FUGITIVE by Frank Genghis 2016

8/18/2019 FUGITIVE by Frank Genghis 2016

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FUGITIVEBy Frank Genghis


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Fugitive – Frank Genghis

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“ Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster...”

– Friedrich Nietzsche


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1. Prelude to a Disaster

There are few places to go in this modern age to escape

the scourge of man.Nice quiet spots where you may dream easy and free

and uninterrupted are now almost become a luxury, the

exclusive domain of the rich, or else fleeting reward for a

life of stultifying toil in the fields, factory or office; a

brief re-acquaintance with Nature at best, before it‟s

back to the grindstone and the ghettos, back to the

concrete cube and the idiot box, back to the tragicneighbours in their pointless jobs, back to the stinking

marketplaces with their endless hordes of hungry,

jostling shoppers who appear so easily satisfied – bought

off, you might even say – with cheap trinkets and shiny

baubles.

From what I can tell, such things never truly satisfy

anybody in the end. Perhaps this is why the crowd onlyseems to have grown hungrier and meaner and more

pernickety in its demands as time has gone on?

Then of course there are all the stupid rules and laws

which a man now has to contend with as the world

grows more and more overcrowded with each passing

minute.

There is only one true law, from what I can tell: the

Law of the Jungle. As far as the societies of men are

concerned, there are only conventions, all of which seem

quite arbitrary to me, and liable to change according to

just what regime happens to be in power at any given

time. No matter what laws you impose upon a people,


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for instance, you will never stop them screwing. And

while it might be said that most laws exist to protect the

individual from the wantonness of his fellows (when it is

my belief that they in fact chiefly exist to protect therich from the poor), the circumspect individual will to

my mind quite naturally do the right thing by his

fellows and the world, and therefore has no need for so

many stupid laws, which only really serve to prohibit his

movements through space.

Of course there are those among us who are

unquestionably more or less circumspect than others.And then there is the fact that man has a nasty habit of

wishing to control not only his environment but his

fellow man – to seize and to hold onto things, and to

achieve dominance over his various so-called properties

and possessions: In short, to own a thing – which

sometimes includes other people.

From what I can tell, ownership is merely an idea – arather bad idea at that – and ideas themselves can never

be owned (no modern copyright law will protect the idea

behind a story, for instance) – so how can anyone truly

claim ownership over anything to begin with?

You simply cannot squeeze life into a box.

For my own part, given the choice between living in

a world where untold arbitrary lines in the sand

delimited my movements and activities – what many

referred to as the „real‟ world – or in a fantasy world

suited to my own particular interests, I suffered

absolutely no illusions as to which.


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It had nevertheless become increasingly difficult to

pursue my own private interests without impediment, I

had found – to live out my fantasies, if you like, without

being censored for the fact – all the while discoveringmyself more and more overwhelmed by a slow creeping

sense of horror as I watched culture and society

degrading all around me: a phenomenon which seemed

to correspond directly with a steady and perceptible

increase in the number of consumers about the place,

especially among the growing middle classes.

There were simply too many people in the world bythe beginning of the twenty first century; the now

almost palpable overcrowding was no doubt made that

much more unbearable for all the so-called „individuals‟

suddenly strutting about the place: a population of

rabid, self-serving narcissists, who each believed himself

to be at the centre of the universe! Oh, such vanity!

As far as I can tell, the modern-day human conditionis simply this: Me, me, me!

Perhaps it was the sudden appearance of so many

bad actors on the world stage that had forced man into

himself – a variety of psychological retreat into the inner

comfort zones of his lower brain – whereby the ego had

hyper-inflated by way of some spontaneous natural

countermeasure or defensive mechanism against feelings

of sudden insignificance?

From my own point of view, it simply seemed that

the world had grown harsher and less tolerant as global

numbers had swelled; in addition to the general absence

of humility, grace and good wisdom one noticed about


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the place, no one really seemed to care about much

outside their own private little spheres of interest these

days.

Which was all rather ironic, really, in light ofgeneral improving living standards, and communication

systems that now vastly reduced the distances between

us.

One might have thought that, given such

improvements, a sense of universal brotherhood might

have prevailed: a sense of „all being in it together‟. One

Monkey .After all, was not every single man, woman and child

as much member of the greater human clan as the next?

Entitled to the same basic rights, respect, and affection

as one might show toward a cousin, even a sibling?

Surely the emerging wealthier classes had a social

obligation toward those who still lagged behind?

No. It was quite the opposite, I had found: nowmore than ever dog-eat-dog, every man for himself; a

desperate state of snatch-and-grab. The privileged few

continued to plunder the Earth with impunity, and

without apparent contrition; while the poor invariably

picked up the tab owing to their good, pathetic

conscience.

Meanwhile, the very fabric of community seemed to

lie in ugly tatters, ripped apart at the seams by the

monstrous forces of globalisation and capitalist

enterprise. Identification in former times with such

things as race, religion, king or country had all at once

yielded to a sort of sickly substitute: a gross, distorted,


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glossy image of „the individual‟ which had been

cunningly cooked up by the various media outlets; one

which portrayed an idealised version of the „successful‟

modern individual complete with untold useless fancyaccessories.

Brands and attitudes were now the mark of identity.

Principles, customs, and good old fashioned values

had been categorically sacrificed to the insatiable god of

materialism, Mammon.

In short, there really wasn‟t a whole lot of love going

around; and it had all begun to make me feel more andmore nauseated as time went on; increasingly

marginalized, and less sympathetic toward my fellow

man. More and more I had come to regard man as

occupying a position of singular stupidity in the

Universe, by all appearances utterly incapable of

appreciating the miracle of existence that sat right

beneath his nose at all times. But then, at the sametime, it had to be acknowledged that man‟s perceptions

were greatly limited to within a narrow bandwidth of

reality, which doubtlessly limited his appreciation. So

many artificial distractions and demands on his

attentions surely also taxed his perspective.

And so it was I found myself increasingly torn in my

feelings toward my fellows, often oscillating wildly

between pity and revulsion, love and loathing. This was

in some small part no doubt reflection of my own

troubled relationship to myself: for I too was just a man,

circumscribed by similar detestable hard-wiring.


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Perhaps in some pitiful attempt to reconcile my

growing ambivalence toward man – and toward myself –

I thus found myself gravitating more and more toward

those strange little out-of-the-way places you can hardlypinpoint on any map; the sort of places where I hoped

others might share with me in the wonders of Creation,

and who lived unbridled by silly rules or conventions;

in other words, in such places where I still hoped I

might enjoy communion with other lost or wayward

souls: souls who still lived free; who remained naturally

inquisitive, caring, creative, and spontaneously giving;and who still asked all the big questions, even if they

were the wrong questions – and with whom I hoped to

share a laugh or exchange a colourful anecdote, or even

help to get back on their feet once more, should they

require a little propping up.

It was generally among the poor and the meek –

those who lived way outside „normal‟ middle classsociety – where such exceptional characters were still

mostly to be found. From experience, it was the poor

and marginalized members of society who were not only

typically most generous, but far more in touch with the

cold hard edge of reality – and who were therefore to my

mind twice blessed. Of course, many of the poor could

also be ruthless and mean-spirited, too – especially in

the cities, where there were plenty of walls for the rats to

burrow in, and less solace from nature to be found –

with well-rehearsed and cunning ploys to liberate the

coin from your purse.


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Society‟s misfits were by no means to be found

exclusively in the countryside, however, where people

were as a rule poorer than in the cities – scratching

livelihoods from the land, and with fewer employmentopportunities about, and so forth.

