’ or nothin’.”
“Revolting,” she said as she tossed the empty whiskey bottle down into their midst, hitting a small boy. As before, the group scattered but quickly returned. Dixie turned to Doris.
“Doris, we need to get Mr. Go back up here. That fucking seahorse just said a bunch of numbers and Johnny is too busy nailing his inbred zombies to do anything about it.”
“Well, Ms. Doublestacks, Mr. Clover and me were thinkin’ that maybe the numbers was a place.”
“Doris, you aren’t listening,” Dixie said, “Johnny is in that trailer. The one that’s shaking and squealing. And I can’t go get him because of those mutant kids.”
“But Ms. Doublestacks,” Doris began again. Dixie interrupted her.
“Doris, you’re right! That’s an excellent idea. Go get me my harpoon gun and another bottle of whiskey!” Doris left with a confused look on her face, but returned a few minutes later with Dixie’s requested items.
“Me ‘n Mr. Clover think we figured out what them numbers the seahorse said is for,” Doris said quickly, as Dixie chugged half the bottle of whiskey and began tying the end of the harpoon’s rope to the railing of the airship.
“Yeah, I bet you did, Doris,” Dixie proceeded to pound the remainder of the bottle, then raised her harpoon gun and aimed down at the side of Johnny’s sex trailer.
“But Ms. Doublestacks,” Doris started, but was cut off by the sound of Dixie’s harpoon gun firing, and the ensuing crash as it pierced the side of Johnny’s trailer. Turning to Doris, Dixie said, “Give me your scarf,” and pointed at the silk ascot tied around Doris’ neck. Timidly, she removed the scarf and gave it to Dixie, who immediately put it over the rope to use it to zipline down to the side of the trailer. As she was about to push off, Doris called after her.
“Ms. Doublestacks, we think they’s coordinates! Mr. Clover even found ‘em on his map!”
“Goddamn it Doris,” Dixie yelled, pushing off, “You’re right.” A moment later she burst in through the window of the trailer, sending a shower of broken glass and twisted metal.
Inside, Johnny Go’s traumatized young bride leapt from the bed, desperately grabbing for her clothes. Johnny looked up at Dixie.
“Hey Dix, what’s happening?”
“The horse is talkin’,” she said, and then turned to the young woman, “sorry, Babs, Mr. Go’ll have to give you a rain check.”
***
Back on the ship, Dixie and Johnny began drinking more whiskey while Clover and Doris navigated the ship to the Becoller’s coordinates. They ship climbed higher and higher as the coordinates took them up into the mountains. When they finally stopped, they were looking down over a large, military-like compound full of trailers and pick up trucks on blocks, much like Rex’s compound, but surrounded by tall razor wire fences and battlements.
“Is this it?”
“Mr. Clover says this is the right place. You should start digging right between them two boulders there in the mountain,” Doris replied.
“Doris, you miserable twit, that place is in the middle of some kind of militia house. We can’t just walk in there.”
“Maybe you could wait till nightfall and sneak in,” but Johnny cut Doris off.
“Shut up Doris. Tell your boyfriend to set us down beyond that ridge.” With that, Johnny and Dixie strode to the front of the airship’s balcony, strapping on various weaponry, and waited for landing, leaving Doris blushing in the doorway. As they walked away, Dixie muttered to Johnny, “wait for nightfall… what fucking planet is she from?”
***
Chichay, Sweaty, and a gangly, bird-faced man in a Royals hat and a Jefferson Starship tee were smoking around the open door of a rusted pole barn by a gravel road that wound away into the endless corn. An obviously money-filled briefcase sat at Chichay’s feet. A tow-headed, gap-toothed boy in tattered overalls loaded cases of ammunition into the trunk of Sweaty and Chichay’s car.
“Sorry about the short notice, Rooster. You know I wouldn’t have called you direct unless it was an emergency,” Chichay said to the man.
“Can’t say’s I likes it, but bidness is bidness, as they say. Yer in some trouble, I reckon?”
“I hope not,” she replied. “Just some heavy wet-work up north. Some stiff competition to boot.” She paused. “This might get deep, Rooster. You know what’s good for you, you’ll forget we were ever here.” Rooster threw up his hands.
