I approached the band of mo-hawked, tattooed, shot-gun wielding, hollow eyed rustics without fear, like in
the old westerns, since to show fear would reveal your malevolent
intentions, what does a good man have to fear? Of course that kind of
thinking could only apply to those with narrow tribal instincts,
unaware of all that could go wrong in communicating oneself, or the
shifting caprice of nomadic savages.
The steam punks roving about in
their treaded locomotives, led by Casey Jones, driving that train
high on cocaine, divining his actions based on a 17th
century brain gurgling in some biological stew of some unknown arcane
recipe and meting out rough personal justice with his steam powered
pneumatic gauntlet and coal shovel whose edges had been filed razor
sharp. They were lounging about the periphery of our once beautiful
community, our neighborhood watch Captain tied over
its cow-catcher, skin blackish-white and peeling, eye sockets
infested with wasps.
I was noticed almost immediately as
their double bull
fiddle transitioned into a low
growling whine as the natural tension of the moment dictated. How
they can demand a fearless approach, it doesn't make any sense,
everything about them radiates wicked menace, but then I remembered,
I was a suburbanite G-d damn it. I adapted my fear into a passive
aggressive current, like I have used when dealing with familiar
teenagers or minority peers, allowing me to both control through
subtle condescending deference and placate with future promises of
ice cream, like centuries of our family have done just to get by in this
world, like when the first Anglo settled next to a Saxon. They
didn't make a big deal about it, even invited them in for some mead
once to prove it wasn't a Anglo Saxon thing, but later proving it was
after getting drunk at the winter feast and screaming about
how Anglos start all the wars in the world and calling their
matriarch “sugar bosoms” and then forming an enduring relationship of quietly hate loving each other
till their children misogynat, you know, the American way.
“ Well, hi there neighbor! You guys sure
look like you are having a bang up ole time her today with your epoxies smelling and
mouthwash tasting, but something tells me you fellows might have more fun
with, well...Cocaine, maybe, just a thought. Not wearing a wire or anything” I
said, feeling stupid, there hadn’t been a transmission from here in
weeks and the authorities were complicit, but their flaring nostrils,
drooling and manic eyes told me they had liked what they heard.
