Some would say “the cock crows at dawn,” but for Zeek the Splooty, the cock had risen and had been rampantall night long. It was 5:00AM. The desert wind blew hot and dry into thedarkened interior of Boron’s Booty Bar. Zeke had blown in two nights ago. Dryas a nun’s twat, the desert air sucked the life out of everything except thehot as a holy habanera passion of the three chiquitas whose prurient pussiesidled at the bar like a trio of furry, fleshy custom cunt choppers. Theysquealed like horny piglets when Zeke roared through the fly-screen beadshanging in the open door way and flashed them his twat taunting grin.”Buenos dias, senor-eaters,” he laughed his demented cackle andwiggled his eyebrows.
Like a latter-day Errol Flynn, Zeke was aswashbuckling bastard astride his throbbing steel steed. Prone to waxingeloquent at the most propitious times, Zeke intoned a lustful ditty.”Blazen on the Poot Bah, the Nucleic diddle on the Zots. I be yoked toyour twang matter and a prisoner of the Choaf.” Zeke could charm theskivvies off a nun. The chiquitas were snorting like horny heifers, allgoosey-bumped and tingly. At the first crook of his gnarled and chewed onfinger, the trio of en fuego nasty nymphets were all over him with a madfrenzy of thigh rubbing, neck licking, arm pit snurffleing, choad scarfing,and hip humping. It was a delightful debauch in hellishly hot, barren, boringBoron.
Boron is one of those tired out desertspots in the road, (not enough population to be called a town) that clung toexistence by selling expensive muddy gas, Korean-made day-glo Navajo kachinatchotchke, out-of-date California road maps, ragged sheets of mystery meatjerky, tart-garish postcards of Disneyesque desert vistas in a spinning wirerack, a variety ersatz Cowboy and Indian paraphernalia perpetuating aHollywood myth of musk scented manly perseverance, high-kitsch heathen bloodlust and politically correct bootstrap independence, andScully/Muldar/Roswell inspired, tweaked and tarnished space alien trinkets.
Zeke didn’t give a shit for culture,trinkets or otherwise. The Booty Bar was an oasis from a hot ride. He neededto get lost. The Mojave desert was the kind of place you could get lost in.It’s not just the size of it or the seeming emptiness; there is atantalizing, mystical strangeness to it. Reality was an illusive lilt thatcould seduce the minds eye like the flash of scarlet underside of a hawk’swing against a turquoise sky.
“Hallucination is just a state ofmind,” laughed the wrinkled as a saguaro cactus old Indian in the cornerof the Boron Booty Bar. “It’s the heat,” he giggled obscurely, moreto himself than Zeke. “There’s a chrome-titted banshee on thePunjab.” The old man’s black beady eyes twinkled with glee. “She’llbe throwin’ a lip lock on the mushy parts of yer’ medulla oblongata when yer’yeast rises. You’ll see, you’ll see,” he turned his sun-wrinkled bullscrotum face to Zeke. “Rainbows, ribbons, sultry sequins, roarin’ andrumblin’, firebreathin’ hedonists?They gonna’ get ya!” The old man threwback his head as he giggled hysterically. He stumbled out the door and intothe desert, his high-pitched hysterical laughter turning to the yippingcackle of a serenading coyote.
Zeke and the three girls shivered inunison as if a winters wind had blown in the door, when the last of the oldman’s yipping died away. Zeke was not usually one to succumb to thepanty-waist fears of things-that- go-bump-in-the-night. He had done a lot ofnight bumpin’ himself. But here he was, on the run, in this weird-assed bar,in this weird-assed town, in the middle of this weird as William Burrough’srectum desert. He was dancing on the keen edge of life’s razor blade.
