II: Battle in the Sky
“Well babe, I guess it’s time to weigh anchor and get out of range of the fallout… Baby?”
Rex walked to his girlfriend, who had been sitting in a deck chair enjoying the warmth of the sun. He felt her pulse. Nothing.
Dragging her, still in the chair, to the side of the boat, Rex tossed his girlfriend overboard, started up the motor, and sailed off into the sunset.
Rex Ponticello piloted the yacht around the Southernmost tip of Florida. He was heading toward any marina that hadn’t been reduced to radioactive dust by the nuclear bomb, which had been set off a short while earlier. Rex was ready for a fresh start and decided that the best way to fund his next endeavor would be to sell his late girlfriend’s yacht.
While not the ostentatious yacht of Middle Eastern playboys and cartel bosses, Margaret’s yacht was luxurious, in excellent condition, and sure to fetch a decent price. Rex headed into the large stateroom he and Margaret had shared. He looked at the bedside table, still covered in Margaret’s diabetes testing supplies, and sighed. He missed her already.
Rex took a seat on the built-in couch in the stateroom and picked up the phone, hoping that the nuclear blast hadn’t knocked out all of the telephone transmitters and that he would still be able to make a call. He pulled his velcro wallet out of his pocket and fished around inside until he found a battered business card. The card was beige and completely blank save for a name and phone number embossed in blood red. Rex dialed and was relieved when the phone began ringing.
“Tommy,” a voice on the other end said. The connection was bad, but Rex could make it out.
“Tommy, Rex Ponticello here,” Rex said, raising his voice to make sure Tommy heard him. “Colleague of Dixie and Johnny?”
“Oh right, how’s it hanging, Rex? Where the hell are you, Mars? The line sounds like shit.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m off the coast of Florida.”
“Oh shit, you get caught in that thing?”
“Almost, I was on a boat, so I just motored away from the fallout.”
“Lucky break.”
“Yeah, so speaking of boats, I’m wondering if you can help me unload a yacht?”
“I take it you aren’t the rightful owner of said yacht?” Tommy asked.
“It belonged to my girlfriend. She just passed.” Rex’s comment was met with silence long enough that he wondered if Tommy had hung up. “Tommy?”
“Just thinking, there, Rex,” Tommy said. “Lemme break it down for ya. There’s two ways we can approach this. Sell it on the black market, or sell it on the up and up. Economy’s not great right now, so the black market demand for a luxury sailing vessel is… also not great, and black market guys, they’re gonna want to take advantage of that. Yachts are difficult to flip, easily traceable, you’ve got the whole Shriver Pirate thing to contend with when it comes to trying to move it to another region, I mean, that’s a twenty percent cut right there. All told, you’re lookin’ at about ten percent of the total value, selling it that way.
“Now a better option, which you certainly don’t need me for, is to sell this sucker on the up and up. Still have the economy to contend with, but it’s better, you know. I assume, since you’re calling me, that your lady friend hadn’t gotten around to adding you to her will?”
“No,” Rex replied. “It was all pretty sudden.”
“Right, so you obviously don’t have the right to actually sell it. Not without her, anyway if you catch my drift.”
“I… What?”
“I mean, if you could find a way for her to consent to the sale of the yacht, you could sell it legit and make a good deal more than you would through one of my guys.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Rex admitted, turning this over in his mind.
“Well, puzzle on that, ok? Meantime, I’m gonna give you some contacts. Got a pen?” Rex grabbed a pen, and hastily jotted names and phone numbers down on the back of an envelope. Tommy provided him with contacts at two local dealerships who, he promised, weren’t too critical when it came to paperwork being in order. If those didn’t pan out, he also gave Rex the names of two of the best black market guys he knew in South Florida. “Tell ‘em Tommy sent ya, ok?”
“Will do, Tommy. I can’t thank you enough, man. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it. And if you see our esteemed associates, tell ‘em to get in touch. I have those lion costumes they wanted.”
After they hung up, Rex stared absently across the room for a few minutes. Then, with a sigh, he stood up and headed to the bridge.
***
A short while later, Rex motored the yacht in a slow circle around the area they had been sailing when Margaret died and he’d rolled her overboard. He took a look at some of the charts, and did a quick calculation of the ocean currents, something he’d learned during his stint in the Merchant Marines, then repositioned the yacht. He headed to the railing with a pair of binoculars to take a look.
Rex scanned the dark choppy waters for close to an hour before he finally spotted her, his beloved Margaret, floating face down in the ocean. Rex went back to the bridge and brought the yacht alongside her, then headed down to fish her out.
After some reaching and straining, Rex managed to catch Margaret and reel her in. As he hauled her up over the side of the boat, he finally got a good look at her and was appalled by what a few hours in the water could do. Something had taken a bite out her side, and there was already a collection of sea scavengers starting in on the exposed intestines. Her face was gray and bloated, one of her hands was missing, and her once perfectly coiffed hair was now thin and matted against her skull. Rex sighed.
“I’m sorry, baby. I thought we were gonna have one last hurrah together, but I think you’re in too bad a shape to pull off a good Bernie. So long.” With that, he released her back into the sea, blowing her a kiss as she slipped into her watery grave. He retired to the master stateroom to think.
***
Rex spent the night in the stateroom, sadly sniffing Margaret’s side of the bed and rubbing her diabetic test strips between his fingers, as if he could bring her back to life. By the next morning, having slept only an hour or two, he had made up his mind. He would find a replacement for Margaret.
