My life thus far had landed me in the backseat of an archaic Pontiac with three of my would-be-killers, and then subsequently landed me in the middle of the desert at some run down gas station that belonged in the next installment of the Texas Chainsaw movies. So, following the cliché horror movie formula, I walked right on into that shady little dump with no regard for my personal wellbeing. I tell you, it did not disappoint. The shelves were crooked and laced with a black sludge that I could only guess was some mix of bug poop and gutter grime, the wooden paneling on the floor was warped in areas and soft like a batch of wet cookies in others. The food and snack choices here were sparse, it was either botulism in a bag or salmonella in a can and to wash it all down you could buy yourself a bottle something that looked like road tar. I marched up to the counter where I was greeted by Big Foot's long lost cousin, Chuck, a rugged looking man, with a face right where it should be (I say that because it's about the nicest thing I could think of at the moment). He gave me that look, you know the one when girls pass you by and judge you, yeah, that one. I call it the "sassy face," except "sassy face" didn't exactly look so sassy on Chuck as it did scary and completely wrong.
"Got a phone?"
You would think I had just demanded the Holy Grail the way he looked at me. He shoved the telephone to the side, hiding it away from me like the creature from Lord of the Rings. "Ain't workin,"(Translated: Nooo, my preciousessss he must not touches ittttt). I had a feeling, like Frodo and all his little hobbit friends, I was destined to hoof it all the way home, except my journey would be a lot less interesting and exciting, if that's even possible.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yep. Now you gunna buy something?"
Before you go yelling at me "LD. DON'T YOU HAVE A CELLPHONE! WHAT THE FUCK?" Yes, like every person not my age I DO in fact own a cellphone, however, let me remind you: I'm in the middle of the desert and, contrary to popular belief, Verizon does NOT have any cellphone towers disguised as cactuses. Though it's something they might want to consider looking into, what with all the cellphones being picked off of lost, dead travelers by vultures ("Hey Bill, what's up?" "Oh nothing, just eating a dead coyote carcass, you know." "Man that sounds awesome, the wife's got me hanging curtains at the nest today"). What kind of world do we live in where vultures cannot constantly text one another while simultaneously updating their facebook status, checking their twitter and pecking the eyes out of some decomposing armadillo corpse?
So, taking Chuck for his word, which was about as good as month old cheese, I didn't pursue the matter any further...even when the phone rang. I'm sure it was just the after effects of being out of commission, telephone death rattle. It's not really ringing, it's just dying. Instead, I purchased a bottle of, what we'll call, "soda", paid and left Chuck to being Chuck.
I sat outside with my soda and my cellphone that had no coverage, doing what any sensible human being would do in this situation: play "Angry Birds" until a car passed through. I sat there flinging birds at self-righteous green pigs, drinking that black sludge that had expired sometime in the last cretaceous period, kicking my feet in the dirt and occasionally looking back to give Chuck the hairy eye. I'm not sure how long I had been sitting there by the time my first prospective ride came by (or the second or third, all of which turned me down), I did notice, however, that a very hungry, very determined vulture had been sitting with me the whole time. Which was starting to make me incredibly nervous, like it knew something I didn't, like that I had left the oven on at home.
"Haha!"
"Weee!"
"PLONK!"
I may not have been able to hold my own against the Tremor Brothers, but I sure as hell could against these pigs! I wonder if the government has looked into genetically altering birds so that they could: 1. Explode into several more birds 2. Poop rocket propelled eggs on command or 3. Explode. However, with angrybirdology (the study of advancing birds into weapons of mass destruction) like this, every five year old with access to an iPhone or any other "Angry Birds" compatible device, would become a national threat. Not to mention our tactics would prove incredibly futile should our enemy decide to build fortresses of wood, glass and concrete, which, as you know, is just about what every house nower days is made of.
