By David Glenn Cox
Chapter One
The Kingdom of the Roaches
“Oh, it’s very interesting story sir, it is all about Dagmar sir. He was once a very, great man! I think you’ll like this one sir.” Adjusting himself, sitting cross-legged on the floor an old man begins to speak. His voice rasping, becoming they story like them old times. And taking on, the old voices. The gathering group is attentive, but unsure of what this curiosity is about to do next. They all mill around him, unsure sir. For them, this was a new sperience. So, this old man he begins by peering down into his lap. Just like he’s thinking about somethin, real hard. Then he comes with a voice from deep down inside.
“It were a hot night sir, it was. Hot and sticky just like she always was. A Sin City court was laboring through a long court docket. The judge, he sits attired in boxer shorts b’neath the dignity of his robes. White ringlets of sweat all round that bailiff’s armpits marked the high-water marks of his evening. That sweat stained bailiff his weariness was forcing his eyes onto the clock. Hanging like a scythe over the gallery of them…not yet convicted. Worn down by the heat and fatigued by the early hour. The bailiff, he shouts in a nasal wine. Shouting trying to be heard over the noise clutter of the room. “Johansen! Dagmar Johansen! Front and center Johansen, be heard or shut the fuck up!”
A roughhewn character in homespun cloth. He pushes his way through them inmates with a silent authority. Finally, he reaches that cage door. The bailiff, he cranks on them keys some. And he releases this burly bearded man inta that judge’s mercy. The roughhewn hulk stands, prideful quiet. To him, it weren’t nothing. Nothing but another corrupt corp rat court. They’s nothing special about him, one’s same as a other, right? Overworked, with no nonsense nor pretense. That judge, he fiddles with his papers some. Then looking up almost surprised, asking the hulk cynically. “Dagmar Johansen? What kind of stupid, fucking name is that?”
With a gravelly guttural intransigence. The hulk, answers staring back with a punctuated, staccato emphasis. “It’s-they-Only-Fucking-Name-I-got! Sos, I reckon, you en me is both-fucking-stuck-with-it!”
The judge he thunders, pounding his palm on the desk. And shouting, “Bailiff! Where’s this file on this fucking asshole!” Scurrying, the sweat-stained bailiff, he searches around in his papers energetically. Looking back nervously, giving that judge a double-take, testing of the judge’s temper. Before explaining sheepishly, “I’m afraid, I can’t find it, sir.”
The judge, he stoically returns to the Outlander assuming a sorta business-like, confidence and then sneers. “Then what the hell is this road trash charged with?” The sweat-stained bailiff; he squeaks back sorta humble. “Selling water tokens without a license, your honor.”
The judge, he cuts his eye to the clock on the wall fingering ah his gavel momentarily. Before clearing his throat and dispensing corp rat justice. Announcing his verdict. “Due to the early hour and a legal technicality, I cannot pronounce a full sentence upon you, Johansen. Therefore, on your general appearance and attitude, I find you guilty. But I will suspend a voltage sentencing. You’re guilty of something… Johansen! And you have 12 hours to leave Sin City. Any further Corporate Contact and I won’t hesitate to throw a hundred, mega-watt sentence at you!” That judge, asking Dag real serious. “You feel me Outlander?”
Dag, he only looks back at the judge and grunts contemptuous for what passed as justice in Sin City. The Judge is making a noise banging on its gavel. Then the gallery sorta groaned. Anticipating another hot day in a corp rat cell block…waiting…just killing time, waiting on that treadmill. The sweat stain bailiff is a pushing Dag out towards the court house door. Once outside, the sweat stain snaps. “Money Outlander or it’s back in the box!”
Only grunting; Dag, he reaches into the recesses of his jailhouse wallet. Retrieving two tightly folded hundred-dollar bills. Then shoving the bills into the dirty corp rat’s hand. Then Dagmar, he walks away out of tune. Far off from a clear frequency. Dag is a “for real” man. While the whole of this Sin City is of ghosts. They are the ghosts of our future’s past. The ghosts of our grandchildren’s grandchildren and living inside of a corpse. No longer, a society of the new or the improved. A society no longer, “under new management.” This is a society of cockroaches, and the cockroaches must scurry from the light.
They eastern sky had begun to glow orange when Dag, first sought shade. Before the heat of the day cooked him like a worm on the pavement. Dag locates a spot back behind a boarded up old derelic building. Then finds a stairwell leading to a basement. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs with a door. Dag, he gives her a yank at the door just once. Out of habit more than any real interest or curiosity. Picking out the cleanest corner, Dag sits his self, inside of the coolness of the stairwell and takes off his straw hat. Inhaling and huffing out a sigh after his long night. Then he closes his eyes to the shadows. It was good full bright daylight when Dag he hears a voice asking him. “Who give you permission, to sleep in my stairwell?”
Without no noticeable motion the Outlander he answers. “Oh, same fella what toll ya, you could wake me up, I reckon.”
“That’s easy,” that voice blusters. “That’s the same fella what said, you got my money!”
Dag, he looks up sort of sheepishly with a coy smile answering. “Ya know; I love it when you talk Bush.”
“I ain’t Bushing you mister,” the assailant returns steady.
“Oh sure, en I can see that!” Dag, he snarks at him sarcastically with his head cocked sideways. Grinning and making his eyes wide in an animated stare. “But… I had a long night en juss got out a jail boy. So’s, I ain’t juss really in no mood fer any of yer foolishness! So’s, how’s bout you juss run along and don’t make me hurt you.”
