How long we were on the bus, I couldn't say for sure, but it
must have been some days. The infernal whispering in my
head never stopped, but at some point, I came out of my
trance just enough to hear Bacchus imploring the driver to
allow him and Miss Vicky to leave the bus and stretch their
legs a bit.
"No," replied the pilot in an emotionless, yet commanding
monotone. "Return to your station. You will comply!"
As toga boy slunk back to his seat, tail between his legs, I
came to my senses enough to realize that If 6 Were 9 (or
rather Madame) and I, along with the rest of the "seekers,"
were strapped into our seats with tubes from the ceiling
attached to our mouths.
We were being force fed "Borgundy..."
I struggled against my restraints, which weren't that all that
secure, perhaps because of our sedated state. Almost by reflex,
I reached down into my knapsack and extracted a Canusi
(already punched) and lit up.
Almost immediately, I was invigorated by the cigar's gobs of
rich leathery smoke, and began to regain my senses, as did
Madame and those close enough to benefit from the 2nd hand
smoke. It began to dawn on me that something was seriously
amiss, and that this wasn't what we'd signed on for, but I
never had time to ponder that ominous possibility.
The pilot howled with rage and ordered Bacchus to extinguish
my flame. The sniveling minion immediately approached me in
a threatening manner, but I stopped him in his tracks with a
well aimed blow to the forehead from a Rodent Ridge bottle.
He shook his head, quickly regaining his senses, and sneered,
"Nice try, you bastard."
"That's Bastardo," I corrected him as I struck again, this
time
laying him low.
I had no time to savor my victory however; the driver was
now advancing towards me.
He was no longer wearing the
hooded over-garment, and I could see that he was covered
from head to toe with some kind of leather body armor. His
skin color was ashen and there were tubes running from a
bulging area around his mid-section directly into his neck.
He was mainlining a constant supply of Borgundy.
He was on me before I could act, and with inhuman strength,
forced me back into my seat whilst extinguishing the offending
islander. As he did so, he droned, "I am the Overborg.
Resistance is futile. You will be inebriated."
He strapped me down more securely, and as he began to
reattach the feeding tube, it looked as if things would end
badly.
Just then, the door of the bus swung open, and the Canadian
Wine Wankers stormed aboard, hurling raw hamburg and
turmeric at my adversary. He turned his attention towards the
wild Canucks just as a volley of steak tartar caught him flush
in the face. Before he could recover, he was assaulted by 300
lbs. of of fury and muscle, as K-J, K-mus and Turdley, Bree's
canine cavalry, bounded past the Canadians and tore into him
like he was so much Science Diet. The force of their attack
drove him back the full length of the bus and out the
emergency window. The last I saw of that hideous form was
his retreat from the unrelenting Dobermans, one rended tube
spewing Borgundy wildly.
As the Canadian Zinmonger helped me from my restraints, I
flashed on the fact that I never would have thought that I
would be so happy to see the swarthy Brit's face. I arsked him
how he managed to control the savage Dobermans, and he
replied, "Easy, mate, good Canadian beef!" He added,
"Good
thinking leaving the paper trail; that Monopoly money will go
a long way back home."
As the "seekers" began to recover, there was a brilliant glow
from behind the No Tell Motel, and a craft that resembled
nothing so much as a flying doughnut lifted quickly into the air
and disappeared with stunning speed.
The lads returned shortly, walking with exaggerated swaggers
and carrying large chunks of leather in their mouths like
trophies.
They're fine beasts.
More later . . .
B
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