On to Chapter 6 |
Chapter 5 � And If You Look to Your Right, You�ll See a Firefight in
Progress The ride
continued endlessly. Despite that,
Hargrove�s mood was approaching something akin to happy.
They were off the highway now, entering Hollywood, and soon they would be
in the presence of Syc Offant, and the famed Marxist Detective would finally get
some answers. He still couldn�t shake the feeling that he knew the name
of the senior Offant brother from somewhere.
If only the cacophony would stop long enough for him to think. �Aynd if thet bawtell should heppen ta fawll,�
belted out Crabhair, only occasionally taking a stab at getting the tune right.
�Theay�rll bay tharty bawtellso�beeyar on thet waghll.�
The decrepit gas jockey had found his place in the song, despite
Hargrove�s attempt to derail it. �Only thirty more bawtells� er� bottles,� he murmured.
Hang on, he thought, hang on.
Defeating this bastion of Capitalist disinformation would require all of
the famed Marxist Detective�s socialist dogmatism, and he would be doing no
one any good if he cracked now, least of all the Appel sisters.
He would bear it with the stoicism of a soviet waiting in a bread line. Hargrove perked up at the sound of the gunshot.
The
stinking pickup truck swerved across several lanes of traffic, miraculously
avoiding the other cars. Crabhair
appeared to be dead, or at least severely wounded, his head lolling out of the
driver�s side window. Webley
revolver in hand, Hargrove scanned his surroundings, hoping to spot the sniper
before the next bullet found its mark. The skid grew worse, with the truck riding up on only two wheels while
proceeding diagonally down the street. The
squeal of the tires matched both Hargrove�s and Shurley�s in pitch, though
hers suddenly erupted in a floor-rumbling burp.
In a show of bravado, or perhaps out of habit, she tried belching the
alphabet, making it to �h� before the truck slammed into a wall. The sudden stop slammed the famed Marxist detective�s head into the
truck�s cab. Prickly, he
rated the chunks of window glass imbedded in his scalp.
Not as bad as road gravel, but worse than a curry comb.
Satisfied that his injuries were not sufficient to halt him, he climbed
from the bed of the pickup truck. �� sacrifice, but we couldn�t find a virgin in Hollywood,�
babbled Marty chummily. �What was that you said?� asked Hargrove. �Hmmn? Nothing.
You�re bleeding by the way,� observed Marty. �Am I?� Hargrove
checked to make sure there was nothing unaccounted for.
After that fiasco in The Hague when he had to go back to the plane to
find his finger, he made it a habit to occasionally take inventory of his body
parts. �You appear to have been
shot though,� he said, indicating the bullet holes piercing the chauffeur�s
jacket in several places. �Moths,� replied Stabble, looking furtively back and forth. �Moths? But there�s
dried blood around the holes!� �Big moths. Californian
vampire moths. Very common in these
parts.� �I could have sworn I saw you take a few shots from that lunatic at
the airport.� �But that�s really not important now.
How are Captain Will and Mr. Crabhair?� asked Stabble, quickly striding
off to the front of the truck. �I�m fine, but I� I don�t think J.R. made it,� sobbed Shurley,
indicating the oldster�s body lying half under the truck.
She threw herself against Hargrove�s shoulder, and blew her nose
expansively against his shirt. It
took every vestige of his willpower not to wince against the sudden wetness
spreading across his chest. �There, there,� he consoled. �Take
comfort knowing that brave Crabhair died as a true proletariat, aiding us in our
mission against elitism and privilege.� �Whut in hail �r all y�all gabbing abaout?� asked Crabhair,
sitting up, to the mingled shrieks of his three companions. �But we thought you were dead,� said Stabble, clinging to Captain
Will�s considerable clingy bits. �Dayed? Hail no, but thet
traynsmishion sure is. This hyar
truck ain�t goin� nowheyrz.� He
snorted and spat a grey-green lump at a rust spot. There were some puzzled glances. �He
said the truck is finished,� said Hargrove, flexing his linguistic muscles.
�We must find alternative transportation.
And perhaps quickly before whoever shot at us before shoots again.� �Shoots? T�weren�t no
shot, th� damn tire blew aout. I
got a good purice on a buncha Fahrstone 500�s back in th�80�s after thet
recall.� �But after the sound of the tire, your head was lolling out the
window. I thought you had been
shot.� �Nope. Ah wuz trayin�
t�see whyich tire blew.� �Still,� grumbled Hargrove, mildly put out that nobody was sniping
at them. �We need to find a
vehicle � one that will allow us to maintain a low profile.�
The crowd of onlookers was swelling as much as Hargrove�s scalp wound.
It wouldn�t do for a detective to draw such attention to himself. A quick glance around found a solution to the problem.
�There lies our salvation,� crowed Hargrove, indicating a
double-decker bus, with a lineup of what appeared to be tourists.
