chapter SIX -- Rolly Polly Fish Heads

"Oops."

"What the fuck did you do now?" Ranger lazed against the desk, his arms folded across his chest. He leaned his head on Crubby's shoulder.

"Nothing! That's the problem. Nothing! Oh, shit. Two-ply. I can't believe I forgot the cherries!" I began to hyperventilate.

"Babe, what are you talking about? Cherries? They're good and nutritious, but --"

"Slurpes! The fucking Slurpes!" I began to back out of the door. The last eleven years dissolved. The Mountain of Mish Mashed Resistance whipped lashed against my skull.

Oh. Shit. I'm so screwed.

Ranger let go of Crubby's hand and stood. He approached me, his hand trying to capture my arms

I knocked him on his ass.

I ran toward the elevator, pressed the button, and checked my BlackBerry while I waited for the doors to open. I pulled up my buddy list. Red Parrot was online, but idle. I scrolled down and hovered over his name to check his idle time. 6,427,488 minutes. Fuck!

The doors pinged open and I stepped inside. Ranger caught up with me and stuck his arm between the sliding doors.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ!" he screamed. "Aren't these things supposed to open when you have your arm stuck in them?"

"Not if the person inside is pressing the Close button."

"Babe," Ranger said.

I rolled my eyes and let out a bark of laughter. Like I was gonna fall for that one.

"Babe?"

I shook my head. Nope. Still not falling for it.

"Ba-a-a-abe."

Fuck it all to hell. I just had to be a sucker for italics, didn't I?

I grunted and released the Close button. The doors swooshed open and Ranger entered. He threw a disgruntled look in my direction and settled into the corner of the elevator.

"Jesus. You know, that's gonna leave a bruise."

"You're a big boy," I said to Ranger. "I think you know how to handle the black and blue bits."

Ranger grimaced. "You didn't have to mention that night."

"Sorry."

"I paid you fifty thousand to forget. You don't forget again, I have a little friend that will remind you."

"Oh, Jesus. I said no!"

"I'm not talking about--"

"Ricky?" I finished.

"Fuck me."

"Look, Ranger, I'm sorry. That night will be forever abolished from my memory."

"Damn right it will be."

"Will you fucking listen? I am maybe, probably, most likely going to need to go to France for the weekend."

Ranger rolled his eyes and popped the tab of a Milwaukee's Best. "I'm not lending you my jet," he said. "You can fucking believe that."

I fucking believed it alright. Primarily because…

"You don't have a jet," I said to Ranger.

Ranger looked at me in a Yeah, I do sort of way.

"No," I told him. "You don't. You just made that up."

Ranger shook his head. "Yes, babe."

"No, Ranger."

"I have a jet," Ranger said. And then he opened out his wallet, pulled out a photo of a Citation CJ2+ aircraft, and passed it to me. It looked like it had been taken from the cover of Flight Instructor magazine.

"You have a picture of a jet," I said to him, "not the jet, itself."

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

I was getting a headache. "No. You. Don't."

Ranger pointed at the picture. "Says 'RangeMan,'" he said proudly.

"It's written in Sharpie, Ranger."

"No, it's not." Ranger's eye twitched. "I own a jet, babe."

I licked my finger and dragged it down the photo, smearing the Sharpied-in RangeMan logo. "Whatever you say."

The elevator doors shimmied open as we reached the ground floor. I removed myself and realized the noxious smell of Ranger's body gel didn't waft after me. I sighed and turned around facing the nearly-closing doors, and briefly caught a glimpse of Ranger huddled in the left corner, gently caressing the smudged magazine photo.

"That deserves a pity fuck," I said to myself.

I turned around and bumped into Tank.

"Tank," I said. "So very nice to see you again. What brings you around these parts?"

"I work here."

Riiight.

"Uh-huh. Okay," I said. "Gotta go."

I slapped Tank on the ass and piled into my Porsche. I pulled to a stop in front of Giovichinni's and picked up a couple bags of BBQ potato ships, a case of Kleenex Cotonelle, and a carton of Winstons for the trip. I had given up cigarettes when I was nine, but I figured, What the hell?