He had ridden, with great aplomb somewould say, like the madman he is from the lusty luau of Los Angeles with theLAPD (Nazi division), hot on his tail like a cherry-red poker probing hisHershey highway. Those humorless, fascist-thug-assholes seemed to takeoffense at his middle-digit turn signal as he peeled a doughnut U-turn worthyof a Winter Olympics 9.9 at the intersection of Cahuenga and Doheny indowntown Hollywood. Sure it was like teasing a couple of rabid pit bulls, butwhat the fuck are you gonna’ do on a hot Saturday night? The Splooty man wasblessed with the kind of perverse sense of humor that gave rise to a yeastfulcornucopia of yuks. The neon glitter of trendy, tacky, tainted East Hollywoodwas coldly echoed off the robot-like Ray-Ban sunglasses of the cops. Turningtheir chiseled jaws like “Jurassic Park” raptors, the cops smelledfresh meat.
The game was afoot. Zeek spun the throttleback to full bore and maxed out the revs. Zeek kicked in the nitrous oxidebottle. Flames shot out the Bartel’s exhaust like dragon breath ignitingcigarette butts and pieces of paper in the road. He clung on to thehandlebars for dear life, the G-forces pulling against his body withun-challengeable gravity-defying cosmic power. As he turned a corner, thehairy arm of centrifugal force grabbed his body and tried to fling him inanother direction.
By the time the robo-cops had wheeledaround their black and white bucket of bolts, Zeek was out of sight. But thehigh-pitched scream of his bike was unmistakable, so they followed the sound.Excited by the exotic-ness of the chase, the boys in blue were absolutelysalivating with glee at the thought of a chase with some adventure. Theyradioed for tactical intervention, tack strips, helicopter surveillance,armored vehicles, mace, manacles and M-16’s. They were running amok andrunning behind.
By the time Zeek was comfortably far awayfrom Hollywood he was turning onto the Antelope Valley cut-off. By now he hadto keep his feet on the front pegs, the exhaust was so hot that the pipesglowed cherry red. Even though he had eluded “L.A.’s (sic) Finest”,he decided to take off for the desolate expanse of the desert and cool it inthe heat. That’s how he ended up at the Boron Booty Bar.
The Booty Bar reeked from stale beer,staler piss, rotting Slim-Jims, putrid pickled eggs, 30 wt motor oil, and thecombined Sploot spunk and cunt cider from 48 hours of marathon happy harlothumping and crazed cunt lapping. The Zeekster could never get enough of thatcute cooze cookie. The girls were hot as Hades sex troopers too.
Taking a momentary break from thehedonistic high jinks, Zeke leaned against his infamous, hellish Harley,absently stroking the snot slick surface of the fat gas tank. The stylishlygothic presence of his Milwaukee-made monster belied the tough as nails, fastas a rocket chopped scooter he rode. Under the black as death, powder coatedframe and eerily animated enamel/lacquer crinkle-coat paint that looked likethe living flesh of a Manta Ray, Zeek had altered, trained, teased, tuned,and tormented out the screaming-ist two-cylinder machine on Earth. Thesoft-tailed frame had Ride-Lo shock extenders that made the bike so low,wadded up cigarette packs would get hung-up under the frame. In addition tothe Patrick Racing engine with shaved heads and shaped the ports, Zeke hadadded a single-fire ignition, a titanium crank, and dual carbs with asuper-charger. There were a few other top-secret personal touches theZekester added to tweak every last ounce of ‘bad to the bone’ streetnastiness out of motorcycle engineering possible. Zeek stared at the scenebefore him with red-rimmed, sex-sated eyes. In the middle of the bar roomfloor, the three women rolled around like a wad of rabid ferrets; punching,screaming, clawing, gouging, panting, scratching, biting, heaving, cussingand generally slapping the shit out of each other. As one of the ravenhaired, firm bodied, ample bosomed, plum nippled, tauntress’ of the desertwas about to land a tooth smiting, jaw shattering right cross, the fly beadcurtain at the front door clattered like rattling bones. Stumbling into thefray, Loopo McTood, shambled into the midst of the melee of the catfight.
“Top of the morning to ya’,” hegrinned at the knotted trio of sweating and squirming young taquito tarts. Itwasn’t the titillating tatas heaving with exhaustion that captured hisattention, but rather the cool, foamy nectar dripping from the spigot of thebeer tap just at Zeeks elbow. A conspiratorial glee danced upon his whiskeredGabby Hayes lips as he spotted Zeek and sidled over to him.
