This chapter is dedicated to Tellesco, God Rest Your Soul. The following tune was one of your favorites. Blech. You fucking owe me dude. The last two are for me, here, in retelling what happened to you. My own Antidotes.
Fear and desire drove Tellesco. He drove bare-footed. He was connected to his bitch, and that is what you must do when everything is on the line. You must connect to your bitch.
He was a punk, but he was not one of us. He was not one of anything at all. He was an ion, a tiny ember of a fire that had been shushed eons ago back when he was a boy. There was nothing for him here nor anywhere else. There was nothing at all.
He and Lorelei made a good duo. Ghost Girl and No One Boy. No One would see Lorelei again, and No One missed her when he didn’t.
Fat Jerry destroyed Tellesco’s house in a previous time, back in the early Punkeolithic Era, but Tellesco didn’t know this important fact. He didn’t know that the fat punk rocker with the tall purple spikes had killed people and enjoyed doing it.
He was about to find out for himself.
= = = = = = =
Katheena rolled her eyes and she said, “Ghosts are here.” She faded away again.
Joey felt his skin crawl. He felt her chest and knew she was breathing again, on her own. He went around and jumped back in the Maserati. He gunned the engine, and he flew off to the hostibal.
- - - - - - -
The roof of the moon cabin was not soft for a landing. Although I weighed a sixth of what I usually did, the timbers still had their inherent mass, solidity, and strength. I landed on my back and got the wind knocked out of me.
That bastard Glinty McFlintlock landed near me on his feet. He waited as I panicked for breath. No matter how many times you get the wind knocked out of you, you always feel like you are gonna die.
For a few seconds, anyway.
Tellesco had no one to tell him what to do. It’s easy to be on autopilot and let everyone else do the thinking. But when it comes down to the heart of the mettle, well, there are some doorways that you must enter, and exit, on your own.
Tellesco saw them headlights, and they were coming closer at an increasing speed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood right up.
Those headlights were aiming for him.
Someone was coming for him.
Someone wanted him dead.
His powerful Jeep was built for mudding, for pulling stumps, for figging, but it was not built to crash.
When you get the willies, you must listen to your instinct.
Tellesco did not brace for impact. He was not headed for a crash. He faced the challenge, and he made the smart choice.
He would not play chicken. He would go off to the dunes instead, and then he would win at the craps table. He would roll again.
Tellesco’s mettle was that he did not get caught up in bravado.
He was the only one of us who never did.
That was what made him belong to our group.
He finally belonged.
He chust didn’t know it yet.
He swerved at the last second, but he did not lose control.
When you are in a car accident, do not flail your arms in panic mode and give up. Do Not Panic. You can crash, or hit , or swerve, but the game isn’t over yet.
You can continue to control your bitch, even when you are heading for the woods, the rocks, or the dunes.
You will be injured, perhaps, but you can prevent death. Never take your hands off the wheel and throw your mittens up in the air.
Fat Jerry screamed in disappointment at the vehicle that swung to his right at the last moment. His two-ton ingot of iron took half a football field to come to a halt, and he yelled curses that neither you nor I have ever heard before.
Tellesco bounced up high when his chunky, fat tires hit them dunes, and he gripped his steering wheel to hold himself in the driver seat. Any other vehicle would have flipped, tumbled, and crashed. But he went bouncing along like a moon buggy on some balloon tires.
The desert mud flung itself up into his face and he held on tight. It would all be cool, wouldn't it? Nothing bad was gonna happen to him.
He steered to stay straight and not flip his buggy, and did not stomp on the brake petal.
A peddle is for bicycles.
A petal is the way you treat your bitch.
The accelerator petal, the brake petal, the clutch: these are like the interior lips of the almighty vagina, when you are connected to your bitch.
Treat them well, and your bitch will take you to the moon.
He swerved to a stop just before flipping over.
Tellesco got mad.
He got fucking mad.
He felt rage.
How dare that driver do such a thing to him?
What had he done to the driver?
Nothing. He had done nothing. He did not deserve to be treated in such a manner as this.
It took road rage for Tellesco to find his mettle.
It must be said that road rage is not an excuse for anything useful at all. Do not succumb to such depravity.
It's the easy way out, and it may be a permanent solution to a temporary situation.
Tellesco gritted his teeth. He was gonna go for revenge.
He felt a soft hand on his arm in the down pour of rain that washed the mud away from his face, and he shrugged that gentle hand away. He didn't even look down into the empty seat next to him.
He chugged his powerful Jeep through the mud and made a 180. He got back up onto the road and he pressed down on the fun button all the way to the mettle.
He was looking to give some pain.
- - - - - - -
Fat Jerry stomped down on his brakes and roared with fury. He felt my body roll against the back of his seat, and he growled, "Back the fuck up!"
Of course, I had no response.
He saw headlights shine in his rear view mirror, and these were much closer than the other ones on the way from far behind.
The fucker was coming back to dance.
Fat Jerry giggled.
Rage and pleasure are such an odd combination, usually reserved for rapists and torturers.
He slipped his two-ton iron ingot into gear, and he began to back up. He had debts to pay, but the seductive allure of giving pain to others awaited.
He had some pain to share, like an insane neighbor knocking at the door with an arsenic-laced pie.
Tellesco saw the white back up lights of the hearse appear, and he got a fucking clue. He felt fear again, but his anger was overwhelming.
Such rage can be liberating. It will give you power, especially if you lose reason.
He knew that Sean needed to be saved, but he had other things that needed attention.
He had blood lust.
Desire.
Fear and desire are such a dangerous combination.
He sped toward the hearse and pulled himself up with the steering wheel. He stood tall. He screamed before the moment of impact, as he leaped up and out of his vehicle.
It smashed into the ass end of the hearse and flipped and flung itself around like a twirling dervish, tumbling and coming apart on the crumbly tar.
Tellesco flew over the surface of the desert and fell into the mud off the side of the road where he had leaped and tumbled and came to a bloody rest in the crashing rain.
The fat punk rocker broke his neck from the whiplash.
The hearse continued to creep backward in the night.
No one was at the wheel anymore.
No one was there for anything at all.
No One.
Headlights loomed closer from behind.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
.
I publish these tales here on this site every weekend as mental escape. Enjoy them, but do not steal them. If you do, I will come to your window while you are sleeping, my friend.
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