Welcome to the Borderlands
- Chapter 36 -
Hold on there; I'm just here to deputize you
“When I die I want to meet God and say, what the Hell were you thinking…like what were you thinking?” -Indian Larry from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF
“I see the angel in the marble and carve until I set him free…Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.” -Michelangelo
“I get some ideas of kind of what I want to do then whatever it takes to see it through; that’s the way I do it. I treat it like sculpture. I like to see the frame up there and then let it flow; let it happen, whatever comes natural. When you hear the bike breathe its first breath that’s probably the biggest reward…every bike is like a child or work of art, like a creation that goes from dream to reality.” -Kendall Johnson of KENDALL JOHNSON CUSTOMS from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF
“Roll with the mystery; life’s uncertain. Just be comfortable with that…why fight it?” -Indian Larry from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF
“I have more faith in you than you have in you.” -Paul Cox to Robert Pradke from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF and MATTHEW 14:31
“Trust in God…Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord…No Fear…” -TATTOOED ‘backwards’ on Indian Larry’s neck so he could read it in the mirror.
“I see the angel in the marble and carve until I set him free…Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.” -Michelangelo
“I get some ideas of kind of what I want to do then whatever it takes to see it through; that’s the way I do it. I treat it like sculpture. I like to see the frame up there and then let it flow; let it happen, whatever comes natural. When you hear the bike breathe its first breath that’s probably the biggest reward…every bike is like a child or work of art, like a creation that goes from dream to reality.” -Kendall Johnson of KENDALL JOHNSON CUSTOMS from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF
“Roll with the mystery; life’s uncertain. Just be comfortable with that…why fight it?” -Indian Larry from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF
“I have more faith in you than you have in you.” -Paul Cox to Robert Pradke from an episode of Discovery Channel’s television series THE GREAT BIKER BUILD-OFF and MATTHEW 14:31
“Trust in God…Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord…No Fear…” -TATTOOED ‘backwards’ on Indian Larry’s neck so he could read it in the mirror.
“Save your ammo,” said Larry from behind me.
Telling me to save ammo came right after Ronald, a huge mutant and who looked more like a troll and whose face I’d already riddled with more than a few of my 10mm rounds, fell back into the water…the same flood of water our friend Augustin had died releasing from the dam to flush out the tunnel and the mutants’ burrows under the elevated highway.
We watched from the safety of an embankment as the water spread out leaving muddy pools over a large field. When the water stopped we slept in shifts until morning. Still tired we continued to watch the tunnel’s exit for over an hour…no more water…no more mutants and no Augustin.
“I know it’s impossible but I found myself wishing Augustin might’ve lived and made his way out of the tunnel.”
“I wished,” said Larry, “for the same thing but he’s gone.”
“Going, going, gone…We’re going through friends and motorcycles like toilet paper,” I said it trying to cheer things up but the second I said it I knew it was frustratingly true and not going to cheer anyone up.
“The friends and motorcycles I’m ok with; it’s the toilet paper I miss,” Larry replied also trying to cheer things up.
And soooooo we both quit trying to cheer each other up and sat quietly for awhile with our thoughts.
“Below us,” I broke the quiet, “is a large field filled with pools of flood water, mud, debris and drowned mutants. Behind us is an embankment. What’s behind it?”
“Let’s have a look,” Larry had already started to climb a narrow path up the embankment’s slope.
The path ended at a small frontage road. Vehicles of all kinds from old cars and trucks to old pieces of farm equipment were parked on it; all were abandoned and in various stages of ruin except for two motorcycles parked ten feet away. Who would’ve known we’d need motorcycles and that we’d end-up climbing the embankment to this very spot…the spot where the path joined the frontage road to find them?
“HILTS!!!…,” I shouted. He would’ve known…
Telling me to save ammo came right after Ronald, a huge mutant and who looked more like a troll and whose face I’d already riddled with more than a few of my 10mm rounds, fell back into the water…the same flood of water our friend Augustin had died releasing from the dam to flush out the tunnel and the mutants’ burrows under the elevated highway.
We watched from the safety of an embankment as the water spread out leaving muddy pools over a large field. When the water stopped we slept in shifts until morning. Still tired we continued to watch the tunnel’s exit for over an hour…no more water…no more mutants and no Augustin.
“I know it’s impossible but I found myself wishing Augustin might’ve lived and made his way out of the tunnel.”