“I reckon not,” Dag’s attacker hissed. “All right,” Dag answered, “Juss for the sake of a argument, juss how much money is it you’s looking for? Now, member what I done toll ya boy! En don’t get greedy. Cause like I juss toll ya, I got out a jail.” The attacker, he sort of tells on himself. He’s too old to be an amateur and too clumsy to be anythin but. Pointing his knife menacingly from a top of them stairs and cooing hungrily asking. “How much have you got?”
Dag, he stands up putting on his straw hat in sort of casually, almost comically carelessly sideways. Then he pretends to be fiddling clumsily through his pockets. While staring off some where’s, far away. Then the Outlanders says, “Let’s see, I got me five, ten, twenty-five bucks, will that settle ya down some?”
The assailant, suwanees on the bargain. Before reckoning, “I guess it’ll have to.”
“Well thin,” Dag, says still smiling. “Come git it…I got her right here for ya.”
Hesitant, they attacker’s confidence sorta begins to fail him. “I reckon not, you bring it up here to me!”
“Ha! Now you wait just a Bush damned minute here boy!” Dag barks while laughing. “You was ready to come down here all Billy bad ass en throw me out of here a second ago! Now, I done promised you fair money boy. Now… you juss down here en come git it.”
Looking up at the furious sky the attacker he prophesies. “I reckon before long, you gonna want out there. And then, you’re gonna have to come to me!”
Sighing, Dag, he relents. “Boy, I juss want you gone! So’s I kin get a decent day’s sleep. Aright thin, I’ll do her yer way.” Straightening his hat, the Outlander begins climbing up the stairs. Real slow like, methodically rising up and getting closer. A professional tradesman going about his business. Reaching that final step Dag just drops them bills on the ground. His size and his proximity, raising the attacker’s anxiety considerably. Till his heart pumps full; his eyes bulge tight in their sockets. And his blade it begins to tremble, just a mite.
Dag, he leans over casual retrieving them bills and comes with a knife from out his belt. Suddenly opening that boy’s belly up mercilessly, with a single, swift slash. Then lifting him over his head Dag pile-drives him in a tumble at to the bottom of them steps. Then casual, Dag stoops… picking up his money, like there wasn’t nothing goin on at all. Before he turns on the corpse. Checking of its boots, and its pockets. Making an animal reckoning of profit or loss. “Twelve fucking dollars en a rusty fucking pocket knife,” he grouses. “Mister, you weren’t worth killing! en now, I done lost my fucking shade!”
They unobstructed fire ball, it climbed. Reaching for the apogee of Sin City’s cloudless, pale blue skyline. Already, it were over 120 degrees. They mid-morning pavement shimmered to the eye with rising heat thermals. The air simmering with the smell of melting asphalt. The atmosphere, it was hot to the touch and thick like soup. It surrounded you, suffocating you and enveloping you. The Outlander, he spent the rest of his day in a old storm culvert. Leaving the iron lid slightly ajar to draw in the fresh hot breezes. Carbureted by the rank, cool sewer dampness. Dag’s fart reminding him of his own gnawing hunger. But all must wait for the mercy of night. When the roaches owned the landscape again and went about building their empires in the dark.
Twilight found Dag ready. Dag was always ready whenever the world, she were ready. Dag would move with it or agin it or whichever made a way for him to profit from it. Dag was a prototype of the new, old man. The primal man of a postmodern, sick dying desert world. And Dag was ready to kiss, kill, fuck or fight in it. Because ir didn’t make no difference to him. Wandering through the ruins of the old city, south of they corp rat zone. Dag, he moves down towards that river Trying to get his ass out the Hio. And back to the safety of his own native Tuck.
Sin City, she come to life in the monochrome coolness of the night. She blossomed under the night sun. When the empty streets begun showing signs of life again, where ever the darkness reigned. The barricades on the tenements come down and the low light of candles flickered eerily forlorn. And contrasted with the oppressive, nocturnal glow. Coming from the lights of that corp rat zone of Sin City proper. The poor, heat-stressed roaches they sought out them streets as their sole relief. And some was still pretending…it were still as it once was. Pouring out onto the streets, the roaches was half-starved, half-hearted and was all but lost.
Dag, he moved with certainty through this crowd. Because it was the only way Dag ever moved. Any lack of certainty was a sign of weakness and in Sin City, a weakness would be exploited.
In the kingdom of the roaches, weakness was the only thing akin to opportunity. Human life was only worth what was in its pockets. In this place, no laws ever applied. Except when the corp rats… they said it did. It was a place where the innocent never was arrested. A place, where justice was just a commodity… you know? Bought and sold, like water, weed, whiskey or dog jerky.
Them merchants they sold their junk. Used plastic-ware, home-brew whiskey, dog jerky or what have you. Most anything was available outside of the corp rat zone cepting for maybe prosperity. See, there was this thing going on between the roaches and the corp rat zone. The corporate zone she needed the roaches to provide them with all they things, Sin City said they couldn’t have. The roaches they needed the corp rat zone the way roaches has always needed a corp rat zone. Because Sin City she wasn’t much. But she was all that there ever was. Sin City, she was once a queen. But now, she was the furthest outpost in the Southern Corp rat zone. Crossing that Hio river and crossing into the Tuck made you a outlander, beyond all law or redemption.
Dag, he was a king in the Tuck. He was the leader of his own tribe, but they never did call themselves a tribe. They never did call themselves a pack, nor a clan, nor a family neither. It was just a group, Dag’s group. Dag, he suwanees on finding that river for to make his way home. Escaping the shit smell of a broken down, rotting city. His life, it was in the palm and pine forests. And he thrived beneath the shadows of the sandy palms and pines. But everything now depended on finding that fucking river. When the night sun she finally begun to rise. Dag caught sight of an overpass. An overpass meant the toll road and from there, he might could get his bearings.