�We will be just more faces in a crowd, just in case anybody wants to
start shooting again.� �But nobody was shooting before,� protested Stabble. �Yes, yes,� said Hargrove distractedly, as he joined the line of
loudly dressed tourists. He
squinted against the glare reflecting off the pale flesh revealed by their lurid
Hawaiian shirts and shorts. Damned
Canadians, he thought. Soon,
they were at the front doors of the bus, standing face-to-face with the tour
guide. The famed Marxist Detective studied the man. Dressed in a fake Tower of London beefeater�s costume, the
guide looked ready to faint from the heat. �Brave, yet exploited worker � take heart knowing that I, Hargrove
the famed Marxist Detective is here, striking back against the Tinseltown opiate
that drugs the common man of this city.� The guide eyed him suspiciously. �Are
you a producer?� he asked. �Because
if you are, I�ve got a script you might want to look at.
Jumpbush is the name, Moxie Jumpbush.�
Hargrove fought to escape the suddenly eager guide, leaping aboard the
bus and heading down the aisle. In possibly the first stroke of luck he�d had this week, there were
still seats available on the upper deck of the bus. There was absolutely no way he was willing to be in the
enclosed lower level with the beautiful yet flatulent Captain Will.
He winced slightly at the feel of the hot vinyl seat against the exit
hole of his shoulder wound. His companions quickly settled in to enjoy the tour.
Hargrove returned their �oohs� and �aaahs� with the surliest
grunt he could summon. Every bone
in his body ached against the conspicuous displays of wealth and privilege
represented by the celebrity homes they passed by.
Didn�t his fellow passengers realize that all these trappings were
merely an attempt by the so-called ruling class to distract the workers from
plotting the overthrow of their masters? Apparently
not. Any utterance from their guide provoked a flood of admiring
comments and a staccato clicking of camera shutters. �And on the right, you�ll see Britney Spears� new luxury
mansion,� said Moxie�s voice over the PA system. �Over-rated, Pepsi-swilling, chewing-gum-smacking dupe of the
entertainment industry,� growled Hargrove. �On the left is John Wayne�s palatial residence.� �Pah!� snorted Hargrove. �Surely
that�s the first time the swaggering wholesaler of Western imperialism has
been on the left of anything.� The PA burbled. �Get your
cameras ready, folks, because in about two minutes we�ll be seeing the homes
of Kirk Douglas�" Fascist. ��Ronald Reagan�� Blacklisting, senile cowboy. ��Jim Carrey�� Again with the Canadians, thought Hargrove. Their quasi-socialism is the worst � fooling the
proletariat into thinking they have achieved some measure of the worker�s
utopia. ��and Walt Disney.� It was too much for him. Disney,
the ultimate corruptor, the sinister controller behind the power of the Mouse.
Since his childhood, Hargrove had borne a hatred like no other for him.
Such arrogance, taking the tune from the leftist children�s song �We
Happily Toil in the Mines and Factories,� and using it as the basis for
�It�s a Small World After All.� At times like this, Hargrove took solace in Mao�s little red book.
Though not a Maoist, Hargrove couldn�t help but think sometimes that
the Chairman wasn�t so far off. Absorbed in the book and his own grumblings, Hargrove failed to notice
the convertible that drove up alongside them.
The car�s occupants trained their firearms on the upper deck of the
bus. Shurley shook Hargrove�s arm, vainly trying to get his attention.
�Look, beside us!� she shouted. �What now?� asked Hargrove testily.
�Sonny Bono�s tribute to consumerism?� �No, you idiot. Gunmen!� Hargrove had just enough time to see the car before having to duck to
avoid the hail of bullets. His
fellow passengers responded with a volley of snapping camera shutters.
Drawing his beloved Webley, Hargrove returned fire, each shot discharging
his pent-up hatred for Hollywood. For the second time today, he heard the sound of a tire blowing out,
followed by the ominous yawing of the double-decker bus.
Skidding down the street, it leaned farther and farther over before
finally toppling onto its side with a deafening crash and sliding to a halt. It took several minutes before the clouds of dust drifted away and the
passengers could see each other again. Hargrove
was, for once, miraculously uninjured. He
looked around to see if his companions were likewise safe.
Shurley Will was okay, albeit with a lump of nasal mucus swinging
pendulum-like from a nose hair, Stabble was trying to inconspicuously tuck a
creeping tentacle back into his shirt, and Crabhair was once again on the
ground, checking to see if their vehicle was travel-worthy. With a sickening realization, the trio realized the bus was actually
resting on top of the old man, in a twisted parody of a scene from Wizard of Oz.
It had barely sunk in when they heard a voice behind them. �Those were the greatest FX I�ve ever seen,� gushed Jumpbush, his
beefeater costume covered in dust. �You
absolutely must read my script!� The
demented writer leapt at them, thrusting a thick wad of paper at them. �Run for your lives!� shouted Hargrove, bravely leading the charge
down Hollywood Boulevard. Will they ever get to see Wapkaplet or Offant? Will he finally remember where he knows Syc Offant from? Who was the gunman from the airport? Will Hargrove be able to successfully parlay this into an ABC After-School Special?
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