21C Man, part 3: Punched in the brains

[Doktor Howl]

We had made it as far as Yuma when the trouble started.

We finally had to gas up the Charger...Tim and I were both feeling hungry, and we figured we may as well use the stop to get a meal as well.  Once we reached the mountains, of course, there would be no stopping at all.  Highway 8 gets ugly when you get that close to San Diego.

After we tanked up, we headed across what passed for the main drag, towards a sign that was partially obscured, but had the word "diner" in the name.  Once in the parking lot, however, it read "Diner and Cocktail Lounge".  Anytime I see the words "cocktail lounge", I immediately become depressed.  It brings to mind 50-something guys in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, women with too much rouge and mascara, and guys with beards and faded grey wife-beaters.

This place was no exception.  There was a faint reek of stale beer, and half a dozen people were propped at the bar watching football and/or Nascar.  All of them drunk, at noon on a Sunday.  There was, as a matter of fact, a bearded guy of indeterminate age wearing a grey wife-beater. 

We sat down, and the waitress ambled our way.  She was a woman of indeterminate age, maybe 40, maybe 55, wearing a ton of makeup over a black eye.  "Help you boys?"  She said, in a voice that sounded like Tom Waits with strep throat.

"We'll have coffee," I replied, "And a couple of menus."  She pointed at the menus in a stand at the wall-end of the table, and wandered back toward the coffee pot.  A few seconds later, we had our coffee and placed our order.  Something was happening in the football game, and the corpses at the bar were demonstrating something resembling animation.  Grey wife-beater guy was holding his pipe-cleaner arms up in the air and cheering loudly.  He looked a little confused, and then his eye settled on us.  He staggered in our direction.

"Who you boys rooting for?" He asked.  His breath rolled over us.  I have smelled worse things, but I cannot quite remember what they were. 

"We're not into football, " I replied, "Please go back and enjoy your game."

He glanced at me with the sort of malice that can only come from people who are both truly drunk and truly stupid.  "You too good for football, are you?"

"Sir, go back to your game while you still can."

"You gonna make me?"

"No."

"Then I think I'll just stand right here."


"I said *I* wouldn't make you."

He was too dumb to take the hint.  He reached over and spilled my coffee onto the floor.  "HOW D'YE LIKE ME NOW?"  He crowed.

I didn't even see Tim move.  There was a sound like an anvil landing on a side of beef, and grey wife-beater guy was on the ground, blood trickling from his mouth.  The bar was dead silent, save for the unconscious man's sonorous breathing.

"I think you'd all best go back to watching your race or your game or whatever,"  I said into the silence, "There's nothing here but trouble and emergency room bills."  The remaining patrons turned back to their television, though most kept one eye towards us.  I gestured to the waitress. 


"I think we will take our meals to go.  The stink of this man is putting me off my feed."

She gave me a look that would kill.  "You and your boyfriend there too good for us, eh?"

"Too good for your friend on the floor, yes.  Now, get us our food.  And if you tamper with it, or spit in it, we'll be back."

"Tough guys, aren't you?"  She sneered.

"I think you misunderstand my boss", Tim said, his Boer accent making him sound almost Nazi-ish, "If we find that our food is less than perfect, if for example there is a..."  He looked at me, quizzically.

"A booger."

"Yes,  a 'booger'.  If there is a booger in our food, we will come back and burn your bar down around you.  Nobody will care."

"I ought to call the police," she said, sounding a lot less sure of herself.

"Yes," Tim said, "You should do that very thing.  It sounds very wise.  They may even respond within an hour; Nothing much can happen in one hour."

The waitress just looked at us, then backed away. 

5 minutes later, we were slamming West at 80 miles per hour.  I was driving, and Tim was inspecting our food.  "I see no 'boogers'.  Nor do I see any ground glass."  We ate as we approached the mountains.  We hadn't even made it out of Arizona, let alone into California and North to Los Angeles, and already things had gotten a little out of hand.  I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing...My life had finally gotten back on track.

But when we hadn't met William Schwabe, the subject of our trip, yet.  We were still clean.

to be continued.

[Junkenstein]

I am expecting great things.

[LMNO]

Tim has a bright future ahead of him, doing the things he loves to do.  In bulk.

[Eater of Clowns]

I will be keeping up this one, oh yes. It has a great Fear and Loathing vibe so far

[Doktor Howl]

I will be keeping up this one, oh yes. It has a great Fear and Loathing vibe so far

It's hard to tell about a road trip without sounding that way. 

[The Wizard Joseph]

  Awesome!

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

Please find an excuse to come to central Texas. Bring Tim. Thanks.