About the time I was knocking over one of those concrete/wooden/glass fortress combinations*, and about the time when Chuck was peeking out to see if I had finally died, a rusted old pick-up truck stocked full of road kill and tire marked animal bodies rolled up alongside one of those crooked pumps. The driver stepped out of his death-car and up to the pump. He looked at me and snorted back an immense wad of phlegm then spat it on the ground. So romantic, so debonair, so charming! And just check out the incredibly stylish duds! Coveralls splattered with the blood of every living being to ever come into contact with him, one shoe bigger than the other and half an undershirt. I wonder if there's a record in the Guinness book for "most times picked up by creepy/murderous strangers." Let me know. While you're at it, get me a Tums because I think that soda-sludge is plotting some sort of unholy revenge.
"You need a ride?"
"Goldfield."
"Vegas," he responded and with a nod to his vehicle instructed me to: "Hop in."
I would be the perfect candidate for horror movie: blissfully oblivious, hopping into random men's vehicles, driving off to what I assume to be "Vegas," when in horror-movie-reality he'd be driving me back to his mansion in the middle of the desert where his deformed son waited with a chainsaw and other implements of destruction. I, being the strongest, most able bodied victim would, of course, be first to die. And it wouldn't be pretty either, in order to draw the viewer in I'd be killed in the most ridiculous, but most badass way ever, like...tightrope walking on barbed wire while fencing with Weed Whackers. At least I had that going for me.
So, with an interesting and bright future ahead of me, I clambered up into the man's 1969 Dodge A100. Between the duct tape and bungee cords holding this beast** together I was amazed it even had seat belts. Silly me, I was expecting to have to tie myself to the seat. Now at least I could be securely strapped into this metal death trap. And should it flip over or explode I would be safely locked in without a chance to escape!
After filling the tank up, Jason Voorhees scooted back on up into the driver's seat. He gave the door a good pull, only to have it bounce off of the crooked frame and broken lock. One more tug and it slammed shut, never to open again. He turned the key in the ignition and brought the car to, what we'll call, "life," but if you ask me I would say it sounded more like lots-of-angry-cats-stuck-under-the-hood-of-the-car. But "life" is much easier.
"What's yer name, keeyod?" I'm not exactly fluent in the desert dialect, but I'm pretty sure "keeyod" is a type of vegetable.
"LD," I didn't really think it through, my brain to mouth censor currently distracted by something interesting just off camera left. "LD" and "wanted assassin" were synonymous with one another. I was only lucky that the man didn't recognize me for who I was. Not that I expected him to know much about the world outside of his sofa and a can of Mountain Dew. But hey, I'm stereotyping.
"You in the army?"
He tilted his head to the side, looking over my strange attire briefly before turning his eyes back to the road.
"Not really. But I do play a lot of Call of Duty."
Swing and a miss. I don't know why I even expected the man to have a game system. Humor, not for everyone. An awkward silence followed before he opened his mouth to engage me in more small talk.
"How'd you end up out here without no damn ride?"
He wasn't the best conversation partner, but beggars can't be choosers, at least he wasn't trying to rip my legs off...yet. "Oh yanno, what happens in Vegas, ends up in the middle of the desert."
He grinned and right then I regretted making him smile. I remember once visiting an art museum, I know crazy, a hired hit-man with an affinity*** for fine art. If there were one painting to describe everything I felt at this moment, I would have to say that painting would be "The Scream." It took all of my energy, every fiber of my being, not to shriek out at the complete and utter lack of dental hygiene as well as teeth. And that's probably why problem one was a problem. Of course that desire not to offend with my terrified and traumatized soul only caused my expression to contort into something worse. I went from delicious meal to sour-as-shit in two seconds flat as that man flashed those gums and...pearly...whites...at me.
...
I know you're out there...please, someone, anyone, save me, call a dentist, my God someone call a dentist!
"Fun night then?" he asked, eyes back on the road and thankfully not on me. And by eyes I meant teeth.
"You have no fucking clue," I managed to produce between gagging.
The ride was awkwardly quiet, those angry cats in the engine filling in the empty spaces of silence where I stared out the window hoping that the man would keep his mouth shut if only just to keep the last of his teeth in place so that I may keep all of the food I had ever eaten in its place. After about thirty minutes that felt like thirty days, we pulled up onto the Vegas strip in our beat down, run down vehicle. My driver's teeth, more or less, intact, and the integrity of my scarred soul, less so intact.
"Here ya are," He pulled up alongside one of the sidewalks as he shifted into park.