Approaching, he watches as some of them roaches was scurrying up into the skeleton of an old steel bridge. Still simmering and still hungry. Dag he begins talking to his self, pondering on the outrageousness of his time in Sin City. “A fucking piece of shit, corp rat judge. That fucker, why he weren’t even one part a man! Juss a tiny little speck! That fucker right there, he wouldn’t last a day without his rats! Shit! He wouldn’t last a day even with em in they Tuck. It’s all Bush shit; I’d snap his damn neck like a scrawny damn dog. I would too! If in, he didn’t have all of them rats around guarding him! Why, he ain’t even got the balls to live as a man. En he ain’t got no more sense than them damn roaches. Road trash I am, so road trash I’ll be!”
“Hey!” Dag shouts up into the darkness of bridges superstructure. “How many are ya?”
A roach, answers back meekly. Quickly sliding down on the concrete embankment protective and quick with his answer. “Don’t hurt us mister, we don’t want no trouble.”
Tired and hungry, Dag barks back, “I didn’t fucking ask ya, what you wanted. I asked, how many are ya? Now listen up, yer chances of getting hurt around here. She depends a lot on not pissing me off. So’s when I asks ya question. You answer the question I asked or you gonna answer for it. Now, how many are ya?”
“Four sir,” comes the humble reply.
“What are ya… men, women …what?”
“Me, my wife and two kids, sir.”
“Two kids!” Dag howls, slapping at his thigh. Then shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “Two kids in a corp rat zone? No wonder yous hiding! Them rats catch you with them damn youngins, en no support. They’d end up a demos, working on a corp rat farm, fer sure.” Asking, “You making fer the Tuck?”
“Don’t know nobody over there.” The roach answers nervously cautious casting his eyes downward and avoiding eye contact. “I couldn’t chence it.”
“Sounds to me, like yer Bushed!” Dag snarks. “Too scared to stay en too scared to git. Son…,” Dag he asks in a sincere tone. “Don’t ya ever get tired of living like a roach?”
“I ain’t no roach mister,” he squeaks back.
“The hell ya ain’t! Yer living under a damn bridge! En hiding whenever you sees somebody coming. Son… don’t you ever want to go home…just to visit your nuts?”
“What do you want with me Mister?” The roach answers becoming defensive.
“What I wanna know is this. Is this they corp rat road what leads down to they river?”
“I reckon it is Mister,”
“Dag looks up, asking offhandedly. “What’s yer name boy?”
“It’s Jimmy, Jimmy Ray sir.”
Pondering for a moment Dag asks. “Wanna make some money Jimmy?”
“Doin what?” the roach replies cautiously.
The outlander, he pushes his hat back off his forehead. “Now Jimmy, do you want out of here or what? My name is Dagmar Johanson! Ain’t ya getting tired of living like this? Toll ya what I’ll do. I’ll take you outta here en git ya yer freedom. But you’ll owe me a obligation. Ya know what a obligation is, don’t ya? A obligation she’s just a big ole thin. En you’ll owe me one of them. Now, a very, very small part,” Dag explains, using his hands to illustrate the proximate size, “of that obligation, is ya can’t ask me shit, about shit. Do ya understand? You ain’t no slave or no demos, but you ain’t rightly no free man neither. As long as yer under this obligation.”
Jimmy the roach, he asks cautious. “Well, how long would I be under the obligation?”
Dag, he looks back with death in his eyes, spitting, “I just toll ya… you can’t ask me shit, about shit. I’ll take you ta they other side en promise ya, yous gonna have a fighting chance. Or… you en yer kin can juss stay here hiding like a …well, till they find ya… jail ya or kill ya.” Without any hesitation, that roach, he answers affirmative. This was opportunity knocking. It was an escape. An escape not possible or least, not very damn likely for one man alone. But with a woman and two youngins in tow… in the Tuck… why they’d get their bones picked clean.
Dag, then he barks at Jimmy. While energetically waving his arms. “Well thin, git yer dumb ass up en start looking for some shit to block up the toll road!”
“Block the road?”
Dag shouts angrily. “Shut they fuck up you son of a Bush!”
“Yes sir,” Jimmy the roach replies, nodding furiously. Nervously scurrying around trying to look effective searching in the darkness of the wiregrass. Finding a few boards, and some construction barrels. With two rolls of chain link fencing. Dag and Jimmy they drag the stuff up onto the roadway.
“Now, Mr. Johansen sir,” They roach asks timidly. “I ain’t asking shit sir. I’m just a wondering about what your plan is sir?”
“Now that’s a fair question, Jimmy. I’ll answer that in.” Dag, he takes off his hat, squeezing out the sweat from his bushy black mane. Running his fingers through it and making a grimace before replacing his hat, Dag begins scratching on his beard. Advising the roach, “And don’t you be calling me sir or mister nothin! I’m Dag, ya got it?” Dag, he dictates in his rhythmic drawl. “We gonna block up this here road. En thin solicit passing travelers fer some charitable donations, git it?”
Jim, he asks ever cautious. “What, if the rats come?”
“Thin you run fer it Jimmy!” Dag splains calmly.
“What if it is a gang car?”
“Thin…I reckon, you best you run a little faster or ya gits kilt, its yer choice!” Dag’s voice strains explaining, “It’s really fucking simple Jim! En, she don’t need no more fuckin splainin, now does she?”
Jim, he answers humbly adjusting to his station, “Oh right, I get it.”
