XII: Trail of Bolivia
The small cargo ship listed precariously to its port side. Smoke poured from a large gash in the hull, and it was taking on water very quickly. The shifty and eccentric Johnny Go and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks watched from the shore as the ship partially disappeared beneath the water. They were surrounded by one thousand ten sopping wet monkey employees who looked shaken, but otherwise uninjured, and their friend Tork stood nearby, wringing water out of his shirt.
“Good thing we shipped the typewriters down to Bolivia ahead of time,” Johnny said, watching as the ship continued to sink.
“Yeah, typewriters definitely can’t swim. The monkeys are surprisingly good swimmers, though. Except for that one.”
“Rest in peace, Mini Tom Hanks,” said Johnny, tipping some of his flask of whiskey out onto the ground. Dixie nodded solemnly and did the same with hers. They were both quiet for a while as the water reached the fire on the boat and began to extinguish it, sending a cloud of steam into the air in place of smoke. Eventually, Dixie screwed the top back on her flask and looked at Johnny.
“Plan B?” Dixie asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go find a phone and call Chichay,” Dixie said. “You wanna tell these monkeys to sit tight and not fling their shit at the locals?”
“Will do,” Johnny said, climbing up onto a nearby bench to address the monkeys. Dixie headed off to the pay phone near the harbor master’s office.
“Ok listen up,” Johnny called to the monkeys, “We apologize for this temporary delay. We’ll have alternative transportation here shortly. In the meantime, you all need to stay here and not scare any of the weird sailing boat people in this marina. I’m looking at you, Lil’ Orphan Annie.” A small rhesus monkey looked up at him and batted her eyes innocently. Johnny took a sock full of quarters and tossed it to a monkey named Clarence.
“Clarence, you and Chunk go over to the vending machines and buy some snacks,” he addressed the rest of the monkeys while Clarence and Chunk scampered off. “I’m buying the snacks this time, but starting today, you’re all on payroll, so you’ll have to use your own money to feed yourselves. We’re not running a charity here.” Johnny sat down on the bench and lit a cigarette. His helper monkey, Bo, hopped up on his shoulder. Johnny handed him a cigarette, as well, and lit it for him.
“Nothing’s ever easy, is it, Bo?” he asked with a sigh.
***
“Ok, we’ll send Sharif back down,” Chichay Milano said into the phone. She was wearing a hazmat-type of suit, but had taken the gloves and mask off in order to answer the phone. She had the mask and respirator propped up on the top of her head. “What do you mean you can’t call Tommy?”
Chichay paused and listened into the phone, then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Right, of course you had to give all the quarters to the monkeys. It’s fine, I’ll call Tommy and see what he can do for you, and I’ll send Sharif back down to help. But listen, as soon as you’re there and settled, we need him back here. We can’t have both Troubadour brothers in the winter pastures with the cattle, nothing’s getting done here on the ranch and-” Chichay stopped. “Hello? Dixie?” Annoyed, she hung up the phone.
***
Sweaty Mulligan stood beside a large dumpster in the gravel drive in the rear of the ranch. He was dressed in the same protective gear as Chichay, and was throwing debris that he had hauled out of one of the barns into the dumpster. Broken pieces of furniture, farm equipment, and bits of clothing and other items, were all filthy and otherwise unsalvageable due to having spent the past several months in a barn full of monkeys. The smell was horrendous.
Sweaty and Chichay had planned on cleaning out the barns, disinfecting them, and repairing any damage caused by the monkeys. They were thrilled to get the spaces back, but not at all pleased by the amount of damage that Dixie and Johnny’s project had caused to the property.
Sweaty dragged an old wooden train case from the barn to the dumpster. He had opened it up and started pulling items out when Chichay appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped what he was doing, lifted his respirator, and smiled at her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied, “You’ll never guess who called while I was up in the house.”
“Archibald Mahoney?” Sweaty guessed.
“Huh? Who is- Never mind. No, it was Dixie. Obviously.”
“Uh oh, now what?”
“They were supposed to sail out of port this morning on a cargo ship that Tommy Sciola got them, but they made it about halfway across the harbor and capsized. Totally not their fault, according to Dixie. The ship tricked them. They got all the monkeys back to shore, but now they need another way to get to Bolivia.”
“They don’t know how to sail!” Sweaty exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I know.”
“So now what?”
“They wanted me to call Tommy and ask him to get them some other transport.”
“Oh, ok,” said Sweaty.
“And they asked for Sharif’s help.”
“Again?!”
“I know. Look, I told them he could help them get to Bolivia, but then we need him back here as soon as they’re settled.”
“I guess it’s probably better to just get them to Bolivia as quickly as possible, anyway. They tend to do less damage when they’re stationary.”
“Exactly. I’ll run over and tell Sharif, then I’ll be back to help you finish up in here.”
“Sounds good. It’s an absolute mess in there. A lot worse than I thought at first,” Sweaty said. “I don’t think we’re gonna get through this today, let alone the other barn.”
“Well,” said Chichay, reaching out for his hand, “Maybe once we’re done here, we’ll reward ourselves with a little trip someplace?” Sweaty pulled her into an embrace and they shared a kiss, their respirators clicking above their heads.
“I like the way you think,” he told her.