The Porsche ran parallel to the briny sea as I headed towards San Jose. I put the Porsche on auto-pilot and lit up a smoke, and used my BlackBerry to make reservations on the next ferry to France. I printed out the confirmation and leaned back in the seat.

Thank God for Expedia, I thought to myself. We didn't have that millions of years ago.

I gradually awoke to the sound of the Porsche humming happily. The scenery from my window was parched and extremely grim. The Cacti were droopy, the tumbleweeds ran around in circles and the vultures sat idly by a rotting dingo carcass, sighing to themselves.

The Porsche stopped humming Bye, Bye, Bye and gurgled, "Destination achieved. May I be of any more assistance to you, Ms. Plum?"

"No thank you, Porsche."

"You're very welcome, Ms. Plum. Thank you for riding with Highly Advanced with Stupid Technology Incorporated. Have a great day!"

The Porsche went to sleep, and I grabbed my bag of supplies, stubbed out my cigarette on the dash, and entered the San Jose heat.

I removed my Glock from its holster and stuck it in the waistband of my jeans for easier access. Then I shifted the Beretta I had shoved into my boot, made sure my Sig was still loaded, sharpened my Scorpion Throwing Stars, and slid my katana into the sleeve sewn into my jacket. I looked back at the Porsche and contemplated strapping on the sawed-off I had in the trunk, but that felt like overkill, and I didn't want to look paranoid.

The road was long and covered with dirt. It was a dirt road. By the time I made it to the ticket counter in the middle of the desert, I had a trail of sweat running down my everything. I took the confirmation email I'd printed off my BlackBerry and showed it to the man behind the counter. He peered out from behind his bifocals and inspected my reservation.

"Yes," he said. "You want to go to San Jose."

"We're in San Jose," I said. "I want to go to France."

"Of course. Name?"

"Stephanie Plum."

"Right-O," the man said. "Just give me a sec." He began to click-click-clack on his keyboard. Then he stopped and leaned in. "Nope. Stephanie Plum hasn't checked in yet. You wanna wait here? Her bus leaves in fifteen minutes."

I blinked at him.

"I am Stephanie Plum." I pointed at the printout. "That's my reservation."

"Ah, yes. So it is. But we have no buses arriving in San Jose this hour."

"For fuck's sake," I said. "I'm leaving from here. I have a fucking reservation!"

The man looked at me for a long time. "I see," he said. "Name?"

"Stephanie Motherfucking Plum."

"Right-O," the man said, and he began to click-click-clack on the keyboard again.

My eye was starting to twitch in rhythm to the clacking. I had my hand on my Beretta, index finger tracing the trigger in soft, loving strokes. Just give me a reason, bitch, I dared him in my mind.

The clacking stopped.

"I'm sorry. We don't have a bus arriving in San Jose this hour. Would you care for another destination?"

I closed my eyes and counted to one. "Yes," I said. "I want to go to Russia. Can you get me to Russia? Can you do that?"

Clickety-clack. Fuckety-fuck.

"Got a bus that goes from here to Flagstaff and loads on the ferry to Paris," he said. "You want that?"

I pointed my Glock at his head and removed the safety.

"Right-O," the man said. "Name?"

"Patsy McQueen."

He smiled and passed a ticket to me. "Your bus leaves in five minutes. I'd get a hurry-on. Don't want to be stuck by the bathroom."

I looked over the ticket and lowered the gun. Then I flipped the man off and stood in line for the bus.

The bus was four stories high and painted hot pink, with enough lewd graffiti to keep it interesting. I followed the spiral staircase to my seat on the roof, buckled my seatbelt, and dug my purple gel pen and Hello Kitty journal out of my bag. I opened to a blank page and made a list.

TO DO:

1.) Balance checkbook. Pay utilities.

2.) Go to the country, eat a lot of peaches..

3.) Send David my deepest sympathies.

4.) Find and destroy Rhythm; Leave no peppers behind.

