Sometime To Return

We were somewhere around Black River Falls on the edge of the tundra when the Red Bull cocktails began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly the car lost nearly all control on the icy frontage road.   In one direction was  what looked like an immense misshapen dog, rapidly swapping places with a monstrous rat as the car spun wildly in the packed snow toward a row of gas pumps.  And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddam giant fluorescent animals?"

Then it was quiet again, and the rest of the people in the gas station were watching us warily as they climbed out of the snowbanks they had dived into. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring bourbon on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "You freak." I said, "it's two degrees out."

"What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, glaring  up at the weak winter sun. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I ran his card through the pump; no point in alerting anyone to my whereabouts, I thought.   Not yet.  Also no point mentioning that orange moose. The poor bastard will see it soon enough.  I just hoped he would overlook the giant rat;  that was the stuff of nightmares.

Energy drink cocktails are for the truly deranged.  The alcohol shuts down all your higher cognition, most of your fine motor functions, and your color receptors; meanwhile the hopped up sugar water drives your body into high gear, making you into jittery marionette with poor impulse control and a destructive sense of humor.  Not to mention an absurdly high tolerance for mind-altering substances and weird behavior.

I bought some ice and another pack of Red Bull; we still had plenty of tequila and Sailor Jerry's.  I knew the worst part of the trip was coming up.  We had to make it past Menomonie as fast as this jalopy could manage;  hopefully the warrants from that long ago speed-fueled weekend were expired.  Besides,  we eventually let that guy out of the Cutlass' trunk.  No harm, no foul, right?

We had to make it to Minneapolis.

 

to be continued.  Maybe.