No. The true misfits could be found almost

anywhere, being often highly unpredictable and erratic

in their movements and activities, just as one might

expect from any free radical; you often had to rely on a

combination of intuition and good fortune (some might

call such a thing fate ) to bring you into contact withthose rare few individuals who truly left their mark on

you. For these were life‟s true individuals, and not

simply the products of ego-driven fad culture;

individuals who thought for themselves and liked to do

things their own way; characters who were not readily

swayed by circumstances or trends, nor easily shaken by

tumult. Despite the untold differences that separated them –

for no two great minds think alike – their great love of

freedom was perhaps the one thing that united them all.

Sadly, however, as time went on, I had observed a

steady dwindling in their numbers; and by progressive

degrees I had given up in my search for them altogether.

At this juncture I travelled alone, and had done so

for years. (For a time I had ridden in a gang – but that

was now long ago, and another story entirely. Suffice it

to say that we had for various reasons each gone our own

separate ways. Women were mostly the cause.) I had

however thankfully grown quite comfortable in my own


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Sadly, most small towns were havens to small minds

– by no means the little shining beacons of

enlightenment you might expect to find in a dark

modern age. People from small towns seldom wentanywhere; and yet they often thought that they knew

everything: something that made them especially

dangerous. Perhaps the one good thing that could

therefore be said about the so-called „civilised‟ middle

classes in their urban ghettos was that they were safe

and predictable; you could be pretty sure that anyone

who took „selfies‟ in a public place would you pose youlittle real threat. Lifetimes of carefully supervised and

manipulated consumer practice kept most of the

citizenry grazing away dutifully in their nicely

demarcated fields, like docile cattle bred to fatten the

rich.

As such, most of them deserved no more interest

than the livestock out in the fields. In fact, as time wenton, I took less and less notice of anyone who travelled in

packs or moved in herds, having almost come to regard

such gatherings as marks of fear and co-dependency, and

therefore weakness.

And so you either found yourself living by some

stultifying set of rules among the herds that grazed away

mindlessly and timorously in their malls, under strict

supervision by such herdsmen who masqueraded as the

various authorities (though it was mostly the cattle that

did all the work policing itself, making sure its own

members did not stray too far from the herd); or else


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among the potentially vicious, narrow-minded, or ultra-

conservative throwbacks who inhabited the boondocks.

Given the choice of two evils, I would in almost

every instance go in for the latter – for at least you couldstill breathe out in the country.

As a general rule, the less people there were around,

the less trouble I found.

And yet, even in such places, I found that it did not

take long before the web of human entanglement began

to slowly but surely constrict; before the natives grew

curious, then emboldened, and finally began to press inon you: to begin meddling in your private affairs, or

attempting to lure you into one silly psychodrama or

another.

Most of them, I suspected, probably craved drama of

some kind or another to fill in some hole; or to create

some excitement in their otherwise dull and

monotonous lives; or perhaps even to subconsciously setup the circumstances by which they might learn some

valuable life lesson. No doubt there were those who saw

straight through me, my unwillingness to play ball. I

knew myself to be a fraud; I make absolutely no bones

about the fact, in fact I even took some small pride in it;

though of course I took great pains not to advertise it.

Those who did however cotton on to my imposture at

times grew greatly upset, possibly through jealousy, over

the many liberties I took, quite in spite of my every

assiduous effort to remain civil, to maintain my

distance, and to keep up a presentable appearance.


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I suppose it was also entirely possible that by this

point in my life I was no longer capable of maintaining

relationships that lasted longer than a few days. From

what I could tell, no one ever forced you to sign acontract with another individual which stated you were

obligated to endure his peculiar brand of bullshit in

exchange for his enduring yours over some definite

period. These were just more silly, arbitrary, and mostly

pointless conventions as far as I was concerned; my own

interests largely lay in living free of such binds entirely.

There were already untold distractions in life whichconstantly sought to undermine the pursuit of one‟s

dreams; imbroglios with other individuals were perhaps

foremost among these. Who really had time for such

nonsense?

For my own part, I generally required a lot of time

and space to think things through properly in any event

– I liked to ruminate at my leisure – although it is alsoentirely possible that I am simply a little slow in my

thoughts. Not least among such things that I needed

great leisure to mull over were the many bad ideas out

there that were continually being thrust in your face,

and which required careful and constant winnowing.

Sorting through all those bad ideas meant that my time

was stretched thin as it was. Add to this all one‟s

attempts at second-guessing unspoken motives, or

unravelling all those inconsistencies of behaviour which

one repeatedly observed in others, such as words that

did not correspond with actions, and there was


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fact that you still drew breath, and to move along as

graciously as possible.

Thankfully I did not so much mind being constantly

on the move back then – to packing up my kit andsevering all ties at the drop of a hat – at least not to

begin with. In most places I went it did not take long

before I grew bored in any event, and would experience

the powerful sudden urge to set off in search of fresh

novelties. In fact, any excuse to further my explorations

of the byways and backwaters was just fine by me, at

least back in the good old days. Travel kept you nimble,on your toes, and alert to sudden changes in the

environment. It also carried with it a certain

electrifying momentum which increased the likelihood

of strange and improbable events occurring: the perfect

remedy to the mind-numbing humdrum that awaited

you in most places you went these days. Too long in any

one place potentially involved the loss of one‟s unbiasedoutsider perspective: the sort of detached point of view

which could so easily get bogged down in the banality of

routines or the familiarity of scenes.

For what is life, really, but travel?

At best, a man enjoyed a few score rapid revolutions

around the sun – on a massive luxury liner where

everyone was more or less a freeloader as far as I could

tell (living in greater or lesser degrees of comfort). It

was often in the most unlikely spots that you were

reminded of the fact, and where the strangest

happenstance awaited you: in those curious twilight

zones between dimensions, if you like: somewhere


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down into the pits of gloom and despair – as well as

potential irreversible insanity. (In recent years I had

increasingly begun to experience an almost debilitating

form of agoraphobia which could on occasions fulminateinto full-blown raging anxiety should circumstances

prove disagreeable to my palate. I had, for instance,

occasionally been known to go nuts in malls.)

In those few rare instances, however, where I found

myself momentarily pausing for breath and drinking in

deep of the clean open country air, far from prying eyes

and sharp tongues – just sitting around naked in the sunand minding my own business as was my usual habit –

the Devil would sooner or later follow on my heels in

one form or another and send me scampering for cover

once more.

Mostly this was in the form of various disgruntled or

narrow-minded small town members who sought to

infiltrate my affairs and rope me into their pathetic littledramas, as I mentioned earlier.

But in the end it did not seem to matter where I

went – city or small town, or for however long period –

for not only did I remain fundamentally anti-social and

prone to unbidden outbursts of agoraphobic rage, but

the living dead were by now almost everywhere: in your

face and doing exactly the same thing: shopping in

malls, driving about in circles, staring into gadgets as

they shuffled along, eyes firmly closed to the world;

living by ridiculous arbitrary codes, and infecting others

with bad ideas.


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You had to be especially on guard these days against

bad ideas, which could spread like viruses through the

various social media networks that had appeared on the

scene almost overnight.Bad ideas could drive a man completely insane, if he

was not already insane to begin with.

Was this Hell? I began to wonder. For if there were

any truth behind the saying „Hell is other people‟, then

surely the Devil was Man, the collective Beast? (Rather

than claiming that the Devil is inside every man, it

might perhaps be more accurate to suggest that everyman is in fact inside the Devil.)

In any event, it was a Beast that was growing bigger

and meaner by the day.

By this juncture I had been run out of so many

towns, had broken so many local laws and offended so

many provincial customs, that it was really a wonder I

had not been left to rot in some backwater ditch ordamp country prison cell.

But the Devil had others plans for me, it seemed.

