The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Hijacked in Your Own Truck

Previously: "A Kind of Artillery Volley" 

This wasn't the way you thought you'd get out to the Warehouse. But if this pert-yet-sultry redhead wants to invite you, who are you to argue?

"Uh, sure," you blurt out as you scramble to your feet.

"You're friends with Ellie and them?" she asks as you follow her back over to the bar.

"I know them."

"Cool."

It's only when you've joined the crowd that you recognize it's a mostly Eastman affair, judging by the letterman jackets most of the guys are wearing, which are in Eastman colors. This gives you pause—you've be allergic to jocks most of your life—but none of them seem about to grab and punch you, so you decide not to panic just yet. Mostly they're just laughing and jabbering away, like the girls, with bright eyes and wide smiles.

You find Justine and edge up to her. She's gabbling a mile a minute with another girl, and it takes her a moment to realize you've appeared. When she does, though, her eyes light up and she grins.

"Hey, you going out to the Warehouse with us?" she asks.

"Yeah. I was going out anyway. Doesn't matter who— I mean, I'd love to go out there with you!"

"Great!" She touches your arm briefly, then goes back to talking to her friend. Who, you notice, is also giving you a bright-eyed once over.

* * * * *

It's still another twenty minutes or so before the crowd begins to make a break for the exit. No one invites you to ride along with them, and though you try to stick close to Justine, you give up after she moves off with a cluster of friends without once looking around for you. So you wander over to your truck, intending to drive yourself out separately.

There's voices sounding behind you, but you don't pay attention until you reach your truck and grasp the handle, when someone says, "Whoa there, guy, what're you doing?" You turn around.

Two of the letterman jackets have followed you. It's hard to make out their features in the shadowy parking lot—even under the street lamps—but the shorter of the pair has shaggy blonde hair, while the taller is dark. Even padded by their jackets, they seem to be strongly built.

"I'm getting my truck," you say, though an almost Pavlovian fear reflex has seized you.

"Our truck, you mean," says the shorter one.

You glance around the parking lot.

So does his taller companion, who ends his survey with hard snort.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Joe," he says. "We're parked over—" He punches his friend in the shoulder. "Dumbass."

"Hey!" the other retorts. "Who's the dumbass? The dumbass who—? Or the dumbass who—? I forget how it goes."

"Just come on." The other one turns away.

"No, let's have this out," the blonde one shouts. "Come on. Come on! Come at me, bro! You been wantin' a piece of me all night, well now's your chance to—!"

He ducks and dives to the side, though the other didn't so much as twitch.

"Oh!" he cries as he straightens up again. "Very funny! You forget, I know where you sleep, and I also know where there's an ant hill that's—!"

"I will finish you, Joe," the other one growls, "if you don't—"

"Don't what, Frank? I got a witness if you try something!" He jumps over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you.

"Just shut up and come on."

But the blonde one plants his feet, then does a double-take at you.

"You're goin' out to the Warehouse with us, right?" he says. "Any reason we can't ride with you?"

"Um—"

"It's better to carpool anyway. You weren't driving out by yourself, were you?"

"Um—"

"Hey, Frank, come on!" He grasps the door handle and pulls it open.

Then he looses a shrill whistle through his teeth, and shouts at a pack of other letterman jackets passing nearby.

"Dutoit! Johnson! Fishlips!" he yells. "Over here!"

"We should be taking our truck, Joe," protests his friend.

"We are! Practically! I can't tell the difference!" He clasps you on the shoulder and pushes you up and into the cab.

And you are too baffled and bullied to resist.

* * * * *

So you wind up driving half of the Eastman sports teams—or so it feels—out to the Warehouse. Most of the guys pile into the bed of your truck, but the two who accosted you—or, rather, the one who accosted you and the one who argued with him—climb into the cab with you. The blonde one tries goading a girl into climbing in with you all—"You can lay in our laps!"—but with a laugh she runs off to join some of her girl friends.

