Anyway, I'm heading back for yet another "semestr" of varying-level
Con Programming IndoctroEduRape ("You PAID for it, pal, and you'll ALWAYS
pay!!!" a thousand generations of oppressed past ifes howl, banshee-like,
in my skull. Shut up.), and I'm zooming down the highway with a carfull
of crap and a headful of hate. "Rrrrrrr" goes the car. It doesn't say
a whole hell of a lot else. Occasionally it squeals, and sometimes it
makes little ticking sounds, and on certain types of road surface, the
tires add this little "wubbawubbawubba" sound to the whole. Translated
from Car into English, this means "I'm DRIVING!!!" This only fuels my
hate, because I already KNOW THIS. I'd rather not, certainly. I'd rather
be lying comatose, uttered soul-numb by continuous 'Frop ingestion and the
tireless attention of the Sex Goddesses, but NO, that's not to be. Dobbs
says I have to WAIT for THREE MORE YEARS!!! Not that I'm bitter.
Normals like to travel in herds. On the highway, this turns into the
cluster-fuck mode of driving, which consists of several dozen vehicles
blocking all lanes, all going the same speed, which is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS
slower than MY speed, the PROPER speed. Thanks, "Bob!" Three more years
is just SWELL, "Bob!" NO FUCKING RUSH!!!
So I wend my way, daredevil style, car on two wheels when necessary, through
this latest cluster-fuck of damnable Pinks. And...there's a truck, there at
the vanguard. I notice the words on the back, and sides, as I pass. "Robert's
Express." "Robert." Yeah. Right. As if that transparent little code is
going to fool me. I drive up further, lean over, and look up into the cab.
The driver has a pipe. He raises it to me in salute, GRINNING at me.
Instantly, I react. Performing an Orsonic Power Shunt, I transfer soul-
energy from my "intelligence" into my "rage." Yanking the wheel sideways,
I broadside the truck. Sure, my car is small, but the Orsonic power shield
gives it an almost entirely fictional power of invulnerability. "Bob's"
Express truck jackknifes and flies off the road, exploding into flame. I
slam on the brakes, and leap out of the car, charging the flaming wreck,
howling with glee. "Bob" rose out of the flames, in a manner that would be
rather reminiscent of "The Terminator" were it not for the fact that he was
on fire, running in circles, and screaming like a little girl.
Another Orsonic Power Shunt, this time into my "arsenal", and I pull out
a fully-automatic recoilless rifle, perform one last shunt into my "cliche",
sneer, "You're knocking at death's door, pal, and I've got the fucking key,"
and pull the trigger. Remember that scene in "Scanners?" It was a lot like
that, only with his whole body.
All in all, it made my drive. And later, after Cerberus, (Hell's doorman)
threw him back on the "street," "Bob" helped me unpack and bought me some
drinks.
So remember: If you see "Bob" on the road, kill him.
The Reverend Gar Drastic aka Gary Achenbach aka drastic@camelot.bradley.edu
**
Original file name: "BOB" ENCOUNTER
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