| Like a Drifter, I Was Born to Walk Alone By Wwolfe |
| Disclaimer: Characters and situations related to BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are the property of others. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. But it won't matter if you sue, because Wwolfe isn't some kid that'll fold like a house of cards, he's the legal counsel for the DarkSide, the Devil's Mouthpiece, the real lawyer from Hell. So go ahead. Do your worst. If you dare. Bwa Ha Ha! Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* "Dot.com" It was the most beautiful made-up non-word Hank Summers had ever heard. In the late Nineties, he'd read the stories about the bundles being made in the stock market by people investing in the Internet - the so-called "dot.com" stocks - and that's when Hank had his moment of clarity: like Paul on the road to Damascus - or, in his case, driving his Honda on the 405 to Sherman Oaks - Hank had a vision in which he saw himself investing every cent he had in some hot, sexy stock. Thinking back on it, he recalled that his exact thought had been, "Screw it." A few years and several million dollars later, Hank had sold all of his stock just before the bubble burst. Then he'd shed his old life, leaving behind his car, his apartment, his ex-wife, and his daughter, and taken up a new existence here on the Riviera. After a thorough remodel, he looked like a new man. Both his clothes and his face were finely tailored, the clothes being Italian, the face being mostly Swiss. He soon discovered, much to his delight, that an expensive wardrobe coupled with a willingness to spend freely was a sure means of securing an endless supply of remarkably well-constructed young women. He understood and accepted without self-recrimination that he had at last fulfilled his nature by reducing the relationship between his women and himself to that which is shared by flies and flypaper. For he realized at this rather late point in his life that -notwithstanding the many years in which he mistook himself, first, for the dutiful husband and father and, later, for the equally dutiful ex-husband and weekend father - he was in fact a very shallow man. So it was that he sat in an outdoor cafe in Nice, the sun shining on the Mediterranean, a light breeze lifting the blue and white-striped awning over the table across which he half-listened to this week's delicacy as she nattered on about some subject, while over her shoulder he surreptitiously eyed next week's prospects. Then, a flash of light. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hot sun beat down on his face, its brightness dragging him groggily back to consciousness. He felt something tickle his ear, and swiped away the bug that was crawling on his earlobe. On his neck and forearms, he felt dry, scratchy grass. Hank opened his eyes and sat up. Around him, as far as he could see, he was surrounded by grassy rolling land, marked by an occasional scraggly tree, all set under a vast blue canopy of sky. The silence was astonishing. Far off on the horizon, he saw a bird circling in the sky; its occasional caw, and a chorus of chirping insects, were the only sounds. The heat was quickly growing oppressive. He staggered to his feet, noticing his clothing for the first time. He was wearing dark blue overalls, well-worn boots, and a striped shirt that he swore looked as if it were homemade. Doffing the hat he felt perched on his head, he saw it was a ridiculous dark number which he couldn't imagine ever freely choosing to wear. Struck suddenly by a powerful thirst, he walked clumsily to a small pool of clear water a few yards away, by which a pitifully scrawny tree grew. Falling to his knees, Hank leaned down toward the water, where he saw his reflection. My God, he thought. I look half my age! Hearing the sound of wheels rolling on dirt, Hank turned to see a horse-drawn wagon approaching him along the dusty road that ran through the grass. Peering at the driver's silhouette in the glare of the sun, Hank thought, I've seen this man. It was the huge head of hair that sparked his memory. "I...I know you!" he said. "Well, I sure hope you know me, son," the man said. "Hop in - the girls are expectin' us for supper." Hank thought he might faint, his mind was reeling so violently. Mystified, he looked up at the man and asked in an imploring voice, "Who am I? WHERE am I?" Hank could hear an edge of irritation in the man's voice. "Look, boy, I don't know what you're playin' at, but that's enough malarkey for one day," he replied. "You're Almanzo, this is Walnut Grove, and Half-Pint's waitin' for you back at the house." Almanzo. Half-Pint. That astonishing hair. He knew this stuff. He'd seen it every week on TV, when Joyce made him watch Buffy's favorite show. It was "family time," Joyce said. He remembered thinking that no matter how lousy he thought his life was, at least he didn't have to live in that damn Walnut Grove with those awful people. And now.... Maintain, Hank, he thought to himself. Maintain. "Uh, I think I'll walk...Pa," he said, awkwardly. "Feel like stretching my legs." The man on the wagon eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before saying, "All right, but be quick about it - supper's almost ready." Turning the wagon, the man and his titanic coiffure headed toward the house Hank could see sitting on the rise of the next hill. Hank wanted to tell himself he was dreaming, but an ugly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. Lacking any alternatives, he began shuffling disconsolately toward the little house...oh, God, no!, he thought. "On the prairie," he finished, knowing somehow in that moment that he was in deep, deep trouble. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her face having returned to its human form, the Vengeance Demon smiled with satisfaction as she strolled out of the bar located in - well, it didn't matter where the bar was exactly, because it could have been in any of a hundred towns and cities in America and Europe. She'd have gotten to this item sooner, but it was a big year for vengeance, and she was a little behind in her rounds. It had taken next to no effort to cajole this woman into making her wish, and the results were particularly satisfying. "I wish Hank Summers would find himself in the most Godforsaken place on Earth," the woman had said, and - voila! - it was done. With her mystical vision, the Demon could see him now in his foolish hat, trudging down the dusty road. She could even hear him singing softly to himself as he walked - trying to bolster his courage, she surmised, although precious little good it would do him in the long run. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his overalls, Hank Summers - no, from now on, he would always be Almanzo - began his long walk to his new home. He could feel himself receding into the distance as he walked toward the horizon, softly singing the tune that had seen him through so many hard times: "Hear I go again on my own Going down the only road I've ever known Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone..." Somehow, Hank had a feeling that this time even Whitesnake wasn't going to help. Main Menu ~ Return to "Other Worlds" Menu |