The next day…
Dixie and Johnny waited with Tork and their horde of monkeys in the parking area of the marina, which is where the authorities had forced them to go after the monkeys began climbing aboard an expensive yacht and painting symbols with their feces. They had received word that their black market guy, Tommy, would be arriving with an alternate form of transportation for them, and that Sharif would be coming to drive them.
Dixie and Johnny passed a jug of wine back and forth while they waited. A group of monkeys, along with Tork, sat nearby. Two of the monkeys played a very competitive game of checkers on a board made out of a pizza box and with pieces of car tail lights they’d smashed in the parking lot. Tork had made a bet with a large monkey called Pinky and watched eagerly to see who would win.
“I bet Tommy brings us a plane,” Dixie said.
“Yeah, one of those big cargo ones, like that you can put tractors and elephants in and still have room left over for a lotta cases of beer.”
“He should have just given us that in the first place. It’s way faster than that ship. Does Sharif know how to fly a cargo plane?”
“I assume so. He went to that weird fundamentalist boarding school. Flying planes is pretty central to their operation.”
“Oh yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“He told me one time that in his senior year, all the orangutans had to take a course called “Basics of Hijacking” where they learn the best way to commandeer a bunch of different vehicles.”
“Fascinating. I learned all my hijacking fundamentals from you and TV.”
“Yeah, and everything I learned was from the Rabbi. But honestly, Dix, so much of standard hijacking procedure is just common sense coupled with brute force and a total disregard for consequences.”
“It’s true. When you need a getaway vehicle, you can’t be stopping to consider anyone’s feelings.” As they spoke, they heard the clip-clop of hooves, along with the creak of wagon wheels. They looked around to see where the sound was coming from.
On the main road leading into the marina, several car horns blared impatiently. Dixie and Johnny saw a line of five old fashioned covered wagons waiting to make a left hand turn. Each wagon was made of heavy wood, covered in beige canvas, and pulled by a team of horses or oxen. A driver sat in the front of the first two wagons. The other three were simply tied to the wagon in front. The driver of the second wagon was Sharif.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnny muttered.
“Is that Tommy?” asked Dixie, squinting into the winter sun.
“Yeah, and Sharif.”
“Why are they in wagons? Where’s our plane?”
“Maybe this is how they’re gonna take us to the plane?”
“Oh yeah! That’s probably it.” Dixie started to laugh. “It’s actually ridiculous of us to think that they could land that big cargo plane here in the marina.” Johnny joined in laughing, and by the time the wagon train had drawn to a stop in front of them, they were both rolling on the ground, howling with laughter.
“Your chariots are here,” Tommy said as he climbed down from the lead wagon. He rubbed his ass as he waited for Dixie and Johnny to get to their feet. Sharif climbed down from the second wagon and made his way over. “She’s not a luxury ride by any means, but she’ll get the job done.”
“Well, we aren’t going far, right?” Johnny asked, shaking Tommy’s hand and clapping Sharif on the shoulder. “Where’s the plane?”
“What plane?”
“The plane that’s gonna fly us and these monkeys to Bolivia?” By this time, Tork had abandoned the checkers game and wandered over. He beamed as he pet the horses that had been pulling the first wagon.
“Oh that,” said Tommy with a shrug, “I couldn’t get my hands on one.”
“Tommy, you poi-filled wookie cunt!” Dixie shouted.
“What the fuck, Tommy!” Johnny said.
“Hey look, guys,” said Tommy, defensively, “I used up all my goodwill getting you that cargo ship, which you proceeded to sink. A whole network of my transportation connections won’t make a deal with me now, on accounta the way my clients always destroy their inventory. You’re lucky I was even able to get these wagons.” Tommy glanced up and saw a taxi pulling into the parking lot. He nodded to Dixie and Johnny and started to walk away.
“Do you have any idea how long it’s gonna take us to get to Bolivia in these things?” Johnny called.
“Three months,” Tommy replied, opening the back door of the cab.
“Three months if we even make it!” shouted Dixie, angrily.
“It was good enough for the Donner party,” Tommy said, slamming the door. The cab pulled slowly out of the parking lot.
“Good to see you, Tommy!” Tork called cheerfully after the car. “Thanks for your help!” A moment of silence followed while Dixie and Johnny took stock of their situation.
“There’s not enough room for all the monkeys,” Johnny said, finally.
“Well, some of ‘em’ll have to walk,” replied Dixie. Johnny nodded.
“How do they handle, Sharif?” he asked. The orangutan shrugged and made a few crude gestures.
“Seems bad,” Dixie said.
“Yeah, he says they handle like a vacuum strapped to a mannequin that’s getting paddled by a frat boy.”
“I hate frat boys,” Dixie muttered.
“Same,” said Johnny. “Tork, you ok to drive one of these suckers?” Tork looked up, pure excitement spread over his face.
“Am I!”
“Ok, you take that one,” he pointed to the fourth wagon, “The one with the cows. Sharif, you’re in the lead. Dix, you and I can each take one of the middle ones. If we get tired, we’ll just tie ‘em so we can sleep in the back.”
“Yeah, I guess that works,” Dixie said, draining the last of her flask. “We’re gonna need to stop and get some provisions. I’m outta hooch.” Johnny nodded and addressed the crowd of monkeys.
