Letters From The Wasteland The Search Out here in the wasteland, you take care of yourself. Nevermind the social graces; the howdy-do's, and the have a nice days, out here in my world, every face that strolls by could be your undoing. I shit you not. Faces are like masks anyway, you can put on a nice face, but underneath the smile can lurk a frown. You can be wearing a mean face, but be smiling behind it. It works both ways. Ive worn my share of masks along the way on the roads Ive traveled, believe me. Its saved my ass a few times, too. Its called not letting your guard down. Ive been out here for two years now, walking and hitchhiking from one state to the next, one Godforsaken dump of a town to another. Every place Ive been in, large or small, dump or not, its always been the same. Nobody is different, no matter where you go. Every town or city has a redneck, a bum, an asshole, or a thief. Hell, sometimes you even get lucky enough to meet a psycho or a serial killer along the way. Ive spent all of this time trying to find the perfect town, the perfect life, the perfect woman, etc., etc., etc. No such luck. But, I keep on truckin'. I hit the blacktop every day and begin wearing out the next pair of Nikes. Ive been stomped, stabbed, shot, and robbed. I even lost my finger over a stupid bet once. But as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for I am the HMIC. Head motherfucker in charge. And, Im the meanest sonofabitch in the valley. Amen. And remember, out here in the wasteland, you take care of yourself..... Installment 1# Part 1# July 4th, 1999. Arizona desert. 1p.m. The heat was so thick it could have made shadows sweat. My head hurt so bad I thought I was gonna puke. I never knew before that heat could send a headache careening down into my guts before, my balls even felt hot and swollen. I had been walking along highway 71# outside of Tuscon, when a heat wave that probably would have made hell feel good kicked in. I had already taken off my shirt, and wrapped it around my head like a turban. I tried taking off my shoes once, to let my dogs breathe, but the sun baked blacktop had burned blisters on to the bottoms of my feet the size of nickels. I had limped over to the side of the road and sat down, only to plant my ass cheeks down a small cactus, sending porcupine like needles up my ass. I wasnt having a good day. About 10 a.m. the next day, after spending the night in the hayloft of an old barn that must have been built around the year Christ was a kid, I hit the road again, my sore ass throbbing, my blistered feet screaming, and my balls feeling like someone had used them for hockey pucks. I had forgotten about my headache; it had moved due south. Around 12 noon, an older model Cadillac with a Texas plate on it had driven by, the driver laughing at me and tossing a beer can out the window at my feet. Empty, of course. I hope I meet up with himm someday in hell, me with a full cooler of beer in my possession, and Ill sit there right in front of him and drink every last one of them without offering him one. I wont piss in his mouth if his tonsils are on fire. I was about to give up and let the buzzards have me { I had seen a small flock of the mangy bastards hovering overhead for the last couple of miles} when I saw an old pickup truck coming down the blacktop towards me, with some old fella driving. He looked harmless enough from a distance, so I stuck out my thumb. The way my luck had been going, though, he would end up being a 70 year old homosexual serial killer with a yen for young hitchhikers, and would take me for a drive down vaseline alley. As I was saying, I had stuck out my thumb. He pulled over. ''Going my way?'' I asked him, trying to sound like a hick. He looked like a hillbilly, like Jed Clampett, so I figured he'd take to that lingo. ''Which way is that, young feller?'' he asked, sounding like Jethro Bodine, so I figured I was safe. ''Actually mister,'' I said, ''at this point in time, I dont really care. As long as Im out of this heat.'' I dropped the hick accent, I was already in like Flint. ''Cmon, young fella,'' he said, pushing the side door open. ''But Ive got a couple of stops to make first, if you dont mind.'' ''No, thats cool,'' I said, climbing in before he changed his mind. We had gone about three miles down the blacktop when I noticed an old crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror, and an old, worn, faded bible sitting on the dash. At least he's a religious man, I thought. I thought, as I say. It looked like an antique, so I asked him about it, just making conversation. ''That looks kind of old,'' I said. ''How old is it?'' He suddenly broke out laughing like a hyena, and slapped his knee. He looked like Jed instead of Jethro now. ''Young man, that used to belong to a nun who lost her virginty AFTER committing her life to the Lord. Her punishment was to be exiled out into the wasteland.'' I couldnt resist asking where or what the wasteland was. My day had already been really interesting, so what the hell? Might as well be sociable anyhow, pass the time. Besides, he'd saved me