There wasn’t much traffic on the toll road. Few could afford the price of the fancy, hand-built electric cars or even a recycled one. Remanufactured from the mountains of derelict cores. They cost of that toll road she were exorbitant. But the cost of the electricity to run the car on was astounding!
Dag, he found a spot just beyond the crest of the overpass. where his barricade couldn’t be seen, till it was near, too late. Then, he took to schooling that roach, “Now, you stand here with this chunk of concrete over yer head Jim, like yer gonna bash em.”
The roach asking, “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna watch yer ass from over there behind they guardrail Jim. En sees how you does, but no pressure!”
After the first car escapes, Dag, he starts chuckling. “Ya know Jim… our chances of gittin kilt here. She depends mostly on you being able to stop a car, in they damn near future! Give her here.” Dag takes the concrete from Jimmy. Then he jumps menacingly at the next car as it tops the hill. Then heaves that concrete chunk shattering the car’s windshield. The car swerves; its single front wheel catching on the barricade flipping all the boards and chain link roll up onto the hood. Blinding the driver and crashing them into the rusted guardrail.
Stealth quick, Dag’s on that car screaming. “Out! Out! Last motherfucker out of the car gits kilt!” Knife drawn; Dag pulls the driver from the shattered window by his blonde hair. Then he drags him along they pavement never allowing him to gain his feet. His victim, answering each of Dag’s screams with his own pitiful cries. As the driver pleads fer his life. Begging, “Please don’t hurt us! You can have anything you want, Just please don’t kill us!”
Dag’s hot breath were in his face nearly nose to nose screaming manically. “Empty yer pockets, dip shit! Dump em on they street, faster Bush wipe, faster! They faster I’m happy they faster you gits away!” The coins fell a jingle, jangling on that pavement. As the Outlander, he nods fer Jim to pick the coins up. Once that was done Dag gives the roach a tip of his hat. Before vanishing into the darkness. Jimmy, he follows hot behind on Dag’s heels. “We gotta split up!” Dag says jogging. “They’s gonna be looking fer two of us.”
Jim, he whines in a nervous tone. “But you said, you’d take us across.”
“En I will,” Dag answers. Bowing up at em being doubted giving the roach a hard look. “Member, shit about shit?” Dag scowls. “We gonna go, we juss ain’t gonna go together. I’m gonna go, en thin. You en them brats yearn are gonna follow me.”
“You want me to just hang around here and take a chance of getting busted Dag?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much the size of her Jim. It’s a part of that obligation of yern.”
“You wouldn’t Bush me, would ya Dag?”
Angered, the Outlander grabs the roach by his shirt. Responding to his question. “I work with my hands Bush-fucker; and I kills for a living! I kill for me and mine! En, cause I do, folks believes what I tells em! Does ya hear me? Cause, I don’t juss say it’s so. I makes it so! Gather up them brats of yourn, en make yer way down to they river. En I’ll signal fer ya.” With that, the outlander he disappears again into the indigo.
Jimmy nervously darts back towards the overpass. Motioning for his ragged family to follow him as he gathers them up. Hurrying them, rushing them along the road down towards the river. Still worried Dag will abandon them. Jim’s wife asks him all excited. “Where are we going?”
“Ta the other side!” Jim explains, without stopping.
“How’s that?” she queries.
“Now Helen,” Jim answers, buffering her an anticipated complaint.
“Don’t you, “now Helen” me Jimmy Ray! What they fuck is going on? Where are you taking us?”
“I met this man, Helen. He gots a group over to the Tuck. And he’s gonna take us in.”
“Yeah? She asked suspiciously, and what did you have to give him fer it? He ain’t gonna do nothing fer free!”
“I’m under a obligation to him Helen.”
Hollering she asked. “A what! You done sold out to a man ya don’t even know, without even asking me?”
“It’s a chence Helen, a chence.” Jim’s voice trails off in morose fatalism. “Away from here! Away from the rats and the rat law; why they say a fella can drink water anytime he likes over to the Tuck. So, don’t you go saying, nary a cross word to piss him off or he might just kill us.”
Startled, Helen asks, “Kill us! You mean like really kill us? Or juss fuck us up?”
“He’s a bad Helen. He’s big and tough. But we need him to help us make it in the Tuck. I’m under an obligation sure! But I’m under it fer all of us! So don’t you go making it no harder on me or you kin just stay here!”
Spying on that river. Dag, he watches of the bank careful from behind the brush. He keeps one eye set behind him and the other looking out fer rats. Of course, he’d seen the warning signs; hell, everyone had. And they had them explained to them too, Because mostly they couldn’t read.
IT IS UNLAWFULL! TO TAKE FROM OR TO ENTER INTO THIS WATER SUPPLY!
By Order of Corporate Military Governor – Southern Region
CSA. Lethal Force Authorized!
Even if you didn’t know anything about lethal force. A silhouette picture of a rat shooting his gun was easy enough to understand. But this was a good time to cross. The river rats weren’t particularly ambitious. And didn’t much begin looking for swimmers until dayfall. Because you see, if you ain’t never been in no water before. The chances were good that you probably wasn’t much good at it. The swimmers they sought out the cover of dark for making their try. And the corp rats, well… they just picked up the unsuccessful ones. That river she creped along slow. So slow that the bodies would only bob around and didn’t drift off too much.
In the kingdom of the roaches, they feared everything. Even their freedom. There she was just waiting for them on the other side of the water. Just waiting in the humid darkness of the pine forests. But it wasn’t the water what made th em scared. It was their own fear. Fears bottle fed into them and bread into them. Escaping the Hio wasn’t a physical trick, it was all mental. Being weighed down by the iron shackles in their minds. In a world ruled by fear, they gained their freedom by overcoming it. Once the heat, the thirst, the crime and the hunger took over your fear. Then you were free. Then the water didn’t scare them anymore. Then the water didn’t matter to them anymore. Because then either way they’d made it. Then either way, they were free.