6.) Find Joe, tell about embryo, become family, etc., etc., etc.

7.) Find bathroom. (Note: White Castle, The Ass-Tearer-Upper)

8.) Send Lance Bass congratulatory email.

9.) Escort Ramona to Nice

10.) Seek ultimate revenge on Hoshi Yoshimoto

I began to doodle in the margin, considerably worried. I could be very fucked. How does one balance a checkbook? I started to add seven plus eight to get twelve when the ding-ding of the trolley woke me from my concentration.

"Whasit goonna be, lurv? A packet of roasted peanuts, a Coca-Cola? How's aboots some nice chocolaty nummyness, eh? Some meld-incha-mooth candies? Yars?" The trolley wench smiled a yellow-fanged smile and pushed the mini-pack of M&Ms into my hand.

"No, really, I couldn't," I said. "I'm pregnant. The red dye number seven might hurt my unborn child."

I placed my hand on my stomach and batted the remaining evidence of pink coconut from the SnoBalls I'd just ingested off my sweater.

"Ah, I forgot about that," Trolley Wench said. "Howsaboot a nice butter-tart?"

I didn't know what the hell a butter-tart was, but by God, I wanted one. And I wanted it now. I forked over a pink five-dollar-bill with Uncle Moneybags on the front and relieved the Trolley Wench of her butter-tart supply. Not bad. I washed them down with a swig of beer, lit up another Winston, and went back to my doodling.

The bus stopped and I walked off, right into the fish laden, cat piss smell that was always Paris. Yet, being spring the birds chirped happily, cats swallowed fish heads and I smiled, patting my stomach.

"Got a baby in there," I said to a smiling man selling flowers on the street corner. He smiled and handed me a huge bouquet of red, red roses.

The roses smelled like Joe. He would wake me every morning with a single rose with baby's breath and tickle me awake, then he would kiss me deeply, his eyes clouding with love.

My body warmed at the thought of Joe but my heart ached, too. I didn't know where he was and I missed him. He could be anywhere. Off on a mission saving the world, maybe in a dungeon. I didn't know. I missed him.

I tripped on a rock and went down like a sack. "Ouch!' I screamed, blood oozing from my gash. I stood up and dusted myself off and realized I needed a band aid and real quick.

"Let me help you," said a man. "My name is Mark. You look like you could use a band-aid."

Mark helped me up and we sat down on the edge of a fountain in the city square. He asked a passerby for a first aid kit and we talked while we waited.

"Oh! You're American. So nice to here the native tongue!" I said. He nodded and wrapped several layers of band-aids around my bleeding gash. It helped some, but I had discomfort.

"Actually," Marc started, "I'm Mexican. You can tell, you know, the accent and dark hair and my necklace." He lifted the gold strand around his neck, "Made in Mexico," it read.

Mental head slap. "Sorry," I said, wincing at the pain. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything. I have lots of friends who are from around there."

OK, this wasn't exactly true. The only friend I had from around Mexica was Ranger, and he wasn't really a friend--just a guy from work.

"So Marc, whatcha doing in Paris? Going to the Louvre? I wanna go there, but I don't know where it is and this map is just so dang confusing and I really like fromage."

Marc smiled and kissed my gash before rinsing my blod off his hands in the fountain. "I'm here on business," he said. "I can't tell you any more than that. I'm on a mission for the government in Canadia."

"Ha ha," I said. "Right. So if you tell me you gotta kill me, eh?" I laughed but Marc didn't. He looked at me like I was strange, and then said something into his right shoe and took off.

I stared into the crowd and didn't see Mark, and wondered where he went. Confused, I lifted my four-inch heel to my ear and asked, "Hello, Mac?" When there was no answer, I shimmied back into the teal FMPs and left the fountain, heading to the nearest drug store. My gash was bleeding through those sticky little holes.