He sailed around to the gulf side of Florida and eventually found a marina that was largely deserted, but didn’t seem to have been damaged by nuclear radiation. It was a far cry from the wealthy marina in Miami where he and Margaret had started their journey, but it would do. Rex docked and climbed down from the yacht. He wasn’t able to find anyone who worked there, so he left the yacht and walked toward the main road. He was counting on no one boarding the yacht in his absence, even though it was easily the nicest vessel in the marina. He figured that they were still at least a day off from the usual post-cataclysm pillaging.
As he wandered the near-empty streets, Rex realized that the entire town was a bit on the seedy side, not just the rundown marina.This disappointed him, because he normally thrived in this type of environment. But he couldn’t stay and play. He had business to attend to.
Rex walked until he found a desolate hardware store with a few vehicles parked in the lot. He approached cautiously, his eye on a white panel van with no windows. He looked around casually, but didn’t see anyone. In fact, he hadn’t seen another person since he left the marina, and the hardware store didn’t even look open. Rex cracked his knuckles and got to work, and within moments, he had jimmied open the front door, hotwired the van, and rolled calmly out of the parking lot.
He drove around for a while, attempting to get an idea of the layout of the town, looking for the most likely place that the elderly contingent would be hanging out. He passed an empty rec center, a depressing nursing home, and an old school diner that probably had a killer early bird special. Margaret would have loved that. He kept driving.
Eventually, Rex found himself back on the more industrial side of town, north of where he’d started at the marina. He rounded the corner and spotted a bus stop up ahead. It was the kind that had been designed to make tourists feel safe and welcome, to help them more easily navigate the town. An utterly misguided effort. But, surprisingly, a few people stood around at this bus stop. As he pulled up, he wondered if there was even a bus on its way. Then Rex noticed her.
She wasn’t perfect, but she seemed to be Margaret’s age at least, and their hair color was similar. She looked a good deal more disheveled than Margaret, but then Margaret had had a pretty easy life. This woman, on the other hand, seemed to be a byproduct of hard living. She sat at the bus stop with a pile of beat-up shopping bags and a damp, unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Her clothes looked like they’d come from a store in the mall frequented by teenage girls, and that she’d slept in them for at least a week. Rex sighed, missing Margaret more and more by the minute. If nothing else, this woman looked desperate enough to cooperate.
Rex rolled the window down and made eye contact with the woman. She stared at him through squinting eyes, narrowed and suspicious.
“You from the methadone clinic?” she asked finally.
“Sure, baby,” he told her. “Get in the van.”
***
They drove along in silence, Rex alert and looking for a place to pull in and use a payphone, the woman sitting beside him, clutching her bags and working her mouth open and closed, open and closed.
“What’s your name, babe?” he asked, finally. If she was going to stand in for Margaret, he might as well get to know her.
“Starlene,” she replied, keeping her eyes focused on the road ahead. “This ain’t the way to the clinic.”
“I know, I just need to stop someplace and make a call first.”
“That’s what they all say.”
He didn’t reply, and a moment later she suddenly began rooting around in her bags. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she extracted a disgusting wig from an old Wanamaker’s bag, gave it a shake, and placed it on top of her head, making no effort to conceal her real hair underneath.
“Starlene,” Rex said, “Think you could help me out with something?”
“Twenty bucks. And I’m leavin’ my teeth in. I get dry sockets.”
“Oh, uh,” he began. It was starting to make sense now. “Yeah, not that kinda help. I mean, I’ll still give you the twenty, but all I really need is for you to go someplace with me, pretend to be a friend of mine, and sign some papers for her. Think you can do that?”
“Fine. But I’m leavin’ my teeth in.”
***
“Hey Dix, would you rather be a dog or a ghost?” the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go asked. He and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks were each sprawled out on a row of bench seats in the Econoline van that they’d inherited from Wilford Brimley. Their orangutan chauffeur, Clover, was at the wheel, his left arm draped casually on the window.
“Ghost,” Dixie said with certainty. “On accounta the ghost sex.”
“Isn’t dog sex just as uninhibited and reckless, though?” Johnny challenged.
“Yeah, but ghosts have less hair.”
“True.”
“Where do you think we could go to have some ghost sex?” Dixie asked. She had been drinking from a bottle of gin, which she handed over the back of the seat to Johnny.
“Uh,” Johnny said, sipping gin while thinking. “Prolly the Naval Observatory.”
“You think?”
“Everyone knows it’s haunted by Mary Tyler Moore.”
“It is?”
“Oh yeah.”
“See, now I had her pegged as a dog.” Dixie said. Johnny handed the bottle back to her. In the front seat, Clover sighed.
“Nope, she’s totally a ghost.”
“Hm. What about Kurt Russell?” Dixie asked.
“Ghost.”
“Lincoln?”
“Abe?” Johnny asked.
“No, Mary Todd.”
“Ooh, tough one… Dog.” He paused. “Wilford Brimley?”
“Dog,” Dixie said. “Absolutely. Peter Brady?”
“Ghost.”
“And a shitty one, at that,” she said. From the front seat, Clover was gesturing rapidly at the dashboard.
“Johnny, Clover’s flailing around up there.”
“I know,” Johnny said, then shouted from the way-back seat, “I can fucking hear him, and he’s free to pull over any time!” Johnny struggled to sit up and looked to the front of the van.
“What, he has to pray again?” Dixie asked. She passed the bottle back to Johnny.
“Yeah, and he seems to think he needs my permission to do it. Then he gets all pissy when I don’t answer him fast enough.”
“Hey,” Dixie said, looking up at Johnny and whispering. “What’s Clover?”
“Fucking dog,” Johnny said quietly out of the corner of his mouth. “Definitely.”