By now Old Scratch had chased me clean across half

the globe – and I found myself slowly but surely

running to ground, my body like some machine that had

been pushed well beyond its limits. I wasn‟t sure it

could take much more pushing. I had begun to feel like

the cat down to its last life; and I wondered just much

longer my luck would hold out. So much running away

from man and his stupid laws and ghettos and

marketplaces – from all his foolish notions – had left me

feeling old and tired well before my time. Not to


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mention half-crazed. The struggle to remain sane inside

an enormous lunatic asylum (which some called greater

society) had grown almost unsupportable.

I suppose I was in one sense fortunate to have grownsomewhat punch-drunk from all the beatings my body

had endured over the years; I had grown well-hard, as

the English like to say, quite impervious to extreme

conditions, perhaps even a little callous. You might

even say I had grown almost comfortable with a general

state of dis-ease. Perhaps herein lay some queer mark of

maturity?In any event, all I really knew was that it had to

come to a head, sooner or later. Something had to give.

I had begun to feel like some weary old gunslinger who

would limp into town after narrowly escaping some

tight spot – just looking for a little shelter out of the rain

– only to stumble headlong into the middle of some

goddamn tribal feud, or some such silly nonsense.Lord knows I did not go looking for any trouble. At

least not intentionally.


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2. Heading to the Hills

I remember how at this time I had been more or less

stuck in some god-forsaken small town in the middle ofnowhere, down on my luck, and slowly climbing the

walls – when all at once there had come ridding down

along the main street one of my old gang!: one Samuel

Withers, who is a tall lean fellow with a tendency to

mumble when you looked him squarely in the eye. He

had aged somewhat, but he still mumbled.

I was truly happy to see him again – even somewhatheartened by the fact he had observed similar diabolical

trends taking place in the outside world – for this meant

I was not completely alone in going quietly around the

twist.

Together we enjoyed a romping good night over

several bottles of local grappa; and during the course of

our carouse Samuel asked me how old William Burns – another former member of our gang – had been holding

up. I told him I hadn‟t seen hide nor hair of old Bill for

at least ten years – but the mention of him got me to

recalling. It recalled to me how the last time we had

seen each other, Bill had announced he was striking off

on his own, having recently procured for himself a lot

(how he had “procured it” he had not cared to explain).

His lot was situated somewhere way out in the

boondocks, he said, where he planned to “settle down

and go straight”.

I remember how at the time I had laughed so hard at

the proposition that I had clean fallen off my stool. Bill


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had been serious, however, and had looked injured by

my response.

Before saddling up, he had pencilled me out a rough

map, which depicted how to get to his lot. “Should youever find yourself with nowhere else to go,” he had said.

“Or should the inclination ever take hold of you to

simply come visit.”

I remember how that miserable spot on Burns‟ map

had lain right on the very farthest fringes of civilization

back then – right on society‟s most distant, ragged

margins – well beyond the grey-shaded frontiers.Frontier life has always held a great natural appeal to

those of us who prefer to skirt about the fringes –

though I can assure you it is by no means as romantic as

it may sound. It is a tough life, and requires constant

attention to all those countless little, often-overlooked

things that could just as soon spell the difference

between life and death. The frontiers had of coursemoved on by now, but at that time Burns‟ plan had

seemed like a completely hair-brained scheme to my

mind.

“Happy trails, amigo!” I had slapped my old friend

firmly on the back, thinking it unlikely we should ever

cross paths again. But I had held onto Bill‟s map in any

case, as though heeding some premonition that I would

one day have cause to need it.

That had been ten years ago, as I said, and my

premonition had turned out to be right.

Now it seemed Bill‟s notion had not been so crazy

after all.


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Back then, the appeal of nice quiet spots had not

seemed so great in my mind.

Back then, however, Bill had been at least a decade

older than I – and he probably still was, were he notalready dead! – which no doubt says something about

the wisdom of years, or just the fact that a man

eventually wears out and starts to feel his mortality.

Lord knows I was starting to feel my own.

I shall not bore you with the particulars surrounding

my present circumstances, however, as a great many

situations which may seem worthy of some anecdote areat the time more often than not just one great big pain

in the ass.

Simply put, I was down on my luck, as I said, and

slowly losing the plot – but I still had enough cash in my

pockets to make a clean break.

Always have enough cash squirreled away to leave

town in a hurry, should the need arise.After tying up a few loose ends (never have too many

loose ends which cannot easily be tied up – another well

tested rule of thumb), I leaped on to the back of my

skittish steed, which was by then practically frothing at

the manifolds from long neglect.

I briefly considered asking old Withers to tag along

with me for the ride; but something told me he was too

far gone, not far off losing his shit entirely, which could

eventually prove a drag; I also knew that his mumbling

would sooner or later get on my nerves.

And so I bade farewell to my old riding buddy, who

was shifting his gaze nervously at the ground as I fired


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up the engine; and without further ado I charged off

down the highway, breathing a long deep sigh of relief.

There is nothing quite like the knowledge you can

simply pack up all your belongings and get the hell outof Dodge within fifteen minutes, should the need arise.

As a general rule I preferred to keep things simple: to

keep my load as light as possible, as well as my

expectations low and my standards to a minimum.

Which is certainly not to say I preferred to live in any

particular state of poverty or martyrdom. Quite the

contrary. Life‟s fruits were free for the taking, as far as Iwas concerned; I simply took what I needed, when I

needed it, and gave the rest away – to those, in

particular, who had perhaps forgotten that everything

was ripe for the plunder.

No. Living minimally meant you could simply walk

away from most places – from any situation that didn‟t

really agree with you – with minimal fuss, fewdisappointments, and no regrets. And hopefully

without too much collateral damage, should anyone try

to get in your way.

I simply loved the sense of freedom that came with

such spontaneous flight. But perhaps the thing I loved

most about leaving those small towns was watching

them slowly disappear in the rear view mirror –

especially such towns you had been stuck in for a while.

It was strange how you often did not know you had been

stuck in such places until long after you had left them.


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In the very next instant, I felt the wind pounding

against my open chest like the breath of God, which

some might simply call the Winds of Change.

My old bag of bones began to rattle out a livelytattoo to the steady drumming of the motor.

My bike was not registered (another of man‟s stupid

laws, and one which I had consistently failed to heed; I

had thus in effect been committing a felony whenever I

left the house). But with no fixed address to speak of,

and through careful exercise of solid precaution (not

speeding in built up zones without a helmet on, and soforth), I had drawn little heat to myself over the years.

There was far less chance being pulled over in

remote regions, besides, despite the long and ever-

reaching arm of the law. And so I was not overly

concerned at that moment about opening her up in

those backwaters, and removing my helmet: to let my

hair down, so to speak, and to give free reign to mysteed.

As I roared down the open highway, then along

quiet country lanes and through silent, dreaming fields

which stretched out endlessly to my either side, the

scenery rushed past in a dizzy golden blur.

I felt the warm kiss of the early morning sun upon

my brow, and felt alive! Truly alive!

Something in the clean country air presently

recalled to me the gallant adventures of my youth,

excellent companions, passionate romances, daring

escapades and narrow escapes.


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Every so often I would stop to consult the old

creased map Bill had drawn out for me, and to get my

bearings. I enjoyed those little breaks. On any road trip

it was important to stop occasionally, and to lookaround, or else the landscape just became another hazy

memory. As a general rule, the quicker you moved, the

less you saw. I liked to pay close attention to the scenery

where possible, as chances were I would never pass

through the same way twice.

I mostly preferred to take my time in any event.

Speed was just a fast lane to the next life – as manyof my former gang had discovered only too late.

Where the road was smooth and the traffic minimal,

however, I was less concerned about such risks involved,

and would permit myself to enjoy the blurring backdrop

– for herein lay golden opportunities for your dreams to

sprout wings and your imagination to run amok.