Being in France was reminding me a lot of the time I spent in Europe when I was a teen, preparing for the day I would take my place as the rightful ruler of Furuckenvaagan, a small principality nestled between Germany and Brazil. I used to walk the streets dressed in a long black cloak, pretending I was Harry Potter. I was convinced there was a magical world out there and that I would someday find it. I sighed and opened the door to the drug store, listening to the bells chinkle against the glass. Back to reality, Steph, I told myself. Get a grip.

"No bweeders awoud!" I narrowed my gaze at the man behind the counter.

"Cool it, Habib, I'll buy a Slurpee and foie gras."

"You good customer," Habib said. He went back to playing Tetris on his French Gameboy.

I picked up my Orangina Slurpee and slipped a box of Super Absorbent Tampons into my clutch and gave a finger wave to Habib.

"I send you bwill!" he called after me.

I nodded and started walking to Leon. I stopped when I reached the top of the hill and looked down at the city. Not half a mile out of Paris, and I was already out of breath. Guess I wasn't getting any younger. I shifted my pack on my back and kept on walking.

I walked about thirty-seven miles when I felt I needed a rest. The baby was doing a dance on my thorax. I sat down, burped and rested my head in the sun. A few minutes passed and I heard a croak, a croak next to me.

I glanced around. "Hello, little tree frog." I said.

"Ba-aa-aa-abe," the tree frog said back.

"Neat, you speak. Do tell me your name."

"Pig," he said.

"Oh, what a lovely name! Mister Pig, may I ask, because I am a foolish woman, the way to Leon? I lost my escort some time ago."

"No," the frog said. "I'm not called pig, you idiot. You're a pig. Look at you, eating Twizzlers and smoking and drinking a Slurpee. You wouldn't know a balanced diet if it bit you in the ass. And no offense, sweetheart, but you gotta lot of ass to bite. Ribbit."

I glanced behind me, I glanced above me and I glanced underneath me, "Ranger?"

"Lick me, Steph," the frog said.

"Omigod, Ranger. I told you never to bother me here. Why are you in a frog?"

"What, you thought I'd just let you take off to fucking France, with no explanation? You're supposed to fill out paperwork and shit. Company policy."

RangerFrog stuck his big, long tongue out and caught a fly. Then he looked at me and waggled his froggy eyebrows, and I got a few ideas what I could do with that tongue. You know, if he wasn't a frog, cos that's just sick.

"Lick me, Steph," RangerFrog said again. "You know you want to."

"Ick! No! I do not want to ask my mother to burn herpes off my tongue, the last time was embarrassing enough."

RangerFrog sighed. "If you don't lick me, I can't tell which way we need to go. I can't lick myself, you know."

"Well, you can, you big liar. Remember that 'trick' you wanted to show me like three weeks ago? Man, that was gross. You totally sucked your own balls."

"I wasn't a frog then, babe," RangerFrog said. "And if you remember correctly, you sucked them, too. Now lick me."

"Fine! Fine! Fuck! Fine!" I stuck out my tongue, "LUCK!"

RangerFrog's small body quivered in my hands. "Do it again," he said, his voice thready.

I squeezed him tightly, stuck out my tongue and took a slurpy lick. RangerFrog croaked and farted a little frog fart while my hands became covered in goo.

I dropped RangerFrog on the ground and wiped the goo off my hands. Then I threw up in a hollowed-out tree stump for what felt like an hour. When I was done, I turned around to see RangerFrog, lying on his back, legs crossed in front of him, smoking one of my cigarettes.

"Doesn't count if you spit," he said, doing the eyebrow thing again. God, what was with the eyebrow thing?

"So, Ranger? What now? You gonna hop after me like a one-legged homeless circus muppet, or you gonna let me do this myself?"

Ranger uncrossed his legs, stubbed out his Winston, and hopped on top of my pack. "Go left and wake me when you get to the cherry tree."

I sighed and began my trek, RangerFrog snoring behind my left ear. I walked for six miles when I stumbled upon a field of broken wine bottles and cork screws, the cork screws protruding precariously from festering eye sockets, here and there . Beyond the oozy field stood a large cherry tree.

