Friday, October 11, 2013

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LOCO GRINGOS AND AN APOCALYPSE

CHAPTER FOUR

John felt a bit like a flaming idiot, madly pumping his legs to pedal, his ass pointed up in the air and the bicycle swaying back and forth in rhythm to the downward cycle of each foot. The florescent pink small child’s bike was really eating up the miles however. He even had a mad moment of glee as he engaged the thumb powered bell twice once he was assured that his freedom was more likely, a few miles from the rural house he had purloined the bike from and on a parallel road that looked unlikely to contain the houses owners should they somehow be able to return home via any means other that by shoe leather. Did John feel like the world’s biggest jerk for stealing a little girl’s bike? Not especially. Hell, the thing was either a present from a relative, costing the family nothing, or it was a Wal-Mart special selling for $39. He didn’t really believe that this family would become destitute over a couple of twenty dollar bills. While obviously having been there for awhile, the house wasn’t lacking shingles, its paint while needing refreshing wasn’t peeling and it looked like the garage held enough cars that it seemed like both parents worked at middle class jobs. And if he did say so himself, the little curtain climber needed a lesson in property responsibility. She had left the item far outside the fence and property line. You leave crap outside, fail to put things back in its place which most likely was the garage, and stuff had a tendency to grow a pair of legs and walk off. The house was only a mile or so from the Interstate. No immediate neighbors but if you went over a nearby hill you could see a few other houses. So obviously you had a potential theft problem. John hadn’t been enticed into the property. A German Sheppard wasn’t barking at him but he sure wasn’t going to make nice with John if his territory was invaded. Just to be sure John chucked over a piece of jerky to keep the mongrel busy. He had been spying on the house for a half hour, waiting for signs the parents weren’t in town at jobs and the kids weren’t at school for some reason. And as such, time was ticking and he was itching to get on his way. He also wasn’t going to risk an ass fill of thirty-thirty so he had tried to wait patiently. Of course, while it seemed reasonable to be armed out here, he also knew a heck of a lot of new arrivals were idiots from California. Those folks had some peculiar ideas, like the police were always waiting one block away, munching donuts and drinking coffee and just waiting for a distress call so thy could save the civilians from themselves ( to be fair, the state did make it difficult to arm oneself, more impossible to defend oneself ). The less-than-full-blown-idiots escaped to more reasonable states, leaving the teeming masses of drooling brain dead fucks behind, as well as the Liberals. But, he repeated himself. HA! Anyway, they didn’t always immediately get as smart as long time residents who armed themselves to avoid any problems rather than waiting for one as an excuse to start packing heat. So his odds were fifty-fifty the home owners were able to shoot at him. He looked at those odds as reason to be very careful. If he had been in California he could have just walked up without hesitation and swiped the thing, fearing a answering shot probably less than 1% of the time.

*

He couldn’t imagine that the parents worked all the way in Elko itself, a hell of a commute. A minimum of three hours a day round trip, and that didn’t even include factoring in foul weather. It would be a lot closer to Windover, not that there were many jobs in that particular burg. The place existed for the sole purpose of milking lapsed Mormon grandmothers from their Social Security checks, and it didn’t take all that many hands on the casino decks to corral busloads of geriatrics. Perhaps the land and house had been inherited and commuting was a small price to pay despite whichever way they traveled. John had about zero idea, and frankly didn’t much care other than something to think about as he pedaled. The parents were working ( bizarre that the wife would work if in fact the house was paid for, but you never could tell about bitches nowadays. They worked just to claim independence, as if a corporate master was preferable to a bacon bringing home husband, and it was probably a good thing since they didn’t put out to save their lives. Any self respecting husband from two generations ago would have vomited blood at today’s choice of brides ) far enough away and the rug rats were safely herded into their indoctrination camps, and the stupid little bitch left John a means home quickly. He wondered what he would have done if anyone was home. He didn’t actually want to hurt anyone. Probably just waited until dark and hope the bike was left out. Of course, his original assessment was a bit optimistic. He’d been looking at about seventy miles or so before he hit the Humbolt. Between here and there, if walking, his only source of water would have been stock tanks or other man-delivered water from wells. Nothing would be pumping now with the electric out ( you didn‘t see many actual wind pumps anymore, mostly PV ), so what was already there was going to be it. He might not have been able to find water. A jug was a great back-up when cars were running. Not so much as they were hurdled back a hundred and some odd years. On the continent the Great Basin was one of the last places settled, mainly due to most places needing water to be transported in mechanically ( even if the mules carried in water, their tack and equipment came by train from either coast, as did the food to feed everybody ). He wondered how violent he’d get if he’d had to steal water from people rather than cows. Or, perhaps folks would stay friendly another week or so, until the food started getting low.