“‘Sa hot day, ain’t it,” the oldcoot slathered on the smarmy spread of unctuous oleo. The twinkle in his eyeinsinuating like a buzzing bee working at the pollen dripping sexualequipment of a hot California Poppy. He gazed lustfully at the foamy brewZeek had just dolloped into a frosty mug. Shoving the icy mug upon the oldman, Zeek poured one for himself. “Saints preserve us and a blessing onyour house,” the old man mumbled as he raised his mug in toast.”Here in the Mojave, we have a different taste for life. Care to try asliver of mescal pickled, sun dried habenero?” The old man handed Zeke ajar of pungent peppers. Pulling one out to examine its shinning, slick redchili shape.
“Looks like pickled Chihuahua peckerto me,” Zeke laughed as he popped it into his mouth. After a moment,”Yeow,” Zeke smiled as his eyes teared up, his face flushed and hedesperately grabbed for his beer.
“Try to enjoy it,” the old mangrabbed Zeke’s arm. “Give it a chance.”
Zeke looked desperate. His eyes dartedabout frantically. Sweat trickled down his brow. Just as he thought the topof his head might blow off, a calm confusion surrounded him. It was as ifsomeone had managed to bust a magnum of champagne across his cerebral brow,launching his cranial canoe upon the great, green, greasy Limpopo River,doing the backstroke as he waved at the riverbank gathering throng.
Loopo tenderly patted Zeke’s shoulder,”Glad to see you’ve joined us, Zeke.” Zeke, not a stranger to theseductive charm of all things chemically stupefying, grinned his goofy-est.
“Nice to see you too. Boozstrup on ametallic masthead made the captain cry real tears,” Zeek parried andmade the first conversational thrust. “A tweedle become electric, set inan elegant etui, I toast your twaddle,” Zeek hoisted his own flagon indistracted homage to the old coot. He was feeling like he no longer neededMrs. Bascombe, the crossing guard, to help him across the street. He poppedanother pepper.
“Ooooh, we beez’ trans-Atlantic.Slammin’ on the jim-jam, flippin’ on the frim fram.” Zeke was getting tolike those chili pepper induced charades. As the frosty brew bussed the mawof the old geezer, Zeek noticed the coot’s outfit. Loopo looked like he wasstraight out of central casting for a 1940’s B western. Short, stout,button-nosed, sun burnt and wrinkled, his presence was every bit the olddesert rat. Except for his hair, or rather everything that was going onaround his head.
Loopo’s rosy glow emanated from more thanthe effect of the desert sun and more than a few frosty brews. There was anaura about him. It was like the joy of Christmas, a tab of chemical Ecstasy,the aftermath of sexual satiation, and a slab of peach pie all rolled intoone. It was a kind of infectious, knowing, joyousness. His grin made yougrin.
When you got real close, I mean realclose, as Zeek did, one noticed a myriad of tiny flying insects circling hishead. These flying things didn’t nervously or evasively bob and weave likegnats or flies. Rather they maintained a constant orbit around his head. Andwhat was even more curious was that each of these bugs glowed, ever soslightly. Their combined emanation created much of the rosy-ness in the oldman’s cheeks. And Loopo never seemed to find the bugs distracting. When hetilted his head back to finish off his beer the bugs gave way to the glassand returned when he dropped his mug.
“Here in the Mojave, we have adifferent taste for life. Care to try a sliver of mescal pickled, sun driedhabenero?”
By now the three lusty ladies had joinedZeek in checking out the old dude. “Ay, que guapo esa viejito,” oneof the ladies made a giggling latina homage to the old man’s cuddly-cutedemeanor and his unusual hair do. There were iridescent streamers woven intohis long gray but radiant dread-locks. His torso was covered by an Indianblanket pancho that had every color of the rainbow woven into it, as a matterof fact there was a rainbow woven in part of it. As his arms extended tograsp the beer mug, Zeke noticed the unique tattoos on Loopo’s upper arms.The colors were different and the imagery was all psychedelic paisley swirlsand Maori war patterns. The back of McTood’s hands and forearms were tattooedwith black and magenta beads, fading to nothing on the underside of his arms.His plastic pantaloons were festooned with the flotsam and jetsam of thehighway, bicycle reflectors, cosmetic knee protectors, foul ball deflectors,neon rabbinical genuflectors, bad attitude affecters and a goodly amount ofChristmas tinsel.