RangerFrog rolled off my pack onto my shoulder, and nuzzled my neck. I dropped my pack by the tree and ran my hands over the bark. A large heart was carved into the trunk, the words "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" etched inside. Near the tree, some guy's head had been shoved onto a post. His eyes had been pecked out by the weasels, and his tongue gnawed off by the shrimp. Guess the answer was no.

RangerFrog's tongue flicked against my ear, and I batted him with my hand. His little frog body flew, hitting the cherry tree and he dropped like pigeon shit.

I stared at his nasty little body, his tiny legs spread wide. "Okay, what now? I'm at the fucking cherry tree."

His body lay limp and flaccid, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

I shook my head, picked up a stick and started poking him.

"Oi, Ranger!"

He wasn't breathing or moving or anything like that. Oh, shit. I'd killed Ranger! While he was a frog! How the fuck was I going to explain that one?

I bent down and felt for a little frog pulse, but I didn't know where a frog's pulse was supposed to be, and I was too grossed out to check most places. I pushed his tongue back in his mouth and squeezed his lips open like one of those old coin purses they used to give you at the fair, like, in the eighties, or whatever. Then I put my mouth on his and blew into it. His little frog belly inflated, and I pumped his chest with my thumbs.

"Come on, you fucking bastard," I said to Ranger, pump-pump-pumping where I thought his froggy heart might be. "You can't die on me!"

I put my mouth on his and blew into it again, and felt a rush of heat as his long frog tongue slid into my mouth, down past my tonsils, flicking across my gizzard.

I felt a bit of bile rise and I shrugged backwards, impaling my gash on a long and hard object. I began to gush once more; the bleeding fast and true. I stuck the gash in my mouth and started to suck.

"Ba-aa-be." RangerFrog gave me a wink and crossed his legs.

"That was disgusting." I huffed, in between my sucking and spitting.

"Babe, that tongue of yours… love it. Reminded me of that night in El Supario, when I found your third nipple. The one where I whisked you off in my jet, and you left Joe weeping and holding your panties as we drank tequila and danced the Mongo Bongo."

I spit. "That never happened."

"That was you."

"Um, no."

"Course it was."

"Nope." Spit.

"Huh."

I searched the ground for some grass and twigs and shit like that, and tapled them to my gash to help control the bleeding. Then I turned back to RangerFrog and asked, "Um, why is that black horse staring at me?"

RangerFrog looked at the horse. "Yo," he said.

The horse nodded.

I looked from RangerFrog to the horse and back again. "No fucking way," I said to him. "You brought Tank?"

RangerFrog shrugged. "Long trip. I got lonely."

I shook my head, got to my feet, and dusted my ass off. "Unbelievable," I said. "That's it. This is over. Both you bestiality freaks are gonna back off and leave me the fuck alone. I have a few things to take care of and I don't need to look like Porna McDooalot while I do them. So, get. Scat! Go!"

RangerFrog's tongue flicked at my gash.

"No! Go!"

TankHorse nuzzled my neck.

"Oh, shit. Don't do that!"

RangerFrog looked at TankHorse, and his throat bulged out in a big green bubble, and he leapt at TankHorse.

"The Babe is mine," RangerFrog said. "How"--POW!--"many"--WHAP!--"times"--ZONK!--"do"--EYE POKE!--"I"--BAM!--"have"--SLAP!--"to"--BOINK!--"tell"--PUNCH!--"you?"

TankHorse murred, a pound of hay and corn plopped from his ass. He plopped shit. He gave a bashful nod and tapped my ass with his hoof. Trotting towards RangerFrog, TankHorse narrowed his gaze.

"Man. Control yourself," he said. "I have astral-projected myself into a fucking horse, 'cause you finally dropped your left ball. But, man, you hit me one more time, I'll make sure you never get a chance to roofie Stephanie again."

RangerFrog crossed his froggy arms over his froggy chest and stuck out his bottom lip. Oh, great. Now he was brooding. I shook my head, grabbed my pack, and lit up another smoke. "It's gonna be a long trip," I said to myself, and the three of us took off in the direction of the Land of Infinite Sodomy.