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Chapter 6
Castle Vania — Our limo was the dimly lit hose and the looming night was a colonoscopy patients’ rectum.
When I woke, Owl was gone and there seemed to be some excitement among the schlubs who were now tailing us. Based on their speed, I don’t think they’ve been this wound up since the great importation of soap in 2001.
One of the schlubs looked like a hobo version of Stalin. He was riding parallel to Gonzo on a Romanian Chariot, urging him to speed up. The engine’s renewed growl was met with wild cries of encouragement from the schlubs and their disheveled dictator leader. Through the rectal darkness I could see a patch of ass-grey light ahead, as though there were a Vampierlla’s costume-like cleft in the hills. The excitement of the schlubs grew greater and sweatier.
The mountains seemed to come nearer on each side and frowned down upon us like an unhappy customer at Wendy’s.
We were entering the Borgo Pass.
The limo stopped. Gonzo came on the intercom.
“They want give gifts” he said. I had trouble understanding him. I had no problem doing so earlier but now he sounded like the rest of the local color. Did I actually speak to him and the doctor? Was my driver’s name even Gonzo?
I reluctantly rolled down my window as the reenactment of a Depression-era bread line formed. One by one several of the schlubs offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with the earnestness of a Jewish grandmother. The gifts were of an odd variety, but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing. After I thanked them for their gift, the schlubs mimicked the fear-mongering movements I saw outside the Krone–the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.
Hobo Stalin was the last of them. He peered at me for a good moment or two before saying anything.
“This picture of child. Ugly enough to repel mighty Cthulu. Please. Put in wallet.”
“I don’t think I have room”.
“Put in wallet. You do that now.”
“Well no, I …”
“Put in wallet. Put in wallet!”
“Ok. Ok. I can, well, I guess I can take out this picture of my wife.”
“I take.”
“No. You don’t. This is my wife. And …”
“I take”. Hobo Stalin snatched the photo from my fingers and began to shuffle away.
How do I explain this to Mina? “You remember that photo of you dressed like Sarah Palin? Yeah. The one where you’re hogtied with the duct tape over your mouth? *Sigh*. Yes. The one no one was supposed to know about. Well … this disheveled gentleman decided to borrow it. No. I didn’t ask for it back. He looked like Stalin, who knows what he’s capable of?”
I never had a chance to get my photo back. Gonzo started to pull away as Hobo Stalin scurried to safety. As we flew along the road, Gonzo leaned forward and peered eagerly into the darkness.
At last we saw before us the pass opening on the eastern side like a mall for elderly walkers. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder and racism. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and we were about to receive the shitty one.
I wondered what vehicle Dracula would send to get me. Would it be as luxurious as this limo? Or would it be as dilapidated as an aging Ford Windstar?
I anticipated the sight of headlights through the blackness, but the only lights thus far were the flickering rays of our limo’s as we crawled to another stop. The steam from the schlubs hard-driven Romanian Chariots rose in a white cloud. I could see the sandy road lying white before us, but there were no signs of life.
The schlubs drew back with a sigh of gladness, the kind that follows when that odd person decides not to sit by you on the bus. The kind of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment.
I was thinking about tackling Hobo Stalin when Gonzo got out and walked over to join them. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. It was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone, that I could only guess. For all I know, it could have been, “Why is it this time every year, I have to poop in a bag?”
Then, walking back to me, he said, “No car. You not expected after all. We go to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or next day, better next day.” While he was speaking the schlub’s Romanian Chariots started to neigh and snort and plunge wildly.
Amongst a chorus of screams from the schlubs and a universal crossing of themselves, a Volvo S60 R drove up beside us.
I could see from the flash of the lamps that the Volvo was silver and the license plate read, “Suckers”. The car was driven by what a hack would describe as an impossibly beautiful man.
As he approached our limo he put on a great black hat, sort of like the one J.R. used to wear on Monday Night Raw. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright topaz eyes, which seemed to have a hint of red in the car light.
“You are early, my bulky friend. And lucky. I just fixed my DVR and was able to record Gilmore Girls. If I missed it, you would have paid dearly.”
Gonzo stammered, “Harker John was in hurry. He wanted to catch you … before … before show aired … to tell you it sucks!”
The schlubs gasped and then began to hoot like a high school fight crowd. I got out of the limo, hoping to seize the opportunity and get Mina’s picture back from Hobo Stalin.
The alleged Adonis glared, as if ordering me to stay where I was. He turned his attention back to Gonzo, “Gilmore Girls had limitless potential! The bashing of Lauren Graham is against our law. That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina, so I would not kill him for his insolence. You cannot deceive me, my husky friend. I know too much, and my Volvo is swift.”
The driver smiled like a starlet as the schlub’s lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth. The driver had very red, full lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of the schlubs muttered, “For the dead travel fast in compact executive sedans.”