Dag, he could a been acrossed the river three times aready, cept for his promise. Now Dag, he didn’t have no conscience to speak of. But what he did have was his reputation. Dag’s whole life was balanced on the knife edge of his reputation. If in, Dag said he’d help you, he’d help you. And if in, he said, he’d kill you. Brother, you best get gone. So, there just weren’t no good reason, he’d ever leave them roaches behind. Only, Dag weren’t no damn fool bout it neither. It were Dag’s first rule. Dag, he looks out for everybody, but he looks out fer Dag first.
He’d told Jimmy ten minutes. But he didn’t have a watch it were just an expression anyway. Dag, he live on cat time. He knowd ten minutes’ the same way a cat knows it. When it felt right, when he were absolutely ready. And Dag, he was about to get there too. When he heard them roaches coming towards him, making all kinds of noise in the brush. “Holy Fucking Bush Shit!” Dag whispers, coarsely to his self. “Bring them rats down on us fer sure, why don’t ya?” Pulling back and listening fer a spell, Dag locating them in the darkness. Before setting off in their direction. As they approached Dag. He stood tall in the faint light of the night sun. And despite his heavy beard, a scowl of displeasure was plainly obvious. Dag, he points his ole finger just like that Jesus fella from the Bible, I think. And then Dag he says in a deep baritone voice with authority. “Shut-they-fuck up!”
Then with hand signals alone, The Outlander, he moves the roaches between the ruins of Sin City and down towards the river. Whispering, “find somethin fer them brats a yern to hold on to so’s you don’t lose em.” Dag, he found his self a pine log to lay across whispering, “follow me!”
Jimmy, he’s whining. “We ain’t ready Dag! Cain’t, you wait?
“Nope,” he explains. “I’m showing you how. How long she takes ya’ll to figure it out is yer own problem. I’ll wait a spell cross they river where she’s safe. Till thin, I reckon yer on yer own.”
Frantically, the roaches scour along the riverbank searching for anything offering buoyancy. Jimmy, he spies a pair of red plastic floats laced to a couple of alligator traps hidden among the reeds. With his pocket knife, Jim, he liberates them. Giddy and almost giggling, Jim announces jubilantly. “Come on! Let’s go!”
But right there, Jim had done, done it! He’d stolen property which belonged to the corporation. That act alone making Jim and his whole family crimnals. Crimnals for swimming and crimnals for stealing. Criminals by definition and crimnals by actual fact. The roaches they kicked and struggled for a good long time, swimming for all they were worth. Having none of them ever been in the water before. Washing up on the far bank exhausted. That family finds themselves at the feet of the great Dag.
“You done good Jimmy!” Dag says, nodding his head in approval. “Ya stole them from a gator trap, dint ya? Yer learning son. I kin see right now! I’m a good influence on ya!”
“Dag,” Jimmy offers up humbly. “This here is my wife Helen and my kids…” but they Outlander he cuts him off abruptly.
“I don’t much care Jim. They’s juss women en kids to me. They eat, they shit, en they ain’t no good it a fight. That’s all I need to know. When we gits to the camp you can make yer friends. Or play with yer dicks en fuck each other’s wives all you want. But yer under a obligation. And you’ll do as I say, when I say. You do as yer told en try to get along with the other folks. En I suwanee, things will work out alright for ya.”
Jimmy, he understands. And he’s flush with exhilaration of his new surroundings. Asking, “How far we gotta go, Dag sir?”
Acknowledging Jim’s subservience Dag, he answers benevolently. “She’s a pretty fer piece cross a couple of them ridges. En through they altars of heaven. En, I done toll ya!” Dag scolds, “don’t you be calling me sir no more. I don’t like none of them corp rat titles on my side of the river.”
Jim, he knew enough and dared asking any more. After the family had dried out for a spell. Dag, he gruffly announces. “Let’s go.” Moving them inland on trails only Dag can see. He navigates by glimpses of the night sun filtering through the palm fans. Finally stopping when they had come to a paved asphalt street on the edge of a forested landscape. The sand floor littered with ferns, leaves and piles of dead palm fronds.
After a while further Dag, he holds up his fist. Signaling for the family to stop. “Listen up!” He says. “We’s gonna take a break here fer a mint. So, whatever you need ta do, do it! Once we git out of this forest. Then we gonna be in them altars of heaven. Don’t touch nothing! Don’t talk, juss walk quick. This is a Bush damned religious place! En, I don’t want to go bringing down no shit on us. By fucking round with no dead folks. Then he yells, after me, Jim!”
Venturing into a clearing by the light of the night sun. The night sun she made the altars become visible. Rows of concrete alters. Whole bunches of them, each one a personal altar. Each one identical standing about waist high with ledges runnin up one side every foot or so. On top of the altars, there was a space big enough for any sacrifice. And the altars were adorned they was. With decorative rusted iron rails running down their sides, framing them in and situating them from each other by carefully proscribed measured distances. It had something to do with their religion, I suppose. The altars were all arranged precisely along straight lines following with the religiosity of the asphalt. Jimmy, he whispers in reverence. “There must be tens and tens of them, maybe a hundred!”
“It just gives me the creeps thinking about all them dead folks,” Helen answers, whispering. “What could they have all been praying about anyhow?”