I would often dream of a quiet Earth, completelydepopulated of humans, and wiped clean of their various

dirty and disruptive industries.

I presently spied the odd tanned head quietly

bobbing about in the adjacent fields, and imagined it

belonging to the kind of wizened old landowner who

had eyes so sharp he could cut a clean swathe through

the long, waving stalks of wheat, barley and sugarcane.

Farmers can see everything, you know, no matter how

old they get. I laughed out loud at the thought of a land

where a hayseed could be anointed king; and where

great teetering towers of straw were the monuments to

some vast rural empire. I imagined peasants reclining


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proudly in rusty old outdoor tubs, only to emerge from

them dirtier than when they had first hopped in.

Soon those rolling farmlands yielded to an endless

prairie of long waving wild grasses: a prairie not onlyvast and lonely and sorely parched, but as flat as the bits

of road-kill that decorated the narrow shoulders of road

which sliced right through it like a smooth, dark, silent

river.

One time I spied an old cowboy bobbing along on

what looked like a enormous, whirring mower – as

though he were singlehandedly attempting to trim backthe prairies and thus extend his farmlands; as though

that endless, dusty bowl were to him nothing more than

a great lawn that required a little tidying.

Where the grass grew thinner, I presently noted so

many old worn tree stumps protruding from the plains

like a pox spread across massive smooth brown cheeks;

no doubt that land had once been cleared for farming,but had proved too dry in the end.

A few rickety old structures stood here and there:

most probably long abandoned homesteads, I thought to

myself. They popped right out of that smooth barren

earth like strange edifices striking irreverent poses at the

heavens.

At one point I felt the hairs rise abruptly on the back

of my neck as I imagined enormous pale spiders in faded

coveralls sitting quietly inside those old barns – just

waiting for the right fly to fly on by – and I quickly

opened up the throttle.


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It was around late morning when it suddenly

occurred to me that my imagination had perhaps steered

me a little too far off the beaten track: the grass on the

prairies had grown progressively sparser, and beforelong had disappeared altogether; while all signs of

human activity abruptly ceased.

I was not overly concerned at this juncture, however,

as both my compass and old Bill‟s map indicated I was

still vaguely on track. To correct my course I took the

first major road heading north; but this soon tapered off

to a narrow thoroughfare, and then became a thin dirtroad. Not your average dirt, but a kind of fine red

powder that almost appeared to have been soaked in

blood. That road was like an open, coursing vein.

To make matters stranger still, I all at once found

myself crawling up along a chain of ancient, rugged hills

that were flecked with some kind of jagged rock which

coruscated wickedly in the sunlight. Among them I sawscattered the odd crude structure, like ornery

outgrowths of old nail or horn on a thick scaly skin.

When all at once I noticed, in one adjacent field,

several enormous shaggy red bulls tearing straight

toward me like great balls of fire!

But it was the sudden apparition of an old barrel-

chested farmer in their midst – a man quietly bobbing

along on some kind of curious, all-terrain vehicle –

which told me I was thankfully still on terrestrial soils.

The old farmer came skidding to a halt where I now

sat parked by the side of the road covered in a thin film

of red powder.


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His shaggy entourage paced the earth pensively to

his rear, nostrils flaring wildly in the brisk morning air.

The old farmer‟s features were bluff and ruddy, just

like the land he worked.I showed him my map, wordlessly indicated my

destination, and he pointed me in the right direction.

That was all. No talk, and no questions asked. I

offered him a swig from my flask, which he wordlessly

accepted. He then fired up his buggy, turned it about,

and quickly bounded off toward a distant rocky ridge,

his team of bulls jogging faithfully in tow.I fired up my own beast and thundered away.

I thought about that bluff-faced herdsman as I rode

along. I decided I liked him. He was a no-bullshit guy,

in spite of all his bulls.

Moving steadily upward among those strange red

rolling hills, there suddenly thrust into view a range of

smooth, snow-capped peaks on the distant horizon like arow of ancient, rounded pyramids. In the skies above

them I noticed several great birds of prey wheeling

effortlessly on the cool currents, utterly indifferent to

the concerns of man and beast below.

The midday sun shone bright against a canopy of

clear cerulean, and the air at once grew brisk, and quite

electrifying.

It was just on noon. I had made good time.

Presently gaining the crest of a hill, I caught the

sudden sharp glint of light at the foot of the distant

mountains; not too far, I thought, from where those


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I masticated my rations mechanically, every so often

pausing to wash them down with hot coffee as I drank in

the profound silence.

I gazed about thoughtfully in all directions. Otherthan the shimmering town in the distance, there was

very little activity to speak of from where I stood. The

great rural wheel had apparently ground to a complete

standstill in these parts. The modern frontier might

still lie some way beyond the mountains, but at least

civilization had taken its time to catch up out here.

Towns could be useful, besides. Apart from beinguseful supply depots for lazy pioneers, they also held the

promise of company in the unlikely event of boredom.

And while boredom was not something I easily

succumbed to, provisions were another matter entirely –

especially in light of my laziness.

As I had no idea what old Burns did for food at his

place, and since my path led me through that town inany event, I foresaw it as good opportunity to stock up

on a few supplies. It would be rude to arrive empty-

handed at my host‟s – to simply expect Bill to open up

his larder to me after ten years without so much as a

postcard.

As I stood quietly contemplating that town and the

general inconvenience of having to not only pass

through it, but to plunder it, the sudden deafening

screams of several sulphur crested cockatoos all at once

pierced the silence and tore me from my reverie. As

though alerted by their peculiar alarm, there next


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erupted a deafening chorus of cicadas, like some shrill

alien war cry sustained in perfect high-pitched tremolo.

The note presently broke down into a nice,

syncopated jazz rhythm, and my nerves slowly relaxed. Just then I noticed a bee hovering cautiously about

my whiskers – no doubt attracted to the sticky crumbs

that laced my moustache, and simultaneously repulsed

by the tobacco smoke billowing out from beneath it.

A quandary for old bee.

I held my head as steady as I could, curious as to the

outcome. Flies meanwhile lit on my sunglasses andwent literally strutting before my eyes. I gazed down

and saw one slowly circumnavigating the rim of the

metal cup which I held in an unmoving hand. Drawn to

its sugared content, it promptly fell in, and began to

thrash about desperately, looking like a dirty rat

drowning in a muddy waterhole. Sighing, I hefted the

cup to my lips and drained it. The bee buzzed off, andso too did the flies on my glasses.

I turned and gazed back down over the little town

and the distant mountains once more, feeling quite

suddenly like some tired old general who was at last

come to the end of a long and bloody military campaign

– with only one final, decisive battle remaining....

There really wasn‟t much to show for it all, I

reflected grimly; pitiably little for all those long years

spent in the field – other than, perhaps, those few

memories I still yet thankfully retained of the many fine

fruits I had sampled over the long course of my struggle.

No riches and no particular accolades.


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Just another spent old war horse about to be put out

to pasture, one who would be quickly forgotten.

Even I had almost forgotten who I had once been –

and I wasn‟t even dead yet.After so many wild and crazy adventures, it

presently occurred to me that I could still barely recall

any of them; and I wondered what had been the sum

total of it all. At the end of the day, most of my

adventures hadn‟t been much more than a series of

obstacles to overcome, really – just a lot of stomping

through the dirt, a lot of jumping over fences andrunning away from the law; while the experience of

untold novelties had been not much more than so many

interesting new variations on the old.