***
Clover pulled the van into a gas station, parking away from the pumps. He slowly made his way out of the car, unrolled his prayer mat on the small patch of grass near the sidewalk, and proceeded to pray. Dixie and Johnny bounded out of the van and were about to ransack the mini-mart when something across the street caught their eye.
“Oh shit!” Dixie shouted.
“Oh shit!” Johnny replied. With that, they raced toward the street, calling to Clover as they passed, “Clover! Meet us out front of that casino in an hour!”
The duo tore across the street, sending cars screeching to a halt, horns blaring, then darted up the long drive to the Indian casino.
Two hours later…
Dixie and Johnny wandered out of the casino, fantastically drunk and carrying two plastic containers: one full of quarters and one full of shrimp that they’d taken from the buffet. They spotted the van and tried to run over to it, but succeeded only in zig-zagging slowly back and forth across the casino’s circular drive. When they reached the van, Johnny struggled with the door for so long that Clover got out, lumbered around, and opened it for him. They climbed in and collapsed in a heap in the back. Dixie started to laugh.
“Thass ugly beef lady,” she slurred. “She wuz mapped ‘en we tole ‘er bits!” She dissolved in a fit of laughter. Johnny, meanwhile, started looking around for the gin.
“Grover!” he yelled to the front seat, “Where’s our clin?” Clover looked over his shoulder sternly at Johnny. “Oh c’mon, monk-” Johnny hiccupped “monk-” hiccup, “monkey. We wadn’t ‘at late.”
“Fucksou, Cloader!” Dixie shouted. “Me an’ Chonny were HOT!” She reached into one of the cups and grabbed a handful of what she thought was shrimp, but was actually quarters, and stuffed them into her mouth. Realizing what she’d done, both she and Johnny burst into raucous fits of laughter, and it was several minutes before Clover was able to get their attention again.
“Ok, ok,” Johnny muttered, “Dix, Gomer wantsa know where we wanna go.”
“Another money place!” Dixie yelled.
“Oh yeah,” Johnny said, “Like Biloxi!”
“Take us to Bilboxi! We’re streaking!” Dixie screamed. With that, they both passed out, hard, on the floor of the van. Clover shook his head, started the engine, and slowly drove away.
***
Early the next morning, Dixie and Johnny awoke to the realization that the van was no longer moving. They slowly pulled themselves up from the floor and looked out the windows, blinking in the bright, mid-morning Florida sun.
“Where the fuck is Clover?” Dixie muttered through squinted eyes. Johnny looked out the window on the other side of the van.
“He’s praying.”
“Again?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, then pounded on the window, shouting, “Hey! Monkey! Let’s go! We gotta get to Biloxi before our hot streak cools off!” Outside on the grass, Clover ignored them.
For the next half hour, Dixie and Johnny shouted and pounded on the windows while passing a new bottle of gin back and forth. Eventually they grew tired and sat back on the seats, silently taking turns sipping from the bottle. Only then did Clover return to the van.
“It’s about fucking time,” Johnny told him, then paused, listening. “Yeah, well, if you didn’t have to stop so many times, we’d be in Biloxi by now… Oh, you only slept an hour and mostly drove through the night? Big deal! Me and Dix won almost a hundred thirty dollars!”
“Yeah!” Dixie chimed in from the back seat. Only Johnny could understand Clover, so Dixie mostly just yelled her agreement with Johnny whenever they talked.
“Where are we, anyway?” Johnny asked. Then, “Tallahassee? How dare you!!” Clover waved his arms around, then started the engine.
“Drive fast!” Dixie shouted from the back.
“Yeah,” Johnny told Clover, “We have to make up for all your dawdling.”
Clover pulled out onto a main road, driving in a safe and respectful manner. Dixie and Johnny tapped their feet impatiently in the back of the van, but ultimately said nothing. They’d driven only a short distance when Clover stopped the van at a red light at a large intersection. A fire station was on the left, and there, in the parking lot, Dixie and Johnny saw a sight that left them breathless.
“Oh my god, Dix,” Johnny whispered. “Do you see that?”
“I think I’m in love,” she replied, sounding giddy.
“Clover!” Johnny shouted, “Pull over into that brick place!” Clover looked confused, but the light had just turned green, so he proceeded cautiously through the intersection. “Damn it, Clover!” Johnny yelled. He jumped up from the back seat, climbing frantically over Dixie in the middle row, and burst into the front of the van, wrenching the steering wheel violently to the left, causing the van to veer into oncoming traffic. Cars swerved frantically around them, horns blasted, and they were greeted with every rude gesture imaginable.
Fortunately, Clover possessed both lightning fast reflexes and the animal strength of an orangutan, so he quickly forced the wheel out of Johnny’s grasp, bringing the van back into the correct lane. He slowed the van, signaled, then waited for a break in traffic before calmly turning into the parking lot of the building next door to the fire station.
Before he’d even brought the van to a stop, Dixie and Johnny jumped out, leaving the door wide open, and ran toward the fire station. They slid to a stop just at the edge of the paved parking lot, suddenly intimidated, and stared, with wide eyes and the dopiest grins on their faces.
“I can’t believe we’re really seeing this,” Johnny said, his tone hushed and reverent.
“I know,” Dixie whispered. “It’s magical.”
There before them, in the parking lot of the fire station, a guy was skateboarding. He was in his fifties and sported a grey buzz cut with a handlebar ‘stache. He had on black jeans, but no shirt. His truck was parked beside him, and he had a spray-painted sign propped up against it that read, simply, “old guys rule”. Dixie and Johnny were utterly charmed.