“Ok, team. We have five wagons. You’re not all gonna fit, so divide yourselves up and cram in as best you can. Anyone who can’t fit walks behind.” He walked to the second wagon and climbed up to the bench.
After a lot of shoving and bickering, the monkeys finally settled on who would ride in the wagons and who would walk behind. A few opted to cling to the outside edges. Finally, Sharif lifted the reins and slapped the backs of the horses, and the wagon train began to lumber slowly away from the marina. As they reached the main road, Dixie stood on the bench and called out to the wagons in front.
“First stop, Whataburger!”
***
Chichay and Sweaty had pulled the last piece of trash from the barn. Sweaty was using a pressure washer to get the filth out of the interior, while Chichay worked on clearing away some of the trash that had accumulated along the outside.
As Chichay worked, she realized that the pressure washer was no longer running. She propped her rake up against the barn and went to look for Sweaty, afraid that the silence was due to his inadvertent time traveling, which happened occasionally and was often outside of his control. She walked into the barn.
“Sweaty?” she called. She didn’t see him, but followed the hose of the pressure washer across the floor until there, in the corner, she spotted Sweaty, crouched down and looking intently at something. “Sweaty? What’s up? Is everything ok?” Startled, he turned and looked up at her.
“There’s a secret compartment,” he said, excitedly.
“Huh?”
“Look,” he said, standing up and stepping aside so she could see what he had been crouching over. “In the floor. There’s the outline of a door.”
“I mean, I guess that’s what it is,” she said, crouching. “But it could also just be a part of the floor that was repaired with different wood.”
“Only one way to find out,” he said. He walked across the barn to a pile of tools stacked in one corner. He picked up a crowbar and returned, wedging it into a crack of the floorboards with a thump.
“You can’t be serious,” Chichay said, standing up and stepping back. As she did, Sweaty leaned into the crowbar and, with a loud crack, the wood splintered. One board lifted, revealing only dirt beneath. Chichay was about to hit Sweaty with an “I told you so” when he placed the crowbar under the next board. This time, the boards rose as one solid piece. They were, indeed, a door. Sweaty reached down and grabbed the edge, pulling slowly as the ancient hinges creaked in protest, until finally a small, rough compartment was revealed.
“Told ya,” he said to Chichay with a smile. She crossed her arms in protest, but smirked, trying to suppress a smile. Inside the compartment was an old metal box, corroded and dirty. Sweaty lifted it out, placing it on the barn floor. Chichay crouched again, and the two inspected it closely.
“I guess we should try to get it open,” she said. Sweaty nodded. There was a small padlock on the front, which was almost rusted through. Sweaty thumped it with the crowbar and it crumbled to pieces, flaking off onto the floor.
It took another couple of minutes to get the lid of the box open. With Chichay holding the bottom and Sweaty pulling on the lid, they managed to get the lid up just enough to slide the crowbar in. With a squeal, the lid was open.
Inside the box was one single piece of paper, brittle and stained with age.
“It’s a map,” Sweaty said, looking intently at it.
“A treasure map?” Chichay asked, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” said Sweaty, not picking up on her disbelief. She scooted around so she was next to him and peered over his shoulder.
“You’re fucking with me. What’s it leading to? Nazi gold?”
“No, Confederate.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah, look,” he said, gently pointing to the map. It appeared to be a hand drawn topographical map of the ranch. While most of the buildings weren’t where they were today, the natural landmarks such as the creek and the massive live oak were visible. At the bottom of the map was a line of flowery, old-timey script:
Locating Johnson’s Ladder requires many steps
Take your double dagger and begin your quest at X
“My god that’s corny,” Chichay said.
“Well, it’s the Confederacy, Chich,” Sweaty said, “They aren’t exactly known for sound decisions that’ve stood the test of time.”
“How do you know this is a Confederate map?” she asked. “For all you know, this could just be something Dixie and Johnny planted to fuck with the Troubadours.”
“I agree that it seems unlikely,” Sweaty said, slowly, “But there have always been rumors of a lost trove of gold hidden in these parts after the end of the Civil War. Everyone in the area knows the legend. That’s what caused the, uh, behavior of the Troubadour brothers back when they were using. Matter of fact, where do you think Johnson got his name?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What’s Wang Chung a reference to, then?”
“Nothing. It’s just an unfortunate name.”
“Huh. Ok, so what is the legend, exactly?” Chichay asked.
“Well, from what I’ve been able to piece together, around the end of the Civil War, Johnson pilfered a bunch of money.”
“Not wholly surprising for a politician,” said Chichay.
“Right, but it’s what he spent it on.”
“Which was?”
“A gold plated catapult.”
“Huh?”
“Seriously. Rims and everything. Think, like, Master P’s tank, but a catapult.”
“What purpose could that possibly serve?” She asked, not believing the story.
“Probably to make it appealing to the user? And, uh, you know, power corrupts.”
“Uh huh. And then what?”
“Well, it’s a misappropriation of funds, right? So he gets impeached for it.”
“Sweaty, come on. I might not have gone to school in America, but even I know why Johnson was impeached.”
“You know the official story.”
“This is absurd.”
“Too absurd to be a lie, right?” He asked, excitedly.
“No!” Chichay shouted. She started to laugh.
“Look, do you want to know the rest of the legend, or not?”
“Ok, fine! Go on.”
