nanowrimo 2k9

The service station was uniquely typical. The signs littering the lot were old and dingy, plastic remnants hanging from old liquor sales, back from when more people were in the area. Most of the specials were for Bum Poison, and insidiously cheap malt liquor with few subtle intentions. The highways around it had been cut off from the long freeway paths, or simpler roads had been built closer and been better maintained than this current highway. There was a two pump island, that only had regular and diesel. The water station was a small spigot and a bucket outside the unisex bathroom. There was a small airtube next to it, that could barely be coiled back from a legacy of duct tape patching.

The vespa peeled in, gripped against the asphalt and came to a screeching stop right in front of the air compressor. The hefty man driving the vehicle, stepped off and you could almost hear the vespa breathing a sigh of relief. He searched in the custom saddlebags over the side, and fished out a small adaptor nozzle, which he put on the tip of the air hose and quickly repressured the tires.

“Gotta keep my girl in tip-top shape”, he said to no one in particular. He was wearing black leather biker pants that were at least two sizes too small, and an oversized midriff shirt that let his sunburned gut slink below the waistband. He snapped the saddlebag shut and paced into the station.

The inside was tacky. Neon lights ran across the ceiling, but still managed to seem a dingy yellow even in daylight. There were tiles missing from the floor, and most of the merchandise on the shelves were dusty old souveniers, and the cooler was packed with malt liquor, jumbo-sized hot pockets and the trucker favorite: A pickle in a bag.

Since the highway had been deteriorated, there weren’t many truckers coming through these parts, usually just people trying to avoid a weigh station, or drive longer hours on drugs. The pickles fortunately were so well preserved that they didn’t need expiration dates.

The man wasn’t interested in any of this, of course, he was mostly there for a “hand-carved” sadwich, which was just making the rounds throughout the region. They were delicious and so easy to make, that even substandard gas stations without health licenses could offer excellent, high quality “hand-carved” sandwiches.

Of course there were always other supplies that were needed for living that remotely. He picked up a few boxes of shotgun shells, a cord of firewood (out there firewood was planed into soft sheets and used as a kind of natural toilet paper. Certainly not as bad as using cold water in the woods in winter. He loaded up a small shopping basket with 3 40’s of Bum Poison (boysenberry flavor). Just seeing the sweaty label in the cooler made the meaty jowerls around his moustache sweat.

“Im gonna drink the shit out of this” he thought to himself and chuckled his wistful, snorting chuckle. The rest of the basket he filled with concentrated lemonade and ice-t mixes. This was to help make his moonshine go down a bit better.

The crowning acquisition, though was the sandwich. He waddled his encumbered waddle up to the front desk. The man at the cash register looked like a typical stupid teenager who had somehow grown up and not realized it. Easily in his early thirties, he still wore an ill-fitting shirt with a faded nametag, an unlit generic cigarette stuck to his lip and a glazed stare.

“Afternoon nickles,” the words crawled out of his mouth like two slugs fucking. Nickles, the Vespa driver grinned and snorted.

“Usual shit for me, man, plus one of those delicious “hand-carved” sandwiches.

“Right away, Nickles.”

The man took two steps backwards and pivoted unnaturally hips first, to the counter behind the register. His long arms opened the lower cabinet without him having to bend even slighly. He still stiffly pulled a cutting board from under neath, and to his right, walked to the eternal heat lamp, were he occasionally fried up a pickle or a jumbo size hot pocket for when the occasional methhead smuggling trucker barreled in with a hunger for grease.

Next to the packaged foods was a large hunk of meat. The attendent pulled on a large set of yellow kitchen gloves, pulled the meat and dropped it on the cutting board. He sliced through with a large carving knife, and the heat lamp and preservatives had left the meat sublimely tender. After cutting off a few thick slices, he tossed the meat over his shoulder and it landed back under the heatlamp with a gratifying thud.