“I wished,” said Larry, “for the same thing but he’s gone.”
“Going, going, gone…We’re going through friends and motorcycles like toilet paper,” I said it trying to cheer things up but the second I said it I knew it was frustratingly true and not going to cheer anyone up.
“The friends and motorcycles I’m ok with; it’s the toilet paper I miss,” Larry replied also trying to cheer things up.
And soooooo we both quit trying to cheer each other up and sat quietly for awhile with our thoughts.
“Below us,” I broke the quiet, “is a large field filled with pools of flood water, mud, debris and drowned mutants. Behind us is an embankment. What’s behind it?”
“Let’s have a look,” Larry had already started to climb a narrow path up the embankment’s slope.
The path ended at a small frontage road. Vehicles of all kinds from old cars and trucks to old pieces of farm equipment were parked on it; all were abandoned and in various stages of ruin except for two motorcycles parked ten feet away. Who would’ve known we’d need motorcycles and that we’d end-up climbing the embankment to this very spot…the spot where the path joined the frontage road to find them?
“HILTS!!!…,” I shouted. He would’ve known…
Vehicles of all types from old to really old cars and trucks to old and really old pieces of farm equipment were there; all were abandoned and in various stages of ruin.
I didn’t expect Hilts to respond to my shout. But who else but Hilts would have known these motorcycles would be ideal for the roads we’d be traveling?
While talking we’d been walking back and forth checking out the motorcycles. Larry finally stopped beside the Yamaha XSR900…he’d made his choice.
I didn’t expect Hilts to be there let alone respond to my shout. But who else but Hilts would have known we’d need these motorcycles and that we’d end-up at this spot?
“Couldn’t Hilts,” not that I wasn’t grateful for the motorcycles, “have told us what we’d encounter? If we’d known we could’ve maybe come up with a plan that didn’t include the sacrifice of Augustin. We seem to be pieces in a game moving from square to square on the chance we’ll not be sacrificed. Did Augustin need to be sacrificed?”
“Speaking of chance, chances are Hilts told us only what he knew at the time. If you’re right and we are just pieces in a game and he IS a player; his moves have so far benefited us,” Larry answered. “We gotta have faith…so far so good.”
“So far so good,” I laughed nervously, “is what folks that have faith say to themselves as they’re falling towards the sidewalk after being pushed off the top of a building.”
While talking we’d been walking back and forth checking out the motorcycles. Larry finally stopped beside the Yamaha XSR900…he’d made his choice.
“Why’d you choose,” I had to know why, “the XSR900?”
“Well it sure AIN’T a Harley chopper,” said Larry, “but neither IS it an inline four. I like its lightness and I like its design. I like its aluminum frame, its angle of rake, and its ground clearance and I’ll learn to like its three cylinders.”
Conversely I was drawn to the Kawasaki Z900; maybe because I’ve always had good luck with inline fours. Both bikes would be perfect for country curves. Neither would ever replace the much heavier M109 or Raider as highway haulers but then neither would struggle to navigate the tight switchbacks common to narrow two lane roads.
“These bikes,” Larry must’ve been reading my mind again, “will be perfect for where we’ve got to go. Hilts said the rest of our route will be westward through these low rolling hills to an old inn on the coast. He’ll be waiting for us there.”
“Why,” I asked, “do our reeleeee dangerous adventures seem to always begin or end at reeleeee old inns?”
“Couldn’t Hilts,” not that I wasn’t grateful for the motorcycles, “have told us what we’d encounter? If we’d known we could’ve maybe come up with a plan that didn’t include the sacrifice of Augustin. We seem to be pieces in a game moving from square to square on the chance we’ll not be sacrificed. Did Augustin need to be sacrificed?”
“Speaking of chance, chances are Hilts told us only what he knew at the time. If you’re right and we are just pieces in a game and he IS a player; his moves have so far benefited us,” Larry answered. “We gotta have faith…so far so good.”
“So far so good,” I laughed nervously, “is what folks that have faith say to themselves as they’re falling towards the sidewalk after being pushed off the top of a building.”
While talking we’d been walking back and forth checking out the motorcycles. Larry finally stopped beside the Yamaha XSR900…he’d made his choice.
“Why’d you choose,” I had to know why, “the XSR900?”
“Well it sure AIN’T a Harley chopper,” said Larry, “but neither IS it an inline four. I like its lightness and I like its design. I like its aluminum frame, its angle of rake, and its ground clearance and I’ll learn to like its three cylinders.”