“Stop laughing!”
“Ok! Ok!” Chichay said, taking a deep breath.
“After Congress found out what Johnson had done with the money, they moved to impeach him. But having to tell the world that your president is being impeached for stealing from the war fund and building a vanity weapon doesn’t sound great, so they went with the Tenure of Office thing and we know how that turned out.
“There was still the matter of the catapult, though, so rather than let Congress get its hands on it, Johnson sent Grant and some other guys off to sell it to Mexico. He didn’t care about Mexico coming out ahead in the Intervention as much as he wanted the money. They got to right around these parts when they were attacked by a group of disgruntled Texans who were pissed about their lands and such being destroyed in a war that they were promised they would win, and they wanted payback.
“Grant and his buddies were ridden out of town strapped to a railcar. It was Grant’s most embarrassing defeat, but he never counted it, since it was technically after the war ended.”
“What happened to the catapult?” Chichay asked, enjoying the story if not actually believing a word of it.
“The coalition of local ranchers who commandeered it ended up getting into an argument about how to divide up the gold parts. They settled it via a kind of tontine. Instead of the last person alive getting it, it was more like, whoever lived to a certain point got an equal share.”
“And none of them lived that long?”
“They did not. For a time, it seemed like they were being bumped off one by one until there were only two left, but before they could agree to go and get the treasure, they were both killed in a skirmish in Fort Bend.”
“And they were the only two who knew where the treasure was buried?”
“Yep. See, they’d hidden the catapult in three pieces, and they devised a series of clues in order to locate it. But each guy in the tontine created a riddle and a hiding place for the clues based on what the previous guy told him. It was possible to eventually get to the catapult only knowing your own clue. But without knowing any of them? Impossible.”
“And so ever since then, people have been digging up parts of this ranch, and the surrounding areas, looking for it?”
“Yep. Matter of fact, that’s why Dixie’s family ended up buying this ranch. Somewhere along the line, a weirdo uncle bought it, specifically to try to locate this gold catapult, and it’s been in her family ever since.” They were quiet for a while. Chichay was thinking.
“Well, Mulligan, you spin a hell of a yarn. I don’t believe a word of it,” she said. Sweaty looked disappointed. Chichay continued, “But I also don’t want to go back into that monkey barn today, so I’m in.”
“For real?” he asked, excited. She nodded. They picked up the map and made their way out of the barn and across the lawn.
“So Dixie didn’t… also pick her name because of this, did she?” Chichay asked, uncomfortably.
“No way. They might have owned this ranch for generations, but her family are New Yorkers through and through.”
“So her name…?”
“She never told you this? Sorry, Chich,” Sweaty said as they walked. “She became Dixie Doublestacks when she was a burlesque dancer in Edinburgh, and she picked the name because of Florence Dixie, who was a Scottish feminist and adventurer is the 1800s. A real badass.”
“Why didn't she just call herself Florence?”
“Cause it doesn't sound good with Doublestacks.”
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, November 8
We stopped at all the Wataburgers on the way to the border. These fucking monkeys don’t like the fries but we told ‘em “We aren’t stopping at McDonald’s because we’re no corporate whores! You don’t like the fries? Eat a dick!”
We crossed the border at Brown Town and Tork finally got to use his Paraguay passport. One of the monkeys bit the border guy and he shot him, so now we’re down to a thousand and eight, but I saw a couple getting it on in the back of Johnny’s wagon so I think there will be more soon. By the way, that snake Tommy brought us wagons instead of a plane. My ass hurts from the bench seat.
Anyway, the monkey that died was called Jackal, I think. I’m going to throw some fireworks in this car that’s honking.
Bye for now,
Dixie
***
“Sweaty, we dug up like half an acre here. I don’t think the clue is right or we would’ve found something.” Chichay was leaning on a shovel next to a haphazardly dug pit. Sweaty sat on a small backhoe and slumped against the controls.
“I don’t understand. The first clue took us to exactly the right place. How could that clue be accurate and the next one totally wrong?”
“It said two hundred six “feminine” paces from the property’s Western boundary, staying parallel to the stream,” Chichay read.
“And that’s exactly what we did!” exclaimed Sweaty in frustration. Chichay looked at the stained paper again.
“Unless…”
Letter from C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, November 12
Dixie - I hope all is well. Everything is fine at the ranch. The Troubadour’s have taken the cattle to the upper pastures and Sweaty and I have finally cleaned out the barns. Haven’t seen Rex in over a week, but not concerned yet.
Quick question: Was the Western boundary of the ranch always where that treeline is, or did it used to be somewhere else? Asking for a friend.
-C
***
The wagon train rolled slowly along a sun beaten stretch of Mexican highway. Dixie and Johnny were lounging on the driver’s bench of the second wagon train, sipping on bottles of tequila and with a mountain of tacos between them. They were making slow but steady progress, even though they stopped at taquerias in every town they passed through.
Dixie’s driving of her own wagon had lasted until just after they crossed the border, when she’d caught one of the monkeys trying to steal her charro beans. She’d drop kicked the little fella out of the wagon, then tied her horses to Johnny’s wagon, and climbed up beside him.
A short while later, they were both asleep, but the wagon train plodded on.
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, November 19
Do you know how bad these fucking wagons are at going through mountains? Those asshole Donners. No wonder they got stuck and had to eat each other.