Jimmy answers, “I reckon, they’s giving thanks for being so rich! Rich enough to build these fine altars! And they sure is a bunch of em!” Dag, he looks back over his shoulder repeating his instructions with his bushy eyebrows and giving them hard looks. Which alone ended their theological discussion. As the family trudged through, the humid night. They held their questions. As rusted iron poles rose up from the ground at measured lengths. Before going any great distance, they came to a sand berm which had spilled over the asphalt pavement covering up the altars on the other side of the street.
Dag, he scampers sideways climbing up the bank until he makes the tree line. Jim and his family struggle with the sand hill trying to keep up with the Outlander, fearing they’d get lost. The family couldn’t see anything in the woods. Nothing but darkness shadows and the undergrowth. But Dag, he sorta sensed things. And he was at one with them. He’d stop periodically just listening to the forest voices. Then he’d make a fist. And then he would stand still as a stone for a minute and listen, before moving on. Then suddenly, Dag, he threw his palms out. And motioned for the family to lay down in the sand before letting out a high-pitched whistle.
A voice from inside the darkness asked. “Who kilt that man?”
Dag answers, “I don’t know! He were dead when I got here,” the Outlander, hollers back.
The voice asking again. “Who kilt that man?”
The Outlander he just smirks answering. “Don’t reckon it matters much… if in, he’s dead.”
The edge of the dark forest which seemed so empty suddenly awoke. The brush appeared to suddenly come down as a heavy wooden gate swung open and a voice answered with familiarly in the dark offering, “Welcome home Dag!”
“Yeah Harley, I got ya some more folks here to hep you.” Dag explains, motioning for the family to stand.
“Free or demos?” Harley asks excitedly.
“They’s free. But Jim here, is under an obligation.”
Disappointed, Harley answers, “Oh.”
“See Jimmy,” Dag explains. “Harley here is our head demos. He ain’t free, en you is. En, it means he cain’t tell you what to do. Now, since he’s they head demos. He can crawl ass on them other demos, but not you.”
“How can I tell if they’s a demos?” the roach asked naively. A small crowd had gathered listening to Dag. “Well, Dag he strokes on his beard, suwaneeing the roaches’ question. before he answers, “Well, if you call em a son of a Bush… en they don’t try ta kill you, they’s a demos.” They crowd breaks into laughter. Half out of pure respect, en the other half out of sincere admiration, Because you see. Dag, he was everything to these people.
Dag, he shouts, “Harley, take them roaches en finds em a place to sleep. It’ll be dayfall soon. I bet them brats is tired.”
“Yes Dag,” he answers obediently. Leading the family of into the glowing circle of low, dying camps fires.
A tall man with long blond hair approaches greeting Dag warmly.
“Bobby!” Dag answers.
“Good to have you back Dag, where ya been?”
“I got busted over in they Hio on a water charge. En had to bribe my way out.”
“Why the Bush was ya over in the Hio for?”
“It’s like this here Bobby,” Dag explains. “When you live this close to a corp rat zone. Ya gotta to go smell they shit sometimes… juss to see what they’s been up to.”
“And what cha ya think Dag?”
“She’s terrible,” he says, shaking his head. “Them folks living like roaches feeding off they crumbs from Sin City. Doin shit work; pushing on tur – bines, night en day. Just so somebody else kin have a lectric light. They ain’t got nothing for they selves. En they ain’t really living like no human bean oughta live. It ain’t no fit place to be. But as long as they keep it over there across they river it don’t confront me.”
Confused, Bobby asks, “Why don’t they just run off?”
“They’s scared Bobby! That’s all they teaches em and all they knows is to be scared of everythin. Scared of the Tuck, scared of them rats, en scared they won’t give em no more food. They’s paying em just enough to keep em around.” Changing the subject, Dag asks casually, “How’s my stills been putting out?”
“Well Dag, we was doing real good.” Bobby stutters, as a shrill tone of nervousness infects his voice. “But we begun to suspect there was spotters along they other side of the riverbank watching. So, we had to put the fires out for a couple a days.”
Without any comment only more direct. Dag, he asks Bobby again, “How’s my stills been putting out?”
“We’s was doin bout six jugs a day Dag!”
“Don’t you Bush me none Bobby! Where’s my water been goin?”
“Dag, I wouldn’t Bush you! Better safe than sorry, I always say.”
“But Bobby… you ain’t safe nor sorry… yet!”
“Now Dag,” Bobby says getting nervous. “I’m telling you Dag there was spotters out!”
“Ya know what I think Bobby? I think I better see me some spotters, in they prit near future.”
Dag, he moves on with the affairs of state. Walking leisurely through the forest compound just making his presence felt. As he completes his circuit of the camp. He approaches a steel trailer body laying flush in the sand. He stops to take her all in before entering. “Dag,” a women’s voice cries out excitedly. “Yer home!”
“I reckon,” Dag answers, slow in a road weary monotone. Johanna, she runs to kiss him. But he stops her, handing off his knife and shoulder bag for her to put away. Because she was Dag first wife. It was her responsibility and, her responsibility alone. At twenty-six, Johanna wasn’t the raving beauty she once was any more. In the world’s old age; youth and beauty are short seasons. It was questionable if Johanna could still bear children. Because she hadn’t any so far. Bethy was Dag’s second wife and juss turned 14. She waits for Dag in the bedroom. Where her position as a second wife dictates, she wait until she was called for.
“Are ya hungry?” Johanna asks attentively.
“What we got?” Dag says, rubbing the weariness from his face and trying to unwind.
“We got some left-over cat!” Johanna answers excitedly hoping to please him.
“That’s right,” he snarks, half-joking. “Ya’ll living it up while I’m gone!”
“Dag,” she cries defensively. “We gotta eat!” Answering angrily.
