There’s a time-honored tradition in the solar joint Doc’s Oasis; the toast. Only it isn’t your normal well-wishing over a tall class of amber-colored ale. The toast is a time to tell stories. To rant, to rave, to regale. Talk of grand triumphs and complete failures. All unfiltered, and all in the company of friends. This is one of those stories.
Well shit, guess I’m first, huh? That’s a new one. Ain’ever led the charge on one of these. Make it a bottle of Black Label, Doc, let’s see what I can do for the crew around here.
Name’s Jack T. Wellman. T stands for “Talos.” Occupation: Adventurer. Just me and my gal Seline, gallivanting across the four corners of the continent. Seeing what’s left, seeing what’s survived. God-willing, seeing if some folks are still out there. Ain’t seen too many wolves yet, but we’ve seen some wicked critters running around.
How far East? Far as our truck carries us. She’s been as far down as what they used to call “Texas.” Came back up to Central for more supplies, only had enough for the round trip. Needed to re-up the generator anyhow, that way we can pack our synthesizer from Homebase, make what we need quicker.
This last time, things sure got off to a strange start. Me and my gal were in bed one morning, on the road. Just laying there, her all tangled in this long black head of hair I got. And while we’re there, all cozied up in the sack, it happens.
I’m behind the wheel of the truck, the sky’s gone purple as twilight. Truck’s got himself a nice pair of bull horns. Big, pointed sonsofbitches built to kill, coming right out of the grill like he had ‘em all his life. I see my ice-cold eyes through the rearview, long black locks ragged to hell. Then I look down to see I ain’t in nothing but a pair of old gladiator sandals up to my knee and a loincloth. And all I could feel was my tan-furred ass chomping at the bit to get something on those horns. Go right in for the kill, have a real hunt, but with a different kind of beast.
Then I see it.
Looks like the kind of critter I woulda plucked those long curled horns from. Body was the color of shadows, eyes were red. And I knew I wanted it. So I rev up the truck, drop that hammer, and we start going for it. Needle hits 80 and we’re cruising right for the devil, bolting through this strange forest. Big-leaved trees, hanging vines, rocks in and out of this path we’re racing through.
Soon my sparring partner begins stumbling. Wildebeest’s bolting on all fours but it gets to tripping, and that’s when I bang on the gas and egg the truck on. We keep getting closer and closer until BAM! Right on the horns, hooked right through its body. And I’m running so high on this high, I keep my paw down and just keep roaring through this bizarro forest. And it ain’t long before we start coming to the end of it. A big old cliff at the end of the road.
Part of me says brake and swerve, but there’s this crazy second half that looks at the ledge and just says “to hell with it, I’ll live forever.”
And just before I make it to that ledge, the engine screaming, my throat growling like a feral mad dog, the dead eyes of the wildebeest on my horns, I wake up. Puffing, panting, flooded with adrenaline.
Never saw one on the trip; wife was spinning the tale in my ear while I was half asleep and, well, guess we got hot-n-heavy over it with each other. Best adventure I never had thanks to my black-furred beauty.
Yeah, rest of the expedition was fine, just kinda bummed it wasn’t a premonition of some kind. Saw some oversized millipedes though, a few birds sprouting two heads. Y’know, the usual. No wildebeests though. Ah hell, maybe next time.
That’s about all I got. Lemme just polish off the bottle and I best be getting home. Looks like one of the locals has quite the tall tale to tell anyhow. You still going by Texas Red with that hound by your side?