Speaking of which, we ran out of food on a long stretch in the desert last week and had to eat some of the monkeys to survive. Johnny picked the one named Coglione Della Valle to sacrifice, because he’s annoying, but also he’s Italian, and we were craving spaghetti. Tork didn’t want to eat him at first, but we called him names until he did. Weirdly, the monkeys all found stuff to eat, so this is the only other monkey we lost-
Sorry, I’m back. We got stuck on a hill and the wagon rolled backward over Zinijero and his spine got crushed. Two monkeys were born, though, so we’re even.
Anyway, I don’t know who the fuck you’re asking for, but the original ranch stopped at the driveway. A small ranch next door was owned by this cunt Rickles and someone in our family won it off him in a card game.
***
“I told you,” Chichay said, waving the scrap of paper in Sweaty’s face. He was sitting at the kitchen table, typing rapidly on a computer.
“What?”
“Just got a letter from Dixie,” Chichay said, handing it to him.
“This is a menu from a taqueria,” Sweaty said, turning it over. “It looks like a kid drew on it in crayon. Are you ok?”
“Sweaty, you’ve known Dixie and Johnny for how long now? And you haven’t learned how to decipher their correspondence?”
“Usually they send me telegrams. And even those don’t make sense.”
“Well, Dixie and I actually had a lot of letters back and forth when she was in jail, so I got pretty good at it.”
“You did?” he asked, incredulously.
“Uh huh, now listen. I know why we couldn’t find the second clue.”
Letter from C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, November 30
D- Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving. Do you know what “Hobart’s Swiss Cheese Axe” is and where I might find it?
-C
***
“Hola. ¿Cómo llego al volcán?” Dixie asked the gas station attendant. The man mumbled something without looking up. “Tenemos un mono que nos gustaría sacrificar.” With that, the man finally snapped to attention. He looked at Dixie and gasped. Then he looked out the window of the station and gasped again as he took in the scene of old timey wagons, horses and oxen, and over a thousand monkeys. He watched as Johnny Go appeared, dragging a large stone angel that appeared to have been stolen from a nearby cemetery, and as Tork argued with an orangutan. The man shook his head, then reached for a map.
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, December 6
An axe with holes in the top and a regular wooden handle that I use to open stuff at home, but I don’t take in public with me because it’s ugs. Check my moonshine vault.
***
“What’s Dixie’s moonshine vault?” Chichay asked, looking up at Sweaty, who was putting the finishing touches on the Christmas tree in the living room.
“Oh, I think she means the cellar under what used to be that barn way down the back past the Troub’s cabin. The one that she and Johnny burned down when we first got here. Only the foundation is left. There’s a metal hatch to get in. I know they’ve been keeping stuff in there, but frankly I didn’t really care to find out what. Why?”
“I think we just figured out our next clue,” Chichay replied. Sweaty put down the box of tree ornaments, crossed the room and grabbed his jacket.
“Well then, let’s go,” he said, opening the back door. Chichay smiled, grabbed her coat, and followed him out the door and across the lawn.
When they got to the burned out husk of the barn, Sweaty headed to a pile of sticks and leaves that had been piled up, obviously trying to disguise something. He moved them aside, revealing a metal hatch.
“How did you know this was here?” Chichay asked as Sweaty reached down and grabbed a rope that had been threaded through a hole in the door.
“I saw them going in once,” he said, heaving the door open. “Like I said, I haven’t been inside. Who knows what the fuck they've been doing down here,” he replied, clicking on a flashlight and starting down the rough wooden steps.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” Chichay said, stepping down onto the first step. “Should we have brought weapons?”
“Nah, they usually don't have the foresight to actually protect their stuff. I’m surprised the door is even closed.”
***
“Get him!” Dixie shouted as a small black howler monkey streaked past the wagon train, and Johnny Go jumped from his place on the second wagon, attempting to tackle the monkey. He missed by a significant margin, but the movement caused the monkey to swerve, and it ran straight into Tork, who reached down and picked it up, holding it into the air.
“What do you say, little guy?” he asked the monkey. “Wanna go on an adventure?” The monkey squirmed, but Tork stroked its head and eventually it was still.
“Tork!” Johnny said, brushing himself off and climbing back into the wagon, “We don’t have all day. Put that fucking monkey in the wagon and let’s go.” Tork did as he was told, and the monkey wagon train rolled on, several monkeys richer.
***
“Ah!” Sweaty gasped as he swept his flashlight around the cellar. He jumped.
“What is it?” Chichay called, rushing down the last few steps. Sweaty had trained the flashlight onto several human shapes in the far corner. “What the fuck is that!”
“Is that…” Sweaty stepped cautiously across the cellar. “Yep, it's that Cro-Magnon man display from the natural history museum. Went missing about a year ago. I should’ve known.” Chichay joined him and inspected the life size figures of several cavemen lining the wall. In the far corner, deep in the shadows, was a giant woolly mammoth. The cavemen were positioned as if they were stalking the mammoth.
“Why would they take this?” Chichay asked. Sweaty shrugged.
