The Mallard God Complex (13)

13. Little Pistol

            Deep in the pine forests that hide beyond the edges of the desert there is a shack. There’s not much to it other than a few ramshackle boards pieced together by ill-placed nails. It looks as though it was built with a heavy hand, and an even heavier dose of whiskey. Windows are at odd angles where no windows should go, the door seems to tilt as if it has had a little too much to drink, and the porch threatens to swallow up anyone who makes an ill step. The house screams a thousand ‘building code’ violations at anyone who happens to pass by.

            The forest stretches for miles around, and the only road leading to the shack is a dilapidated one composed of potholes and boulders large enough to sink a ship. On the side of this road soldier pines stand as sentinels for passersby. It would be claustrophobic if it weren’t for the one strip of air that has managed to hang on just above the road. Even the strongest of trees can’t grow from the stuff that cars spew out of their exhaust pipes.

            It is this little strip that I focus on as the car barrels down the road. I have never been one for forests (much like many other things ordinary people take pleasure in). The whole idea of them bothers me. Creepy crawlies and the spawn of nightmares hide just beyond the road’s edge, using thickets to plot ways to kill me. Anything with a hardened carapace and more than two legs deserves to die a horrible death. Beetles roam the forest as if it is their supermarket. “Green woodland trash 90% off from today until the end of time. Come now before it’s gone!” They hurry to the forest like there is no tomorrow, giving them the appearance of always being in a rush.

            The idea of beetles I suppose is fine, but it’s that sense of hurriedness that does it. Who in their right mind could be in that state of awareness all the time?! Where could they possibly be going? Their pea brains constantly tell them that there is an important beetle meeting they must attend, but for reasons unbeknownst to them it is always on the opposite end of the forest. “Just slow down for a minute! Take in the sights! The forest may be horrible, but it’s less horrible than having so much damn ambition!” I want to scream out the window as we rumble on. I don’t do it, but I wish I had.

            As if that’s not enough, the forest is filled with caterpillars. I’ve said enough about them for a lifetime, and so I will say nothing more other than I hate those little fuckers. The car begins to slow and ahead of us there is a cabin, just as I had pictured it in my head. The out-of-sorts exterior sends my mind into a spiral of the possibilities that could rest inside.

            As we pull out I can hear the distant echo of guitar riffs playing from inside the cabin. The familiar crunch of ‘Burnin’ for You’ hums through the air as if it were pre-destined to hang there. Blue Oyster Cult was one of the first rock bands I was ever introduced to and the sound of their music always manages to bring me to an angsty comfort that reminds me of my teenage eyars. Whoever owns this place couldn’t be that bad, he listens to The Cult.

            “Well, we’re here.”

            “Dead end, spooky cabin in the woods, guitar music, seems like as good a place as any for a tea party.”

            “Now you’re getting it.” He says distractedly, getting out of the car. He steps into the dim, green sunlight streaming between the tree branches. It’s close to evening now and the sky is growing dimmer with every minute. Thinking back on it I am reminded of how long the past day has been. Who I was at the beginning would likely have questions for who I am now, but that’s a problem for another time.

            “Is this any way to greet guests you ungrateful bog-goblin?!” The greeting hangs, unanswered in the air. Snake stands his ground and waits for a reply. The music stops in an instant and there are grumbled replies from inside. I almost expect the man in the cabin to be truly part goblin, but the truth is unfortunately ordinary.

            His hair reaches well below his waist. His waist only stands roughly two feet above the ground. The upper half of his body is quite a bit larger than the bottom half, giving him a lanky appearance. Grey streaks run through what was once probably a shade of brown in his hair. Wrapped around his head is a tie die bandana which is doing a poor job of keeping said hair out of his eyes. It only succeeds in tangling with his blue-tint aviators. The sixties spewed him into the forest and he grew roots.  

            “Who are you calling a goblin you incomprehensible halfwit? I’ve had catfish with better eyesight than you!”

            “Catfish are blind.” Snake says, turning to me, making sure that I am aware that this man is insulting him. I don’t much see the point in it, but then again there hasn’t been much point to the entire day. It’s really just been one long mind-fuck sewn together with brief acts of violence and vicious introspection. Sometimes I wonder whether or not my life would make a good novel, and then I file that idea with all of the other brilliant ones in a grey drawer where no one will ever find them.

            “The boy’s not half as dumb-looking as I thought he’d be, and that’s saying something. Are you sure you can keep up with this one?” There’s a playful edge to his voice now. He’s toying with Snake, and he’s enjoying it. The same cannot be said for Snake as his tone quickly turns to annoyed.

