VII. The Chariot.

A Farm—EVENING

I wander dark hall in a remote farmhouse outside of the city. There is some sort of fetish party going on. I am not sure how or why I would get invited to this.

It is a large sprawling place. A modern compound and not a sort of antebellum plantation. As I walk down the hall with my champagne, I am disgusted by the contents of every room I pass. In one is what seems an innocuous banquet table; but I soon frown at ground beef shaped like genitals and quickly move on. In the next room scantily clad women pleasure themselves with tongues cut from butchered horse’s heads. In another room a woman is shoving sausages up her ass.

“Congratulations,” she says, opening the little door wider for me to enter, “You’ve won 35 snakes!”

I am nauseous and try each door for A: One that is unlocked, B: One that is not hiding some worse sex-act, and C. One which will let me out of this maze-like house.

At length, I find a door that seemingly leads not to another room but instead leads directly outside without fanfare or even steps. As if a planned wing or dogtrot was never completed.

The stars shine brightly overhead in the dusky sky. My old black Impala, as are the other guests’ cars, is parked in the grassy field in front of the compound, I and stealthily march towards it trying not to call attention to myself. I quickly pop the trunk and throw my bag. A guy lingering on the porch spots me and saunters over. I recognize him as Spike, one of Andrea’s hunky douche bag guy-friends that I don’t trust and wish she didn’t have. I am not surprised to see him at this depraved meat party. The gold chains in his open shirt flash in the thin moonlight. I try to ignore him but as I reach the driver’s side door he calls out.

“Hey, Frank! Don’t leave there’s a girl I want to set you up with.”

“Huh?” is my well-crafted response, “I seriously doubt that.”

His interest, I imagine is to wreck things with Andrea. I know he is of the general opinion that the beautiful people of the world should be a well-kept reproductive harem class serviced by the uggo ilk such as myself. He’s described his world view to me at social gatherings before. Anyway, he makes his pitch.

“She’s very pretty. Very pretty. Seriously. In fact, she’s actually here to meet me.” He grins, “But, well, she's not that pretty.”

“I see.” I jingle my keys and motion towards the car door to leave. He grabs me by the shoulder.

“Still, she’s great for you. I set her up with your number to get rid of her. That is, when you show up as me, she realizes that I am a jerk and not the handsome stud she remembers and never bothers me again.”

“Fun.”

“Or, I mean, maybe she just likes you instead?”

“Please intercept the girl and call this off. I am not interested. Not in her. Not in any of this.”

“Just go with it, Frank. The farmer and the people that own the farm won’t let anyone leave, anyway.”

I shake my head at this. They won’t let me leave? Bah.

I round the car and scowl at some strange symbols that I realize have been written on the driver’s side window in soap. Okay, now I am unnerved a bit. I am rusty on hieroglyphs, but will look them up later. For now, I cup my hands over my eyes to look inside. All is quiet. I quickly get in gets inside. Spike tears off back to the house. Cackling. Smiling.

“Run, Frank! Run!”

I turn the key in the ignition but it doesn’t start. I try several times in a sweat. Meanwhile through the windshield, I can see what seem to be a farmer and his clan moving in from the fields brandishing pitchforks, shovels, and the like. The farmer’s dogs are much faster than the people and are soon snarling and biting at the car door outside. Finally the car turns over.

“Ah-ha!”

At this instant; however, the farmer hands are also on top of my car, smashing windows with their tools, clawing at the doors and screaming for me to get out. I gulp and slide it into gear, but it is slow to warm up and chugs sluggishly.

“Come, on, baby!”

I talk to the car soothingly and jerk the wheel as it warms up and moves ever faster and faster. The farmer hands begin to fall or move off the car and run to tractors and pick-ups to pursue me. My car, back at full power, now tears through the yard and unto the driveway. I press the gas for dear life, and am soon on the main road, with the farmers’ sub-par vehicles losing ground.

“I’m gonna make it!” I smile.

On the slick road behind me, I see one of the trucks skids and takes out two of the tractors. I look in the rear view mirror— The big moon now hangs in the sky— and laugh, and then turn back to see a black truck pull out of a side road ahead of me. I slam on the brakes.