“The real question is how they got it down here. Come on, let’s find that axe.” He pointed the flashlight across the cellar. In the corner opposite the woolly mammoth, they saw a pile of what appeared to be stolen purses and wallets. On the other side, the floor was lined with dusty brown and white ceramic moonshine jugs, some of which had been smashed to pieces. Chichay picked one up.
“Blech!” she exclaimed after popping the cork and taking a whiff. “I can’t believe they drink this. I think I just got drunk from smelling that.” She held it out for Sweaty to smell. He inhaled, then coughed.
“Yeah, no thanks,” he said. He walked to the pile of broken moonshine jugs and started to sift through with his foot.
“Are they making this moonshine?” Chichay asked as she walked over to help him. “I mean, they have to be, right?”
“Oh yeah, they always do. Look.” He pointed the flashlight, and in another corner was a hulking and haphazardly constructed still. “Almost any time they think they’re gonna be someplace for more than a couple of weeks, Dixie builds a still and they get to work making liquor. As a matter of fact, this is one of the first headquarters that hasn’t blown up from a homemade still.”
“I thought the one in Hoboken blew up because of your vat of drugs?”
“Yeah, that one did. But the three before that were all from exploding stills. And of course, Miami was from the nuke.”
“Don’t remind me.” Chichay shoved a large chunk of ceramic moonshine jug to one side revealing the axe. “Found it!”
Letter from C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, December 18
Hope all is well on your journey. Just letting you know that someone named Trixie Hobbiton stopped by and wanted to know if you guys had the octopus she lent you. Sweaty and I didn’t know anything about it, but we haven’t seen an octopus around the ranch, so we told her no. We thought maybe Rex knew, but the last we heard from him, he was at something called a “larvae retreat” and wouldn’t be back for at least six weeks.
Sweaty and I made an amazing discovery last week. We’ll fill you in on the details next time we see you.
Safe journey,
C
***
“I’m glad that Trixxxie’s getting work,” Johnny said. They were each sitting on the back of one of the oxen as the wagon train made its way through an industrial looking area of Managua. They attracted a lot of attention from those they passed by, but for the most part were left alone, given the aggressiveness of the monkeys, which had increased as more and more were forced to walk.
They had picked up an additional thirty spider monkeys in the jungles of Honduras, bringing the total number to around one thousand forty monkeys. The division between the new spider monkeys and the old monkeys they had brought from the ranch was stark, given that the Honduran monkeys had received extensive military training and a lot of the monkeys from the ranch were retired acting monkeys, tourist monkeys, or zoo monkeys. Tork had been injured while trying to break up a skirmish, and was currently laying across the bench seat of the wagon, holding a filthy rag to his leg wound.
“Chichay spelled Trixxxie’s name wrong,” Dixie commented.
“Yeah she did,” Johnny said, looking over at the letter. “We’ll have to tell Trixxxie next time we see her. You know how she likes to settle things.” They rode along in silence for a while, punctuated only by the occasional moan from Tork.
“How does Chichay keep finding us?” Johnny asked. Dixie shrugged.
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, December 28
One time, me and Johnny were in Montreal and we got two of those jumpsuits you wear when you're a painter, and we put 'em on. Then we went to a bagel shop and bought all the stale bagels and filled the suits with 'em and walked around downtown.
***
“Letter from Dixie?” Sweaty asked. They had left the post office in the center of town and were walking toward a large memorial, which they suspected housed the next clue in their hunt for the gold catapult. Chichay nodded.
“Yep. It makes absolutely no sense at all. She’s just talking about bagels.”
“I could go for a bagel,” Sweaty said. “Wanna go to the Bagel Barrel after we check the memorial?”
“We should go to the Bagel Barrel first,” Chichay said. “They always sell out.” They changed course and headed to the small café just off the main street, where they lined up and each ordered their usual: a salt bagel with honey butter for Sweaty and an everything bagel with strawberry cream cheese for Chichay, and two coffees. They took their food and drinks and made their way to the center of town, sitting on a bench facing the memorial while they ate.
When they’d finished, Sweaty stood up and took a knife out of his pocket. He walked to the memorial and quickly, before anyone noticed him, and pried the plaque off of the base. The knife blade snapped, but by then he’d freed enough that he was able to do the rest of the work with his fingers. Chichay stayed on the bench, sipping her coffee and acting as a lookout. It was a chilly morning in February, though, so they had the park to themselves.
Sweaty reached his arm inside the base of the monument, which was hollow. He looked over at Chichay.
“Chich!” he called. “Can you get the car? This is bigger than I expected.” She nodded and walked casually toward their car.
***
A short while later, Chichay and Sweaty were heading back toward the ranch with a large, gold plated piece of the catapult sitting in the backseat of Sweaty’s battered Toyota Camry. Chichay was at the wheel.
“Sweaty, I don’t know how you can stand driving this car,” she said. “It handles like a bumper car.”
“I know,” he said, “But I can’t risk having a nice car if I’m gonna be popping in and out of time like I do. It’s a waste of money.”
“You haven’t had an invol jump in a while,” Chichay said, reaching out and touching his hand.
“That’s true,” he said, smiling, “But all the same, it’s not really important.”
‘I guess not. But next time we’re taking my car.” They didn’t mention the treasure in the backseat until they were almost home.
“So we found a piece,” Sweaty said. He looked at Chichay expectantly. She sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Ok, fine. You were right and I was wrong. The legend of the gold catapult isn’t bullshit and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“And?”