“Ma’am, I’m sure I don’t know shit from shi-nola.”
***
Dixie and Johnny made their way to the heavily fortified gate of the compound and crouched behind an outcropping of rocks a short ways before the gate. While they watched, several trucks passed in and out of the gate, with armed men waving them through and opening and closing the gate.
“So what are you thinking? Total teardown?” Dixie whispered to Johnny.
“This looks like a fully functioning militia compound. They’re probably armed to the teeth and we haven’t slept with any of them.”
“I see your point,” Dixie paused for a moment, “Paper Moon scam?”
“You have your hat?”
Dixie pulled on a 20’s era hat a la Tatum O’Neill in Paper Moon and the two started off toward the gate, with Johnny Go pulling a red wagon full of cheap copies of the Book of Mormon.
Moments later Dixie and Johnny stood to the side of the gate as truck after truck and trailer after trailer passed out of the compound, laden with women, children and pets. Dixie waved farewell to the group through the cloud of dust with her Paper Moon hat as Johnny counted a large stack of bills.
***
After locking the gate behind them, Dixie and Johnny headed for the hills to inspect the spot indicated by the Becoller. When they arrived at the top of the hill they realized that the area where they should be digging was solid rock.
“Hm,” said Johnny.
“Now what?”
“I guess we gotta dig.”
“That looks hard,” said Dixie, “maybe we should get some drinks first.”
“Good call,” replied Johnny, and they turned and walked back to the compound.
They returned to the rock hill shortly afterward, carrying several bottles of whiskey. They sat down and began passing one of the bottles back and forth in silence. Finally, Johnny Go spoke.
“What’s with this place?”
“Huh?”
“This place.”
“What about it?”
“How come you can marry lotsa broads, but you can’t do ‘em otherwise?” There was a long pause. “You can have all the guns you want, but no booze.”
“It’s cause of God,” Dixie said, laying down on the rocks and balancing the whiskey bottle of her stomach before she continued, “or that guy who thought he was god. Whatsis name? Dick Smith?”
“Oh yeah,” Johnny reached for Dixie’s whiskey bottle, “what a racket.”
“We shoulda got in on that.”
“Why didn’t we?”
“Shit kept comin’ up, I guess.”
“Well, we should definitely put that on our list of things to do,” Johnny said.
As the conversation died away Dixie and Johnny drifted off to sleep in the afternoon sun.
***
Dixie and Johnny awoke as the sun was low on the horizon. They were both badly sunburned, Dixie only on one side of her body, and they immediately reached for the lone remaining bottle of whiskey. Neither spoke for a few minutes.
“Not again,” Johnny sighed.
“Yeah, where are we?”
“Looks like Vegas.”
“If this was Vegas we wouldn’t be drinking this piss-whiskey,” Dixie said, chugging half the bottle.
“Yeah. What were we doing last? And what’s this wad of money?” Johnny held the large wad of bills in his hand suspiciously. “It’s not even all real! Half of this is fake militia money!”
“Militia?” Dixie asked, “oh yeah! We grifted that militia so we could get their land and dig up Atlantis.”
“Dix, you’re a goddamned genius. Why’d we stop, though?” There was a long pause while the two thought this over.
“Well, I don’t remember,” said Johnny, “but while we figure it out, what say you and me try to crack this mountain open and get our ancient city back?”
“Ok, but how are we going to break open this rock?” Dixie asked.
“Do we still have that nuke we found in the yard?”
“No, Chichay and Sweaty traded it to that conquistador for the Becoller.” There was a long pause while Johnny thought this over.
“We’ll get that jackhammer out of the airship,” Johnny replied.
“Can’t, we swapped it for those cases of whiskey.”
“Oh, right,” Johnny grew quiet for a moment. “What about that drill tank we used to have?”
“Mole People took it back.”
“Damn.”
“Well, where are our Argentinean digging llamas?”
“We ate them.”
“We did?” Johnny seemed surprised.
“Well, either that or Clover took ‘em. And if he did, he’s not talking.” Another long pause followed.
“Do we still have The “Rotarius Maximus” Subterranean Tunneling Vessel?” asked Dixie.
“No, the Feds seized it back when we had to battle our way out of Alameda.” They were silent, finishing off the whiskey, looking a little forlorn when Johnny finally jumped up.