“That’s right!” Dag announces, as if coming to some instant realization. “I got me another wife too, don’t I? Come on out here Bethy.”
Bethy, she runs jumping into his lap. As Dag reinforces, the power dynamic. Dag, he always demands a little more from his wives than he ever gives back. He’s just living up to his status as the alpha male. Living like few in they Tuck live. Those women they lived well, but not free. They were meshed in a web of power, status and position. Based entirely upon what one could bring to the table immediately. A community long passed instant gratification more of an instant satisfaction society.
After a few moments of playing grab ass. Dag, he gives a knowing nod to Johanna saying. “Go git me something to eat, will ya?” Johanna knowd what it meant, and she didn’t care. She was Dag’s his first wife and that held sway. She returned with a bowl of stew from the communal pot finding herself alone. listening patiently to the animal sounds of copulation coming from the next room. Sitting at the table all alone staring vacantly. Johanna pulls Dag’s knife from its sheath and examines it carefully. Looking for fresh blood on the gudgeon and when she finds it. Johanna squeals with girlish delight. Taking a wet rag, she wipes on the blade carefully. Collecting the blood stain on a corner of her cloth.
As Dags first wife, it was her right to clean all of his weapons. An her’s alone but sometimes. Johanna, she fantasized about what it must feel like to kill somebody. Not for the feeling of power in taking someone’s life. But for the feeling of power in ending her own powerlessness. After a few moments, Dag emerges from the bedroom alone sitting quietly at the table. Johanna, she slides the bowl of stews in front of him. When voice calls from outside the trailer. “Dag?” Without looking up from his stew he answers with a disgusted, “What?”
“Dag, we got people at the gate, says they’s Christians.”
“Christians? Ha!” Dag barks. “You tell em that they book done run out! An ain’t nobody ever showed. You tells em, they got two hours to git gone; fore we hunt em down en kill em. Then you wait a hour en thin you hunt em down en kill em!”
The voice from outside questions his instructions, “Really, Dag? You really want us to kill them?”
Dag, he turns from his bowl of stew asking sarcastically into the darkness. “Do you even know what really means? It means, are they really en advance party fer some other group? Coming to scope out easy pickings from some dumb ass, asking really? Will they really come back en ambush us? En sell our families into slavery. Will they really come murder us in our beds en steal all our shit?” Dag’s tone it was sharp, and he was raising it a half-step, each time he said really to a falsetto tone.
Then Dag growls, “Let me tell you something about stupid! Stupid ain’t no defense! She’s a invitation. Suppose I let them folks go en they’s an advance party? What are they going to think of us? They’d know our numbers, en know our gate! We’d let em walk right in, en la de da walk right back out again!” With a philosopher’s finger in the air, Dag, he answers his self rhetorically. “They’d think we was stupid! En they’d feel empowered by that! They’d reckon, we deserved whatever we got cause we was stupid! Don’t know nobody ever felt sorry fer stupid!
So now you go on en kill them fellas like I told ya. If them advance men don’t return. Them folks will begin to suwanee on it. And wonder whatever happened to em?” Maybe, they’d risk a couple more, en maybe not. Maybe they don’t like they bad outcome. They won’t know our numbers or our gate. But they one thin they will know is… we ain’t stupid!”
“But what if they ain’t advance men Dag? What if they are Christians?”
Dag, he laughs so hard he’s choking on his stew. Coughing, en heaving and having trouble regaining his breath. He coughs again, still trying to clear his throat. “Son, son look around,” Dag says. “Does this look like any kind of place to recruit Psalm singers? Does this look like they kind of world, what needs Christians in it? Now you go on now en do as you’re told, en go kill them folks.”
When he, turns back Johanna is watching him from the shadows of the room, “What,” he asks impatiently?
“We was just, I mean, Beth and I was wondering, if you was up fer some entertainment?
“No,” Dag answers firmly shaking his head. “You en Beth was wondering, if in, I’d tolerate some entertainment. Being so dog ass tired like I am. You was wondering, if in, I’d trade some peace en quiet, for some entertainment.”
“And will you?”
“Well, yeah, I reckon within reason, I guess.”
“Can I go get him then?”
“Who?”
“Silver!”
“That old dude?” he asks knowingly. “Shit! He must be almost forty!”
“But we like his stories Dag.”
“All that old man does is takes wishes en wanna be’s en strings em together into stories. “When men went to the moon or when food was free. They ain’t no truth to none of it, it’s all Bush shit!”
“But we like hearing his stories,” Johanna repeats.
“Go git him thin,” Dag shouts. “I was promised peace en you was promised a story. So go on with yer part, so’s we can gits to mine.” Bethy returns, pulling on the old man by his withered hand. Silver acknowledges Dag’s presence with a bow and respectful tone asking. “You requested me, sir?”
Nodding to the women, Dag explains. “They wants ta hear a story.”
“Yes sir,” Silver asks gently. “What kind of story would they like to hear? When white leaves fell from the sky? Or perhaps, a story about when men traveled in outer space among the stars” Or perhaps, they would like to hear about the railroad that went nowhere?”
They all laughed at the notion with even Dag, snickering. “What sort of damn fool builds a railroad what don’t go nowhere?”
“Well sir,” the old man explains. “That is a very interesting story, sir.”
Dag, he looks around for agreement, before saying, “Sit.”
The old man he struggles sitting cross-legged on the floor. As he tries to maintain his dignity, he arranges his self. Straightening his halo of white hair round the edges of his head. The old man begins by holding his face in his hands in deep contemplation. As if, straining to remember every last lost detail. Eventually, the old man lifts his head in a calmer spirit; becoming the story teller. No longer a bedraggled old man living on a warlord’s charity. He becomes the last vestige of theater.