*

Even on this mechanical midget, even if the terrain only allowed ten miles an hour, he’d be home in the middle of the night about eight hours from now. He didn’t think he’d have a problem, baring a flat tire. And it looked like Dad had been pretty consciences about maintenance. The chain was well oiled and rust spots were re-painted. He imagined, what with one of the few plant species that thrived out here being goat-heads, the tires were either/or thick tubes or Green Goop. Randy had been a big believer in Green Gooping his bike tires, letting John know more than he ever wished about the propensity of bicycle tires in the desert to be flattened in days or weeks if unmodified. Of course, he’d also imparted the history of bicycle warfare on John, which was far more interesting. The guys in the Boer War ( he couldn’t remember if it was the Brits or the Afrikaners ) had used un-tanned hide under the tires to protect the inner tubes from wicked long thorns over there. The same war where the Brits, being discouraged that the White folk didn’t line themselves up to march into machinegun fire but instead fought back guerilla style ( about the same time the US was pacifying the Philippines by resurrecting War Between The States tactics of terrorizing civilians to cow the insurgents ), had to resort to concentration camps to win. Then the hypocrites made a big stink over the Germans and their Jewish work camps. He wondered who had actually started the camp concept-us or the Limey’s. The Union fucks sure got a head start killing Confederate civilians in retaliation for any enemy attacks, but John wasn’t sure if we had done the whole “imprison civilians behind wire until they die of disease and malnourishment” thing or if the Brits figured it out. And John remembered it had been the Allies who had started firebombing German cities, not the Nazi’s, making civilians a target and regressing warfare a few centuries. Not that John loved Nazi’s. What a bunch of idiots. Spending more time wondering if Uncle Herman had 1/20th of a Heeb in his family tree, making him impure to be an Aryan, checking peckers for circumcision ( although he wondered if that one was just an urban legend ), rather than stopping for two seconds and reconsidering strategy. You stupid fucking imbecile, Russian winters defeat any army retarded enough to invade ( the logistics should have warned you Blitzkrieg wouldn’t work this time around ). They were your bosom buddies, sending food and oil for machine goods. All you had to do was keep playing nice and invade the very scarcely populated middle east, taking the oil fields from the Brits ( who may or may not have been able to get naval oil from the US thereafter ). There the long distances hardly mattered as there was no winter and barely any population to fight back. But rather than do that, just as you had been silly enough to invade Belgium neutrality and draw England into the first great war instead of attacking Russian back when it made sense and they had far less industrial capacity, you picked the worst strategy possible ( and then compounded the problem by declaring war on Rooosevelt the crippled bankers whore ). FDR was pulling strings and lighting fires under everyone’s ass, desperately trying to get a war going to save the bankers from themselves. Wound a million Americans, kill a third that number outright, piss away so much of our oil we had to start kissing King Saud’s ass before the war even ended, all to secure the bankers position as our true sovereign. That hump sold out the country and the Constitution for pocket change and power, and John prayed with all his might, every night, that the cunt was in the lower bowels of Hell being relentlessly tortured non-stop with new and varied instruments of pain. Well, FDR and John’s ex-wife. The syphilitic whore. He hoped she was now reduced to selling her considerably sized dimpled ass on the street corner for pocket change and cigarettes. Not killed outright, that would be too easy on her. And she now weighed enough she could go months without food. So, perhaps sold into white slavery. In a few weeks to a month after widespread panic and rioting, most bitches would be skinny as hell and not worth looking at, their faces looking like Skelitor, their hip bones jutting out, their nasty artificial boobs sticking straight out unnaturally with skin stretched so tight over the implants you could probably read the serial numbers. The ex would still be plump. She should get top dollar for her pimp daddy.