“I got it! We’ll build an earthquake machine!”
“But those militia dicks took all the washing machines.”
“We’ll just have to get a new one.”
***
Chichay and Sweaty sat side by side in the car, cleaning submachine guns as they watched the marching band pass by.
“I came to in Denver about three months ago. Made my way down here to meet you. Lot of time to kill,” Sweaty said.
“What’s with the tattoo?”
“I don’t know. I had it when I showed up in that poor guy’s garage. It was fresh, still bleeding,” he said, looking at the tattoo on his hand and holding it up for her to see.
“I like it. It’s kind of sweet,” she said, smiling.
“Well, I guess it was worth the trip, then.”
“Yeah, well, from here on out, I’m driving.”
“Deal.” There was a long pause as they were each lost in their own thoughts.
“You knew my father, didn’t you?” Chichay asked, breaking the silence.
“Not as such at the time, but yeah. It was in the Amazon, ‘94. He was on some kind of shamanic, messianic trip. He hired me to synthesize the cocktail of jungle cactus and monkey piss they used for their vision quests for mass production. It was all part of some scheme of his for a “Global Consciousness Revolution” that basically boiled down to weekly psychedelic monkey orgies. It’s probably better you didn’t see him like that.”
“He was never the same after Angola. Then Spotchick came into the picture and that was pretty much it for us. They went their way and I went mine. Spotchick…” She trailed off, her eyes full of anger and regret.
“I saw him a few times down in Brazil. They would call him in when the natives got restless. I saw him fight one of the local chiefs over a boy once. Scary stuff. Decapitated the guy, barehanded.”
“That’s nothing. They teach you that on your second week in. But you know what you’re up against so keep your head down and let me do the shooting.”
***
Dixie and Johnny sat in an old white pick up truck with Clover at the wheel. They were parked outside an appliance center but were watching a row of residential houses across the street. A woman came out of one of the houses, got into an old Chevy, and pulled away. Dixie turned to Johnny.
“Let’s move.”
They jumped out of the car and darted across the street, running into the backyard of the woman’s house, while Clover slowly backed the pick up truck into the driveway. Dixie and Johnny approached the back door leading to the laundry room. Dixie promptly hacked off the door knob with her pearl-handled battle ax. A moment later they were loading the stolen washing machine into the back of the pick up truck.
Back at the compound, Dixie, Johnny, Clover and Doris had managed to drag the washing machine up into the hills and set it up at the spot indicated by the Becoller. Clover and Doris looked on, mystified, as Dixie began to pull an assortment of items out of a cardboard box.
“So this is gonna be some kind of diggin’ machine?” Doris asked.
“Doris, you idiot, try to follow the plot here,” Johnny replied as he began to wire some old stereo speakers into the washing machine.
“Well, what’s it do, then?”
“It’s an earthquake machine, dumbass,” Dixie shouted, “now hold this armadillo ‘til we’re hooked up. Watch ‘em, he’s a biter.” Dixie handed Doris a squirming armadillo and set to work dumping other items into the washing machine.
“What’s that roll of quarters for?” she asked.
“Doris!”
“Doris, you’re the ugliest, nosiest…” Johnny Go stopped. “Ok, if you must know, we’re building an earthquake machine. To do so, we need to hook these speakers up to the washing machine and point ‘em at the ground. Then we fill the machine with a handful of rocks, a roll of quarters, that armadillo, and a tablespoon of pickled guru. Now, if you’re satisfied with that explanation, keep your damn dirty mouth shut and stop interrupting my work.”
When the final adjustments had been made Dixie tossed in the armadillo and closed the lid. Johnny turned to the others.
“Ok, now I’m gonna turn this bitch on. As soon as I do, we’re all gonna run like hell and not stop till we get to sea level.” Doris and Clover began to back away slowly as Johnny reached for the switch to start the machine. As soon as he did, the group took off at a run, scattering down the hillside.
When they reached level ground at last, they paused, panting. A moment later a terrible noise washed over them and the ground shook with such ferocity that Doris tumbled to the ground. As Johnny Go was about to laugh at her, a second wave of tremors hit, causing everyone to fall and shield themselves as large rocks began to roll down the hillside. As the quaking subsided, Dixie and Johnny stood up and began heading back toward the hill. Clover and Doris, frightened, fled to the safety of the airship.