Nickles, the Vespa man, was wiping the sweat from his jowels and licking his moustache. He could smell the delicious “hand-carved” smell, and it was making him sweaty. The attendent put the cutting board away without bothering to rinse it or the knife, the meat seemed to leave no residue or scraps. Holding the slices in one hand, he pulled a hamburger bun out, flapped the slices in without looking at them, then covered it with spray cheese and hot sauce. Finally, he wrapped the whole affair in wax paper and stuck a tab of duct tape at the edges and jammed a spork in it to keep everything shut.

“And one more of your usual, a custom made ‘hand carved’ sandwich, hold everything, extra spray-cheese and hot sauce.”

Nickles, now quivering with anticipation snatched the sandwich and threw a wad of money down on the counter. Huffing and waddling, he made his way back into the parking lot.

This was strictly a supply run. Nickles didn’t need gas because the Vespa was so fuel efficient, even with custom roll bars welded on, heavy saddle bags and a large driver. That just gave it extra traction. Nickles plopped down sideways on the seat. He strapped the cord of wood to the roll bars with some bungie cables, stuffed the drinks into a saddle bag, pulled the spork out and threw it over his shoulder and began biting directly into the wax paper in an effort to get the duct tape off and at the same time catch any of the cheesy hot sauce that had been leaking  through the paper. His teeth caught an edge and he tore at the paper with a ferocious, sweaty grunt. At last he broke into the hanmburger bun and chewed right into the “hand-carved” sandwich, effectively wearing the paper as a muzzle. He dove deeper and deeper in, finding that the soft, tender meat covered in the sweet and spicy hot cheese sauce.

The satisfaction was only temporary, as the rest of his nerves was just catching up to what he had consumed. The amount of salt and preservatives struck him with a great thirst, so he opened his saddle bag, and quickly drained half of a bottle of Bum Poison. The sweet boysenberry flavor and high toxicity numbed his taste buds and the rest of his esophagus until his digestive system felt numb, and he was at peace. Not wanting to start something he couldn’t finish, he slammed the rest of the forty, breathing through his nose for a change, the riveting flavors pushed through him. The numbness then spread from the back of his palette up through his sinuses and gave him a frosty cold brain freeze while his stomach was still lurching to catch up with the “hand carved” goodness. His breathing slowed, and his whole body was thrown into stasis, the 40 bottle slipped and bounced harmlessly on the ground.

He stayed there for a few minutes, almost completely frozen. The nameless station attendent saw the whole thing happen in short order throughout the window, but quickly went back to contemplating the cigarette hanging from the his lip. Nicles was a regular, and before he had learned the code word for ordering the sandwiches, he used to do a similar thing with hot pockets and spray cheese, though the effect seemed a little more tempered.

The attendent was barely even there, but the first few times he showed genuine concern. He would walk out to the lot, call Nickles, paced around him a couple times. Then, not knowing what else to do, he pulled out the airhose and started blowing air in his ear. Nothing. Then he sprayed it directly in his face. Not even a blink, and the hose was leaky enough that it barely rustled the crumbs in Nickles moustache. Finally, just for fun, he filled the water bucket and dumped it over Nickles head. Slowly, he came back to life, but seemed very angry and vaguely threatened that he was covered with water. The next time the attendent just sat there and watched him thaw. These days, he pretty much tuned out as soon as he heard the shluffing sound of the leather pants walk out the door.

Nickles was still in place, but his eyes were twitching now, and his breathing seemed to escalate. There was more twitching around his body and his shoulders began slumping again. He leaned again back on the seat of the vespa, and again the vespa sighed as the weight grew in.

With a sharp bolt, he picked up the empty 40 bottle and threw it against the bathroom wall. A loud snorting laugh echoed as he fired up the vespa and screeched back onto the highway.

The road, as I mentioned before, was unmaintained, but not nearly as bad as the muddy roads through the woods.

After coming back to his own driveway at the precipice of human civilization (at least in the woods), he rumbled back by the tattered old mailbox, and down the long road back to his cabin.