            “Look, cut the crap Lloyd, we need to get inside quick. It’s getting dark and I don’t want to be out here when it does.” Lloyd is taken aback by the forwardness of his statement. He clearly expected the confrontation to last longer, and I can see the disappointment written on his face. A million unused insults now sidle back into the crevices of his brain, waiting for the next battle.

            “Alright then. Come inside.”

            Inside is strange in the sense that it’s normal. There’s nothing terribly off about it. The floor slants significantly in one direction, which has led to a collection of marbles and other rounded objects at the far end of the main room, but other than that nothing is out of the ordinary. Covering the walls are various tie die prints, mixed in with animal paintings and marquee heads from metal bands long since conformed to the mainstream. In one corner there is a record player not too dissimilar from the one I had a short time ago. It seems to be a little bit older, but that may just be from use.

            Hanging above the hearth is the largest gun I have ever seen. I would call it an elephant gun, but that would make it seem too small. The barrel is wide enough for me to stick my entire head inside and still have room to move. It’s about three feet in length and burly like a lumberjack. The bullets are standing beside it on the hearth and look more like artillery shells than anything else. “Do much hunting?” I ask sarcastically.

            They both look at me blankly as if I have said something offensive. The silence hangs in the air for a moment and then they burst out laughing. Warmth flushes to my cheeks. “Trust me, you’ll be thankful for that if your friend here really has reason to be scared.”

            “You couldn’t even lift it off the mantle you old coot!” In a flash the gun is off of the mantle, loaded and pointed right at snake’s face. Buried deep in the varicose veins of our hippy friend is a warrior, lean and ready for action. He was faster than I had previously thought to be possible. There’s another brief pause and they’re laughing again. Snake is pouring a drink from an unlabeled jug and the older man is putting on a record.

            Three guns and one goes off, one’s empty, one’s not quick enough. Plays through the air, followed by a deep bass note. The music is strange but enticing. He turns it down to a low volume and takes a seat in a faded brown armchair. “So what’s your business? You need something, or your in deep. Judging by the entrance and the fear of nightfall I’m going to guess the latter. What have you gone and got yourself into now?”

            “Can’t I just pay an old friend a visit?”

            “Well that would be nice, but you did say to cut the crap…”

            “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, he’s on our trail…”

            “Oh. Well, that really is a pickle isn’t it? How much does the boy know about him?”

            “Much more than he should.” They continue to talk as if I am not standing right next to them. I have not been called a boy in many years and I find that it makes me feel petulant. Oddly enough being called childish names makes me want to behave even more like a child. I cock my heel out to the side and stare at them angrily.

            “Ah well that’s unfortunate. How long has he been on your trail?” I intensify the glare hoping to get some sort of reaction from them, or at least be included in the conversation. “If you keep staring like that you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Have a seat, take a load off, you’re not dead yet! Now Bob, how long has it been tracking you?”

            “Bob?!” I blurt out. “Your name is Bob?!”

            “What did he tell you it was?”

            “He never told me. He just said to call him Snake…” They burst out laughing again as if this is some old joke that I am not aware of.

            “And you did it? Wow, you really need his help don’t you?” It had seemed reasonable at the time. We had been about to assault a preacher in a church full of the faithful, what a better name than Snake?

            “Give it a rest old-timer. He’s been on us for about a day now. Don’t know how he found us, but he’s already made one attempt. It’s just lucky I got there in time.”

            “Jesus. Well this is a pickle. I’m not sure what I can do to help you, but name it and it’s yours.”

            “We just need to lie low for a few days, stay off of his radar. I don’t think he would have been able to track us through the woods.”

            “Not my woods anyhow.”

            “What makes them so special?” I mention wishing I could take the words back as I say them. Lloyd is glaring at me with disapproval.

            “My woods are filled to the brim with all sorts of creatures. Each living thing is like a bright point of light on a black map. When they are all clustered into a small area as the creatures in these woods have become, it is impossible to tell them from us. To anyone looking we are just an amorphous white blob of light.”

            “All the same we should make preparations.” Says Bob.

            “Alright. There’s not much time. Sun is going to be below the farthest treetops in one hour. We’d better get to work.” They both stand and walk out to the front of the cabin. Blindly I follow them.  

            Outside red light is streaming in from the canopy. Splotches of light are cornered by increasing patches of darkness. The trees may provide cover from the hot sun, but down here they also shorten the day by a few hours. Twilight remains for hours in the forest, permanently halfway between light and dark. In the distance I hear the cry of an animal that I am unfamiliar with, but sounds aggravated, and like it might have millions of teeth.