The Zid Chapters V ch 3 Spaceflight

[The Urbane Spaceman]

We flew to the stars above the desert night. Cacti and Joshua trees gleamed like errant spacemen alongside the road, hitch-hiking a ride to another galaxy with their arms outstretched to flag us down.

Here’s a tune to elucidate this desertscape.


Two things you should know before we continue, which are these:

1. Sean would continue to be our pilot, our chauffeur from then on, simply because he could operate an automobile, any auto at all, with uncanny ability, even under the most extreme of conditions and/or mental duress.

2. Jerry did not actually take any ZID at all. He kept his blotter squares in the pocket of his leather, to trade them for some lines of white powder. He did not like ZID. I think it had something to do with his mentality, or lack thereof. But in knowing this, as I would later find out along our crazy path, you now see that his behavior was not drug induced. It had more to do with his brain chemistry. He truly was a dangerous individual. He was crazy without ZID. He had joined us because he felt at home with folks under its effects.



Sean had subdued him, and Sean would always protect us from Jerry as well as any other angry person, much as the rest of us would hold true to this little circle. The phrase, “I got your back” comes from when you and your friend are surrounded, you fight with your backs to each other.

Now, the punk show was at a place that held many of these small concerts, way off in the south of the ugly city that I refer to as Fuckno. This night, it would not be Jerry and his band playing, but everyone knew this bad ass punk rocker. Many feared him.


Let us raise a glass to real punkology. May it never perish. Here is some black rum.

What is in your glass?


3.

2.

1.


DRINK!


Nice burning sensation, never a chaser.


*ahem*


Sean drove at increasingly amazing speeds. The sheer weight of the hearse held it to the old, crumble tar, bleached from decades of scorching desert sun. Them bald tires grew hot and gained traction upon the pebbles, crushed particles of tumbleweeds and smashed cockroaches that had been enroute to the next abode.


At the end of the route, Sean swung left and the big vehicle swung around in a 360, tires squeeling, and he stomped the brakes and then swung right. The hearse slid straight again and ploughed a cloud of desert dust into the air, with rocks raining down all over everything.


People in front of the old, decrepit church jumped back and some screamed. When the dust settled, we four men arose out of the long, dust-covered vehicle, and some folks began to clap. They recognized Fat Jerry and me and Joey, and then they saw Sean.


I think, looking back, that this was the only way Sean could have actually made an entrance that would give him some sort of credibility. He was the chauffeur of Jerry’s emblematic auto.


And he looked like one fucked up individual.


Now it is time to make a Martini. I noticed that your own glass is in need of a refill.


Would you care for a Martini as well?



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