Faced with infinite forks in the road, it had grown

increasingly difficult to know which way to turn – as

though my particular fate were to choose my own

destiny. When presented with the choice – if only theappearance of one – I had mostly opted for the high

road, the hard road, whereby one‟s limitations were

revealed (and hopefully surmounted), and an elevated

perspective gained. Where possible I had even

attempted to raise the stakes – travelling the world

under false documents, visiting countries where no one

spoke a mutual tongue, stopping in places of civil

unrest, and so forth – but even the thrill of flirting with

extreme danger had eventually lost all novelty.

I had sailed across an ocean of humanity and swum

among a sea of changing faces – and so what? Despite

having met with so many people, human beings


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remained for the most part utterly alien to me – even if,

beneath the thin cultural veneer, they remained fairly

much the same wherever you went.

In fact, when I thought about it, my extensive travelsacross the globe might just as soon have been a long

wander through an enormous zoo; the many foreign

tongues I had heard wagging over the years may each

have been the various shrills, shrieks and cries of so

many different species; so much so that I had almost

come to regard language in itself as something quite

alien; just a lot of confusing babel; just a whole lot ofceaseless bla bla bla.

I had quietly begun to wonder whether people

clacked, chattered, chirruped and cooed so much, and so

often, just to fill in the awkward silences that followed

when they were not fighting, fucking, eating, or banging

drums together.

Yes, most humans were just animals – just a lot ofcrazy animals: noisy, ill-tempered, poorly groomed; a

rather unfit looking bunch of primates on the whole.

But then, perhaps I was just being cynical?

It had become harder and harder not to develop a

cynical outlook as one grew older, much less keep things

simple and unmolested by mounting complexities.

Complexities quite naturally formed on other

complexities – often without your knowing it – like

bunions quietly sprouting from the toes.

I was determined not to become another grumpy old

man – should I live long enough to grow old – even if all

my indictments on culture and society were true; even if


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I had made a complete hash of my own life. So much of

it I had spent simply trying to straighten out the kinks

in my own inherent nature – and I still really knew

nothing other than, perhaps, my own strengths andlimitations. I knew, for instance, what I liked, and who

I liked to do it with (which was mostly with myself); I

acknowledged my many idiosyncrasies without shame,

and had made peace with my countless past cock ups.

Well, with most of them.

And yet I still fundamentally remained as lost in the

woods as the next man – in spite of all my experiences – if only perhaps somewhat freer to explore the great

Wilderness of Existence at my leisure.

Just what was it that one ever really hoped to gain

from travel or adventure, anyway, if not experience?

I had had enough experiences – without having

really grown the wiser from any of them. I had won and

lost estates, wives, and untold friends. I had dined withkings and lain with dogs. None of it had really seemed

to matter one damn in the end. None of it had brought

me any closer to recapturing my lost innocence, despite

all my best efforts to do so; even if so much of what I

had supposedly learned as an adult had for the most part

involved the unlearning of so many bad ideas and

practises that had been drummed into me as a child.

And so it was, perhaps in some last-ditched attempt

to find my peace, that I had finally returned to the

native soils of my childhood: soils I had long ago fled,

but where I still remained a wanted man.


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Perhaps was it the animal in me that had impelled

me to do so? Certain animals would always come home

to roost when they sensed their end approaching.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself you miserable oldgoat!

Regrets of any kind were pointless. No one‟s life

ever turned out the way they planned it.

The same thing could be said for nostalgia, since

memory was a fickle bitch at the best of times: a random

hodgepodge of highly subjective and often grossly

distorted information drawn from past sensoryimpressions and emotional imprints – and thus no true

ledger of events. You mostly remembered all the bad

things that had ever happened to you in any event; such

regrettable instances were best forgotten entirely,

especially if you had already learned your lesson from

them. Memories were only good to draw upon

occasionally, like a store of archives containing usefulbits of information to help you get oriented or to solve

some new technical problem – but not to dwell upon

unduly.

Still, what point was there to learning anything new

when you simply kept forgetting what you‟d just

learned?

What particular use or purpose did any of the past

really serve, for that matter, when each new day was

pretty much just the same old slog? A renewed daily

leap of faith that you might somehow arrive at your

destination in one piece and live to tell the tale?


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Half the battle in life was simply getting your ass to

a place, simply showing up.

Potential death lurked around every corner along the

way.What else could you really do but stiffen your upper

lip and soldier on?

Yes, it was vital to keep on pushing forward with

grim determination, never looking back; to keep on

making new inroads no matter what, or else you were

merely back-peddling through life.

Letting out a deep sigh, I quietly packed up my kitand climbed wearily, somewhat reluctantly, back on my

bike. I briefly gazed up at the circling birds once more.

How good they had it compared to man! Those birds

never worried about what to eat or where to sleep! No

doubt they would capitalize on my passage through this

miserable world from the meagre trail of crumbs I had

spilt along the way.I groaned inwardly. The world was a swamp; you

had to somehow learn to fly above it – or else you

quickly got sucked down into it.

At least I had made a decent attempt at flying.

Better to crash and burn than to never leave the

ground, I observed to myself with a wry chuckle.

For most, life would end in slow decay rather than

sudden, glorious death.

To Hell with those birds!

And so off I set with grudging determination toward

that small backwater town – absently noting along the


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way the odd neat homestead that soon began to appear

along its outskirts.


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3. A Quick Plunder

As I drew closer to town I quietly rehearsed in my mind

the well-oiled drill that had served me unerringly overthe years:

Like some vagabond crept silently out the

wilderness, I would firstly check myself in to a quiet

little hotel on the edge of town.

I would then eat all that town‟s food, sleep in its

beds, and, if the mood so took me, take its women.

By the time I had left, I would somehow havemanaged to install myself in the Ritz, or its equivalent,

right in the very centre of town.

I would then quietly slip away, before the natives

had grown wise to the fact they had just handed the keys

to their city over to a complete stranger.

A stranger who was not really in the slightest bit

interested in their crummy little small town affairs andpolitics.

As I only meant to pass through town on this

particular occasion, I saw no need to follow protocol to

the letter, simply to make my plunder as swift and

painless as possible; I could thus permit myself a certain

amount of leeway if I so chose.

Peeling off into a gas station on the outskirts, an old

grease monkey with a mysterious glint in his eyes

shortly emerged from a filthy shed and cautiously

approached the pump.

“Fill her up,” I said, unscrewing the lid.


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He quickly sized me up and down, finally remarked

with a broad grin that made his square grizzled jaw seem

even wider still, “Passing through, son?”

“Yep,” I replied curtly – though with a faint smile – unwilling to divulge too much information about my

activities, and yet not wishing to appear rude.

The less information you divulge about yourself in

small towns the better. Then the less people have to

gossip about.

“Where you headed?” the old grease monkey

persisted.“Up into the mountains,” I said – and then after a

pause, “for a bit of fishing.”

“Trout‟s great this time of year,” he beamed – and I

felt myself strangely warming to him.

We got chatting, and it soon became apparent that

the old grease monkey had a very well-lubricated tongue

in him indeed; in fact, he seemed almost a little bit too eager to converse for some reason. I found this rather

odd – or at least somewhat unexpected – as most country

folk you meet for the first time will remain fairly tight-

lipped until they have first ascertained whether the

mysterious stranger suddenly appeared among them

poses any real threat.

Once you have settled in, however, well, that is

another matter entirely. Then everything about your

private life may as well belong in a tabloid.

Perhaps he was just bored, I thought to myself as we

chatted away – long after my tank had been filled and

the lid screwed back on and I had handed him over a


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few bills and told him to keep the change. Or maybe he

was just lonesome. Or maybe even one of those rare few

individuals who were partial to random roadside

encounters, wherein lie golden opportunities formeeting interesting new people and learning something

new about the outside world?