Conversely I was drawn to the Kawasaki Z900; maybe because I’ve always had good luck with inline fours. Both bikes would be perfect for country curves. Neither would ever replace the much heavier M109 or Raider as highway haulers but then neither would struggle to navigate the tight switchbacks common to narrow two lane roads.
“These bikes,” Larry must’ve been reading my mind again, “will be perfect for where we’ve got to go. Hilts said the rest of our route will be westward through these low rolling hills to an old inn on the coast. He’ll be waiting for us there.”
“Why,” I asked, “do our reeleeee dangerous adventures seem to always begin or end at reeleeee old inns?”
“Well it sure AIN’T a Harley chopper,” said Larry, “but neither IS it an inline four. I like its lightness and I like its design. I like its aluminum frame, its angle of rake, and its ground clearance and I’ll LEARN to like its three cylinders.”
Conversely I was drawn to the Kawasaki Z900; maybe because I’ve always had good luck with inline fours.
Larry didn’t have an answer as to why old inns were often at the beginning or end of our most risky adventures; instead he climbed aboard the XSR900. I did the same on the Z900. As we left I wanted to call out for Augustin one last time.
“Augustin is gone,” Larry was reading my mind again.
The road past the wrecks forced us to focus, giving us no time to mull over regrets and recriminations. What pavement there was was mixed together with hard packed dirt. What hard packed dirt there was was mixed together with pavement. As soon as we got into the rhythm of riding pavement we’d have to change to the challenge of packed dirt…and just when we got into the rhythm of riding packed dirt we’d run into pavement. This went on for most of the morning until we merged onto a small but thankfully fully paved road.
“Does this new road run in the direction we have to go?”
“It does,” Larry answered, “at least until the last line of hills before the coast then it turns south. The inn is on the coast so there’s gotta be some sort of westward turnoff leading to it. I just can’t see it from here.”
Larry’s remarkable eyesight was telescopic like an eagle’s and accurate to the point of being ridiculous so I had no doubt what he was telling me was true.
It felt good to be back on pavement and while it wasn’t a freeway and not without its curves; it did allowed us to use our taller gears. The few miles we had to travel went quickly and we were soon at the last line of hills before the coast. We came to a stop when the road turned south.
“It’s too easy,” Larry said, pointing at a sign showing a westward turnoff to the coast about a half mile ahead.
“It reads,” and it did seem too easy as even I could read the sign, “turnoff to Old Coastal Inn.”
“The good news,” Larry added, “is it runs westward through the hills and is paved as far as I can see.”
Larry’s vision reminded me we ALL…like it or not, and in both in looks and behavior…BECOME caricatures of ourselves in the Borderlands.
“Augustin is gone,” Larry was reading my mind again.
The road past the wrecks forced us to focus, giving us no time to mull over regrets and recriminations. What pavement there was was mixed together with hard packed dirt. What hard packed dirt there was was mixed together with pavement. As soon as we got into the rhythm of riding pavement we’d have to change to the challenge of packed dirt…and just when we got into the rhythm of riding packed dirt we’d run into pavement. This went on for most of the morning until we merged onto a small but thankfully fully paved road.
“Does this new road run in the direction we have to go?”
“It does,” Larry answered, “at least until the last line of hills before the coast then it turns south. The inn is on the coast so there’s gotta be some sort of westward turnoff leading to it. I just can’t see it from here.”
Larry’s remarkable eyesight was telescopic like an eagle’s and accurate to the point of being ridiculous so I had no doubt what he was telling me was true.
It felt good to be back on pavement and while it wasn’t a freeway and not without its curves; it did allowed us to use our taller gears. The few miles we had to travel went quickly and we were soon at the last line of hills before the coast. We came to a stop when the road turned south.
“It’s too easy,” Larry said, pointing at a sign showing a westward turnoff to the coast about a half mile ahead.
“It reads,” and it did seem too easy as even I could read the sign, “turnoff to Old Coastal Inn.”
“The good news,” Larry added, “is it runs westward through the hills and is paved as far as I can see.”
Larry’s vision reminded me we ALL…like it or not, and in both in looks and behavior…BECOME caricatures of ourselves in the Borderlands.
Larry’s vision reminded me we ALL…like it or not and in both in looks and behavior…BECOME caricatures of ourselves in the Borderlands.
