Part 1:
The end of the golden weatherWe were half way to Kaikoura and moving at TOP SPEED when we happened upon the first fallen tree. Frank was driving at the time and Frank knows better than to slow down for ANYTHING on the open road.
“Fuck no,” he told us, “It’s a question of basics physics, any kung-fu kid will tell you it’s about going through. Focus beyond the wood and you will cut right through it!”
The second fallen tree worried Frank a little more, he become intensely paranoid and got hunkered down behind the wheel, scanning the roadside for the next tree, the one that would KILL US ALL!. Inexplicably, other drivers suffered the same kind of queer paranoia and across the board traffic all but stopped, with exception of Frank of course, who stomped the gas and poured it on. Captain Sam was in the back seat and he had been rattled badly. He implored Frank to slow, but Frank refused until he saw a weird looking hitchhiker lurching about on the roadside. “YES!” he screamed, “We will pick this sick freak up!”
“Get in,” Frank demanded, “What’s your name friend?”
“Mack S.,” the hitchhiker said.
“Of course,” Frank said, “Of course it is!”
“Yes,” said Mack S., “I’m too scared to drive with all these trees falling.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to Kaikoura.” Frank explained.
“Kaikoura?” said Mack S., “I know a better place, you fellas should come with me”
“Ok,” said Frank, “Goddman right on! Where are we going then?”
“It’s a little place called Noffun Town,” Mack S. said.
Part 2:
Living by your conscienceWhen we arrived in Noffun Town we went directly to a bar called The Stable where Mack S. had arranged to meet his lady. I bought a bottle of fine Jamaican rum and we drank all of it. Despite his intense conviction he did not drink alcohol, Mack S. had his fair share and when he stumbled outside just after midnight I figured he was going to purge himself of the “devil juice.” Indeed, he was mumbling about TROUBLE and SUFFERING and making amends with the Gods of Noffun for his BAD MANNERS and his terrible, terrible indulgence.
Mack S. had been gone for an hour when I went out to look for him. Christ, I thought, the stupid bastard has probably choked on his own vomit, some kind of weird cosmic coincidence. I was wrong of course. I found Mack S. in a barn, enjoying carnal knowledge of a large cow in the soft autumn moonlight. I pulled him off the beast, slapped him about the head and directed him back toward the bar. He crawled all the way on his knees with his tiny, flaccid peter, bobbing about in the cold, midnight wind. It made me sick and frightened. I was beginning to realise there was something deeply wrong with Mack S. He was singing Galway Bay and touching himself.
When we made it back to the bar there was still no sign of Mack S’s mysterious lady but my old friends Bert and Jenny HAD turned up. They were chatting with Captain Sam and Frank and picking fine Cuban cigars out of a large wooden box. Yes indeed, it was good to see them; they are fine people with strong hearts who could only find the way to Noffun Town BY ACCIDENT. We shared the cigars around, though Mack S. refused the generous gesture, “I don’t smoke ANYTHING!” he screamed. He was clearly shaken and dribbling out the corners of his mouth, mumbling to himself and he would NOT stop singing Galway Bay. When Bert pulled out a lighter, things got even worse.
“You’re not smoking those inside!” Mack S. screamed, “You can’t, it’s not LEGAL!”
Part 3:
At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopardsWe all ignored Mack S’s wild cries and lit up our cigars inside the bar. They were fine cigars indeed, a hint of caramel on the tongue, a soft, gentle, long white cloud of smoke. I don’t think any of us noticed Mack S. leave the table or return with a golf club he suddenly claimed had once belonged to a pro. Indeed, the club was engraved with the initials T.H. and for all we knew, T.H
was a pro.
“I’m going to cave your skulls in with this club you rotten criminals!” yelled Mack S. He ran towards us with the club above his head. “The trees are falling down because fuckers like you smoke inside!” yelled Mack S. He hit Burt and Jenny and I repeatedly over the head but the club did very little damage despite his desperation to teach us a lesson. Indeed, Mack S. zeroed in on me with the club but it did not
really hurt me, it came close but the attack finished up as more of a
warning thanks only to the flexible shaft and reasonable head of the club. He may have swung with all the strength a small man has but his only only true achievement was proving the depth of his sleazy, treacherous soul.
Disclaimer:
Where Were You When the Music Stopped? A Brutal and Terrifying Saga in Three Parts
is a work of fiction and any similarity to actual persons and events should be considered entirely coincidental.