After all, what was greater society but a series of

chance encounters with strangers? Even the

generations-old natives of most places I had ever visited

remained for the most part complete strangers to one

another – especially in those densely populated places – quite in spite of common heritage, language, customs,

and so forth.

People assumed far too much about their

neighbours, I thought, who could just as soon have been

from another planet. For my own part, I was always

happy to meet new and interesting life forms from other

planets – being typically something of a curious catmyself, and curiosity being quite possibly one of the

greatest driving forces in all the Universe – at least

where intelligent life was concerned.

The most interesting people I have ever met have

generally been the most interested people.

Sadly, however, very few people you met these days

ever really surprised you with even small shows of

curiosity, much less imagination. Fewer still seemed

prepared to go out of their way to help strangers ...

unless there were some promise of reward in it (it was

those little acts of charity, made without any expectation


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And so I was not entirely unhappy to discover in the

old mechanic something of a kindred spirit – and the

very real possibility of a friend – however briefly our

relationship might last.More important than this, chances were I would

return to him at some later point for repairs, in addition

to fuel. For it was when you were out on the open road,

out in the middle of nowhere, and your engine suddenly

cut out, that you were very quickly woken up by the

cold, firm hand of reality slapping you briskly in the

face; at such times you were quickly reminded how mostfeelings of freedom were just plain old fantasy,

predicated on your assumptions that this or that

machine would continue to serve you without fail.

Machines broke down – and where did that leave

you?

When they did break down, I would simply try to

remind myself that a certain amount of wear and tearwas all just part of life‟s grinding mechanics – and not

some conspiracy hatched solely to impede my progress

(though of course there was always the possibility of in-

built obsolescence to consider). For despite knowing

my way around an engine – at least well enough to

extricate myself from most major pickles – when it came

to the particulars of modern machinery I may as well

have been a twenty first century Luddite.

You could therefore have no better ally out in the

sticks than a good, solid mechanic.

“Where you from?” the old mechanic presently

asked, startling me from my musing.


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I could tell the question had been hovering quietly

on the back of his tongue the whole time.

“I‟m from another planet,” I replied, poker-faced.

He drew silent at my remark, and then began tostroke his square grizzled jaw thoughtfully. Finally a

broad grin spread across it. “Boy, I don‟t doubt you!” he

chuckled softly. “I‟m part machine myself.”

“Kind of like the Terminator?” I ribbed playfully.

“Kind of,” he said, his broad grin growing broader

still. And then, lightly tapping is chest, “Fitted out with

a pacemaker, I am!”“Stress?” I ventured, perhaps a little audaciously.

He nodded, then sighed, “Too much work.” He spat

at the ground. “I‟m the only mechanic worth a lick

inside a hundred miles.” He paused, scratching his

head. “Been at it for fifty years straight.” And then,

with eyes suddenly gleaming as though lit from within,

“Boy, could I use a fishing trip up in the mountains–” Just then I heard a loud honking sound from

behind; turning about abruptly I saw an old jalopy

quietly stolen up by the pumps; in it sat an ancient,

prune-faced woman. Her head was grey and horribly

wrinkled, as though it had been soaking in a cold bath

for days. She was leering at me through the windshield,

her ugly face almost pressed up against the glass like

some grotesque aquatic life form.

“Move it!” Her head suddenly appeared through the

open window, looking suddenly twice as horrible and

venomous. “I ain‟t got all day, boy!” There followed a

pale shaking fist through the window.


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The old shrew scowled contemptuously as I

wordlessly fired up the engine – and with a loud rev of

the throttle tore off out of the station. Out of the corner

of my eye I saw her signalling her victory with adismissive wave of the hand; while the friendly old

mechanic waved me a sorrowful “So-long, son”.

“I‟ll be back!” I thought to myself as I motored off

down the road.

Only a few short blocks later I arrived in the town

proper: a series of sterile looking cubes made of brick

and old weatherboard which clung fearfully to the sidesof a few narrow, straggling streets.

Most of the windows in them were closed, with the

curtains firmly drawn.

Just another frightened town, I thought to myself.

The main street itself comprised only a handful of

stores: a butcher, a baker … and so forth.

I presently noticed the odd lingering sidelong glancefrom a few ambling pedestrians as I drew up gently by

the curb.

First I went to the baker‟s.

I slapped a couple of bills down on the counter and

asked for several hardened loaves of rye. Rye lasts

longer than plain white bread. I did not know when I

might next enjoy a loaf, and wanted to make it last.

“That‟ll be twenty bucks,” the baker demanded

coolly. He was a corpulent fellow with thin brown hair

and puffy grey eyes.

“That‟s outrageous, man!” I protested.


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But he seemed to be the only baker in town from

what I had seen. No doubt he had the market firmly

stitched up. No doubt he knew it, too.

I grudgingly fished another bill from inside mypocket and slapped it with disgust onto the counter.

“That‟s inflation for you,” replied the fat baker with

a taut, greasy smirk. He quickly pocketed the bills.

“Or petty larceny,” I mumbled. I snatched up my

loaves and stormed out of the store.

By the time I had reached the general store across

the road, my temper had thankfully cooled down some.The door swung open to the sound of a little

tinkling bell, and I saw a middle-aged brunette at once

regarding me intently from behind horn-rimmed

spectacles at the counter.

I ignored her, and set myself to quickly looting her

little store, as though I stood on the eve of a zombie

apocalypse, and only I knew about it.The store owner didn‟t say a word as she nimbly

racked up a monster tally on her register – inflation had

afflicted both sides of the road, it seemed – and I was

thankful for her taciturnity. People who talk too much

generally have the least to say, I have found. And there

is always the temptation to stick a pin in a big old gas

bag.

I produced a fist full of crumpled bills and slapped

them briskly down on the counter, mumbling to myself

something about inflation. But foreseeing the

possibility of future transactions between us, I

grudgingly told her to keep the change. As a rule,


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sun shines.” I made a quick gesture with my hand like

the tipping of a hat, and left.

We had gotten off to a decent start, that general store

owner and I, I observed to myself with a smug littlesmile of satisfaction.

I went back to my bike and tethered my haul to the

back of the seat with a few long elastic hockey straps.

I then felt the powerful urge for coffee come over

me.

There was a small table set up outside the baker‟s,

and a small sign in the window that advertised “Cup-o-cino”. Gazing about, it seemed to be the only coffee

shop in town, as well as the only baker‟s. But I was still

a little sore at the baker, and so I decided to take my

thermos to a park bench instead, which was situated in

the tiny central plaza, where I sat down.

An ugly little fountain gurgled away at the centre of

the plaza, and few official looking buildings sat pressedabout its margin: a town hall, a post office, a

magistrate‟s, a bank, and beside that, a sheriff‟s office.

A little haberdashery had also managed to infiltrate

that cadre of officialdom: the first suggestions of a

disgusting mall sending its filthy reaching tentacles into

these parts. A solitary mannequin stood in the front

window, fitted out with a pair of moleskin trousers, a

chequered woollen shirt, a ten gallon hat, and a long oil-

skin duster – your standard rural raiment, admittedly;

though it was only a question of time before other

mannequins joined it, sporting ridiculous urban

fashions.


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Outside the town hall I presently spied a small

community notice board.

I poured myself coffee and tried to relax. I have

found there are very few places outside your own homewhere you can feel totally relaxed.

That plaza was not exactly the Piazza Venezia , I

gazed about despondently, but it would have to do. I

was feeling mildly sociable for some reason, perhaps on

account of the old grease monkey who had surprised me

with his easy-going candour. Could there be others in

town like him? I wondered.Cafés were good places to be sociable, I seemed to

recall, and I briefly considered biting the bullet and

returning to the baker‟s – to allow myself to be extorted

by him once more – but I chose against it in the end. To

Hell with that fat baker, I thought to myself.