They watched the man for the better part of an hour, sitting cross-legged on the ground, grinning from ear to ear as he worked on kickflips and ollies. Occasionally, one reached over and tapped the other on the arm, pointing out something that both had seen. Dixie and Johnny, for once, watched in actual interest.
Eventually, the old guy who rules finished up his skate sesh. He tossed his board and sign into the back of the truck. Dixie and Johnny stood up as he walked to the cab and got in. They waved their hands timidly as the guy started the engine and pulled out of the fire station parking lot.
“Thank you,” Dixie whispered as he drove off. “Thank you.”
***
“Wait here,” Rex told Starlene as he climbed out of the van and headed to a payphone outside of the mini-mart at a large service plaza. Row after row of gas pumps fronted the store, while behind it hummed a car wash with several cars waiting in line.
The minute Rex had his back turned to the van, Starlene got out and dashed into the mini-mart, grabbing a pack of Twinkies on her way to the restroom.
Inside the restroom, she began a thorough search, as she always did, for anything of potential value. In the third stall, she hit the jackpot when she found a small bag of white powder on the floor behind the toilet. Without hesitating, she opened the bag and stuck her nose in, inhaling with all her might. It took a moment before it hit.
“That’s the shit,” she muttered, shaking her head. A second later, her eyes bulged wide and she took a gasping breath. “Yeah!” She plunged her nose back into the bag, cleaning it out. The effects were intense and immediate, and Starlene began to move around the restroom like a robot on fast-forward. She oscillated between muttering to herself and actually making the beeps and boops of what she imagined a robot would sound like. She inspected the back wall of the restroom for what felt like a month, searching for the door, and didn’t leave until someone else entered, drawing her attention to the real door.
Outside, Rex was finishing up his phone call when a commotion around the side of the mini-mart caught his attention. He hung up the phone, having arranged to meet with one of Tommy’s contacts, and walked over to see what the fuss was about.
Two mini-mart employees raced past Rex, and as he rounded the corner, he saw Starlene wielding two of the gas station’s window squeegees, screaming incoherently and heading toward the car wash. The employees approached her, trying to draw her away, but as they took a few more steps, she hurled the squeegees at them and ran full speed into the car wash.
***
That evening, the Econoline pulled into the Boomtown Casino in Biloxi, discharging its passengers at the front door with all the energy of a school bus taking an elementary school class on a field trip. Dixie and Johnny had recovered from their reverie, consumed the remainder of their case of gin, switched to beer at the next liquor store, and played a game of Spicy Meatball, which was essentially just them taking turns throwing lit firecrackers at passing cars, with points assigned based on how much damage they did. Clover didn’t even try to hide his irritation.
As they disappeared into the casino, Clover pulled the van around to the waiting area, which was full of tour buses, and was looking forward to a nap. He had just nodded off when a commotion near the front of the casino brought him back. He looked out the window and was not surprised to see that his new employers were at the center of the ruckus.
“Clover!” Dixie screamed, “Start the van!!” She and Johnny were hauling ass away from the casino entrance, dragging one of the machines that makes frozen alcoholic beverages. A gaggle of armed security guards were hot on their heels. Clover shook his head and started the van, pulling it out of the parking spot and meeting Dixie and Johnny halfway.
When they reached the van, Johnny yanked the side door open. He and Dixie were about to heave the machine into the van when a bullet whizzed by their heads, ricocheting off of the side of the van and embedding itself into the portico of the casino entrance. They looked back to see the guards set up to fire again, and so wordlessly agreed to abandon the machine. In the next instant, both had thrown themselves into the van.
“Go go go!” Johnny yelled to Clover, who floored the gas pedal and raced down the casino’s long drive, tires squealing. The open side door banged backward against the van, but slammed closed once he took the turn onto the main road.
After a few moments of silence, Dixie and Johnny began tittering, amused at the outcome of their antics. In the front of the van, Clover began to gesture angrily.
“Oh come off it, man,” Johnny said. “No one made you steal the machine.”
“And anyway, we didn’t even get it,” Dixie said. “Got these, though,” she added, somehow pulling two plastic cups full of quarters from her dress and handing one to Johnny.
“Hot streak continues!” He said, and they high-fived as Clover accelerated into the sunset.
***
“Times are tough, man. No one’s in the market for high cost watercraft these days. Fuckin’ Democrats.”
Rex nodded and thanked the man, a shady looking character who met him outside the office of a used boat dealership. He didn’t care that “Margaret” was willing to sign; wasn’t even interested in looking at the yacht. Disappointed, Rex got back into the van. Starlene was sprawled out on the bare metal floor in the back. He glanced over his shoulder at her, assumed she wasn’t dead, and headed off to try Plan B.
He pulled into a rundown strip club a short while later. The building sat behind a warehouse, its parking lot crumbling and full of litter. The sign above the door read “Titty Bar and Video Poker Buffet”. As he cut the engine, Starlene sat up in the back.
“Whas iss?” she croaked before launching into a coughing fit that sounded like it had cracked a rib.
“Good, you’re up,” Rex said, looking back at her. “Come on, we gotta see a guy about a boat.” Rex got out of the van and came around to the side door. Opening it, he reached in and pulled Starlene out by her arm. She wobbled on her beat up pumps, and Rex gripped her elbow tightly to keep her from pitching forward. She looked up at the building, swaying dangerously backward as she did so. Rex gripped her arm tighter.
“How much I gotta give ya?” she asked.