Loopo smiled at the Latin lasses, gentlycaressing their firm, round posteriors as if casually selecting a ripe,succulent fruit. They fairly hummed with casual contentment at his touch.Their eyes got all dreamy and half-masted. Zeek could tell he was in thepresence of a master sensualist. A man to be reckoned with, Zeek mused.
“So, what’s the obscure word, oldman?” Zeke said with feigned, casual comment, belying his fascinationwith the old mans aura.
“Oooo,” the old man’s lipspursed like the puckered anus of a failed vestal virgin. “Oooo, me lad,there is much to tell, but a great thirst is upon the land.” He puckeredhis weathered lips and a magenta tongue snaked out to wet his dried lips. Theold man’s eyes twinkled in appreciation as Zeke slid another frosty brewtoward the old man. He quaffed the quiff of tepid Budweiser as if it wereBiblical ambrosia.
Zeke was fascinated and impatient as theold man finished off the second beer.
After a pregnant pause, the old man spoke.
“There is a turgid musk in theair,” the old man’s eyes twinkled with a conspiratorial glee that SantaClaus would be proud of. “Some would do such splendiferousglitter-bedecked costume salutations as to make those Rio Mardi Gras revelersweep.”
“They ride chariots of heavingtestosterone all glittered up with magical mystery. It’s a sight tobehold,” he ended cryptically.
“Sounds like a fun party,” Zekemoved nose to nose with the old man, so close that the circling mini-fireflies began to circle Zeke’s head. “When, where, how?” Zeke hadgrown impatient with these desert bards and their waxing cryptic.
“More than a party, my youngbucko,” the old man cautioned. “There are some who are there everyyear, some who are there once in a life time. The revel becomes who youare.” He paused, then added. “There will be bikes and riders ofmythic proportion. A medieval romp of chrome, leather and steel. Thepustulant pagan is in full rut.”
To Zeke, this was an invitation that mustbe addressed. He gave the old man a hungry look.
“Out there,” the old manmotioned to the bead strung doorway behind him, jerking his thumb toward thedesert. “There is a rumbling crescendo a’ buildin’ as we speak.”
Zeke walked to the bar’s front door. Hejust then heard a faint rumble like the frequent earthquakes that regularlyshake Southern California desert communities. He returned his gaze to thebar, the old man who was no longer at there. The only trace was two lingeringmini-fire flies that buzzed in a lost, erratic path. They immediately dartedto Zeke. He flinched as they zipped to an inch from his face. Soon they werea part of his visage as they were for the old man.
The desert dusk began to drape thelandscape like a velvet shroud. A neon-orange purple glow under-lit the lacyedges of the wispy pale clouds. Scurrying across the dirt apron in front ofthe doorway, a satanic-smiling, sardonic, black and magenta beaded Gilamonster shuffled like an animated ladies clutch purse. Zeke spotted, off inthe distance, a pair of desert antelope vaulting patches of pastel sagebrushin unison like feral ballerinas. A shooting star shot across the horizondirecting his view to the West. On the western edge of the highway, just asit rose over a sandy mesa to drop back in a continental slope to the PacificOcean, a gigantic funnel-shaped, black cloud descended from the sky. Thiswiggling phallus finger of cloud and wind tickled the landscape. As quicklyas it appeared, the cloud vanished leaving a glowing emanation on theman-made cut in the line of the ridge.
By the time the girls had joined him,cramming their honey-hued cherubic faces under his arms and between his legs,the glow had become a shimmering halo above the ebony pavement and glowingdouble-yellow median stripe. Zeke stood there as awe-struck and gape-jawed asJohn Mills’ merry retard in “Ryan’s Daughter.”
As the halonic glow grew nearer, Zekebegan to discriminate the familiar rumble of custom choppers roaring down thehighway. He was grinning ear to ear as the first bike came to rest on thedirt apron in front of the bar. Others soon joined the throbbing, idlingrhythm of the first bike.