With a measured pause, Silver begins; “It happened long ago, in the time of my Grandfather’s Grandfather. There was this weary traveler moving on foot, all alone through the deep woods. He was very tired from his long journey. And it was nearly around dayfall when he stepped on a mouse’s tail hiding under some leaves. That mouse, he let out a squeak, as the man caught him in his hands. “You’ll make a fine bait for my trap!” The traveler declared. But then, a strange noise came from inside of his cupped hands. A tiny little voice cried out! “Please don’t kill me and I shall make you rich!”
Dag, he begun to cat call yelling, “Bush! Bush! This is Bush Shit!” The women, they quieted Dag as the old man continued. “Looking inta his cupped hands the traveler asked, cynically. “How can you make me rich, little mouse?”
“I can talk and sing and dance! And people will give you money to come see me perform.”
So, the man he put the little mouse in his kit bag and took him home. The little mouse he made good on his word and made the man very rich. The man built a store and folks had to pay money just to come inside and buy things from him. Just to see the talking mouse. But after a while, the crowds grew tired of the little mouse and stopped coming. Then the man became very angry. “What can you do for me now little mouse? He said, shall I kill you now?” The little mouse had also grown older, offering. “You must find another mouse and a duck and a cow. And I shall teach them to dance and sing.”
So, the man did as he was asked and once again the little mouse made good on his word. The crowds returned and the man grew richer still. He told the little mouse, “I am rich, and you have kept your word. But you can never be too rich! How can I become even richer still, little mouse?”
The aging mouse replied. “You must build a railroad that goes nowhere!”
“Bush! Bush! Bush!” Dag chants again, before being quieted.
That old man he eyes Dag carefully, before he resumes his story. “The railroad,” the little mouse explained must go round and round and go very, very fast and people will come and pay you money to ride on it.” With that, the little mouse died and not knowing what else to do. The man built that railroad that went nowhere. And the people did come in droves to ride on it. But this man who’d grown so rich had also become very old and he soon also died. His fortune was divided among his three sons.
His sons had gained his wealth without his effort. And were very greedy and slothful. They worked the little animals too hard trying to earn even more money. Until, one day, the waters began to rise and the land around them began to shrink. The three brothers had a boat but could not agree to allow a cow to ride in their boat, so it drowned with the other little mouse. The brothers in their hunger, turned on the talking duck. But because the duck had no lips. It spoke too poorly to explain they were eating their future and so they ate him! This man was named Dizzy sir. And it is the reason why today. When someone is out of their head. We say they’re dizzy.”
“Sounds like anyone who’d believe that damn story would have to be dizzy,” Dag shouts.
“His son’s,” The old man continued softly. “We’re the three brothers Bush sir. The three incantations of evil, robbery, murder and graft.
The room fell silent when Dag, he says. “What? How the hell was I supposed to know it was a damn, religious story!”
“But you defended them Dag, you spoke up for em.” Johanna answers, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Dag, he pleads, “Come on Silver, cut me a solid here. “Tell em, tell em, you juss a story and you made it all up! You tell em, they ain’t no such place as dizzy land. Tell em, it’s all juss a damn story. That you juss made up.”
“It is as you wish sir. Would you rather hear another story perhaps, when food was free?”
“Naw,” Dag carps. “They was promised one. En we heard one. Now, I’m tired en ready for a honest day’s sleep.”
“Then shall I depart,” the old man asks?
Dag nods, as the old man gets up and leaves. Dag gets up too heading for bed without any comment. The women, they understand his movements and begin straightening up before extinguishing the candle. The dayfall sky begun glowing orange, when Dag’s sleep was cut short. He wakes to the banging sound on the side of the trailer. Ford Romeo calling out, “Dag, we got folks at the gate!”
Dag, he leapt up from his bed looking suddenly at the headboard to find his knife was missing. He found it on the table where Johanna had left it. En said out loud, “somebody gonna tote a ass whooping fer that.” Grabbing his knife, Dag snatches at the door, asking harshly, “What?”
“Dag, we got folks at the gate. They says they’s with Robert by the river. Dag, asks for confirmation, “You say, Robert by they lake or they river?”
“Damn Dag, do I look like some new kind of dumb ass to ya?” There was only a few folks who could answer back in such a tone, Ford Romeo was one… and I can’t rightly think of anyone else… right off. Ford and Dag had grown up together. Not as friends so much but as compatriots and allies. Each knowing the other made them stronger. Someone to watch their back. Someone they could trust… mainly. It was as close to brotherhood as this existence yielded. Dag being Dag, admired Ford’s strength and ambition. But also wisely feared it as well. They were just like those two brothers…what had killed one another, Cain and Able, I think was their names.
“How Bushed up would I have to be to wake you up for Robert by they damn lake? Them fuckers? Round them nucler water? They couldn’t even find the way here… damn Dag!”
“Yeah, I know. I’m juss sleepful.”
“They say they got problems and wants our help.”
“What kind of problems?”
“They say, they’ve got Harvesters,”
“Harvesters, shit!” Dag spits. “Tell em to juss kill a couple of em, en be done with it.”
“I know!” Ford replies. “I’m just repeating what they tells me. They wants to talk to you, about it.”
“I ain’t talkin to em now.” Dag says, “find em some place to sleep. Give em, food en water, en make em comfortable. En keep a eye on em! Git Harley to put one of his demos on it. I ain’t getting up in the middle of the day. I’s going back to bed.”
Ford, he answers as a number two should answer. “It’s done Dag, good day.
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