“Huh?” Rex asked, before realizing what she was talking about. “No, you aren’t working here. We’re meeting someone. Now listen, I’m gonna introduce you as Margaret. If anyone asks, your name is Margaret, ok? Can you remember that?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Ok, we’ll get something to eat.” They reached the door. “Your name is Margaret, remember that.”
They stepped into the strip club and waited a moment for their eyes to adjust. It was as seedy as the rest of the town. Even in the dark it looked filthy, and the buffet along one wall didn’t have a sneeze guard. About half the patrons were sitting at video poker machines and not paying attention to the girl with a c-section scar who was wriggling listlessly on stage. There were a handful of men watching her from the front row, all wearing stained trucker hats and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off.
Starlene made a beeline for the buffet, and Rex dutifully paid the cashier. When the woman asked if Rex would also be eating, he struggled to hide his disgust as he said no. She laughed.
With Starlene occupied, Rex looked around the bar for his contact, and spotted a man sitting against the rear wall. He wasn’t drinking or eating, he wasn’t playing video poker, and he didn’t seem to be watching the dancers, either. He wore a pair of Zubas and cheap rubber flip flops, a black hoodie, and a backward baseball hat. He was of undeterminable age and background. Rex approached.
“Roc?” Rex asked. The man turned.
“That’s the name,” he replied, his expression unchanged.
“Rex,” he reached out his hand to shake, “Tommy sent me.” At that, the man named Roc nodded, acknowledging their connection, and reached out to shake Rex’s hand.
“Yeah, how’s that old bastard doing?”
“Fine as far as I know,” Rex said. “I wanted to talk to you about a sale.”
“Uh huh,” Roc said, “Depends on what.”
“A yacht.”
“Yacht, huh?”
“Uh huh. My girlfriend is interested in selling, and we wanna get it done as quickly as possible.”
“I see. You know you’re gonna get more if you sell it on the up and up, right?”
“Yeah, but like I said, we’re looking for more of a no fuss, no muss transaction.”
Roc grinned, “Meaning you don’t need the money.”
“Well now, I didn’t say that,” Rex said. Great, he thought, as he saw his hopes of financial security slipping away.
“Or else this vessel doesn’t actually belong to you and your girlfriend.”
“Oh no, it’s hers. And she’s right there at the buffet,” Rex told him. Roc didn’t even look.
“Tell ya what,” he said, giving Rex a non-smile that showed all of his teeth. “I’ll come by and have a look, maybe take ‘er out for a spin, and then make ya a fair offer.”
Rex could smell a scam, and hesitated. He was about to speak again, when a scream came from the stage. The current dancer, a woman with only one breast and thus, only one nipple pasty, was lying on her side on the stage, clutching her knee. Starlene stood above her, holding a tire iron, which she tossed across the stage before turning her attention to the pole.
She reached up, grabbed the pole, and executed a nearly flawless Spinning Chopper. As she reached the floor of the stage, she crawled forward on all fours, then rose to her knees. The men in the front row watched, surprised, as Starlene started to lift her tank top. She stopped suddenly, though, just before revealing the goods, and staggered to her feet instead.
“Oh, come on, baby,” a man called. He waved a dollar bill in the air. Starlene stood perfectly still for a long moment, then projectile vomited all over the men in the front row. She’d eaten a lot of shrimp from the buffet.
A moment later they were ejected from the club.
***
“Ok, when the tour is about to leave the Jungle Room, I’ll create a diversion by tossing this chinchilla into the tour group while you grab the monkey statue,” Dixie told Johnny. They were waiting in a line of tourists to get into Graceland, and while they were both unabashed Elvis fans, they weren’t there to pay their respects to The King, but rather to gank his lucky charm.
“Sounds good. If they catch us, I’ll just start swinging my mace,” Johnny gestured to the lump at his hip.
“And I’ll set these tour brochures on fire, stuff ‘em in the guide’s pants, then run out the back and meet you at the van.”
They stepped up to the window, paid the admission fee in quarters, and joined up with the next group.
***
Clover waited in the van down the street from Graceland. He sat in a meditative silence until the familiar sound that preceded most of his employers’ interactions met his ears: sirens. As the wail of emergency vehicles grew closer, he got out of his seat, climbing between the front seats, and opened the side door of the van. Returning to the driver’s seat, he started the engine.
He had no sooner buckled his seatbelt then the sound of footsteps could be heard pounding up the sidewalk. Clover looked in the side view mirror and could see Dixie and Johnny running toward them, some kind of statue held high over their heads.
“Start the engine!” Johnny shouted.
“Clover!” added Dixie. Behind them, two tour guides desperately attempted to keep up. Clover had to admit that his employers possessed a surprising speed, given how much they consumed of the demon alcohol. Dixie and Johnny arrived at the van only steps ahead of their pursuers and, with a flying leap, landed in the open door just as Clover jammed his foot on the gas pedal.
As the van shot away from the scene, Dixie and Johnny clambered to the middle bench seat, lifted the monkey statue, and admired it lovingly.
“Clover,” Johnny said, “We just leveled up on our luck, take us to Vegas.”
***
“Hopefully this one pans out, baby, otherwise I don't know what I'm gonna do.” Rex and Starlene were waiting in the parking area of the marina for the last contact on Tommy’s list. After his previous strikeouts, he wasn’t feeling too positive.
“What are you doin’ again?” Starlene muttered. She picked at a spot on her scalp absently and stared off into the distance.
“I gotta try to sell my yacht.”
“You got a yacht?!”
Rex sighed. “Yeah. Remember, I need you to pretend that it’s yours. That’s the whole reason we’ve been hanging out today.”
“If you got a yacht, you’re a rich boy,” Starlene said, turning to Rex and stroking his chest. She moved her hands toward his belt buckle, but he pushed her away.