Nickles was a man of the roads and the woods, but managed to have a lot of leisure time. The cabin was surprisingly well maintained, though it did seem to have the same odd craftsmanship of the vespa. There were a lot of typical pieces of a wood cabin. An unobtrusive clearing o fbushes by the side of the road, a steep path down, reinforced with stones and heavy logs, which were withered and decayed. He managed to make it out to town frequently enough that the moss was scraped off, so they were generally safe, even for someone of Nickcles girth. The cabin door looked like it had been torn from an outhouse, but the foundation built in the ground was solid concrete. Being that it was in the woods, the summer managed to provide enough dry wood to patch any rough spots or holes in the exterior, and the foundation allowed the floors to hold a lot of weight.

Since he was on the path of an old highway, and had good contact with the service station, he could get surprisingly good deals from truckers looking to ditch a little dead weight, or maybe some currency to help get their own “hand carved” sandwiches. Having traded in the area for a while, he had a good eye for barter, and thus had managed a modestly comfortable cabin out in the woods.

More surprising is that the cabin was not entirely off the grid, either. He could draw a small amout of power from some old lines going up to the end of the main highway. A quick barter for a battery powered tv/vcr combo landed him a large spool of power wire and a ride back to help get it installed. The lines were ancient, and didn’t seeme like they shoud even carry power, but they had never been shut down by the company, and never had actually been disconnected. Since he was connected with an unsanctioned cable, there was no meter, and no meterman from the area would bother tracking down a cabin in the middle of the woods miles from any other power line.

He still used wood for heat and cooking, but mananged to have a small washing machine, an entertainment system, a few small chairs, and a large couch. He hauled his supplies into the cabin, and pulled a large blue tarp over the vespa, and closed the door behind him.

Nickles was still reeling from the malt liquor and the cheesy heart attack he had sucked down earlier, and though it was time for a nightcap before the evening came in. That is why he called it a night cap, something to wear in your head before the night came in. Unlike the other cabins in the area, he did have light and heat, and his appetite was satiated.

“Yup, its about that time”, he mouth breathed, stumbled over to the wall, picking up an empty 40 bottle from the corner. He opened a small cabinet in the wall, stuck the 40 in and pushed a small button. From the upper side of the cabinet, a small trickle of a clear liquid came from a small rattling him above him.

This was his moonshine collection. He managed to make moonshine from random grasses and plant vegetation that he could find. He had built the still behind his cabin from old vespa parts when his bike needed repairing, the pieces were grimy and had only come clean through years of massive amount of alcohol being poured through it, and, of course, the occasional fire.

Nickles sat and watched the trickle listlessly, it was a slow tedious process, but it was necessary to watch it closely so he could get the measurements right. Out in the woods, the joy of drinking straight moonshine was occasionally tempered by the ability to not always drink as much of it as you actually wanted to because it was incredibly potent. Nickles also used it to polish his walls and get the rust off the good parts of the vespa. Indeed, most of his mechanical skill had been developed by working on the stills, and had lead to him constantly bartering the hooch for raw materials and stolen merchandise. This wasn’t any aberrant lifestyle choice, or the result of a misguided career counselor telling him to follow his dreams. HE was not the product of bad schooling or a broken home, he simply had never had contact with any of these things. While it was possible that there was some sort of childhood or education involved, he had consumed so much moonshine, and was so rarely sober, that it was almost impossible for him to remember anything other than what he had always been doing. The few people he came in contact with had never known him to be any other way, and he had an oddly preserved quality to him. In some way it seemed as though his sole was lost ago and he was a type of modern mummy, whose organs had slowly adapted to processing pieces of chemical preservatives. The hooch probably had mutated him in some way, too. None of that really mattered though, as teh liquor had passed the 2/3rd mark he had etched in the bottle. He released the switch and the trickle drew to a stop.