Besides, I really did not wish to appear like some

kind of posturing intellectual as I sat there at that cafe,sipping my coffee and carefully crossing items off my

shopping list. No doubt I would have affected a certain

conceited airs as I sat there, stroking my whiskers

meditatively, my brow knitted in concentration, and

pouring over my shopping list just to make sure I had

not overlooked something important.

Strutting about was one sure way to get yourself run

out of any small town. That kind of posturing could

always wait until after you had settled in, once the keys

to the city were hanging securely from your key chain.


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At the same time, it was just as important not to

stare at the ground – or at one‟s shopping list for that

matter – too much, either.

This park bench is just fine, I thought to myself. When I was done inspecting my list, I quietly placed

the notepad back inside my pocket and drained the last

of my coffee.

Glancing about, I presently noticed what was an

unmistakable thickening of the throng: a few cats

suddenly materialized on a couple of the other benches

around the plaza, as well as the odd passer-by whoseemed to be regarding me with undisguised interest.

People stared a lot, which often made me feel a little

uncomfortable; it could grow rather tedious being stared

at all the time like some kind of freak show. Society was

just a lot of people staring at other people; just a lot of

watching and copying and attempts at outshining one

another.Mostly people would stare at you as though trying to

find some fashion flaw. Mostly they stared at your shoes

for some strange reason. No doubt my suit of faded

leathers and wild, wind-tossed hair did little to deter

such scrutiny right at that moment, however.

But then at least it was a positive sign, I thought to

myself grudgingly; at least some small flicker of

curiosity still lived on in the minds of these frightened

villagers, and not complete mindless disinterest or

distain; at least there was still a faint pulse to be found

in the local zombie population.


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And so, because at that moment I was feeling mildly

sociable, I did not so much mind being stared at.

Let them make a careful study of me, I thought to

myself. They might just learn something. One pretty young lady in a thin, curve-hugging dress

presently came strolling by, not too far from where I sat,

and glanced over at me sheepishly.

I winked at her – and she smiled back coyly in reply,

a flush rising to her cheeks.

There are few things in life as sweet as a smile from a

pretty young lady.I briefly deliberated whether I ought to engage her

further. As a general rule I preferred to remain cautious

in my dealings with single young ladies in small towns –

at least to begin with – at least until I had first

ascertained whether she were married, recently

separated, or was the sheriff‟s daughter. (The sheriff was

the last person you wanted to rub up the wrong way in asmall town, which is why it was important to never give

him an excuse to feel rubbed-up. Never make

wisecracks about him, for instance, to anyone – even if

you are rolling drunk and happen to be blabbering to

the village idiot about him. In fact, never blabber to the

village idiot about anything , as he is liable to repeat

every single word you said to everyone.)

But then I suddenly remembered my earlier decision

to relax protocol.

By the time I had remembered this, however, the

young lady had already disappeared from sight.


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With my business in town now concluded to my

satisfaction, I ambled over to my now over-burdened

steed, tested the improvised back-rest made from the

hefty sack of supplies, fired her up, and was off down thehighway – first making sure to secure my helmet, and of

course being careful not to go over the limit.

It was now early afternoon. I had made good time: a

quick in and out of that frightened little town had left

me with plenty of daylight to spare, one useful potential

ally, and a healthy cache of spoils.

I cannot say I was sorry to see that town disappear inmy rear view mirror; though in it I also shortly noticed

the unmistakable flash of light off metal – a fender, it

seemed, which belonged to one of the cars I had earlier

seen making slow laps around the plaza.

It seemed it was following me, though at careful

distance.

On the outskirts of town I opened up the throttle,and watched the car quickly disappear in the mirror,

much in the way the town had done.

Before long the narrow road began to wind up into

the mountains.

Here the bends grew suddenly sharp, a series of tight

switchbacks that soon brought me up among low-flying

wisps of cloud. My charging steed hugged the curves

superbly in spite of the heavy load and the worsening

conditions: the moisture on the bitumen, and the

sudden absence of guard railing. I knew that my

pursuers – should they still be on my heels – would have

little hope keeping up with me as I charged along.


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As the air grew cooler and thinner, a silent forest of

tall white ghost gums slowly emerged from the

gathering mists – replacing such varieties of eucalyptus

that are better suited to lower altitudes – their thinwhite branches reaching heavenwards like groping

skeleton hands.

The road eventually levelled out, having now finally

attained an elevated rolling plateau where the scrub

grew lean and sparse, and the air carried a definite icy

edge. Here and there I noticed the odd homestead

suddenly and quite unexpectedly appeared out ofnowhere: one perched on a jutting crag of rock, another

sprawled out in a brush filled gulch. Most of those

homesteads were unfenced, and would have appeared

almost abandoned were it not for the odd pale light I

saw glowing eerily from within, as well as the odd plume

of thin dark smoke that rose up out of the chimneys.

The sun-bleached bones of old gutted vehicles and uglymounds of refuse which littered those unkempt yards

quickly informed me I was now deep in hillbilly

country: the sort of country where the hills were alive

with the sound of strumming banjos, where the women

had either beards or hair lips, and where the only

culture you might expect to find most probably grew in

between someone‟s toes.

All at once I imagined myself under quiet

surveillance from within those queer old dwellings; but

then I could only imagine what peculiar figure I myself

must have cut as I belched my way across that lean


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lonely land, so laden down with goodies, like old Santa‟s

sleigh.

I had no real desire to announce my arrival to the

entire local population, however, who were most likelyto be my new neighbours after all, and so I presently

geared down to a brisk trot.

Thus proceeding, I began my own quiet study of

those strange, rambling homesteads as they rose into

view. In one I presently noticed a skinny old fellow

wearing stained denim coveralls, straps hanging loosely

over his bare bony shoulders; he was pottering aroundhis yard and angrily tossing about bits of this or that, as

though he were hunting for lost treasure in a garbage

dump.

He looked mean, I thought to myself, like an alpha

male without any muscles – the sort of mean old

monkey who could prove especially vicious. It was the

wiry ones you had to look out for; quick as whippets,you never saw them coming.

Just then he noticed me; his mouth fell open and his

eyes grew wide as saucers. I made a little wave to him as

I coasted on by; the sort of wave you might make from

the window of your Rolls Royce. It was perhaps a little

bit cheeky of me, though it was by no means intended to

be insolent. The slack jawed fellow just continued to

follow me intently with his hollow gaze, however, like

one of those dummy clowns you see at the carnival,

whose heads swivel slowly from side to side.

Besides him, however, the only other forms of local

wildlife I subsequently observed in those silent, derelict


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yards were the odd sheep or goat grazing quietly among

the debris; every so often one would stop to peer up at

me as I rumbled along, as though suddenly given over to

rumination on matters no longer merely pertaining towild grass, thorns and weeds.

It was now late afternoon, almost early evening, and

the cold had by now penetrated deep into my bones.

Shivering, I grew anxious to reach my destination,

and to warm myself up by my old friend‟s fire.

It would be nice to see old Bill, too, I thought.

All at once the sun dipped dramatically behind thedistant peaks and sent a long, sharp row of jagged

silhouettes stabbing up at the sky.

Sharp mountain silhouettes were quite possibly

among my most favourite natural spectacles in all the

world; but I barely took pause to savour them right at

that moment, as I had grown a little concerned at the

prospect of trying to locate Burns‟ place in the dark.But then, almost in the very next instant, I made out

a curious shape on the dimming horizon: one that

clearly did not belong among all those long, serrated

peaks: a massive round hummock of smooth grey rock –

one roughly elephantine in shape, whose grotesquely

protruding hide was smattered with great ugly boils – a

shape that Bill had carefully marked out on his map,

complete with tusks and trunk and massive ear lobes, as

well a large „X-marks-the-spot‟ drawn directly above it –

and I knew that I was fast approaching my goal.