***
When Dixie and Johnny arrived back at the site of the earthquake, they watched in something almost like interest as a great crack appeared in the rock, and from within, the ruins of an ancient city rose up. In the midst of the temples and coliseums stood the death ray, mounted as the centerpiece of a once-great square. Dixie and Johnny stood in awe for a moment. Then, as they were about to proceed into the midst of the ancient city, a noise from behind them drew their attention.
Turning, they saw the entire group of the displaced militia rushing up the hill as one large, angry and heavily armed mob.
“Damn,” Johnny said, “I guess they heard us.”
“Isn’t it weird that everyone here seems to be more heavily armed than us?”
“It’s disturbing, yes.”
“So what’s the plan?” They both eyed the advancing militia nervously.
“Well, we’re gonna need a miracle,” Johnny said, clasping his hands and turning his eyes skyward. He took a deep breath. Below, the angry militia suddenly slowed their pace, all members turning their eyes skyward, looking above the ridge. Dixie and Johnny turned in time to see a large, old fashioned airship, similar to their own, rise above the ridge and hover toward the militia below.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Johnny Go cried, as a storm of machine gun fire rained down on the militia from above. Dixie and Johnny immediately dove for cover beneath a small pavilion in the ancient city. Johnny began to whistle Ride of the Valkyries as they crouched near a tall pillar.
“I don’t think that’s our ship,” Dixie said.
“Yeah, that twat Doris couldn’t fire a gun to save her life.”
“Plus, I get the feeling that Clover secretly doesn’t like us.”
“I’m glad you said that. I’ve been getting that feeling ever since we tried to get him to gamble.”
“You know, that kinda looks like the pope’s ship,” Dixie said, sticking her head out from under their hiding place, “Santa Maria De Loreto. That is the pope’s ship.” As she said this, a small bomb dropped from the airship, striking one of the militia member’s pickup trucks, triggering an explosion. A severed hand landed a few feet away and she and Johnny were covered in debris.
“What would the Pope want with Atlantis?”
“I don’t think it’s the pope,” Dixie shouted, as a live grenade rolled up to their hiding place. She quickly kicked it away and it exploded as it rolled toward the militia.
“So von Feymous won,” Johnny mused, as machine gun fire sprayed dangerously close to them.
Another large explosion shook their hideout. Screams could be heard from the militia men below, who were still attempting to advance up the hill. One of them managed to fire off an improvised rocket launcher at the ship, the bottom of which was heavily fortified. It ricocheted off of the ship and landed amid the few shabby permanent structures that had made up the compound, setting it ablaze.
No match for the position and strength of the airship, the local militia quickly fell. There was an eerie moment of quiet. Then, from the direction of the opposite ridge, Dixie and Johnny’s airship appeared, flying low, with its torpedo gun trained on the rogue airship. Dixie and Johnny bolted toward their ship and made it aboard just as the other airship turned its wrath on them.
***
Chichay and Sweaty scrambled from the car as the band gave way to a booming voice from the grandstand at the far end of the wide avenue. Twin UZIs held low, Chichay darted between parked cars like a shadow. Sweaty hid behind a dumpster. The telltale glint of a high-powered scope flashed in a high window as an announcer’s voice boomed up the street.
“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our very special guest. A man who, with God on our side, will be the next President of these United States, Senator Gary Hayes!”
Applause began to swell from the crowd as the sniper’s rifle trained on the Senator. Taking cover behind a large woman with a picket sign reading “Gabba Gabba Hayes,” Chichay tossed a grenade into the assassin’s perch. The sign and the woman were shredded into red mist as Clobber Spotchick cartwheeled out of the fifth-story inferno, automatic pistols spraying death on the parade below. With a balletic grace he landed on the hot dog vendor, who cried tears of blood, as he pinned Chichay down behind the Sousaphone player.
The Scourge Of Malacca returned fire with both barrels; one vivisecting the crowd of elderly elks behind which Spotchick had dived, the other sending the ascendant Senator sailing to the stage in a scarlet shower of secret service skin specks.
