Lost Cargo

Three AM and I was sweating like a feral hog in a sauna. Kansas in August can be like another day in the bowels of hell, except in hell the help is nicer, and the head honcho has some style. You won’t see any three hundred-pound dipshits wearing dirty overalls strolling the flaming streets of purgatory. 

I was somewhere over the Oklahoma-Kansas border sitting at a window table in Aunt Daisy’s Café. The dusty Formica table had one leg propped up by what looked like a petrified muskrat. Aunt Daisy smelled of diesel and piss. At least I hoped it was Daisy that reeked and not me. By the cash register there was a jar with a set of dentures in it. They didn’t appear to be Daisy’s. When she smiled you could see she had at least half her teeth. I assumed they were hers from the various shades of brown and green.

I’d driven up from Juarez through dust storms, flash floods, and swarms of giant locusts. Thirty sleepless hours in a piece of shit big rig with no air, no shocks, and a rock-hard seat for my fat hemorrhoidal ass.

It was a biblical enough scene that I’d taken to passing the time shouting the Fatman’s version of the Book of Revelation in my best tent revival preacher voice: 

“… both were flung alive into a lake of fire, burning with the flesh of a thousand BBQed ribs.” Amen sister.

A few times on the drive it seemed my unholy cargo was shouting bible verses along with me. Old Slimo didn’t have the nuance needed to enthrall the wicked and weak, but he sure as hell had the volume. Scared the shit out the old bat in the wood paneled station wagon. Her eyes were huge, her hands at ten and two, as we blew by in a hellish roar. Looking in the cracked side mirror I watched her. She didn’t slow down… just stayed on the straight and narrow as the highway started a big turn on its way over the river. 

The bug-eyed dame just held on tight and slammed through the railing, sailing into the raging water below. As she hit the water I was thinking ... “wonder if all those pink curlers will help her float.”

While I’d managed to get Slimo back from the clutches of the CIA, I had no plan on what to do with the howling shithead now. Here I was, sitting in a broken-down café in the middle of the American wasteland with a barely functioning eighteen-wheeler parked in the alley and a mutant beast locked in the trailer. 

I’d abandoned Ruby to the CIA goons, and Homer was adrift somewhere in the Sea of Cortez. Maybe I should send an apology to the authorities for whatever hell Ruby was unleashing upon them, ditch the howling beast in an alley, and send an anonymous tip to the Mexican Navy: 

Dear Admiral Hombre: 

Approach the drifting trawler with utmost care. The Captain is dead and has no fear. He is well armed and traveling with a particularly vicious Albanian Werewolf. 

Best of Luck, 

A friend. 

        No, I needed to play this out. All the way to the end. Slimo was my only bargaining chip. I needed him to get Ruby back, or at the least save her puny ass from certain torture. I couldn’t be too sure she wasn’t already spilling her guts to some pretty-boy secret agent. She seemed one tough gal on the outside, but I was pretty sure she would cave under any threat of pain. She wouldn’t sell me out if she could avoid it, but if they started pulling out toenails and shit, anything could happen.

        When I drove into this pit of a town I spotted a traveling carnival setting up in a field by the high school. The Jerimiah Traveling Carnival and Sideshow was infamous across the bible belt for the hideousness of its freaks, the crookedness of its games, and the venality of its employees. Most of their carnies came straight out of the best correctional institutions across the South. Seemed like a good place for me to do some business. 

        I paid my bill and gave Aunt Daisy a tip. She smirked a bit and then slapped me hard across the face. I gave her a shiny dime instead. 

        I piled back into the cab of my semi and drove over to the high school. Looking at the crumbling stone buildings, weed covered fields, and razor wire topped, rusty chain-link fence made me wonder if sweet Aunt Daisy had gone here. Probably learned her cooking skills in home economics and other life skills under the bleachers. Maybe her missing teeth were scattered about campus?   

My whole life I’ve kept my eye out every time I visit a traveling circus or carnival, vigilantly walking the sideshows where I’d stare down every freak I saw, trying to divine some kinship I guess. Problem was I’d see part of me in everyone… Lobster-boy, half man-half woman, the Human Rubber band, the World’s Smallest Woman… Worlds Fattest private eye…

As I strolled through the rain-soaked field where Jerimiah’s was setting up I was trying to come up with the perfect spiel. “The World’s Largest Larva.” “Worm Boy.” “The Amazing Singing Slug.” None seemed right, so I kept thinking.

Which is most likely why I didn't see the steaming pile of elephant shit until I planted my big boot smack in the middle of it. Looking on the bright side at least I didn’t have my flip flops on. 

My mood soured by the unfortunate pile that was now stuck to my foot, I really didn’t appreciate the pimply-faced, beanpole, parolee-looking asshole who decided to laugh at my misfortune.

“You think that’s funny?”

“Best thing I seen today, but then it’s still early.” 

It didn’t help that his laugh was like a jackass had fucked a hyena and their evil offspring had a bagpipe for vocal cords. I sauntered over to hyena ass and politely requested he lick the shit off my boot. Not quite accurate. I threw him to the ground and shoved the bottom of my boot into his ugly mug. He tried to scream, but when your broken nose and mouth are full of elephant shit, it’s hard to get anything out that doesn’t sound like a hog snuffle.

Just as I was getting ready for boot two, a rotund official looking fellow and two muscle bound goons appeared.  

“What in hell’s name are you doing to poor old Fred?”

“He offered to clean my boots.”

“Muffllgglered…” Fred gurgled, spitting out chunks of shit.

“See, he’s doing fine.”

“Fred, get your sorry ass out of here and go get cleaned up.” 

The two goons moved in closer on each side of me. 

“Look mister, we don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you just turn around and leave. We’ll forget all about it. Whata ya say?”

I looked like I was pondering his question but was really sliding my trusty Polaroid out of my jacket pocket. I clicked it as soon as I had it out. 

“Did you just take my picture?”

“Yup.”

“What the fuck for?”

“It’s for my brother-in-law.”

“What?”

“He’s a proctologist.”

“So fucking what?”

“He collects pictures of assholes.”

 I ducked and ran for the truck. I opened the driver’s door, still huffing and puffing, and turned back toward where I’d run from. They were still there, pointing at me and laughing. I could’ve strolled to my truck. Hell, I could’ve stopped for tea for all they cared. 

Feeling less threatened, I went to check the back to see if Slimo was doing OK. At least that's what I told myself. In reality I just wanted to say hi and pet his slimy little snout.

As I came around the rear of the semi I saw the cargo door was unlocked. I panicked. I flung the door open and stared stupidly at an empty cargo bed. Well almost empty, Slimo had left a steaming pile of crap right in the middle of the bed. Must’ve been Daisy’s home cooking that upset his sensitive digestive system.

My bargaining chip was gone, my truck smelled like Satan’s own shitter, a giant mutant slug was on the loose in southern Kansas, and this fucking rain just wouldn’t stop.