“And… I’ll never doubt you again.”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Sweaty said. He reached across the car and planted a kiss on Chichay’s cheek as they turned into the driveway of the ranch.
“So what’s the next clue?” she asked.
“Well, the next one’s gonna be a bit more of a logistical challenge,” he said.
“Why?”
“I think it’s buried somewhere inside the Fort Worth City Hall.”
Letter form C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, January 7
Hey Dix, Didn’t you tell me once that your family had donated some personal and historical records to the city of Fort Worth, and that they were housed in the archives at the Fort Worth City Hall? Can you tell me what those were? Would we be able to get in to see them?
***
Dixie, Johnny, and Tork gave the wagon a final shove and it rolled over the edge, landing in the murky water of the canal lock with a splash. Johnny dusted his hands off as he turned and joined the remaining wagons. Dixie and Tork stayed a moment longer, watching the wagon sink.
“I still don’t understand why we had to get rid of that wagon,” Tork said.
“We told you, Tork. It was haunted.”
“I just don’t really see how-” he started. Dixie cut him off.
“Go wrangle the monkeys. A bunch of ‘em are pissed that they have to walk now, so be careful. I think they have weapons.” She turned and climbed into the wagon beside Johnny, who called out to Sharif that it was time to leave. With a groan and a grumble and a lot of screeching, the wagon trail rolled slowly away from the Canal.
“What’s Chichay up to?” Johnny asked, picking up the letter they’d received at the post office in Panama City.
“I’unno,” Dixie replied. She reached into the wagon and shoved a monkey, who had been sitting on top of a huge jug of guaro. She popped the top and lifted the bottle to her lips to drink. It was heavy and she had to use both hands. “I think she’s looking for that asshole’s treasure.”
“What treasure?”
“The one that loser supposedly buried. You know, Captain Ass Face.”
“Oh, the ones the Troubadour brothers were obsessed with back when they were tweakers and always digging up the yard?”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you think Chichay’s digging up the yard?”
“Eh, she’s probably making Sweaty do it.”
***
Sweaty Mulligan crawled out from under a table in the Fort Worth City Hall. It was late, and the last employees and visitors had long since gone home. The night watchman had retreated to his small office to get high and watch porn, so Sweaty had the place to himself. He walked quietly to the empty security booth and disarmed the security system, then hurried to a side door to let Chichay in. She slipped in the open door, wearing all black and carrying two shovels.
The center of the building consisted of a large, open atrium and had a garden with neat rows of indoor plants running through the center. Chichay handed one shovel to Sweaty, climbed into the garden, and got to work.
An hour later they were fleeing the scene, a large gold piece of catapult held above their heads as they ran.
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, January 13
Chichay I hope you’re not taking the juice that the Bodabor Tothers did. If the treasure was at the ranch I would know because I can taste the futures and everyone thinks I’m smoother than Hottie.
I really like when you do the canbos and then everyone’s all “OH whack!” but her tits were already out so you can fucking fight me for it. That spode puddle never had a chance because me ‘n Johnny were on the PROWL.
Lick it, girl.
***
Chichay and Sweaty loaded a muddy wheel into the back of the ranch’s pick up truck. A cold rain pelted them as they worked, but washed away just enough to reveal the gold plating under the mud.
They climbed into the truck and drove slowly out of the field, navigating ditches and divots left by the fall harvest.
“I think Dixie and Johnny might be in trouble,” Chichay said. “You should see this last letter that she sent.”
“Are you sure she isn’t just really drunk?”
***
“Ok, we’ll take the stuff across the border!” Johnny said. “But you gotta give us Tork.”
¿Quién es Tork?
“That one,” Dixie said, pointing to Tork, who was tied to a tree nearby with a bunch of leaves stuffed into his mouth. A man was holding a rifle to Tork’s head. Several other monkeys, including Sharif and Bo, were lined up, with intimidating paramilitary looking men pointing guns at them. The rest of the monkeys were cowering in and around the wagons.
“¿Por que lo quieres? No vale mucho,” the smuggler replied.
“I know, but he’s helping to drive our wagons,” Johnny said. “And anyway, he’s not worth much to you, either.”
“Rescate,” said the man.
“No,” said Dixie, “His family already thinks he’s dead. We kidnapped him months ago and they stopped looking for him. They will definitely not pay you any rescate.”
“Do we have a deal, or what?” Johnny asked, impatiently. The smuggler nodded.
Later, as the wagon trail headed away from Cali, Johnny sat in the lead wagon with Sharif and Bo. Bo was perched on Sharif’s shoulder, and both glared angrily at Johnny.
“Look, I don’t see what choice we had,” Johnny said. “Smuggling the coke was the only way we were gonna get out of that situation.” Johnny paused and listened. Sharif was gesturing wildly with his hands, and Bo seemed like he was about to be sick.
“I know Dixie didn’t have to shove the bottle up that guy’s ass, but it happened so we had to deal with it.” Bo hopped up and down on Sharif’s shoulder.
“Well if you had an idea for how to smuggle coke through the Colombian countryside that didn’t involve putting it up the asses of most of these monkeys, then you should have spoken up.” Johnny crossed his arms sullenly and listened again as Bo turned and frantically wiped his hands on a torn scrap of the canvas wagon covering.