Hot lead lit the air as the remaining earpieces shuffled Hayes into his bullet-proof limo. As the giant Lincoln Town Car plowed through a crowd of majorettes, Chichay back flipped over the bullet-riddled body of a farmer, tossed a grenade under the wheels of the speeding Lincoln. The flaming limo spiraled through the air, coming to rest in the bake sale booth.
The crowd lay eviscerated at the feet of the two assassins standing face to face, their guns clicking away their emptiness. Steel lightning split the air as the guns were discarded and the swords came out. Electric bloodlust traced a clashing, colliding path toward the flaming wreckage of the limo. The assassins broke to either side of the destroyed car, filleting the secret service men who spilled out. As Hayes cowered in the smoldering coffin, each assassin tossed a grenade in the smashed windows and dove for cover. The blast tore the Town Car apart, sending smoke and flaming debris swirling around the parade ground.
As the smoke cleared, Chichay, coughing up smoke, struggled to her feet behind a twisted mailbox. Her eyes seared by smoke, her ears booming from the blast, she didn’t see the assassin’s pistol trained on her or hear the high electric beeping that stayed his hand. All she felt was the blast as a trash can next to Spotchick exploded in a geyser of fire.
***
Clover banked the Dunstan hard to starboard as Doris struggled to make coffee. A platoon of Johnny’s wife-slaves, who Doris and Clover had gone back and picked up in a fleeting moment of foresight, manned the 50mm guns, picking off the stragglers of the offended Mormon compound and weeping at their sinfulness. A hatch in the floor behind the captain blew open and out jumped Dixie and Johnny, matted with blood, sweat, and rubble. Startled like a baby rabbit, Doris spilled hot coffee down the front of her ruffled blouse.
“Oh, my stars!” Doris yelped.
“Doris, you reeking gutter-oaf! Get your sad stretch marks off my bridge!” Johnny Go shouted.
“Ooh-aaa-a-ee-aaaahh!” screeched Clover from his post.
“Oh, you can eat a green dick, Clover!” Johnny replied, “and get us up to cruising altitude while you’re at it! Doris, I swear to sweet baby Jesus I will shoot you dead and feed you to that fucking monkey if you don’t get the fuck off of my bridge right NOW!”
Doris scuttled away toward the aft cabins. Dixie kicked a plump wife out of the forward gun and opened fire on the engine room of the Santa Maria De Loreto.
Von Feymous banked skyward. The Loreto, which resembled a black, ribbed narwhal with the Vatican crest emblazoned on the flank in red and gold, sailed narrowly above the red arc of Dixie’s tracer fire.
“Too drunk to hit a blimp, eh Dix?”
“Cram it, ugly. I’m trying to disable her, not sink her. I want that ship. You think you can get aboard?” Johnny nodded as a missile shrieked past the airship.
“Clover, those fuckers are climbing fast. Can you get us above ‘em?” Johnny shouted to the captain. Clover pointed at Johnny’s wives and shrieked. Dixie and Johnny followed his gesture.
“Nice knowin’ ya, girls!” Dixie shouted. Instantly, a hail of hot lead streamed through the starboard turret, ventilating a 14 year old button-nosed blonde in a calico frock. Johnny sighed.
“Ladies, you heard the monkey. Brooke? Florence? Grab a piece of Alice on your way out.”
The twin zeppelins spiraled skyward, spitting searing cinders in a helix of hate. As the last of the wives dutifully descended to earth, the Dunstan began to out-climb the flagging Loreto.
With a howl of bloody ecstasy, Dixie sent a barrage of slugs sailing through the tailfins of the Loreto, sending her into a slow tailspin. Johnny grabbed a saber and the harpoon gun from the wall and sprinted to the hatch. The zip-line speared the soft underbelly of the dying black whale and Johnny was off like a shot, using the scabbard of the saber as a handle.
Crashing through the wide window of the Loreto’s dining room, Johnny drew pistol and saber and killed the cook. Six Swiss Guard, in their yellow and purple elf suits, rushed through the doors, halberds at the ready. Lead ricocheted off steel as the samurai of the Holy See skillfully deflected the last of Johnny’s bullets.
“Oh, fuck me,” Johnny said.