Caricatures portray our essence. The good, the bad, the not so good and bad…only the quintessential essence of people can exist in the Borderlands. Apologies to Shakespeare, a rose is a rose, is a rose. The rose has neither the need nor the ability to be or not to be anything but a rose in the Borderlands.
“No traffic, no delays,” I said at the same time I took the lead and the turnoff to the coast.
Normally I don’t take the lead; normally Larry takes the lead on our rides. He’s the better rider and uncannily seems to know what’s ahead. His superior senses, especially his eyesight, help too.
The road was as Larry said it would be…winding, fully paved and running westward through the hills. What few small farms that appeared were far-away and at the end of long driveways. I saw wisps of white smoke coming from one.
“No traffic, no obstacles…it’s too easy,” Larry said it again over the little ear radio we both wore.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I was slowing, “use this road?”
“Keep going,” Larry’s response was as decisive as him suddenly passing me and taking the lead. “We’ve already committed to using these motorcycles…soooooo why not commit to using this road?”
For Larry the two motorcycles and this road to the coast were three proverbial gift horses…placed before us for our use and not to be looked at too closely in the mouth.
Both the XSR and the Z900 were performing perfectly. We’d ridden past the last driveway two miles ago and were getting into the rhythm of up hill turns and switchbacks. About a mile from the summit before our descent to the coast, Larry suddenly signaled for us to pull to the side and stop.
“Hear that?”
I couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of our engines tick, tick, ticking away the heat…, “Hear what?”
“Movement,” answered Larry, “around the next corner; from the heavy vibrations it sounds like maybe more than one person. Whatever it is…it’s waiting for us.”
“No traffic, no delays,” I said at the same time I took the lead and the turnoff to the coast.
Normally I don’t take the lead; normally Larry takes the lead on our rides. He’s the better rider and uncannily seems to know what’s ahead. His superior senses, especially his eyesight, help too.
The road was as Larry said it would be…winding, fully paved and running westward through the hills. What few small farms that appeared were far-away and at the end of long driveways. I saw wisps of white smoke coming from one.
“No traffic, no obstacles…it’s too easy,” Larry said it again over the little ear radio we both wore.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I was slowing, “use this road?”
“Keep going,” Larry’s response was as decisive as him suddenly passing me and taking the lead. “We’ve already committed to using these motorcycles…soooooo why not commit to using this road?”
For Larry the two motorcycles and this road to the coast were three proverbial gift horses…placed before us for our use and not to be looked at too closely in the mouth.
Both the XSR and the Z900 were performing perfectly. We’d ridden past the last driveway two miles ago and were getting into the rhythm of up hill turns and switchbacks. About a mile from the summit before our descent to the coast, Larry suddenly signaled for us to pull to the side and stop.
“Hear that?”
I couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of our engines tick, tick, ticking away the heat…, “Hear what?”
“Movement,” answered Larry, “around the next corner; from the heavy vibrations it sounds like maybe more than one person. Whatever it is…it’s waiting for us.”
I pointed to my badge, “Hold on there; I’m just here to deputize you.”
“Once,” continued Larry, “we’re past them we’ll be on the downward slope to the ocean…oh, and I need to borrow your 10mm and some extra clips.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever’s there is most likely not there to talk; don’t worry I’ll give you my 44 magnum.”
I knew Larry had a plan. Hopefully it wouldn’t involve shooting. Getting the drop on the ambushers then threatening to shoot might be enough. Larry had already taken his holstered 44 off his belt and was handing it to me.
“I’m hoping we can bluff our way past once they know they’ll be in the middle of a crossfire; but if you have to shoot…SHOOT! My 44’s loaded with rounds that at short range will go through most anything like it’s made of toilet paper…now that you got me thinking of toilet paper.”
Larry and I exchanged weapons.
“Wait a few minutes for me to get into position then walk around the curve. Get as close to them as possible.”
“What if they shoot first?”
“If they do then it’s…NO prisoners. Speaking of which, wear this badge. Tell ‘em you’re the sheriff and there to deputize them…you’ll be able to get even closer.”
A few minutes after Larry had circled his way around the curve by way of the cover of brush I walked into view of the ambushers…except there was only ONE ambusher. Standing in the middle of a mud puddle in the middle of the road was an eight foot man. His flesh was mud, except for his skeletal head which had only pieces of mud clinging to it. Speaking of pieces, his only piece of clothing was a red hat…shittttt
I pointed to my badge as I walked closer, “Hold on there; I’m just here to deputize you.”