I didn't want to continue talking to the man, but at the same time I didn't want to embarrass myself by getting out of the car. It was a day reminiscent of the first ever, popularity deciding, day of high school. That day where you weren't quite old enough to drive yourself, so, with no other choice, you have to let your parents drive you. And if that wasn't bad enough as soon as you scurry on out of their sight, when you finally feel safe, that's when the worst happens. They honk the horn, roll down the window, lean out as far as they can and wave like a lunatic, shouting at the top of their lungs "HAVE A GOOD DAY AT SCHOOL! I LOVE YOU!" And all you can do is pretend you don't know them and hope to God that no one saw. But it's too late. The damage has been done and your reputation is a nonexistent blip on a completely different map. Yeah. That. But, if I stayed in the car, I ran the risk of having one of those wayward teeth come flying out of my chauffeur's face the next time he risked the incredibly dangerous (for me) task of speaking. I had a very serious, very explicit fear that one of those crooked, filth enameled chompers would come flying my way, and oh my God, land in my mouth. So, paying serious mind to my phobia, I hopped on out of the car.
"Thanks for the ride," I fished out a couple of bills from my pocket and tossed it in through the open window, "-for the gas." It wasn't so much gas money as it was hey-thanks-for-driving-me, not spitting-your-teeth-out-on-me, and not-killing-me money. Three hundred bucks (that's a hundred for each fear). And it would only take him twenty minutes to lose it all in this city, probably about the same amount of time it would take for my life to turn completely around...again.
I left my ex-driver at that sidewalk, quickly slinking off into the crowd in no particular direction. I blended in as well as any military dressed woman could amongst a crowd of tourists, which meant I was about as inconspicuous as Lady Gaga at any given time of the day. Of course, her career was doing quite a bit better than mine at the moment. I don't ever recall pop stars threatening each other with different forms of torture. I don't get it, mercenaries and celebrities are practically the same: we've all been the headline of some news story at least once in our lives, we wear clothes one normally wouldn't, we've done at least one incredibly embarrassing thing in front of a lot of people and finally, we absolutely hate everyone else in the business. Though, where their fans had Beiber Fever, mine had a severe case of Very-Expensive-Bounty Syndrome. Doesn't quite flow as well.
At about the time I was crossing in front of the Bellagio and about the time some homeless man was throwing up on the sidewalk, my cellphone returned to coverage life and subsequently began ringing.
"LD? Shit! I've been trying to get a hold of you all day! You had me worried sick. What the fuck happened last night?"
"Dude, you're never going to believe this. Guess who I ran into." Like every other cellphone toting person out there, I held it proudly to my ear, speaking at a volume that said 'Look at me! I'm important and so is my conversation! You only wish you were as cool as me!'
"Matt Girard?"
"Ye-what? No! Well...yeah, I saw 'im at the grocery store yesterday, but no not him."
"I dunno, man. Who?"
"The fuckin' Tremors."
"WHAT? LD - Are you ok?"
"No man, I'm dead. I just wanted to call an' make sure you fed my cat."
"This is serious. You should be dead right now."
"I am dead, I just said that."
"Don't be an asshole."
"I'm fine, Jim. Just got a bit of a headache an' all my shit's missing."
"You're lucky that's all. They just let you go?"
"Fuck no, they dropped me in the middle of the desert."
"That's it?"
"What? Gettin' dumped in the desert isn't enough?"
"Come on, you know the stories. These guys are hard-as-fuck mercs. They should have shot you to shit and back at the Copley Building. What happened?"
"I can't remember, one'a them hit me over the head with somethin', knocked me out cold. Next thing I know they're droppin' me off in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere. I thought I was the only one on this job?"
"That hoity-toity exec probably put you on, figured you two would shoot the shit outta one another and he wouldn't have to pay a dime. I'll check it out. Where are you now?"
"Vegas."
"Why don't you blow off some steam in one of the casinos. I'll give you a call soon as I figure this shit out. Try not to get in trouble."
"Yeah, yeah. Talk t'ya later."
*Not a house.
**Pronounced "P.O.S"
***Ok, it was a homework assignment and my teacher wasn't going to pass me if I didn't do it. Excuse me for trying to sound cultured.