A tale

I stare at the evil across the table, glance at it's screen's reflection in the window to my left, and slowly let my feet slip out of the confines of said leather. I sniff the air for evidence of the move. All clear, not a bogey in sight. Don't be fooled. Deployment time. Take no prisoners and shoot to kill.


This is more of an interpretation than an actual recounting. At this point, I don't know what really happened, what didn't happen, or what I wished had happened. It has all ordered itself into one chaotic vortex of recollection, a sum of all parts, a never ending summation converging to this series of events. What I do know is half-way through the drive I was at a Subway. "Would you like that soda to be a large, sir?"
"You bet your ass."

That's right, I'm starting in the middle. I'm going to Tarantino this one.

But now we'll step back.
The night, or the day, began innocent enough. It would be Bruni, Adam, Me (BAM), and a few other incidentals in the car. To my knowledge, we had no source of directions, only Bruni's keen sense. Allegedly paradise sat near the fabled home to nothing but the "fourth largest printing factory in the US." Random Lake. Until this day, I'd been there merely once before, vowing never to return for Bruni's sleeping bag again.
Departure at 1645. It is now 1646. Call Junior. We can't make it in time, make it an on-the-fly pickup. I casually comment on the attractiveness of a glass of rum. Inherent innocence foreshadowing dark storm clouds rising above the horizon. We go out to the van twice. Once to get in, once to make sure the rum gets in too. Sitting in the last row of the van, the lucious spaciousness of the next row attracts my attention. The largest males are in the smallest spot.

No more than twenty minutes later I'm barely clothed, eyes zoomed in on that sweet, delicious blue crescendo of a stripe, teasing my neck hairs and keeping the air temperature glorious. Grace better not fucking touch that bitch. Second important turn, Bruni is indecisive, but the Bible on CD guides him through.
Soon, approaches the Gold Mine, nomenclature appropriate not just for the logo. There's a reason we found no cousin's at the last exit. This is fate. Walk in, let the aroma surround you, inhale, orgasm, exhale.
Subway. I order a sub. No flavor please. They comply. I want a fountain drink.
"Would you like that soda to be a large, sir?"
"You bet your ass."
Crumpling the wrappers to the worst sub every to pass the orifice resting on my cranium, I ask if maintaining the integrity of the cap is necessary. Bruni says yes. He would say that. We meet again. I kiss it. Then I pour it. A lot. Quivering lips approach the straw, opening a world of memories and times spent together, tears shed for time apart, and pain verbally induced on others. I hesitate as lips near the edge, it's now or never. I dive in and suck. Suck like never before. Suck like never again. Suck like it is my job. Suck because it is my job. Suck the Ron Diaz.
A brilliant white light strikes my eyes as the nectar slides o'er my teeth, dances across my lips, swims down my gullet and through the hatch. Making it's presence known at my external carotid artery, I wince as Ron reminds me of our symbiotic relationship. We dance in harmony as wind catches sail and together, skipper and topper, Slippe and Satch, make headway through The Voyage.
We pass a strip club in the shape of a pyramid. I take a picture. Adam promises return.
At this point, I am in a deep trance. At one with my rum.
I can't say exactly how long it took to arrive to Paradise, but when we did my hands followed my eyes to the sky as my knees fell to the ground.
Sunburst Ski Hill. A great place for beginners.
But this would be no ski trip. Not for these voyagers. This would be a trip of pure competition, man versus nature, an epic battle to the death via innertube.

Others go to ski, BAM head to The Lodge, put their asses on chairs nearest the bar. A fine young lady of about 49 approaches. Two coca-colas come back, then a third. At this point I execute my specialty. With the care of a third grader 30 seconds into summer vacation, I grab my coca-cola in one hand, and my seemingly empty subway container in the other, and announce my use of the men's room to all unoccupied surrounding tables. I must powder my nose. In a non-challant and non-committal way I tip my hat to the first person to make eye contact and trip upon entering the bathroom stall. Consolidation is made and I emerge with one hand free, a lean mean evil fighting machine. It is half-empty before I make it back to camp. Soon, Chris comes back. She assumes the label Suzanne, and I demand a Blue-moon. She brings back oranges and I watch her soft yet steely hands command the citrus juices into my beer. I make a comment, lost to the Ages. She takes a liking to me.
Soon, pint glasses are no longer of interest. Bring me a real enemy to vanquish, but let Adam pay for it. I will devour it sans remorse.
His credit card doesn't work? Yes, I will gladly put it on mine.
The hour comes upon us, Suzanne formerly known as Chris alerts us of 30 meager minutes remaining for hill conquerance. Saddle up. On the path to the battleground, a large black object careens into the author and he realizes it's a human. The large black living object commands us to acquire a proper stallion and to not pay. We approach our ride up the will with much trepidation. This will be a test of wills. Play it cool, Mix. Keep that style you're known for. Bingo. She checks for Claude's ticket in front and the small child behind. Free ride up the hill and a gigantic target in front of me. Snowballs rapidly erupt from my canon, knocking 17 hits before adam pulls himself together. We trade throws, he doesn't come close. He's too busy letting go, just doing it. We ride down the hill and it's not that good. It's only the company keeping us from the bar. We ride three more times, maybe less. I declare a reunion tour is in order, and we make a triumphant return to Suzanne's domain. She serves us loyally and without complaint, just as I knew she would.
We allegedly remount our trusty white steed and head for the homestead, not before a slight shuffle of the internal layout, and this is where it ends. I know not what happens next. Various moments poke out to me, several involving adam's head and my shoulder, but none the notorious pyramid. Before several tears but after many shouts we dock in the parking lot, and so does one of the whiskey bottles to be removed from cement 18 hours later. Distraught, I leave my camera in the van. And now I want it back.