“Not really. I’m selling it because I'm gonna need some moola.” Then he added quietly, “And it has too many memories.”
“Hon,” Starlene said after a moment, “I’m startin’ ta get the judds. You gonna take me to the clinic, or what?”
“Yeah, babe. Soon as we’re done here.” Rex patted her on the shoulder, then looked up as a large pickup truck turned into the marina entrance. “He’s here,” he told Starlene, before striding across the parking lot.
The truck rolled to a stop in front of the marina’s office, and a guy who rivaled Rex in slickness stepped down. Rex immediately felt that this guy was more trustworthy than the other contacts, mostly because they looked so similar.
“Hank?”
“That’s me,” the man replied, closing the door to his truck and reaching out to shake Rex’s hand. “You Rex?”
“Indeed,” Rex replied. He gestured to Starlene, who was wobbling across to meet them, “This is my girlfriend, Margaret. She owns the yacht, and we’re interested in selling.”
“Pleased to meet you, Margaret,” Hank told her. Starlene nodded and looked intently at Hank’s truck. The trailer hitch on the back boasted a pair of swinging metal testicles. Starlene chuckled, a laugh which turned into a phlegmy cough.
“We’re looking to start over,” Rex explained, “And we could use a little seed money.”
“Of course,” Hank replied. “Let’s go take a look.”
“Babe?” Rex called to Starlene. She was staring intently at some point on the ground, twitching slightly. “We’re gonna go give the yacht a once over. You wanna come, or you stayin’ here?” Starlene grunted and waved them away. “Ok, we’ll be back.”
Rex gave Hank the grand tour of the yacht, making sure to highlight the upgrades and additional features that Margaret had, just weeks earlier, shown him with such obvious pride. Hank seemed impressed.
“Alright, Rex,” Hank said as they made their way back to the marina, “Let’s talk business.” Rex sighed with relief, and he nodded eagerly as they started walking toward the parking lot.
“Now, a boat like that would normally run you about…” Hank trailed off as the parking lot came into view, then he and Rex stopped in their tracks and stared.
Starlene was standing on the hood of Hank’s truck, stomping her heels into the metal, leaving small divots. She had taken the metal balls from the trailer hitch and attached them to her underwear, so that they dangled down below her pleather miniskirt. She flicked her hips forward and back, forward and back, swinging the metal balls with apparent glee.
“Man from Madras, man from Madras,” she muttered. Hank recovered from his momentary shock and rushed over to his truck.
“Hey! Get the hell off here, lady! You’re fucking up my truck!”
“Sta- Margaret!” Rex yelled. “Get down!”
“Suck on this lightning,” Starlene said, turning around and lifting her skirt up to show them her ass. She stumbled forward, then, landing on her knees on the windshield, cracking the glass.
“Oh come on!” Hank yelled, reaching up to pull her off of the truck. Starlene lashed out with one foot, her shoe flying into the parking lot and landing near a stunned Rex.
“Come on yourself, pencil dick!” she screamed. But by this time, he’d gotten hold of her ankle and pulled her to the ground. A moment later, Hank peeled out of the marina parking lot, leaving a devastated Rex standing over a heap of Starlene alone.
***
“You’re supposed to make a right turn at Amarillo,” Johnny insisted. Clover pointed wildly straight ahead, but Johnny was certain. “Oh yeah, I’m sure a monkey born and raised in Indonesia knows more about the American highway system than me!” With a sigh of resignation, Clover turned off of the main highway.
With Johnny directing, they made a series of turns, each road smaller and more rural than the last, until the van bounced violently along a rutted country lane barely wide enough for one car, its asphalt hardly discernible. Before long, they weren’t even on a road at all.
Clover looked over at Johnny, who was now in the front passenger seat. He sternly shook his head and pointed out the windshield, indicating that they should keep driving. Clover navigated around a large boulder, then eased the van down into a gully. He looked at Johnny again. Dixie crouched between the two front seats, quietly sipping from a bottle of Old English.
“Keep going,” Johnny said, a note of warning in his voice. Clover began to push the van up the far side of the gully. Its engine was straining, but eventually they crested the other side and all three let out a gasp.
Up ahead, two airships hovered solemnly in the sky. One was ornate, with all the trimmings of the high renaissance, gold embellishments, flags, banners, and a papal seal. The other looked homemade, cobbled together like a New England whaling ship; wooden runners, strategically placed ropes, and a carved mermaid gracing the bow.
It took a moment for the adventurers in the van to realize that these weren’t just idling airships. A battle seemed to be raging, and they watched in something almost like interest as a volley of small explosives flew from the larger ship, which bore the name Santa Maria De Loreto. Before the explosive devices could reach the other ship, called the Dunstan, a barrage of shiny metal throwing stars was unleashed from the small, round portholes, intercepting the bombs. The space between the two ships was soon full of bright flashes, but both ships were safe.
“Wow,” Johnny said. “What the fuck?”
“Is that the Pope?” Dixie asked, pointing to a figure in the front of the Loreto, who appeared to be dressed in gold and white robes and a jeweled, pointy hat.
“Damn!” Johnny exclaimed. “It is!” Beside him, Clover grunted. Johnny turned to him. “Well, hang in there, man. He might lose.”
Just then, a hatch opened in the side of the Dunstan, revealing a line of ninjas, all holding harpoon guns. Behind them, a tall man in a suit and an even taller hat stood. They watched as he raised his arm to give an order, and the ninjas fired their harpoons out toward the other ship. A few struck the side, none actually penetrating the armor that shielded the blimp section. One landed in a window, but the arm of a guard reached out and quickly dislodged it.