The rider of the lead bike was aspectacular vision. Astride his candy flame-red Dytech stretch rigid framewith a 4-degree raked/extended Euro-fork front-end, streamlined 5 gal.fat-bob dual tanks, chrome-skull accentuated Performance Machine foot pegs,16 inch apes, all rumbling to a stroked Evo 98. On top of all that wereaccessories of a mystical kind; shimmering streamers, twinkling lights,ruffling wind-blown banners and sequins festooning and scattered aboutfenders, tank and seat.
The rider dismounted with a flourishworthy of an 18th century cavalier. He was a spectacular vision, from head totoe. From his plumed, red leather brimmed hat, to waxed and curled moustachewith tiny, silver Tibetan prayer bells hung on the ends, to his Technicolorriding leathers, rings on every finger, and riding boots with tiny silverprayer bells hanging all over them.
He was a sparkling, tinkling, jinglingvisual cornucopia.
“Hey, brother,” the bikingcavalier intoned, “What’s shakin’?”
“Nothin’ til you showed up,”Zeke casually extended a hand. “I’m called Zeke the Splooty.Welcome.”
“And I?,” he was interrupted bya goggle-eyed, hairy Yoda dwarf who stuck his over-sized head around thecavaliers waist. “I am…,” he was interrupted again by the dwarf.”He’s Rudy the Red Ribbed Tickler,” the dwarf chimed in,”?Rudy,” he finished.
“And these are my compadres,”Zeke followed the sweep of his arm which described a vivid collection ofeccentric partial-cars, commercial catering trucks, crazed custom choppers,wobble-tired three-wheelers, two matched Morris Minor 1000’s that looked likemom’s house slippers, apocalyptic survivalist four-wheel ATV’s , turned-onelectric bicycles, a cherried-out Vincent Black Shadow, VW vans stuffed tothe gunwales looking every bit like the Okie Joads, flat-bed semi’s withcargo boxes and porta-potties, and other vehicles which defied definitivedescription. Every vehicle, driver and passengers were decked out as if theywere crazed escapees from some Brazilian Mardi Gras parade. Sequins,body-glitter, tattoos, ribbons, pierced body parts, bells, balls, rings andodd jiggling things all a-dangling, jangling, twinkling and tinkling like apsychedelic Xmas tree. There were bejeweled bimbos, straw hatted harmonizers,warm hearted womanizers, Brazilian waxed anorexics, tattooed andnipple-pierced insurance salesmen from Des Moines, squinty-eyed dog trainers,thumb-nippled hussies, liver-lipped busters, slap-happy hustlers, flamingfaggots in feathered finery, one-eyed paperhangers, power chord flangers,frigid fresh water anglers and a covey of hard-hearted hermaphrodites. Theyall chimed in unison, “Play that funky music, white boy,” beckoningZeke and the three girls to join them.
The three stunned chiquitas who had beenhiding behind Zeke, squealed with delight as they ran to join the rag-tagbe-spangled group. Jumping up and down with glee, their melons a-bobbing withinsouciant charm, the girls were engulfed by the welcoming crowd of revelers.
Rudy put a fraternal arm around Zeke,”My friend, you are about to have an adventure of mystic proportions, aDanse ka Boom, out there,” he pointed vaguely to the north east, “there is a party goin’ on, an Ooo-Pah-Pa-Doo, Les Fais Deaux-Deaux.”
Rudy’s mantra of hedonist celebration washypnotizing. Zeke’s head began to bob in confirming chorus to Rudy’s poeticmeter like the amen-ing confirmations at a back-country Black Baptisttabernacle.
Zeke’s eyes glazed over in a tranced-danceas the women behind him breathed in his ear a humming, soul-thumping drone.”Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ngha, oofa. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo,ahhh. Nuh ha, oofa.”
Gazing closely at Zeke, Rudy noticed themini-fire flies dancing about Zeke’s face to the rhythm.
“Oh, ho. I see you’ve had thepleasure of Senor Loopo’s magical company.” Zeke just nodded his head inmute confirmation.