Masterful warriors they were, but they didn’t stand a chance against the cannons of the Dunstan. Johnny flashed Dixie a thumbs-up through the smoke pouring from the holes her shots left in the Loreto’s hull and dashed toward the bridge, cutting down the crew as he found them. Those he could not find escaped in the three small auto gyros lashed to the undercarriage, which Dixie quickly dispatched with the 50mm.
Johnny kicked in a smoldering door and found himself in the lush quarters of the ship’s captain, Margarita Von Feymous. Her first shot missed wide and Johnny hit the deck. She was crouched behind a red velvet divan, a striking summation of all that was right with Mediterranean women. Seizing her ornate flintlock by its smoking gold barrel, she sprang on Johnny, swinging the ivory grip like a club. It would have crushed his skull had he not rolled to his back and kicked the captain in her ample tits.
Johnny struggled to his feet as Margarita, splayed on the divan, struggled to breathe. His disheveled silhouette towered over her as the flames slowly spread behind him.
“My name is Johnny Go. I’m claiming this ship,” he said as he seized her lustfully, a la the poster from Gone with the Wind, “and everything in it.”
“You’re a monster!” von Feymous exclaimed.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” With that, Johnny Go kissed her roughly.
***
Early the next morning Johnny Go sat up quietly in bed inside the conquered airship. Margarita von Feymous slumbered next to him in a tangle of rumpled sheets. The room lay in utter disarray, destroyed from the previous night’s fierce battle and vicious love-making. The body of one of Margarita’s ninja bodyguards lay on the ground a few feet away, his neck at an odd angle.
Johnny Go looked over at his sleeping companion, sighed, and reached into the inside breast pocket of his Lincoln-esq jacket, which he was still wearing. He took out a small, leather bound checkbook. In gold lettering on the cover it read, “Abortion Cheques.” He opened it and made out a check to Ms. von Feymous, filling in everything except the amount. On the memo line he carefully penned the words, “for abortion” before tearing the check out and placing it on the bedside table next to the shattered remains of a lamp. Then he quietly exited the room.
***
A few moments later a bleary-eyed Dixie Doublestacks descended from her airship, looking disheveled and terribly hung-over. Clover followed, and, setting foot on solid ground proceeded to pray to Mecca before lumbering toward the battered white pick up truck.
The two airships remained anchored side by side in the small valley. In the distance smoke lingered from the previous afternoon’s carnage. If you looked closely you could see the tip of the death ray pointing up out of the ancient ruins.
Dixie stood sipping from a small flask and looking up at the other ship. A moment later an equally unkempt Johnny Go exited the airship of Margarita von Feymous. He took the flask from Dixie and finished it off, then, tossing it to the ground, the two headed to the waiting truck.
“So I guess we should go and see if that fire’s out on the mountain,” Dixie said in a hoarse voice. Her eyes were only halfway open.
“Yeah,” said Johnny, equally hoarse and walking with a very bad limp, “but I’m not doing anything till I get an omelet and an eye-opener.” They slowly climbed into the truck, Johnny reaching immediately for another flask hidden in the glove box.
“Clover, take us to that diner in Provo.”
***
Chichay, bandaged and bloody, woke up in the passenger seat of their car as they sped out of Rapid City.
“Did you get him?” she asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Sweaty replied, “I just grabbed you and hauled ass.”
“You didn’t see a body?”
“No.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I planted bombs all over the city. Hundreds of ‘em. I had a lot of time on my hands, waiting to catch up to you here.”
“Aww, you did that just for me?”
“Mm Hmm.” He quickly took his eyes off the road and looked at her. Chichay snuggled up to him.
“Blow ‘em all, baby. To Hell with Rapid City.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Sweaty told her as he stepped down harder on the gas. The car sped toward the setting sun as the flames of love bloomed in Rapid City, lighting the sky at their backs.
***
“You sure you don’t want to come in?” Johnny asked Clover as their truck rattled through a pristine downtown area that could only be described as ‘quaint.’ The orangutan shook his head vigorously.
“Fine,” Johnny said. They rode in silence for a few moments more, passing the flask back and forth. When it was empty, Johnny reached for a bottle of whiskey under the seat and refilled the flask.
“What?” Johnny asked suddenly, looking at Clover. The orangutan gestured out the front window.
“No,” Johnny said, “up one more block.”