“Now there’s sum’in’ you don’t see everyday,” Dixie commented. “Fucking Abe Lincoln.”
“Wonder where he got those ninjas?” Johnny mused. Clover said something, but Johnny waved him off. “Ninjas have been obsolete for, like, fifty years,” he said, dismissively.
Up ahead, it looked like the Pope’s Swiss Guard were gearing up for another attack when a beam of bright green light fell upon the tail of the Loreto. All eyes in the van followed it to the source, and were genuinely surprised to see that the beam came from the eyes of a large, gray jackalope, which had hopped to the hatch and taken a position in front of the ninjas.
“Oh shit,” said Johnny, “Abe has a jackalope!”
“I’d kill to have one of those,” Dixie said, her voice low and serious. Beside her, Clover licked his lips. “Don’t even think about it, ape!” As she said this, the jackalope reared back on its haunches and fired, loosing the laser beams from its eyes and sending them jetting across the neutral zone. They hit the side of the Loreto, melting some of the protective armor, and severing the arm of one of the Swiss guards as he was frantically trying to lower the window shield. The arm tumbled to the ground. Dixie and Johnny laughed.
“Wanna get out and take a closer look?” Dixie suggested.
“Fuck yeah,” replied Johnny, opening the door to the van. Clover looked concerned. “Oh, come off it, Clover. The fighting is going on up there. We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll just bring my parasol,” Dixie said, “In case shit falls on us.” She crawled into the back of the van and dug around under the seat, finally pulling out a pink floral and lace parasol with a pearl handle and a sharpened tip. They were out of the van in a flash, climbing the rest of the small ridge until they had to crane their heads upward to watch the action. “As if Clover would care if something happened to us,” Dixie snorted.
“I know, right? He’s probably been planning to do us in himself.”
“Maybe he’s just worried he’d be denied the chance.”
“That’s probably it.” They watched as another exchange between the two ships exploded in the space above their heads. Dixie popped her parasol open as debris began to rain down.
“Who do you think is gonna win?” Dixie mused.
“Well, Abe is obviously outgunned. Harpoons? I mean, if he didn’t have the ‘lope, he’d probably have lost already.” As Johnny said this, the jackalope shot another blast of beams at the opposing ship, breaking through a panel of armor, sending it crashing to the ground. “But as it stands, I’d say this is a pretty fair fight.”
Just then, a drumbeat could be heard off in the distance, as if ground troops were approaching. Dixie and Johnny turned, scanning the horizon. Above them, the fighters in the airships seemed not to have heard it, because the battle continued, unabated. A dark spot appeared in the distance, but was soon recognizable as a large vehicle approaching the battleground rapidly. Dixie and Johnny watched.
“Hello,” muttered Johnny, “What’s this?”
“Looks like some kinda war rig,” Dixie said, and sure enough, a moment later a massive war rig, all pipes and spikes, welded violence and turn of the century steampunk brilliance, slid to a stop. A voice, over a speaker in the cab, rang out over the desert.
“Natalius!” the voice boomed, “Ze game iz up! Surrender, or you shall face a wrath like zat of a sousand hells!” Dixie and Johnny turned their attention to the Loreto, then, and watched as the robed arm of the Pope extended from the window, and flipped the woman the bird.
“Damn,” Johnny said, “I think that’s Margarita Von Feymous.”
“Sure looks like it,” Dixie replied happily. “This just got juicy. I wonder what her beef with the Pope is?”
“Same as anyone’s beef with the Pope, prolly,” Johnny replied. He said no more, then, because Margarita Von Feymous had exited the cab of the war rig and began the process of raising a large, cannon-like gun from the roof above it. Around her, a rag-tag group of fighters, mostly women, streamed from various compartments on the rig. They climbed to the platform behind the cab and uncovered a series of fierce, battle-ready auto-gyros. Von Feymous’s lieutenant, resembling a female General Patton, strode between the vehicles, pausing to listen as each was powered up.
High above, the battle with Lincoln and the Dunstan was momentarily forgotten as the Pope signaled his Swiss Guard to reposition the ship and ready it for a ground attack. Seeing this as an opportunity, Lincoln disappeared into his ship, and frantic preparations began, culminating in a line of ninjas on the starboard side railing, strapped into personal battle hang gliders, waiting for the signal to take off.
There was then a moment of relative calm before all hell broke loose.
In the next instant, a steady stream of heavily armed Swiss Guard on tandem flying bikes began to pour from the rear of the Loreto. One Guard was responsible for piloting the craft, while the other fired an arquebus from each hand. They raced in a large arc before bearing down on Von Feymous and her war rig.
At the same time, the auto-gyros began to take off, launching straight into the air from the heli-pad on the back of the rig. Each contained only one pilot, who operated a variety of weapons with her feet while steering with her hands. They raced upward, hoping to reach the vulnerable topside of the Loreto before they were taken out by the Guard.
Meanwhile, all but forgotten, Lincoln gave the signal for his ninjas to attack. They dived headfirst from the railing, free falling for only a moment before extending their wings and catching the updraft. They circled underneath the Dunstan, heading for the unprotected open hatch of the Loreto. Lincoln raced to the side door of his ship and stood, holding his jackalope in his hands. Several of his ninjas were caught in the crossfire and plunged to the earth, while a few made it on board. Sensing that the attention of the Pope was elsewhere, Lincoln spoke softly to his jackalope, then placed it on the floor. The jackalope took a deep breath, then turned its wrath on both of its enemies, spraying them with laser beams and cutting down soldiers from both sides mid-flight.