*

But, enough of such pleasant thoughts. Not FDR’s dimpled crippled ass being rode hard by demons with two foot wide strap on dildos, but his ex being forced to provide perversions for pennies. He did NOT want to get started on her. It would provide a mighty fuel of anger to travel home on, but it would also burn him out and there were things to do and people to see. It might not been the greatest idea on planet earth for as long as man had been starting out as proto-human scratching his lice ridden hairy pelt until the present day, but he was beginning to think that it might be necessary to ride into town with John and get some more food supplies. He had five years starvation rations and John close to two, but this was northeastern Nevada. Whatever it had been millions of years ago, perhaps a really saltine sea, the soil left behind was completely worthless for crops. And the sad part of that was, this was still the best part of the state given its rain patterns ( the same weather that skirted the corner of the state watering its grasses also made the wind a bitch and the colds extreme. If he had moved one county over initially the winters would have been much milder ). John had always thought lands downwind of volcanic eruptions always got extra nutrients in their dirt, but perhaps that was a continent away or something. He knew that the current super volcano in Wyoming ( join The Free State Project! Conveniently located over a volcano! If Uncle Sam doesn’t shoot the babies out of your arms, Mother Nature will kill you before you are free! ) had, in theory, taken millions of years to slowly inch over from the west, the geothermal power generation in Nevada being leftover activity from that, so maybe all the topsoil had just been rocketed up into the atmosphere to kill off the dinosaurs food source. At any rate, he was pretty sure this was one of those places that was Mother Nature’s nuclear wasteland rather than the far more typical desert left behind by careless mankind agricultural practices. Not that Mom didn’t create deserts on her own by having a really poorly thought out rainfall distribution system ( the Sierra’s stopped all of the rain from traveling into Nevada ), just that man seemed to help things along whenever possible. But Nevada had never been populated other than by a few sad sack Indians ( feathers, not dots ) that were defeated by other tribes and banished to this completely worthless craphole that had all its rivers run into sinkholes rather than real lakes. Well, not a complete craphole. It kept the Whites out into the very end other than a few gold areas in 49. But the few viable areas were at the foot of the Sierra by marshes and here around Elko for herders to live off the grasses. As soon as the local Indians got horses, they went to other areas and looted and pillaged and brought home extra brides to keep the population from inbreeding.

*

John was pretty sure that was going to be one of his few options in a couple of years. Not necessarily the bride part. That could wait a generation or two. But the raiding part. He was pretty sure his rain catchment was not going to keep them in potatoes. He wasn’t even sure he could stay were he was, five miles from the river. That could wait. But food was a use-it-or-lose-it-immediately. Too many people, 99% of them to even including a lot of Mormons, didn’t have food stocks. Any food storage they did have most likely was comprised of frozen foods. Stores were always having Wednesday coupon/newspaper ad specials ( except Wal-Mart of course. Used to be Low Price Leader, now was Low Price Brand Name Only Leader And If Any Of You Lower Class Schmucks Want To Eat Cheap Fuck You Very Much Because We Gave You Great Deals For Ten Years And Now That We Put One Of Sam’s Inbreed Backwoods Arkansas Hillbilly Banjo Playing Special Ed Kid On The Board And He Was A Complete Retard And Kept Expanding Stores As The Economy Nose Dived And Screwed The Pooch Well Now We Need Your Help So Give Us Extra Money And Don’t Kid Us We Know You Have It Squirreled Away ) and anymore folks were accustomed to buying it in bulk while on sale as they knew it could be a great long while before their favorite 23% by weight broth injected hormone dripping force fed with genetically modified corn Yard Bird was going to be this cheap again. So, sure, he could probably count on most households wondering if the old propane tank had enough gas left in it from last year to have a couple of BBQ’s, firing up the Barbie and feasting like the gluttons they were knowing that if they didn’t they would be looking at hundreds of dollars of meat going to shit, a mere week away from forming a primeval swamp of putrid watery meat by-products at the bottom of their Maytag chest freezer.

*

So, really, if he avoided anyplace selling propane ( and he wasn’t even sure if you could pump propane from a larger tank to a smaller one. It seemed he remembered a large unholy racket every time the deed commenced, as if a motor was involved-yet, better safe than sorry ) and ice, for those few that walked down to the store to get starting-to-melt blocks for their freezer food-he had little doubt no one realized this was permanent, but there would also be the inevitable run on groceries which could accompany any “a big ass city of ours just got dirty-bombed and we are next because even though I live in a burg of only fifteen thousand and that is 300 miles from anything else other than sagebrush, I’m oh so very fucking important that I’m just convinced we are next” scenario. He had heard from others that 9/11 saw nearly empty stores since most people had been glued to their TV’s ( Gott Damned idiots and their Remember 9/11, God Bless America, You Are For Us Or Against Us Love It Or Leave It. It takes a college degree and a Top Secret Clearance to figure out that the third tower hundreds of feet away which was untouched by any airplane pancakes just like the other two is a big flashing neon sign that every swinging dingus in DC is a lying piece of shit and something is amiss? ), which might, coupled with the BBQ’s going on, point to no riots just yet, but having no electricity that wasn’t going to be a factor. The dirty bomb news should override all of that. Of course, no one had a vehicle either, and they were lazy douches. This crap could get a bit complicated.