“Chick ah, chick ah chickahhhhhh,” the basso profundo rhythm from the lusty ladies increased.
“Well, the buzzing bugs settleit,” Rudy grinned, “you must join us now.”
Zeke moved unquestioningly to his gothicblack chopper, he jumped aboard the steel stallion and brought it to life.Rudy motioned for Zeke to join him at the front of the pack. Rudy’s hairy,dwarf side-kick scooted his three-wheel chopper over to make room for Zeke.The dwarf jumped off his bike then leaned his head close to Zeke’s throbbingcylinders listening to the chopped cam’s lope. The dwarf smiled and looked upto Zeke, mimicking it’s deep-throated attenuated cam rhythm with a 2/4 beat.
“Chuff, chuff, hmmm. Chuff, chuff,hmmm.” He continued to ape the sound, trucking back to his side-car likean R. Crumb street bopping boogy-er, bobbing his head to the beat. He leaptto the nose of the side-car then vaulted onto his saddle. A half-naked Nubiantemptress undulated in the dwarf’s sidecar seat, her shimmering breasts movedin counter-point to her body boogie; she joined the rising crescendo of theintoxicatingly rocking, aortic rhythm, becaming a chorus of shared sensualityas everyone began bopping. They spontaneously broke into Dr. John the NightTripper’s “Mama Roux.”
The strains of the Night Tripper’sGris-Gris, Creole, coco Robicheaux, African, Poo-Pah-Pah-Doo, FaisDeaux-Deaux, jump sturdy, Fat Tuesday, Chieu va Bruler, psychedelic, voodoo,Santerist, up-tempo funerary dirge, glistened with a crystalline poeticclarity.
“?sez a ooo, why,” the sequinand glitter-clad women in various stages of sensual dishevel humped and shookto the beat, ” can’t ya’ spy boy, prepare yo sef’ ta’ die boy, medicineman he got heep stong powa’, you know better than ta’ mess with me,” theZulu parade of decked out vehicles began to move out into the desert, “lackedad a eye ball, a la la la la froo froo,” the body glitter andsequined mixed desert dust kicked up by the vanishing revelers shimmered likea New York ticker tape parade as the last of the happy hedonists left theenvirons of the Boron Booty Bar, “if ya see a spy boy, sittin’ in abush, nascem on na’ head, then give him a push,” far off by now, theroar of the choppers was delicately mixed with the barely perceptible strainsof the song mixing with a night birds trill, “get out the dishes, getout the pan,” a coyote serenaded the moon, “move he fast for themedicine man?” Then the desert hush returned to the land like MotherNature’s sagebrush and sand quilted comforter.
All was silent in the Boron Booty Barexcept for the tick and whirr of the ceiling fan stirring up the glitter onthe bar room floor into sparkling mini-dust devils. At the threshold of thebars’ doorway, the black and magenta beaded reptilian shuffle of a large GilaMonster made its way awkwardly across the bar floor.
Just under the breeze-blown swinging flybeads, a desert swallow flitted softly past the opening, then circling theroom finally landing on the edge of the bar. Twitching nervously, turning itshead side to side so that its black pearl eyes could scan the length of thebar, the bird hopped along the bar coming to rest on the black and magentabeaded hand of Loopo Mc Tood. Loopo blew a soft melodic zephyr through hispursed lips, gently fluttering the birds’ feathers. The bird cocked its headso its’ beady, black eye could focus on the distended cheeks of the old man.
“My friend, you are about to have anadventure of mystic proportions, a Danse ka Boom, out there?there’s a partygoin’ on, an Ooo- Pah-pa-Doo, Les Fais Deaux-Deaux.”
A glowing pink-orange-magentasunrise-bloom filled the bar many hours before the actual sunrise. The oldman was the origin of this soft, warm glow. His eyes twinkled as the birdreturned his serenade. He reached across the bar to the beer taps. Pouringhimself a heady brew, the old man drank heartily. Looking out into the ebondark desert night, Loopo turned to the bird, who had hopped onto hisshoulder.