Von Feymous trained her brass binoculars on the Dunstan, as if seeing it for the first time. She picked up her microphone, then, addressing him.
“Get out of here, Abe! Zis doesn’t concern you! Zis is between me und the Holy See!”
But Lincoln wasn’t going to let it go that easily. The jackalope looked up at him. Lincoln looked down and nodded, giving permission. The jackalope turned its beams on Von Feymous and fired.
The beam flashed across the battleground, ripping apart one of the auto-gyros and slicing the face of its pilot neatly in half, before hitting the crow’s nest of Von Feymous’s war rig in a devastating blow. Von Feymous, though, was a seasoned veteran of the Jackalope Wars, and anticipated this move. She had leaped for cover seconds earlier, ending up with only a mouthful of desert for her trouble.
Angry, the jackalope wound up again, but as he did so, the Pope himself leaned out of the window of his ship and shook his head. He reached into his robe and extracted a small, gold blowgun and a handful of gold flossed darts. He loaded one up, placed the gun to his lips, and blew.
The dart was a direct hit, pricking the Jackalope in his soft underbelly. The poison’s effect was immediate, and the ‘lope tumbled out of the airship, end over end, into the ether.
Down below, Dixie and Johnny were still watching, wide-eyed, from beneath Dixie’s parasol, when the impact of the Jackalope caused them to jump, startled. They looked up and saw the silhouette of the rabbit against the parasol’s fabric, and a red stain slowly spreading. Dixie lowered the parasol and inspected the jackalope, impaled on the sharpened tip.
“Damn it,” she said. “I just got this parasol.”
“I have half a mind to march right up to that airship and demand that Abe reimburse us for the damage!” Johnny shouted. But in the next instant, another body fell hard to the ground. Dixie and Johnny looked up. It was Lincoln.
***
Without their leader, the ninjas lost their organization and discipline, and soon the Dunstan had lost elevation, hovering a mere feet off the ground. The Loreto and Von Feymous continued to battle, but Dixie and Johnny now had other ideas. They looked back to their van, where Clover still sat in rapt attention to the battle raging before him, and waved.
“Clover!” Johnny called, “Come on! We need some help!” The orangutan looked uncertain, but slowly came out of the van and made his way over to his employers.
“Look at my parasol,” Dixie exclaimed when he got there. She gave it a shake, sending the jackalope to the ground with a thud. “We’re going in to get our money back.
“And if we can’t, we’re taking the ship,” Johnny said matter of factly. “I hope you know how to fly one of these tubs.”
“Now wait here, we’ll signal you if we need you.”
“Matter fact,” Johnny added quickly, “Better go grab the little fella from the van.” Clover shrugged and lumbered back to the van, grabbing the glass dome holding the Becoller, which had been slumbering peacefully beneath the front passenger seat since they left Miami. Frankly, Clover was surprised that his employers had remembered it at all. He tucked it carefully under his arm and waited.
Meanwhile, Dixie and Johnny darted across the ground, dodging falling body parts, unexploded ordinances, and the twisted wreckage of various craft. They reached the Dunstan and jumped, grabbing for the floor and hauling themselves up.
Inside the airship, they found nothing but the bodies of several dead ninjas, and a terrified old timey phone operator named Doris, who sputtered and shook and begged that they not deflower her. Johnny snorted.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Toots,” he said, heading back to the door. He signaled for Clover, who crouched down in a full orangutan run and raced to the ship. When he climbed aboard, Johnny was about to tell him to take her up, but suddenly had a better idea.
“Wait just another minute, Clover, ok?” he said. “Dix, come with me.”
A moment later they were out of the ship, racing across the desert battlefield, leaping over the detritus of war, until they reached Abe Lincoln’s body. They stopped.
“Ok, help me take his clothes.”
***
“Well, that was our last lead. We’re gonna be broke and stuck with this boat.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Starlene wandering around the deck. And I’m stuck with her, Rex thought as he got to work casting off. Was he stuck with her, though? He could just as easily have left her behind on the dock.
“Hey baby,” he called, “Come here.” She wandered over and Rex pulled her in for an embrace. She mumbled something and flailed her arms around, and he decided not to try to figure out what she said. “Why don’t you head to the master stateroom and get washed up. Margaret has a lot of nice clothes you could try on. She was about your size. I’m gonna get us out of the marina and set a course, then I’ll be down.” Rex gave her a peck on the forehead and a little push and she wandered off in a daze, muttering to herself as she went.
He finished up what he was doing on the bridge, setting a course through the Gulf. He figured that, at the very least, Mexico might be a good first stop. Starlene would fit right in. They had plenty of provisions, too. It wasn’t the Caribbean cruise he and Margaret had planned, but it would have to do. Finally, Rex headed to the stateroom, feeling horny but depressed at the same time. He was disgusted with himself for what he was about to do, but sort of resigned to his fate. He would be with Starlene now.
He entered the stateroom and found Starlene on the bed, half undressed, and fast asleep. Rex shrugged and was about to leave when he noticed a needle sticking out of the inside of Starlene’s thigh.
As he looked more closely, he realized that Margaret’s diabetes supplies were scattered around the room. The little vial of insulin, along with the packaging from the needle, were on the floral comforter right next to Starlene. Rex shook his head, then went over to check her pulse.
“Overdosed on insulin,” he muttered. “How ironic.”
A short while later, Rex had carried the woman up to the deck. She weighed next to nothing, the years of drug abuse and hard living having taken their toll. He wondered for a moment whether she was actually as old as she seemed.
Then he tossed her overboard.