"So hey, I'm Joe," says the blonde one, who's sitting beside you. He puts out his hand, and crushes yours in a handshake. "And this is my brother, Frank."

"Hey," says the other one. He is much more subdued.

"I'm Will," you reply.

"Willing, ready and able, I bet. Hey, you got satellite radio or anything in here?" He leans forward to jab at the buttons and screens on the console.

"Don't fiddle, Joe," his brother snaps, and slaps at his hands.

"I'm not fiddling! And if I was, I wouldn't be looking for music, would I?" But Joe drops his hands, then swings around to tap at the back window. "Lakewood and them coming?" he screams, right next to your ear. "Sorry," he says as you flinch, then again shouts through the window, "Lakewood! Is Lakewood—?"

"Why don't you use your phone, Joe?" Frank says. "Instead of shouting at them."

"'Cos they're right on the other side of the glass, Frank! I don't wanna waste my minutes—!"

"And Lakewood said he was coming."

"You sure? Awesome, I'm gonna ask him if I can dance with Jenny!"

"I need to apologize for my brother."

It takes you a moment to realize you're being addressed, and glance away from the road to find Frank leaning forward to talk past Joe, who is turned around and grinning out the back window and flipping off the people in the truck bed.

"That's fine," you reply.

"I'd say he's not normally like this, but when he's not like this, he's worse."

"I guess he's having fun."

Joe has now turned all the way around, stood up on his knees, and looks like he's trying to crawl through the glass to get at the people in the back.

"Were you actually going out to the Warehouse?" Frank asks.

"Yeah. I've been trying to get out there all night, actually."

"So what were you—?"

"Bite me! Bite me long, bite me deep, bite me all the way up past your tonsils!" Joe screams through the window.

"What were you doing at Legends?" Frank (calmly and politely) repeats.

"Guys I was with wanted to stop there first before heading out."

"Well, I'm still sorry we—"

He breaks off as a phone buzzes, and pulls a cell from his jacket. You go back to driving.

"Joe," says Frank. "Johnson wants to know if those are shots or beers you're promising to buy him."

"The fuck? I didn't say nothin' about—!"

A moment later Frank says, "Stop that, you're getting snot and spit all over our ride's car."

You glance over. Joe has pressed his muzzle to the back window and is dragging his nostrils and tongue all over the glass.

* * * * *

There's a short line of cars on its way out to the Warehouse, so you're able to follow them out without asking either of your passengers for help with directions. The cars are turning in through a gap in a cinderblock wall, but each car has to stop first. When it's your turn, a burly goon with a flashlight puts his hand out to halt you. You roll down the window.

"What the fuck do—?" he starts to say.

"Besame, baby!" Joe screams as he lunges across you, knocking you in the face as he clambers half out the window. "Besame mucho! Ow!"

A hard hand clamps over the one you've got on the steering wheel, and the truck jumps forward, even though you've got your foot on the brake. The engine roars and screams, and the whole frame of the truck lurches and rumbles. You can't see past Joe, who is still half in your lap, and as he rolls about you get a face full of him and his jacket. The hand over yours grips hard, swinging the wheel sharply left and right, until the truck lurches wide to the left, jumps forward, and slams to a juddering halt.

Joe is still hanging half out the window, his hips nearly in your face, but now he starts wriggling all the way out, kicking his feet in the air and banging his heels against the roof of the cab. Once his hips are free, he slithers the rest of the way out, and when you look out (dazedly) you see him standing on his hands next to your truck with his feet in the air. One, two, three steps he takes on his hands, pauses, then with a graceful twist and push he flips over to land and straighten up on his feet. He dances in place, thrusting his fingers in the air as though he's just scored a touchdown.

The back of the truck wobbles and rolls as the passengers all leap out.

You look over at Frank, who is still seated calmly on the other side of the cab.

"Next time we'll take our truck," he says, "and I'll drive. I don't let Joe get away with his bullshit."

Next: "Tricksie" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"