Words from the author:

This story takes place on July 12 – 14 in the year 2002. The events in this story are mostly FACT, with a tiny bit of exaggeration thrown in here and there to either confuse the audience or provide them with a more enjoyable read—it is your choice. Be forewarned: There are no plot, no themes, and no moral decisions to be found in this tale. Frankly, it’s about three bums who go to Ohio. That is all.

Part One: In which Southern Illinois hates and makes fun of us.

“Hngor…mufmblrig…abnmur…*snort*”

Huron, Ohio was still ten hours away. Actually, we hadn’t left yet, but I was quite certain I was going to die before we even got underway. In the basement of Josh’s fortress headquarters, on a couch with a Jackson Indians throw-blanket pulled over my head—that would be my final resting place. My killer? Whatever the hell was making those awful noises behind me. I was fairly certain it was Josh, who was sleeping on the other couch, but I couldn’t be sure and I wasn’t going to make an attempt to look behind me or make any other sudden movements, for fear of being eaten up.

So I didn’t fall asleep for another three hours solely on account of sheer, unimaginable terror. And I never did find out if Josh was making those noises, or if they were just ambient house noises. I was too afraid to ask, in the event that such a question may reveal a hidden, dangerous secret and cost me my life.

Fortunately, I did live through the night and woke up to the surprise that MT bought us some cherry turnovers and other breakfast pastries. Knowing Mike, I’m sure that by buying us this food, he was secretly implying, “Don’t forget… you’re taking my Buick on this trip.” I was suddenly very frightened, but the secret message didn’t stop Josh from spilling stuff in the Buick and walking in mud before we even departed for Jonny Reno’s house on the other side of town. What a slob.

Now Jon’s house is known for its very well-stocked provisions, and it had become a custom to feast at Jon’s house upon every visit—even if the purpose of the visit was to hastily pick up Jon and be on our way. However, as it was the custom, we arrived, feasted, and laughed heartily at Jon as he toiled alone to load his things into the car. He later poisoned our drinks in clever, yet barbaric retaliation, but Josh and I are JUST TOO FAT to be affected by such a miniscule amount of toxin. As punishment for his ignoble deed, Jon had to sit in the backseat for the majority of the trip.

Artist's Rendition: Lava man humidifier salesman.

We stopped for a bite at the Taco John’s in Anna, Illinois, where an intellectual discussion—what it would look and sound like should a rat reproduce asexually—was held over a Six Pack and a Pound and whatever it was that Jon ate.

Imagine if you will a lab rat about to meet its doom in some terrible laboratory experiment. As the rat desperately seeks a means of survival, it emits a howl and splits into two smaller, equally-sized rats, one of which is taken for the experiment, while the other lives to asexually reproduce another day. The people sitting in the booth behind us moved to the other side of the restaurant. We just enjoyed the thought of a rat yowling and splitting into two rats. It doesn’t make us weird or anything.

 

 

Artist's Rendition: The asexual reproduction of a rat.

Interstate 57 was a grim amalgamation of trees, traffic, law enforcement officers, more trees, and extremely rude signs. There was an incredible amount of traffic for a non-holiday weekend, all of it going faster than we were. However, the numerous law enforcement officers patrolling the route frightened us Missouri foreigners into traveling the 65 mile per hour speed limit, a speed limit that would haunt us over the course of the entire trip.

We were especially angered by the rude signs that insulted us with crude, subliminal messages. One of the signs read, “Sesser, 1 mile.”

Watch out, Brett!

“Did you see that sign?” Josh asked.

“What, Sesser?” said Jon from the backseat.

“Yeah, as in, ‘Sex her.’ You know who that’s making fun of, don’t you? Brett Price. Southern Illinois has it out for us.” We rolled up the windows.

This was totally uncalled for.

Shortly thereafter, we passed a sign reading “Lick Creek, 1 mile.” Look Southern Illinois, I don’t know what you have against three bums in a stolen Buick and their friend, Brett Price, but you need to lay off. Nobody tells us to lick creek. Nobody.

One bathroom break later, at a small convenience store somewhere between Lick Creek and the next derogatory settlement, I took the wheel. Minutes later, we were overturned in a ditch outside of Effingham. All right, so that didn’t happen, but we did find interstate 70 and threw a small party because interstate 57 is one of the more boring roads I have encountered in the United States.

Unfortunately, we soon learned I-70 is another one of the U.S.’s most boring roads (at least in Illinois, anyway. It’s rather awesome out west). Scenery was about as bland (less trees, more nothing), and the highway is constantly plagued with road construction. On one of my previous encounters with I-70, there was a delay of an hour and a half, but that is a different, less eventful tale.

Artist's Rendition: Van hauling a captured Brain Bug.

Upon crossing the Indiana border, we arrived in Terre Haute, where a van with a curious green blob lashed to its roof passed us on the left.

“Heh heh, I’d say that van just captured the Brain Bug,” Josh cited from shotgun, as the blob bared an uncanny resemblance to that big gross thing from Starship Troopers.

Out of nowhere, or the backseat, rather, Jon said simply, “Foolish Brain Büg,” in a way that only Jon can, inciting riotous laughter. I almost drove the car off a bridge, and I was really getting sick of the road construction, so we began looking for a place to stop and rest and change drivers.

Artist's Rendition: Giant grub. Truck shown to scale.

“Man, this town really stinks,” said Josh of the overpowering stench.

“It’s probably because of that giant grub over there.” I pointed out a large, oblong, white-domed structure that looked very much like a giant grub. It was definitely time to pull over now.

On to Part Two >