Chapter Four;
-=-(*)-=-
Yes, I know that wax can melt.
That wax can melt;
That wax can melt.
Yes, I know that wax can melt,
and water will not help.
-=-(*)-=-
By the time he'd reached Timbuktu once - Hamilton was convinced that it was the end of the world - the doors had either grown, or he'd shrunk so there were two feet difference. Something was seriously wrong, or the people here were seriously tall. And that wasn't so; Hamilton - even with 'losing' a foot and a half, still towered over them. But now, he had an appointment with Griper.
Hamilton could feel his eyes practically melting in his head as he slimed down onto the floor and laid there over the feeble air conditioning; the floor was cooler than his bed. He reached for his shorts about six inches away from him and dragged them on halfway; it was too much effort to zip them up; and then used his arms to drag himself around on the floor till he found the largest shirt and weasled it over his head.
He was so sad the world was mourning for him by heating up a little more... Hamilton rolled over on his back and used the caterpillar-move to inch up to the nearest air conditioning. He laid directly over it.
"I didn't think you'd take it this bad."
Hamilton opened one eye and used he rest of his remaining energy to glare at Griper. His throat was too dry to speak, so he croaked. "Get me out of here."
Griper looked legitimately apologetic. "I can't."
"Damn, you can't. I said: get me out of here."
Griper sat on the edge of the one-sheet bed and shrugged helplessly down at him. "That's the contest. You know that at least five people are up there freezing their butts off in Canada and AK, right now, right?"
Hamilton felt like five Z batteries had been plugged into him. He shoved his hands behind him till he was in a reasonable sitting position. "You mean that those people are there on MY roads? On MY routes?"
Griper leaned back. "Relax, dude. They're not yours-"
"THE HELL THEY AREN'T! I WANT MY COUNTRY BACK! I WANT MY STATE! I WANT MY NICE, BIG DIESEL TRUCK THAT DOESN'T SQUEAK WHEN YOU CHANGES ITS GEARS-"
"Drink some water," the boss offered. "You sound like a frog in a drought."
Hamilton shoved the hand away. "I WANT TO LEAVE THIS STINKING COUNTRY WHERE YOU CAN'T FIND A STINKING BREATH OF STINKING COOL AIR!"
"If you smelled your fart, it might be cooler," Griper offered again. "Listen, Hamilton. You're starting back today. I'm counting on this; you can do it. I know you. I know you can."
Hamilton managed to stagger to his feet. He nearly fell over into Griper as he curled up his fist. "Now, listen here," he managed in a hoarse whisper. "I've got five reasons why you ought to get out of this room this minute, and get me out of this country before tonight. Listen." Hamilton unfurled the fist and showed five fingers. "One... Two... Three... Four... Five. Now get. Me. Out. Of. Here."
Griper said nothing, but just shook his head and hurried away.
Hamilton stared at the phone in his hand, debating extensively before he made his decision and called the number. "Dad?"
"What?"
Oh, eating. Hamilton winced. "I'm- I'm kinda in a bind, Dad."
"Phum?"
"It's on my route." Hamilton rubbed his temples, closing his eyes and letting the truck drive itself on the straight stretch of road. "Well, not my route. Dammit, my route's in Alaska. I'm in Africa, basically. I need help. Something's wrong. I'm drinking water and everything-"
"Fwawfing ta refuwar worfout?"
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Dad?"
Eisenhower swallowed on the other end of the line. "Doing the workout I gave you?"
"Heh." There was a rather guilty smile. "Dad, if you saw me right now, you wouldn't even give me fifty pushups."
"HA." Eisenhower roared at the end of a line. "A Holt? Weak?"
"In the sun," Hamilton emphsised quickly. "I train all the time in AK."
"Why not now?"
"I can't do a pushup." Hamilton wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "I can't even walk. This heat's killing me. And water doesn't help."
There was a long pause. "I'll come." Eisenhower suddenly snapped. "Where are you?"
Hamilton fidgeted. "You don't have to do that, Dad, really. I was just hoping you'd have some advice or something..."
"Where are you?"
"No, I'm serious, Dad. You don't have to-"
"Where. Are. You."
"I'll be in Tripoli tomorrow."
"Deal."
Hamilton opened his mouth to reply and found that the line was already dead.
THE APOCALYPSE IS HAPPENING! LAPULTA HAS GOTTEN OFF HER LAZY BUTT AND WITH THE HELP OF A FEW EPIPHANIES, HAS MANAGED TO CONTINUE A LONG-FORGOTTEN STORY.
She also apologizes for the shortness of this chapter; she has rather interesting/decent ideas set for the next chapter. She also will not bother all the readers in reviewing, although she would like reviews; she knows she doesn't deserve them after this terrible break. She is also aware of the terribleness of this chapter. She think she will eventually edit it - if she has more epiphanies.
Lapulta has noticed that all her sentences before were continued with 'also'. She has a mind to edit it, but is too lazy to.
As a notice, she is working on Puke. She has epiphanies for that also.
~L