The strange driver evidently heard the words, looking up at the schlub with a gleaming, “I start my morning banging Halle Berry” smile. The schlub turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. Hobo Stalin had emerged from the crowd at the right moment. The schlub punched him in the shoulder and asked if he had anymore photos of his ugly child.
“Give me Harker John’s luggage,” said the driver. The schlubs complied and placed my bags into the Volvo’s trunk “And this … photo that he is so concerned with”. Hobo Stalin came forward with the photo. I can swear I didn’t see the driver move, but suddenly he was holding the picture and admiring it.
“This is your wife?”
“Ye … Yeah?”
“You choose to carry this photo instead of a more respectable one?”
“I have the “respectable” ones on my iPhone.”
“Do you also have this on your iPhone?”
“No. You should never put porn on your iPhone.”
” True!” he laughed. The driver patted me on the back, approving of my comment. With each pat I felt my shoulder was going to pop out of place.
The driver pointed menacingly at Gonzo before opening our car doors. The car started with the stereo cranked to what the driver informs me is his favorite song, “Without Me” by Eminem, sung in Klingon.
Without the hat, my driver looks like Robert Pattinson. Maybe he wore it to keep from giving autographs?
The car turned, and we swept into the darkness of the pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from the schlub’s chariots by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. Hobo Stalin was being consoled by Gonzo.
As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill come over me. As if reading my mind, a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees. The driver said in excellent English–”The night is chill and my master encouraged me take care of you. If you’d like, we can even watch Gilmore Girls when we reach Castle Vania. And if you are hungry, there is a bag from the Unfriendly’s in Bistritz on the seat next to you.”
“There’s an Unfriendly’s in Bistritz? I didn’t see it.” My new driver didn’t miss a beat, ” The owner is selective as to whom he serves his Hate Burgers and Go Fudge Yourself chocolate fries. For you, I have obtained both.”
I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there. Those Go Fudge Yourself fries are legendary.
I felt strange and a little frightened, which is how I felt at the gay leather club my not straight friends took me to. I think, had there been any alternative, both that night and right now, I would have taken it. The Volvo went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road.
“Do you know what I find disingenuous Harker John?”
“What?”
“Casper, the friendly ghost.” I can see him snarling with contempt at the mention of Casper’s name. “He’s a ghost, and by all accounts, not a very good one. I read his Wikipedia page countless times, and every time I read it, I can’t get over the part where it says he got bored of scaring people. I can only imagine he was very bad at his duty and quite possibly the worst ghost in all of Cthulu’s creation.”
“But children love Casper. Except those 3D films. No one likes 3D versions of 2D cartoons.”
“Agreed; however, children shouldn’t love Casper. They should fear him. He is a dead child. Dead from his own stupidity, and now he spends all his time hanging out with impressionable children. What kind of message does that send to them?
His voice made a smooth transition into a Midwestern American accent, “It’s going to be ok kids if Daddy puts you in an experimental aircraft and you fall out. Everything will be fine because you get to hang out with your friends all day and have no responsibilities in the afterlife.”
“You have a point.”
“Now, Stretch, Fatso, and Stinky. They were masters of their domain, and the type of ghouls one can be proud of. They hated humans, and they enjoyed their jobs of scaring people. It is what a ghost does best as anything else is an abomination against their design.”
I didn’t bring up our firm’s employment of ghosts. If he loses his shit over things like the Gilmore Girls, that information might turn him into Jeffrey Dahmer.
“Ghosts are imperfect. I detest them, but I detest friendly ghosts most of all. Should you encounter one during your stay here, I trust you will keep this in mind.”
It seemed we were simply going over and over the same ground again. We would veer wildly into the woods, and the driver would begin the conversation again, regardless of how I replied to him.
“Do you know what I find disingenuous?”
“The use of soap in Eastern Europe?”
“Do you know what I find disingenuous?”
“Giving standardized tests to students to measure their growth and development arbitrarily?
“Do you know what I find disingenuous?”
“People who like the American version of The Office?”
I took note of the loop. Somehow I got stuck on the universe’s mix CD and it’s skipping badly.
I would have liked to ask the driver what this all meant, but I feared to do so. Thankfully, I found by muttering “Hmm” in the right spot, the driver would continue his rant.
A dog began to howl stupidly in the distance. It was a long, agonized wail as if it learned it would be trapped in a high school health class for eternity. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another. Born on the wind which now sighed softly through the pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp.
It was within a few minutes of midnight according to my iPhone. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense, fearing the schlubs and townspeople were right to warn me. Maybe I should have hit Gonzo up for another pair of jeans?
-John
FYI: Piss off an environmentalist in three easy steps: 1. Find someone out for a walk. 2. Drive up to them. 3. Roll down your window and yell, “Get a car, hippie!”
