PART SIX
(published in 1999)
The sunlight hit my eyes and I was reeling. Life on the street seemed normal as I staggered toward my car. I was parked in front of Tony’s Tap, a bar that had recently been closed down by federal marshals for amphetamine trafficking. I was feverishly working my key in the lock when the front door of Tony’s opened up and a tall distinguished looking man with light brown hair and a receding hairline stepped out. He was wearing formal clothing, like a butler or something:
“Just in time for happy hour sir; we have Black Stag on special today. Won’t you join us?” He smiled. His teeth were brown decaying stumps.
The door lock popped up and I jumped in and jammed the key in the ignition. Unlike the movies, the engine started immediately. My intestines had a life of their own as I squealed out of the parking space and hot-footed-it out of town.
I was running scared down the highway at eighty miles an hour when I popped over the crest of a small hill into a construction zone that I didn’t remember being there on the way down. About thirty yards in front of me, a big, red, Mack truck was pulling out from a side road on the right. Another big, red truck was bearing down in the oncoming lane, doing about sixty and throwing up dust like a stagecoach on “Death Valley Days.” All I could see in the rear view mirror was a large, gold grille and the word MACK. They had me boxed in. My mortality was as real as a February morning in Duluth—right here, right now.
I swerved to the right, hurtled off the bank, flew twenty feet in the air and slammed hard onto the new roadbed. I fish-tailed and got her straightened out. Gaining speed, I rocketed off an up-sloping piece of hardpan like a four wheeled Evel Kneivel, flew forty feet in the air and hit the old highway with tires spinning. Behind me, dust filled the air and my tormentors could not be seen.
All those big red trucks got me to thinking: I wondered if the color had any significance… nah….
The road ahead was clear. I sped on. Five, ten, fifteen miles. I had the thirst of a thousand slaves and a headache that a crate of aspirin couldn’t touch. Then I heard a siren.
I pulled over for the cop, figuring I had no choice. He seemed like a normal small town officer: slightly paunchy and slightly sleepy. He walked slowly along the shoulder as I rolled down the window.
“Your driver’s license, please.”
I showed him my license.
“You know you were going pretty fast, Mr. Kirby. What’s the hurry?” His dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.
“The devil made me do it.”
“Speeding is nothing to joke about, sir. What is your business in this area?”
“Just visiting the Harper family, in Hell—er, ah—Shell Lake, sir.”
“Oh… I see… well then, you may go. Have a nice day.” He gave me back my license, turned on the heel of his jackboot and went back to his patrol car.
It’s so good to be on the road again…. I was singing, yeah, but my skin was the color of a lily pad and nature was making all of its calls at the same time. I needed a roadside rest, and—as if by magic—one of those blue signs appeared ahead of me. I angled off into the oasis and pulled up next to the facility.
After I disgorged, I was walking out of the little toilet shack when I saw two geeks standing next to my car. One was wearing an orange Sunkist T-shirt and a matching, sweat stained baseball cap, while the other had on a grease-stained, gray work shirt and a blue cap. Both wore blue jeans that sagged below their pot guts. Beavis and Butthead gone to seed. I could see no vehicle anywhere.
“What the hell are you doin’ here, you long-haired, big-city faggot?” they croaked in unison like a two-headed lamprey on PCP. “We don’t like your kind around here. We are gonna mess you up.”
I jammed my hand through the open car window and grabbed a hold of the Penthouse magazine I had purchased at Hammond Spur for those lonely moments. With a quick flick of the wrist I sailed the skin mag onto the grassy area by the john. My two friends raced and dove for it, while I jumped in the Ford and got the hell out of there.
What seemed like hours but was really only minutes later, I began to feel safe. By the time I could see Lake Superior, the whole thing seemed like a dream. I’m still not really sure what happened….
Is their ritual satanic activity in Wisconsin? Probably not. Nothing organizes this demon, it thrives on emptiness and mind numbing boredom. Lack of love is its siren’s call. Does the devil live in Dairy Land? I really can’t say for sure, but if the Packers make it to the Super Bowl, ask me again.
EDITOR’S NOTE: The Green Bay Packers went to the Super Bowl both 1997 and 1998, beating New England in ’97 and losing to Denver in ’98. Also in the late nineties, one of the largest internet child pornography rings ever investigated was traced to a man who lived just outside of SHELL LAKE, Wisconsin.
(The end)
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