“Deputize, deputize,” it said. “WE no need to be deputized. WE no need to be no stinkin’ deputies.”
The puzzled look on its face had bought me the time to get closer…and he was big enough to speak of himself in the plural or as we or anything else he wanted too.
“Why?”
“Because whatever’s there is most likely not there to talk; don’t worry I’ll give you my 44 magnum.”
I knew Larry had a plan. Hopefully it wouldn’t involve shooting. Getting the drop on the ambushers then threatening to shoot might be enough. Larry had already taken his holstered 44 off his belt and was handing it to me.
“I’m hoping we can bluff our way past once they know they’ll be in the middle of a crossfire; but if you have to shoot…SHOOT! My 44’s loaded with rounds that at short range will go through most anything like it’s made of toilet paper…now that you got me thinking of toilet paper.”
Larry and I exchanged weapons.
“Wait a few minutes for me to get into position then walk around the curve. Get as close to them as possible.”
“What if they shoot first?”
“If they do then it’s…NO prisoners. Speaking of which, wear this badge. Tell ‘em you’re the sheriff and there to deputize them…you’ll be able to get even closer.”
A few minutes after Larry had circled his way around the curve by way of the cover of brush I walked into view of the ambushers…except there was only ONE ambusher. Standing in the middle of a mud puddle in the middle of the road was an eight foot man. His flesh was mud, except for his skeletal head which had only pieces of mud clinging to it. Speaking of pieces, his only piece of clothing was a red hat…shittttt
I pointed to my badge as I walked closer, “Hold on there; I’m just here to deputize you.”
“Deputize, deputize,” it said. “WE no need to be deputized. WE no need to be no stinkin’ deputies.”
The puzzled look on its face had bought me the time to get closer…and he was big enough to speak of himself in the plural or as we or anything else he wanted too.
Standing in the middle of a mud puddle in the middle of the road was an eight foot man. His flesh was mud, except for his skeletal head which had only pieces of mud clinging to it. Speaking of pieces, his only piece of clothing was a red hat…shittttt
Larry’s titanium 44 felt light on my hip; and it had to have been more than a few minutes since Larry left…and…and screw it…I fired. I know ol’ spaghetti western Clint would’ve let’em make the first move but I ain’t no Clint.
For being made of mud HE, or was it WE, moved fast. My first shot was hurried and hit him in the chest…I was aiming for his head. The sound of the bullet’s impact was the same splat you heard as a child when you threw a rock in the mud left at the side of the road after a rain…just a loud splat followed by a wide hole…shitttt
HE a.k.a. WE was rocked out of the puddle, laughed and stepped back into the puddle. Once back in the puddle the hole where my bullet hit filled in with mud…shitttt
Jewish folklore tells of a Rabbi that created a Golem to protect his village. He made the creature from mud then gave it life. Was this some sort of Borderland version of that creature and why did it keep referring to itself in the plural? And while were on the subject of folklore, Greek legend tells of the giant Antaeus getting stronger every time Hercules threw him to the earth. Was this mud creature a combination of the two stories?
A series of three shots came from behind me, “I’ll force him to the far side of the puddle while you pee in the puddle from this side.”
I turned to see Larry fire more rounds from my 10mm into the creature’s chest forcing it to step backwards. Its wounds were filling in with mud as fast as Larry was inflicting them.
“Pee in the puddle, are you crazy?”
“The mud puddle is its source of power. You’re going to have to pollute it.”
What made what I was asked to do crazy was I agreed and was already running to the puddle’s edge…shitttt
HE or was it WE saw me and was starting to lunge across the puddle when more of Larry’s well placed 10mm rounds slammed it to its knees.
“Peeeeeee!!!!!,” yelled Larry. “I’m down to one clip.”
Soooo remember when you were at that party, in a strange house, and you were in a strange bathroom trying to do your business and strangers were outside pounding on the door to get in because they ate the same strange food dip you did…and…and you were suffering from performance anxiety.
And…and finally there was a drip…a dribble…a stream…oh what a relief it was…
“Nooooooooooooo…,” screamed the eight foot, now seven, six, five, four, three foot mud man…and…and remember in the movie the WIZARD OF OZ when Dorothy threw water on the witch and she began to melt…and…you get the picture…
“Get,” shouted Larry, “your bike. “I drank enough coffee to stand guard.”