from a long walk in hellsfire. ''Where is this..uh..wasteland?'' I asked. ''Hell, boy! Its right here!'' He pointed out the window with an old gnarled index finger. It looked more like a claw. As I looked out the window, all I saw was the desert passing us by, but thought I saw a blur that had looked like a sign that said, PARADISE,ARIZONA. Paradise? I thought. Never heard of it. I asked another stupid question. ''Here? I dont see anything.'' Another hyena laugh. ''Hell, boy! Open your eyes!'' I started to ask him what in the hell it was he wanted me to look at in this barren hotass ballbusting desert, when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, followed by little black worms floating in the air in front of my now dimming eyes. Lights out! As I fell into a state of unconsiousness, I was feeling really dumb for turning my back to a stranger and giving him the chance to pop my skull. When I woke up, the nun was sitting across from me. Part 2# As I said, when I woke up, the nun was sitting across from me. Or should I say, I was laying across from the nun. I had woke up in an old barn, just like the one I had spent the night in the night before. As I glanced around for a few seconds through pain clouded eyes, I realized it was the same one. For some odd reason, that didnt appeal to me. The nun spoke up in a whisper. ''Did the old man in the red pickup truck give you a ride too?'' I finally got a good fix on her with my eyeballs. My head felt like a busted mush melon. It could join the crowd along with my balls, ass, and gutache. ''Yeah,'' I managed to croak. My throat felt as dry as desert dust. ''Who is that old freakazoid, anyway? Why did he bust my head, and cram me in this birdshit covered barn?'' I almost felt guilty for cussing in front of her. For a second. ''He's what they call, The soul collector. He's the one who watches the roads for new or lost souls. I was on my way to Tuscon when I had a flat tire, and he stopped to ''help'' me. Then he knocked me out and brought me here.'' ''He hit a nun?'' I asked. ''What an asshole.'' ''But he did,'' she said, rubbing the side of her head. ''But why?'' ''He's the one who collects souls for the master. The dark one...you know, the anti-Christ.'' I had heard enough already. I slowly rose to my feet, dusted myself off. I had birdshit in my hair. I was pissed. ''Lady, you can stay here and wait for that old basket case to come back here and perform some kind of weirdass sacrifice on you, but me, Im outa here. You can come with me, or stay here. Its up to you. Theres a town back the road a ways called Paradise, and im going down there and tell the cops about this situation, send the law back down here to arrest his perverted ass.'' The nun spoke up again, but in an even quieter tone than before. I was thinking; why in the hell is she whispering for? We're alone. ''You cant leave here,'' she said. ''He'll get you before you can walk or run twenty yards. I know, Ive tried.'' Id heard enough again. ''Bullshit,'' I said. ''Im leaving.'' I turned to walk towards the two big barn doors when I saw the old man standing there. He was standing in the doorway to the barn, a double barrled shotgun in one hand, a .357 magnum in the other. The handgun had a laser sight on it, so apparently the old loon went night hunting too. He had a big bag of penny nails hanging from his belt, so I had the strangest feeling I knew what that shotgun was loaded with. A double barrled shotgun full of penny nails would make me look like a 6foot tall bloody pincushion, so I decided to be real friendly. ''I dont mean to offend you, old timer,'' I said, in a very soft tone of voice. ''But, Ive had just about enough of your sill games for today. You might scare the nun here, but you dont me.'' I was hoping he'd call my bluff. He did. He raised the shotgun up to my face level, then jingled the nailbag with his other hand. ''Young fella, I wouldnt get too cocky if I was you. Last year I shot a fella with this monster, and he ended up looking like a big bloody damn porcupine. What was left of him, that is.'' I looked at the gun, then back down at the nun, then back at him. I knew I didnt have a cahnce in hell of getting out that door, so I gave in, mainly for the nun's sake. She had a look of stark terror in her eyes. Scared to death. I didnt want to leave her here alone with a psychotic hillbilly. ''Okay, old timer. You win. But dont hurt the lady, okay?'' The old man laughed a high pitched cackle this time, and it reminded me of that old witch bitch in the Wizard Of Oz. I had always hated her. I wished Toto had bitten her on the ass. ''Hurt her?! Thats real funny, boy. I aint gonna hurt her! Im gonna make you have sex with her!!'' I was going to ask why, but declined. I had already heard and seen enough crazy shit for one day. I just sat back down on the ground, and smiled at the nun as if to say; Dont worry. It'll be alright. Ill get us out of here somehow. The nun forced a smile back at me, then I put my head in my hands, and closed my eyes. The ache in my crotch had hit my head again.
Copyright © 2002 David B Doc Byron |