As he was sucked into the void he relived key moments from his past: receiving tenure at Goucher; earning his black belt in Okinawa; being shot at the café for the crime of studying for his term paper there; watching Buster Tell knock out Simon Green’s teeth in a street fight in Hamilton; drinking soda on the boardwalk with his sister down in Ocean City; and being torn from a cozy place into a cold world…
He experienced a limitless period of repose during which he could not think, factor, dream, sense his own physical presence; or make noise. He drifted knowingly and forever without substance or even an ego. Eventually though came the roaring portal of light and he was sucked outward into being through what seemed the sun itself.
He felt his heel being grounded as he was struck by lightning, and there he stood, in a wooded thicket with a Hindu Cole Younger and Henry the stoned heroin addict. He felt somewhat sick but would be fine. Randy sat Henry down on a fallen tree and handed him what he claimed was two thousand dollars while Jan put the hoop back in his briefcase. The psychopath then patted the nodding addict on the head, stood straight and got his hillbilly bearings, and led off toward what he claimed was the spot where they had parked. As they walked off Henry could be heard mumbling through drool, “Where you goin’ Slam?”
That poor bastard!
He could not contain himself and grabbed Randy by the shoulder and turned him around, only to be looking down the muzzle of a derringer.
Oh shit!
Oh shit nothing—you are still the team leader and you are right!
“Randy, put that gun away and explain your-self!”
“Oh yes, sorry Sensei—just a reflexive reaction—sorry. Oh yes, Henry, I had him tested and he is not HIV positive so we don’t have to worry about him spreading the gay plague in the past. Really, he was going to OD soon enough and he gets busted all the time. Back here, he can get various opiates that will not kill him as easily and not be persecuted for his addiction by the Nanny State. He’ll find his way. Don’t worry Sensei, addicts are resourceful…I should know.”
With an apparently crystal clear conscience Randy turned and continued on his way and Jan followed, questioning him as they progressed across the rough woodland ahead, “So what’s with ‘Slam’? Is that your White Supremacist name?”
“A man can’t hide the truth from you for long Sensei. The etymology to be exact goes something like this—it is so very disturbing that he is highly intelligent—I was a platform member of BASH; an acronym for Baltimore Area Skin Heads. We weren’t known for our creativity. They called me Skewer then because I used to stab mookes with shish kabob skewers. Then when I joined the 4th Reich in Arbutus I slammed a lot of mookes with bats, and hence earned the more honorable sobriquet ‘Slam’ which I retained even after I founded Аrуаn Rock. That Sensei is the Story of Slam.”
Good God. I thought the mission demands would elevate him from his criminal habits but the worst in him has just been reinforced.
Well, he might not be the ‘best’ but he is in the running for ‘brightest’.
They found a dirt track that ran roughly as Eastern Avenue would in the future. They followed the track west to a riverside farm and ferry where there would be a bridge and park-and-ride in a bustling future. Ahead they could see a man resting on a long pole on a hillside above a flat raft or mini-barge, watching disgustedly at a steamer take a work gang across the river while his wife hung out clothes to dry in front of their bed and breakfast.
Randy turned to him. “What say you we give this poor old dude some work?”
“Sure, just don’t call him ‘dude’. I think that word has connotations similar to the inferences implicit in the term ‘gay’ in our time.”
Randy reached in his vest pocket and produced a gold Swiss watch on a chain that must have retailed for $5,000 and approached the ferryman. “Hey old-timer, this fancy watch for a trip over: how about it?”
The man spent some time examining the watch then nodded ‘yes’ and they headed down to his raft.
Jan could not help himself. “How much did that piece set you back?”
“A crowbar—so that would be eighteen-ninety-nine to the capitalist parasites at Wal-Mart plus tax for ass-raping neo-socialist Uncle Sam.”
“What?”
"I didn’t expect that old Jew prick to be sleeping upstairs, and I didn’t want to kill him, so I grabbed a few of these and left him the crowbar. I’ve got a brass one, two silver ones and another gold one—watches are still commonly pawned items you know.”
Jesus help me!—I mean please? He is ethically all over the place.
When they made the top of the far bank above the cattails he decided to stop and take inventory. “How many hours until we hit the city?”
“Canton is still farmland Sensei. We basically have to walk to the inner harbor down this rutted track—so I’d say two hours before we are in the brownstone zone.”
“Do you have anything that spends other than watches?”
“Yes sir. When I was casing the old Jew’s shop I bought up all of his old silver and gold—cost me twenty-grand Sensei—the motherfucker made out in the end. So I’ve got a few dozen silver dollars and a dozen twenty-dollar gold pieces, a mess of Indian head nickels and pennies. That’s it.”
Jan opened his case and laid the contents out on the green grass: a book by Burton, a book about Burton, the capacitator, and six one-ounce silver ingots. As Randy whistled he pulled out a leather pouch from his vest pocket and opened it to reveal a pound of gold nuggets. Jan had also spent much of his generous salary on making sure he would arrive in the past a wealthy man. Randy’s wheels were already turning a profit, “Sensei we should convert the silver and gold to coin to take back with us. We’ll make a killing at the pawn shops. We can use the watches and my coin for our spending money—just tap into your gold for the ship passage.”
Jan was pleased that his sidekick had some business sense. “Sounds like a plan.”