When I returned on the Z900 I purposely rode past the puddle and parked about ten feet on the coastal side. Running back I worried would I have enough pee left to pee into the puddle if the mud man began to rise up.
Larry had anticipated my concerns, “I took the liberty of peeing in this ol’ beer can…probably tastes the same as when it was opened. “If you see him beginning to reconstruct pour it into the puddle. I’ll get the Yamaha.”
Larry was back in less time that it took me to navigate the same distance and parked next to the Z900. The mud puddle was already showing a large shoulder shaped hump starting to rise up out of its center.
“It’s your pee…you do the honors.”
“I’d be honored,” said Larry at the same time he took the can full of pee and threw it into the puddle. “I dub thee Golem of da Puddle.”
And when the beer can full of pee hit the puddle the hump sank leaving only a hat and eyes soaked in a color the same…as…as…remember changing your baby brother’s diaper after he ate too many carrots…and soon even the hat and the eyes sank…and then, not looking back, we rode the rest of the way down to the coast.
For being made of mud HE, or was it WE, moved fast. My first shot was hurried and hit him in the chest…I was aiming for his head. The sound of the bullet’s impact was the same splat you heard as a child when you threw a rock in the mud left at the side of the road after a rain…just a loud splat followed by a wide hole…shitttt
HE a.k.a. WE was rocked out of the puddle, laughed and stepped back into the puddle. Once back in the puddle the hole where my bullet hit filled in with mud…shitttt
Jewish folklore tells of a Rabbi that created a Golem to protect his village. He made the creature from mud then gave it life. Was this some sort of Borderland version of that creature and why did it keep referring to itself in the plural? And while were on the subject of folklore, Greek legend tells of the giant Antaeus getting stronger every time Hercules threw him to the earth. Was this mud creature a combination of the two stories?
A series of three shots came from behind me, “I’ll force him to the far side of the puddle while you pee in the puddle from this side.”
I turned to see Larry fire more rounds from my 10mm into the creature’s chest forcing it to step backwards. Its wounds were filling in with mud as fast as Larry was inflicting them.
“Pee in the puddle, are you crazy?”
“The mud puddle is its source of power. You’re going to have to pollute it.”
What made what I was asked to do crazy was I agreed and was already running to the puddle’s edge…shitttt
HE or was it WE saw me and was starting to lunge across the puddle when more of Larry’s well placed 10mm rounds slammed it to its knees.
“Peeeeeee!!!!!,” yelled Larry. “I’m down to one clip.”
Soooo remember when you were at that party, in a strange house, and you were in a strange bathroom trying to do your business and strangers were outside pounding on the door to get in because they ate the same strange food dip you did…and…and you were suffering from performance anxiety.
And…and finally there was a drip…a dribble…a stream…oh what a relief it was…
“Nooooooooooooo…,” screamed the eight foot, now seven, six, five, four, three foot mud man…and…and remember in the movie the WIZARD OF OZ when Dorothy threw water on the witch and she began to melt…and…you get the picture…
“Get,” shouted Larry, “your bike. “I drank enough coffee to stand guard.”
When I returned on the Z900 I purposely rode past the puddle and parked about ten feet on the coastal side. Running back I worried would I have enough pee left to pee into the puddle if the mud man began to rise up.
Larry had anticipated my concerns, “I took the liberty of peeing in this ol’ beer can…probably tastes the same as when it was opened. “If you see him beginning to reconstruct pour it into the puddle. I’ll get the Yamaha.”
Larry was back in less time that it took me to navigate the same distance and parked next to the Z900. The mud puddle was already showing a large shoulder shaped hump starting to rise up out of its center.
“It’s your pee…you do the honors.”
“I’d be honored,” said Larry at the same time he took the can full of pee and threw it into the puddle. “I dub thee Golem of da Puddle.”
And when the beer can full of pee hit the puddle the hump sank leaving only a hat and eyes soaked in a color the same…as…as…remember changing your baby brother’s diaper after he ate too many carrots…and soon even the hat and the eyes sank…and then, not looking back, we rode the rest of the way down to the coast.
And the shoulder shaped hump sank leaving only a hat and eyes soaked in a color the same as…as…as…remember changing your baby brother’s diaper after he ate too many carrots