“They’ll be rollin’ into the oasispretty soon now. The journey begins.” The journey to the middle of theMojave, for Zeke, was a magical blur. The air was filled with the highpitched screaming banshee rpm’s of the various bikes- stockers, choppers,dressers, customs and odd-ball conglomerations of chrome and steel. Thesparkling parade of riders was a color-streaked acid flash, a Fourth of Julyof sartorial splendor. In spite of the compromising noise, speed and exhaustsmell, the pack of merrymakers seemed to blend into the landscape.
Zeke, at the head of the pack, was thefirst to spot the orange flapping nylon tents.
“Wooo, hah,” he enthusiasticallyproclaimed and energetically pointed in the direction of the undulatingimage.
As soon as he pointed to the shimmeringapparition, he realized its visual ghost dance just above the horizon was amirage. He turned in confusion to validate his experience with the others. Hewas startled by the silent emptiness behind him. He was alone. Nothing movedbut the desert breeze. He was no longer riding his bike. He was standing nextto it. He put his hand on the bike’s cylinder head- it was cold. He washungry.
He turned, one foot pivoting in the sand,to scan 360 degrees. Nothing. As he looked to his side, there was no bike.Nothing stood out in the landscape except a familiar smell. It was a cookingchicken aroma memory, a smell of his mother’s kitchen. She’d cook in such away as to make the whole kitchen part of the meal.
The litany of smells from his memorywashed over Zeke like the sudden sweetness of fresh baked bread. There wasthe sound of crackling grease in the fry pan, and a bubbling, pot-lid clatteras she worked her womanly magic on some pale as a parson parsnips (herfavorite), or emerald green jungle spinach, or randy ruby rutabagas. Theflying motes of flour dust pirouetting above her proud hands as she workedand kneaded a pastry pie crust into a soft, irregular pancake blanket toembrace thinly sliced green apples with a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. Hecould just hear her humming some lost lilt of a tune, on his lips but out of hismind. Now he was really hungry. Zeke stood there helpless, as a young girlappeared touching his outstretched hand mutely. Following obediently, hedidn’t question her appearance. She moved in a slow-motion undulation, likeocean waves at sea. Her beaded and fringed leather top and skirt gave herlittle protection from the sun’s rays.
Her lithe body moved in hypnotic rhythm.
“Are you lost yet?” The younggirl gave him a seductive side-long glance as she continued up a small risein desert floor.
“I’m wandering,” he smiled backat her.
“We’ve missed you,” she repliedcryptically.
Just as he was about to ask her: whereshe’d come from, where they were going, where were the rest of the group,when could he eat, they crested a small hill. Down in a large desert arroyo,a spectacle unfolded. It was as if the Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves had setup camp. In the middle of the festivities, Rudy leaned against Zeke’s bikeand beckoned him forward. At Zeke’s side, the young girl began to shimmerwith colors. An arching rainbow arose from the top of her head. The rainbowarched over the encampment to an oasis of turquoise palms.
As Zeke bent his head back to appreciatethe rainbow, he focused on the stars in the night sky. Each star glowed andshimmered. Zeke rode by each star, waving and grinning a silly grin as hepasted them. When he looked down at his speedo’, the needle was pegged andbent over the peg. Blue flames shot out the Bartels exhaust for twenty feetbehind him. Yet he had no sense of movement. When he looked down on the sceneof partying bikers below, they looked like multicolored bugs, jiggling andscurrying about. The whole scene took on a magenta and black beaded-ness,undulating like some primordial reptilian dance.
The air felt cool and refreshing as itcaressed his face. His eyes beheld the diamond-like blanket of the Milky Way.Following the Milky Way’s arch to the horizon, his eyes made out the familiarform of saguaro and sagebrush. His reverie was interrupted by the scurryingsound of something moving in the sand beside his head.
He was startled, but did not move, to seethe humorless grin of a giant Gila monster shuffling up to his face. Themagenta and black beaded lizard turned its head to sound of the soft flutterof wings as a small bird with black beady eyes landed on Zeke’s arm.