Removing the bottle from the cabinet, he marched back to his new supply pile and pulled out the concentrated iced tea, and walked it back to the counter by the cabinet. He picked up an old crusty funnel, and poured close to a full cup of the concentrate in, watching mezmerised as it poured into the pungent liquor. Not needing its immediate attention, he walked back to his sofa, turned the tv on to the UHF station. It was showing some old monster movie, and the reception was terrible, but it took his mind off the needless waiting for the moonshine tea.

The movie had been going for a while and didnt seem to make a hell of a lot of sense. There were no subtitles, and the dubbing seemed to schizophrenically bounce between english and french, though the movie itself looked to be somewhere in asia. The reception was noisy enough that it looked like everyone had moustaches and a few of them even sounded like birds. Or maybe it was the evening coming in.

Nickles sat and still reeled at the euphoria of digesting a “hand carved” sandwich, and forgot almost completely about his brewing night cap, until he heard rustling on the floor and had seen that the powder had finished funneling and was starting to have some sort of foaming reaction.

“Damnit, didn’t get the measurements right!”

He picked up another 40 of bum poison, and ran back to his hooch cocktail, popping the cap off quickly. Pouring the boysenberry bum poison into the mix seemed to make things settle very quckly, and the drink was now two separate colors separated by the remaining tea mix. To make the final preparation, he smacked the funnel out of the bottle, and screwed a dingy old cap on the mixture, then turned the bottle up side down, balanced in a corner. The liquid inside swished back and forth and the concentrate drifted away under a flurry of large bubbles.

“Time for the old trick, then!”

He left the concotion in the corner and began to draw at what was left of the new 40, and waddled over to the fireplace. There were still large chunks of wood there that were unburned from the last time he had fired it all up. He crumpled up some paper bags and tossed them in the fire, and lit it with his monogrammed zippo (it was just an ‘N’, he probably never even had a last name, let alone a middle one. The fire barely lit, and traced a small grain in the paper, without really catching anything on fire.

He bellowed a deep guffaw and continued to draw on the 40, his breathing growing heavier and exhaling as large sighs. At this point he was in a three-way race with himself: finish the 40 before the next drink is fully mixed, get the fire started and get drunker. The fire seemed reluctant to spread, but was at least burning slowly. There was not enough heat to even get the dried remains of kindling to start burning, but the flame itself was not going out for a while. He took this opportunity to pour more and more boysenberry liquor on top of his already well preserved internal organs, and finally released a toxic belch, in the dimming light it seemed as though there was a purple cloud descending throughout the room. As the fire burned on it did seem to catch other parts of the paper, but was too faint and too concentrated to manage, but too much of a flame to move the paper around with his hands. As the last swigs of the 40 swill washed down his throat, Nickles wiped the purple stains off his moustache and rolled his empty bottle against the wall with the other pieces. With a loud grunt, he turned and lurched back towards his final concotion, leavaing the fire to its own devices for a moment. The liquor had mixed unevenly, and there were different patches of color that seemed to spin in the bottle of its own accord. Nickles popped the top off and pulled in a deep breath of his forest hooch. It mostly smelled of toxic byproducts and fake sugar substitute, and floor varnish.

“Time for a test drive, buck-o!” and put yet another 40 bottle to his lips and started sucking down the nightcap. It was so potent he almost choked, he could smell the fant odor of his moustache hairs curling and dissolving as the mixture hit it, and a great physical clarity as it washed into his system. He had accumulated so many preserves and grown so dependent on liquor and chemicals that drinking this concotion actually helped dissolve organic matter that had clotted up in his many internal systems. Ironically, this poisonous mash was the one thing that kept him living almost indefinitely.

Refreshed, he took a large, burning mouthful, galloped like a small horse back over to the fire and spewed straight onto the burning flame. A fireball burst across the splatter and instantly ignited the leftover firewood.

“AND THATS AMERICAN MADE, FUCKERS! THATS YOUR MOTHERFUCKING DATE!”