“Well I certainly wasn’t going to stick them up a bunch of monkey assholes myself,” Johnny said. “Besides, Bo, your hands are smaller.”
Letter from C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, January 26
Dixie, I think you should be close to Bolivia now. Just wanted to let you know that there is a cache of supplies just outside of La Paz that may help. It includes a list of some corrupt business owners; if you’re going to seize someone’s property, you might as well start there. Sweaty has a small fridge in there that contains some bio weapons.
Listen to me: Do not use the bio weapons yourself. Give them to Sharif because he is immune. You will need a carrier. Once you have loaded the ammo into the carrier, you can simply unleash it into whatever facility you choose.
In other news, Sweaty and I have uncovered all but one piece of Johnson’s golden catapult. Turns out the legends were true. We plan to smelt the gold down and divide it evenly among Sweaty and I, you and Johnny, the Troubadours, and Sharif. Maybe Rex gets a cut if he ever comes home again.
There is one final piece missing, though. Do you know what “Texas Chicken” is and where I would find it? And any thoughts you have on how that relates to a buried treasure would be a huge help.
-C
***
Screams and the sounds of gagging and vomiting could be heard from the large, nondescript industrial building just across the Peruvian border. Inside, hundreds of monkeys were shitting out balloons full of cocaine and flinging them at the cartel, who were now cowering behind anything they could find. The smell of monkey shit and vomit filled the air.
Eventually, one by one, each monkey fled from the building. Sharif began to move the wagon train out. Dixie and Johnny stayed behind in the last wagon, waiting for all the monkeys to leave. When the last monkey, a chimp named Ladybird, left the building, she carried several automatic rifles under her arm. She climbed up into the wagon, gave Dixie and Johnny a high five, and they all rolled off into the night.
Letter from D. Doublestacks to C. Milano, February 1
We ran into a little trouble when the cartel stopped us and forced us to smuggle a buncha coke across the border. They threatened to kill Tork if we didn’t, so we agreed to put the coke up the monkey’s butts. They monkeys didn’t like it, and one named Terry Adams died when the balloon broke, but otherwise everyone made it.
When we got to the cartel’s distro, the monkeys went in and shit out the coke, but then started flinging and smearing their shit all over the place. The cartel guys were getting hit, and they were puking because it was so fucking gross. Anyway, we stole some guns and we’re on our way again.
Speaking of coke, Texas Chicken means coke, but coke is also called White Sand so I don’t know why you need to know that because I thought you didn’t even drink?
***
“White Sands Missile Range,” Sweaty said. “That’s where it is. Has to be.”
“What?” Chichay said, looking up from her computer. “Why do you think that? There are tons of other things in Texas called White Sands. That range is all the way over in El Paso. Every other clue and piece of the catapult has been no farther than an hour’s drive from Dallas. Besides, the range itself wasn’t established until the 1940s.”
“I know,” said Sweaty, “But before that it was just a wide open space of sand dunes. It would have been easy to bury the last piece, which, now that we have all the other pieces, is obviously the biggest.”
“Fine,” Chichay said with a sigh. “Let’s go check it out. But when we don’t find it, I’m going to make you cold call all these other things called White Sands.”
Letter from C. Milano to D. Doublestacks, February 2
D- Sweaty and I are off on a quick road trip. Rex got back last night. He’s severely dehydrated, so your field medic came by to check him out. He should be ok in a couple of days. If you need anything, he might not be much help, so probably better to just wait for us to get back.
-C
***
The doors to the factory burst open and the garment workers all turned to see the most unusual group enter. Three disheveled people, along with an orangutan in a fez with a small monkey on its shoulder, and with four raccoons that looked like they had been possessed. The woman of the group held a bullhorn in one hand and an automatic rifle in the other. She calmly handed the bullhorn to one of the men and pointed the gun at the ceiling.
“Ok, listen up!” The man called through the bullhorn. “We’ve been authorized by the new government to use this factory for whatever we want. You all have to leave right now, or we’re going to turn these syphilitic raccoons loose on you.”
The woman then took the bullhorn and repeated what the man said in halting Spanish. A gasp went up from the workers, and they looked to the supervisor. The man overseeing production that day, who was missing an ear and had a severe rash from his last run in with a syphilitic raccoon, was already heading toward the door, giving the raccoons a wide berth.
In the next instant, amid screams, gasps, and the sounds of chairs scraping on the floor and falling equipment, the entire workforce fled the building, leaving Dixie, Johnny, Tork, Sharif, Bo, and over a thousand monkeys standing in the center of a massive building full of sewing machines and other implements. They looked around.
“You know, I really didn’t think that was going to work,” said Tork.
“We told you,” Dixie said, “Chichay and Sweaty just overthrew the government here. These people are already scared of raccoons from the last time.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see-” Tork started to say.
“Tork!” Johnny shouted. “Are you going to stand around and question us or are you going to start dragging these sewing things out into the parking lot? We have a thousand typewriters to set up in here!”
“And these monkeys are gonna need a place to sleep and eat, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to build itself,” Dixie said. Tork lowered his head and shuffled off to where Sharif and Bo were giving instructions to the monkeys. Johnny turned to Dixie.
“He’s right, though. It was almost too easy.”
Monkeys collected: Who even knows anymore.