On first spying that strange landmark, I let out a

deep sigh of relief. I had not realised it, but a deep,


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gnawing anxiety had all this time been quietly twisting

away inside my guts. What if Bill had moved? Where

would I go from here?

Seeing it, however, I felt almost dizzy with rapture.I drew the crisp, clean mountain air into my lungs, felt

suddenly free of the noose that had meanwhile been

tightening slowly around my neck.

It was getting harder and harder to live free, outside

the long arm of the law these days, I reflected grimly.

The authorities had grown wilier over the years, their

methods savvier, and their cordons increasingly harderand harder to slip through. And yet, on the way up, I

had carefully noted countless little back-roads and goat

trails down which a man might still find the odd gap, or

loosely spun thread – through which might yet slip away

undetected, should the occasion arise....

It had of course only been a question of time before

the frontiers finally caught up to, and then overtook, thelikes of old Bill – before the advancing forces of

capitalism and corporate greed eventually arrived and

surrounded his solitary bastion with malls and white

picket fences, demanding of him some form of tax or

tribute, and bringing with it such authorities who will

guarantee its collection.

And yet it seemed that Burns‟ property had

remained sufficiently isolated to at least have partly

deterred the Beast‟s relentless forward advances.

Civilization had ploughed right on ahead of Burns –

but it had also skipped clean over the mountains, and

somehow left him behind, in its blind spot.


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4. Home among the Hillbillies

“Burns!” I cried out several times at the top of my lungs

– but there was no reply. “Burns, man, are you home?” I took a quick stroll around the perimeter of the

shack in the fading light, all the while calling out my old

friend‟s name in the hope he was somewhere close by,

perhaps meditating in his outhouse; but I soon found

myself stumbling and tripping about in the dark, and

before long I returned to the front door, which I

discovered was thankfully unlocked.I pushed the door open cautiously and hovered a

moment on the threshold. It was very dark within, and

so I quickly fetched out the little flashlight that lives

inside my hip pocket, shone it inside the shack, and

stepped gingerly over the threshold.

As I did so, I began sniffing cautiously at the air.

Perhaps Burns was lying dead about the place, slowlydecomposing? I did not wish to trip over his corpse in

the dark.

The air carried that homely, lived-in scent, as well as

the definite suggestion of rugged manliness. I instantly

recognised the stench of Burns‟ sweat – some smells you

never forgot – which evoked sudden, vivid memories of

my old friend frozen in various ridiculous tableaux. The

smell was rancid, though it was by no means putrescent.

Had Burns gotten himself killed, he had clearly done so

elsewhere.


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I soon made out an old kerosene lamp sitting on a

rickety old table. I promptly lit it, and made brief

inspection of the interiors.

From the general state of disarray that is commonlyfound in bachelor pads, it was immediately apparent

that the place had been lived in: old, half-eaten scraps of

food on plates (mostly decayed), a sink full of unwashed

dishes, clothes strew across chairs, and so forth.

Wherever Burns had disappeared to, further

investigation could wait until the morning. I was

exhausted.And so, after fetching inside a few of my belonging –

among them my sack of goodies from town – I fixed

myself a simple supper and then promptly collapsed on

Bill‟s narrow cot. I drew the blanket well over my head,

and immediately fell into a long, deep sleep.

By dawn‟s brutally honest light, I rubbed the sleep

from my eyes and gazed about, still greatlydisorientated, wondering at my strange new surrounds.

I watched the air streaming from my mouth in great

puffing jets. It was as cold as a witch‟s teat inside that

strange cabin, and I was soon wide awake and taking

short stock of my situation:

Littered about the frozen cabin, which may as well

have been a giant refrigerator, I quickly registered a

small assortment of furniture and objects that looked

like the sort of hodgepodge you might find in any old

junk shop. My immediate response to it was one of

repugnance; and, presently stumbling over the various

bits of clutter toward the sink in order to douse my


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cheeks – knocking over chairs and banging into table

edges and so forth, with the blanket wrapped firmly

about my shoulders – I briefly considered burning the

lot of it immediately following my ablutions – if only towarm the place up a little.

The actual structure to which all that junk belonged

was itself not much better; Burns had made obvious

crude attempts at stopping up all the little gaps in the

walls of crooked timber, as well as propping up the

various sagging supports – but the walls of his pathetic

little operation just seemed to have kept on crumblingabout him.

Still, I had to hand it to him: despite what was a

clear deficiency in all those necessary skills of trade

required to build oneself a comfortable and functional

abode in the wilderness, he had nevertheless apparently

survived all this time on his own, on what may as well

have been a hostile alien world.I next went outside to pay the outhouse tribute. It

stood about ten paces from the shack, and the stench

exuded from it clearly attested to the freshness of its

content – which at first I took to be a good sign – but

then it next occurred to me as I reached for the handle

that maybe Burns had expired while seated on his

throne – and I hesitated.

Burns was thankfully not sitting dead on his dunny,

however; in that narrow wooden closet I discovered a

little wooden chair with a great gaping hole in its centre;

the chair was perched directly above another large hole


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cut into a row of planks which spanned a ditch. And

that was about the extent of the sewerage in these parts.

I sat down on the stool and closed the latrine door.

On the back of the door I was immediately greetedby the faded pinup of a busty Asian beauty; and beneath

it, scratched into the rough wooden panelling, the

number 666.

I left the latrine, scratching my head, and went to

inspect the timber situation, being eager to get a fire

blazing.

Behind the shack I soon located a smooth choppingblock; on its outward-facing side had been scratched the

words: “Trespassers will be executed!”.

Bill had clearly been keeping himself entertained, I

thought to myself with a mixture of wry amusement and

growing concern.

The axe that sat buried deep in the chopping block

was wedged in tight, and it took me a good minute ortwo of loud cursing to get it unstuck.

The fact, along with all the freshly split log I saw

piled up neatly against the wall, right up to below the

eaves, suggested to me that Burns hadn‟t been away too

long. As I recalled he had simply hated the cold

(another unexplained reason for his having chosen to

settle here), and would often insist on lighting fires even

in the middle of summer, “just in case the weather took

a nasty turn”. It was therefore hardly surprising that he

should have remained vigilant in his chopping

activities. The fact there was no gap between the top of

the woodpile and the eaves indicated, to my mind, that


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he had left his property having first carefully prepared

against his return.

But just how long ago, exactly, and just why he had

left, remained the unanswered questions in my mind.Whatever the reasons for his (planned?) departure, I

was nevertheless most grateful for all the wood he had

left behind. For while I personally did not so much

mind the cold weather, you will always sing a

completely different tune after you have spent a winter

in the snow.

There was an old rusty tank by one corner of theshack which received run-off from the gutters. It was

almost full; and nothing dead was in it: further clues

that went toward explaining the duration of Burns‟

absence. At its base was a tap, and beneath that a small

runnel lined with smooth pebbles that had been cut

roughly into the side of the hill, and which ran down

toward what I soon saw to be a vegetable garden below.A pipe leading from the house, no doubt connecting to

the sink, also fed into the runnel.

The garden was situated in the shady lee of a narrow

gully, which gave it some protection from the sun, and

was surrounded by a crude fence of chicken wire. There

were several large gaps in the fence, as well as a few

holes dug out beneath it.

The crop supported by that garden was a sorry

looking affair: not much had managed to grow in it, by

the looks of it, much less flourish in these harsh

conditions – at least nothing that grew above ground.

For I soon discovered that the earth had been recently


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FUGITIVE by Frank Genghis 2016

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