Tales of the Incredible Hoke Robertson
Well, as the marked lack of creative writing has evidenced, very few horrible things have happened to me in recent weeks. All that changed today, just a few short minutes ago.
As the noon hour arrived, I made my way to the nearby Union 76 Gas Station, Car Wash and Mini-Mart in order to purchase lunch. Those three things are one establishment; I don’t mean to suggest I went to three different places to buy my sustenance.
After 10 years or so of obnoxious counter clerks intruding on my personal preferences and invading my world, we have finally ended up with a clerk who simply tells me what the items cost, takes my money and makes change all without comments on my eating habits, non humorous anecdotes of their personal life or expressions of political views diametrically opposed to mine. If I want idiotic, irrational discussions I will coordinate a family reunion or appear before some governmental board. Just sell me the damn candy bar!
Anyway, now that I am on a strict health-conscious diet, I went to get a 44 oz. Dr. Pepper and a small bag of Mini Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies for my midday repast. I go directly to the fountain where the soft drinks are self-serve dispensed with the unerring sense of direction of a salmon returning to its native stream to spawn; but you know, without the over-riding urge to have sex on the floor.
Blocking my path is a relatively short (nothing against short people) young mother with very long blue hair. Being color blind, hair color is not high on my list of concerns, but when you are face to back of the head with a large un-combed mass of blue hair you kinda notice. Anyway, the bluegill, er blue girl is filling a “Slushee” at the neighboring machine while blocking anyone from using the soda dispensing machine. I quietly wait for her to finish, then approach “my” machine while saying very nicely “excuse me.” I keep my judgments to myself like a good Taoist, not mentioning that the calories of the 32 oz. Slushee are not the best thirst quencher for her 5 year old daughter and of course the intense cold of the drink will without doubt freeze her little head making her cry. “Not my problem” as Governor Jerry Brown said when asked who was going to pay for High Speed Rail.
Once at the machine, I deftly fill the plastic cup with ice and Dr. Pepper with the skill of one who has done this a thousand times (okay, 10,000 times). Two seconds before I finish an arm is thrust in front of me to place a plastic cup under one of the taps. Not just any arm mind you. The arm was attached to what was most likely a female of some human-related species, though repetitive DNA testing would be necessary to confirm the hypothesis.
This perhaps-female was about four feet three inches tall and somewhere between 35 and 75 years of age. I will not speculate on the racial background of the subject as that is irrelevant to the story, and besides, the grime and dirt permanently affixed to “it” could indeed be presenting a false front or Potemkin Village, or, nevermind.
That arm seemed to fit the definition of “gnarled” as used by Robert E. Howard in describing the Pictish race in his Conan stories though I assume the subject did not live underground, eat raw meat or practice human sacrifice. The opposing view is supported by the weird, mystical tattoos covering the leathery, snake-like skin encasing the arm. We shall probably never know.
The appearance of this proto-human took priority over her complete lack of politeness and civility. It no longer mattered that she couldn’t wait two seconds for me to finish and leave but had to crowd her way in front of me. No, the creature’s senses-shocking physical characteristics became the main focus. Its clothes were a call back to that worn by House Elves in the Harry Potter stories. Now that I say that, perhaps the subject was indeed some fantastical creature from some alternate universe where appearance and smell were unimportant.
Ah, the smell. When I was a young lad living at our Jahant ranch property I got a small magnifying glass in one of those small plastic things you got for 5 cents instead of a gumball. The magnifying glass intrigued me for many hours as I burned leaves, sticks and tennis shoes. At one point, evolution asserted itself and I had to use the glass for something more destructive and evil. Yes, I started burning very small bugs as they crawled along the sidewalk. It took quite some effort to keep the focused beam on the bugs as they naturally tried to avoid the searing heat as it burned though their respective carapaces. With diligence I was able to vaporize a small number of completely innocent bugs that day. However, the smell of vaporized bugs is apparently noxious and I got very sick as a result of my evil ways. My mother gave me one of those “why are all my children idiots” kinda looks. Karma? Negative feedback? Let your particular moral or religious beliefs guide your conclusions.
I seemed to have strayed. The misfigured figure gave off a smell like that of burned insects. I know that its hard to imagine for those of you who had happy childhoods, but that is the best way I can describe it. For those unsure, it is a very horrible and unpleasant smell. The word “reek” would be used in any sentence about this smell. The point is, it smelled bad. Not just bad as in “I can hardly breathe;” but bad as in it feels like I just inhaled 100% sulfuric acid .
Trying to not stare (sometimes meeting the eyes of primitive creatures is taken as a challenge) I inched my way back from the machine making sure no part of me came into contact with the creature. I fought back the urge to gag and just to be safe, left the end part of the wrapper on the straw so no contaminants might enter the Dr. Pepper. As I moved away I heard the thing utter in almost-English “how dit ding werk?” As you might have guessed, pressing a button to dispense the soda was as foreign to this thing as playing Jenga is to a gnu.
Using my faux ninja powers I crept away, unseen by this disgusting denizen of the drinks. As I left, I noticed the offspring or pupae of the creature. It apparently had not yet gone through metamorphosis and more closely resembled its human relatives. However, the adolescent was not yet fully functioning like a butterfly that had not yet had time to pump fluid into its wings so they could harden and function. The grub was draped across the counter, completely covering various items for sale, mostly foodstuffs, some of which were not in sealed wrappers. I said a silent prayer for those patrons who came after me and ended up eating the things so revoltingly contaminated.
As I walked to the check-out counter I gave a long, deep exhale. My years of interactions with these types of creatures had conditioned me to practice the basics of hygiene and strictly follow the protocols of containing contagions. With no readily available shower to cleanse my clothes or body, I at least minimized the putrid particals from entering my lungs.
As luck would have it, I felt the presence of the foul thing immediately behind me when I was paying for my drink and cookies. Hitting the lottery one more time, I heard it cough right behind me and felt the soft wind of that eruption onto the back of my right arm. Having left my machete home, I was not able to spin around and severe the offending head from the offensive body. Only time will tell if some sort of flesh eating virus is now gripping tightly to my tricep or if the exposure of the malignant mess to sunlight and fresh air eventually kill it. Well, that’s all I got. I hope the rest of you have happy, nonintrusive interactions with the public. I know that is what I dream of.