A moment later the truck slowed and pulled over to the curb. Out the left hand window the vintage neon sign of a diner could be seen.
“Finally,” Dixie muttered.
“Clover, wait here,” Johnny said as he and Dixie climbed out of the car. They waited for the lone other car to pass down the street before limping toward the diner in the middle of the block.
“Sometime we should hitch-hike to the world's fair. Lots of rubes at the world's fair,” Dixie muttered.
“You know Elvis had to pay Kurt Russell five bucks to kick him in the shin? He almost couldn't bring himself to do it. Kids today got no respect.”
As they reached the curb on the far side of the street and were about to open the door to the diner, the sound of a police siren shattered their hang-overs like a machete, and they were soon bathed in the blue and red strobe of the Provo Police Department.
“Sir,” a clean-shaven police officer stated, approaching Dixie and Johnny with his hand on his holster, “are you aware that you failed to cross the street via the designated crosswalk?
Johnny Go stared at him. Dixie stood, looking at the ground, and swaying violently back and forth, then belched, long and loud.
“Sir,” he asked again, “Sir?”
“Yeah?” Johnny Go responded, finally.
“Sir, you’ve failed to cross the street via the designated crosswalk,” the officer said again.
“I did what in the what?” Johnny asked. The officer cocked his head to the side and whispered something into the two-way radio clipped on his collar.
***
A moment later Dixie and Johnny were handcuffed in the back of the squad car, which was still parked outside the diner. The officer, along with the two others who’d arrived at the scene, stood around the hood of the car filling in paperwork and talking in what appeared to be a good natured way.
“This sucks,” Dixie said, “I wanted an omelet.”
“Tell me about it.” They sulked in silence for a moment before the officer returned to the car. He opened the door and put his head in.
“You sure you folks don’t have any ID?” They shook their heads. The officer sighed and picked up his radio.
“Dispatch, this is Charlie-Tango, I have a jaywalking offender with no ID. I’ll need to issue a citation, over.” The radio crackled something in response, and the officer left the car again to confer with the others.
“Shit,” Dixie said.
“Shit,” Johnny replied.
“I’m not goin’ to Mormon jail,” Dixie said.
“Hell no,” Johnny replied.
“What’s the plan?” Johnny was quiet for a moment.
“Well,” he continued slowly, “it’s a last-ditch effort, but it just might work. Give me your matches.”
Dixie worked her hands down to the top of her fur-lined boots and extracted a small matchbook, which she passed, with some difficulty, to Johnny. With the dexterity of a demented contortionist, Johnny Go lit on of the matches and held it to the sleeve of Dixie’s dress. As the material took the flame, he turned the match to his own clothes, sending his Abe Lincoln suit up in smoke. Soon, the back of the squad car filled with thick clouds of noxious black smoke.
***
Sweaty and Chichay cruised down the main street in Provo, gazing out the windows in a mixture of amusement and disgust.
“This is probably the most ironic place for Atlantis to turn up,” Chichay said, still covered in bandages.
“Yeah,” said Sweaty, “but the real miracle is that they even figured it out and made it here to wait for us. Maybe giving them a chauffeur wasn’t such a bad idea.”
“Well, it can’t hurt.”
They sat in silence for a moment while waiting for a traffic light to change so they could make a left. As the opposing light went yellow, then red, a siren’s wail became audible, and shortly a large red fire truck roared through the intersection, just as the light turned green for Chichay and Sweaty’s Buick to make its left. They glanced nervously at one another as they turned onto another quaint downtown street, identical to the last.
“They wouldn’t have tried to dig without us, would they?” Chichay asked.
“No, they probably got drunk or married to some Mormons or something. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Up ahead they saw a flurry of activity, as the fire engine pulled up next to a group of police cars and a small group of bystanders.
“I’m not worried about it,” Sweaty said again.
As they slowed and passed the scene they saw the police frantically trying to keep the bystanders back, while other officers approached the squad car, which had flames shooting out of the backseat. Two flaming individuals, their clothes and hair rapidly turning to ash, were being pulled out of the car and restrained as they tried to struggle their way out of the ruckus while the fire engine set up to put out the blaze before the fire reached the gas tank.
Sweaty turned to Chichay and sighed. They were too late.