*

Everyone’s favorite post-apocalypse movie or novel had suburban couples rushing into the grocery store, tires screaming in protest as brakes were locked up as SUV Super Ninja Warrior Attack Vehicles slide into parking stalls ( the front stalls no doubt STILL being fought over even then, although there was surely going to be one or two that shrieked to the sky in triumph, “No more rules! I’m parking in handicap spot you crippled fucks!” ) and mad scrambling commenced as carts were frantically filled, bumper car style fighting to get to the last can of cummed corn, folks so white they were their own illumination at night suddenly simply having to have the last bag of rice even if they’d always only eaten potatoes or noodles, barely having an inkling of its preparation ( and speaking of preparation, Preparation H being fought over by a gaggle of geriatrics ), clerks either clueless over the mechanical addition of items on paper holding up the line or just completely bypassed as customers wipe outside to their waiting Super Deluxe Bug-Out Vehicle, blatant theft of provisions the least of their worries. Yet, John wondered what happened to the equation when vehicles were removed. Americans were so in love with their cars ( and, really, as aggressive as they were moving them, despite the reference to them in a feminine sense, John had to wonder if it were indeed a homoerotic love ) that in the inevitable EMP story ( well, mostly solar flare story ) the super hero of the story always found a pre-computer era carburetor type car to drive down to the store. Even in end of the world fiction, Americans simply wouldn’t give up the fantasy of a world forever more filled with cars. But pre-computer car parts were getting really friggin hard to get anymore. Not all that many were stocked, leaving most to be ordered from an overseas warehouse which was never a quick process. Most folks found it easier to buy an older chipped car. The parts were easy to get and cheap, even if sometimes you had to have a real mechanic use a specialized tool for diagnosis. So, bottom line, one or two old cars show up, the rest of the population hoofs it with a few bicycles thrown in with even less having bike trailers. Almost every shopper would only be able to carry a few bags away with them. Without the greedy visions of a pickup truck piled high with food, the unruliness and fights would be greatly diminished. Without running cars, the firefights outside the shopping cart corrals might never happen.

*

Not that John was going to any grocery stores. But he wondered how much he could carry away on two bikes. They’d have to make a few trips and stash the food nearby, then leave a guard for it as they made multiple trips home. Which of course was the perfect excuse to team up with a pair of, how to delicately put it?, desperately unprepared bitches. He imagined his townie girlfriend would fill the bill nicely, and she did have a sister. Randy would fall for anything in a skirt and with a pulse, and while John had mixed feelings about living in close proximity to a gal who got on his nerves after a few hours, he also figured the two fems could yak at each other incessantly and pretty much leave him alone most times. They would be eating into his food, but if they could get another six or eight hundred pounds from town that wouldn’t be an issue for a year and in the meantime they had an extra pair of guards and winter bed warmers.

END

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8 comments:

  1. Wow. I feel like I just listened in on a therapy session of yours. Hope you feel better. :) I tried to link through you to order at Amazon and it doesn't retain the bison press in the URL, telling me that you are not getting credit. Is this true? Then I went to bisonpress dot com and that is a redirect back to James Dakin and is for sale. Thought you should know.

    ReplyDelete
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    1. I always feel better after vomiting on to the word proccessor. Thank you for asking.

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  2. Good work. Have a nice weekend.

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  3. The polemics are a waste of time, and not particularly accurate. The Germans started the terror bombing very early: against the Dutch. That they didn't have the means to back it up in the long run is beside the point.

    A confederate apologist should find out what the confederates did to resistance within their own territories. I'll give you a hint: it wasn't pretty.

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    1. I had to look up "polemics". I take your point-they are always good ones even if we disagreed venomously on "Eden"- but might argue that I'd never heard of the Dutch bombing. Which means, besides me being uneducated in the finer points, it wasn't a heck of a lot of propiganda value if it wasn't beat like a dead horse. Hell, you could go back to the Spanish Civil War and the Nazi backing if you wanted justification for "an eye for an eye". The Brits and the US should never have stooped to the level of the Hun with firebombings. My point is, we are just as evil but since we won we can tell ourselves what groovy cats we are. I know both sides in the War Between The States were vicious behind the lines, esp. in the western border states. I know it WASN'T official Confederate policy to kill citizens in reprisal. It was with the Union.

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  4. good story keep it up i like your writing

    denny

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    1. I'm taking a bit of a break from the novel to go to the bug out book. I WILL finish the thing one of these days- I just don't know how long it will be. Not another six years, certainly. But not real soon either.

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