Zeke seemed paralyzed except for themovement of his head. He could feel the tiny pin-pricks of the birds talonsas it hopped from Zeke’s wrist to his forearm and on up his arm until itstood beak to nose with Zeke. The bird turned its head to the side so as tofocus one black pearl of an eye on him. “I suppose this means that I’mdead,” Zeke spoke barely above a whisper. He could hear a voice in hishead answer him.
“You, my young friend? No, but morethan alive.” A hearty laugh reached his ears. The Gila monster shookits’ head from side to side.
“Then why can’t I move?”
“You can do anything you want, mybucko” The Gila monster began shuffling away.
Turning his head to the rumbling soundnearby, Zeke spotted his hellish Harley idling away next to him. As hecautiously rose to his feet and brushed the sand off. The bird flitted to thebikes’ handlebars. He was on the gravel apron in front of the Boron BootyBar. It was early morning, clear and cool. He walked to the edge of thehighway. The double yellow ran straight and true, east and west.
“Well, bird,” he spoke to thebird resting on his handlebars as he mounted the bikes saddle, “it wasan adventure. But I’m not sure what really happened.” The bird danced onthe chrome bar and twisted his head from side to side as Zeke spoke.”Them chili peppers were spicy in more ways than one.
Okay, bird, I think it’s time we ‘motate’.There are ill-tempered cops to the west, mysteries in the east, and too muchcraziness here in the middle of nowhere. I imagine one could easily get lostfor a long time out here. Maybe nothing happened and I’ve been stoned andlaid out in the sand for a few hours. Maybe the bugs have been crawling overme all day. Maybe I’ve got to lay off that skunky beer, it gives me theheeby-jeebies. It probably was just a skunk induced funk. A frap on thepiddle.”
Zeke shuddered and shrugged. He reachedfor his riding bandana in his back pocket. As he yanked the bandana out ofhis pocket, a shower of glitter, sequins and feathers fell all around him.
“Wha’?” Zeke stood there gapejawed as the sparkling cloud swirled around him.
“Okay, okay, I guess something weirddid happened, somewhere out there, a kind of Chet Baker “Let’s Get Lost”sorta thing. Rudy and his crew, a magical desert oasis, and a nubile,neo-hippie nymphette with a sexual appetite that challenged his own. But Iain’t hanging around here to get the details.” The bird took flight ashe shook the bike back and forth. “And I’ve got nearly a full tank ofgas. I don’t know where I be goin’ but where ever it is, it beez’ scootin’ onthe Splooty. It’s a hell of a yazoo to two by four the poodle.”
Zeke eased his bike to the edge of theasphalt. To the left was L.A.- chaos, mayhem, rabid cops, and more than a fewpissed-off ex-girl friends and wives. To the right, the mysterious adventuresto the east- full-hipped Mid-western farmers wives, raw-boned truck stopwaitresses, sloe-eyed lustful southern belles, and tight-assed Manhattanthin-lipped socialites who love getting dirty in more ways than one.”There’s a harvest of hot honeys,” Zeke said out loud, to himself,”waitin’ out there for my hot, heathen, monkey love. Gotta’ fly.”
With that Zeke roared the bike to life,sent gravel aflyin’ and skidded on to the pavement, screaming to the east.The shards of sand and gravel pelted the bar’s porch. Two old geezers who saton wooden rockers on the porch were unphased by the staccato peppering ofrocks. Loopo McTood looked over to the old Indian.
“It’s going to be hot today,”McTood declared. “Hotter than a two-peckered billy-goat.”
“Hmmm,” the old Indian agreed.”And our visitor, Senor Zeke, will have a hot ride.”
“Hmmm,” McTood confirmed,”Hot indeed.”
They sun sent dancing ripples of heat upoff the pavement. A family of quail scurried to the cover of sagebrush. Ared-tailed hawk circled high above, fluttering his wings and dipping inanticipation of prey. A dust devil twisted and wiggled its erratic courseacross the desert plane. A black bug squirmed helplessly on the pointed endof a small birds beak. The desert settled down to its primordial routine.
Zeke was roaring on his way to anotherrompin’, stompin’, bike blastin’, cunt cosmic, hedonistic hell raisin’adventure??. the Zoot be on the Splooty, insert tab A into slot B, closecover before striking, ride with the wind.
