Teast

Brad Floberson was bursting with anticipation when his father finally strapped him in. It had been a great, long time. What triumph! To finally be here, in this moment, after the sacrifice, the toil, the blood. It was a moment in and of itself. He could feel it’s import enwrap him, cutting his air, making him sweat and freeze. “No,” he told himself then “the training.” He steeled himself, focusing all his energy into a single focus-point like a combat pilot locking a bead on ground troops. His body began moving through the complex set of steps he’d engineered of it’s own volition. Riding along and bearing witness was he himself. Encased safely in his Britax toddler car chair, sucking quietly on a Zwibeck.

Wow Bradster!

His dad turned around then, sick to sweet painless death of doing things with his family. Pony rides, county fairs, roller rinks and arcades. When - he wondered - had constant, stressfully time-conscious adventuring become the hallmark of his family's normative day-to-day? Today even his car itself seemed out to get him. Within seconds of facing forward, poor Daddy became locked in an urgent struggle/search for his seatbelt buckle. Jerking his head back and forth between seat-cracks, Hissing and hyper-ventillating, and all the while dishing loud, cosmic, blame in a goofy stage whisper with his eyes and (sometimes entire head) furrowed brow-gazing:

Ok Ok Ok. Just great. What next huh?! Well what is it! Whatever motherfucker whatever. Bring it...

as if God hears him, sees the error of his ways, apologizes and compensates him for his trouble. In spite of the embellished hysterics, Brad knew his dad's worry to be deserved, grounded - as it was - on an (entirely real) fear of one of Mommy's most hard and fast policies : She simply wouldn’t drive unless the belt was found and used.

Check the side between the door…

She offered sounding a little impatient.

…And make sure you

He cut her off with an uncomfortable little yell.

Yeah! Found it, buckled it...

He turned to sort of face the kids,

Excited kids? I know I am. The Library!

Sophia mustered a sarcastic “whoohoo.” Brad was to preoccupied with the time to even hear his father. The episode with the hidden seatbelt had cost him some valuable seconds. He vowed to take the debt out as violence in a few minutes. They were on a secondary road heading for the highway when the digital Delco clock inside his father’s Buick read: 4:00pm.

***

Brad saw the clock change and he moved. First in the initiation phase: Diversion. He began to cry, suddenly and with great volume. Both parents stole glances back. His mom said (predictably):

Sophia! What is it baby? What’s wrong with your brother?

Sophia said (predictably):

I don’t know mom, he’s just stupid.

Then she Added:

Stupid Brad.

Her dad said (super predictably)

Sophia! Help him. He’s your little brother you’re supposed to help him. Is he hurt? He had an accident? Check him.

The girl sighed and folded her arms but she slide over to the car seat with a loud:

FINE!

When her face was at the seat, Brad struck.

***

There’s an ancient sect of monks who live deep in the Amazon Basin and never visit the outside world. They are very wealthy, and they are very powerful, having ruled over their section of rainforest since a thousand years ago. Their forest home is called Teast, and the monks are called “Teastmen,” or simply “Teasts.” The Teastmen are similar in habit, dress, and language to a half dozen other religious orders who once lived in the region. The Teasts, however have inexplicably survived the last 50 years of pillaging, plowing and selling of their legacy by the white man. The others were strong like the Teasts, they were expert in the forests as the Teasts are, and - like the Teasts - they tried making friends with the invaders many times before realizing that any equitable kind of arrangement was going to be out of the question. What then is the extraordinary and mysterious characteristic that allows the great Teast tribe to find it‘s way so deftly where others have stumbled? The answer, if you know anything about the Teasts, is a simple one.

Anyone and everyone in the villages of the forests of Teast must learn and master seven key moves of a martial art called kan-tow. The moves, it is said, form the core of a defense strategy that’s allowed the monks and their families to proliferate, even while other similar tribes vanish under the white man’s bulldozers. In short, the Teasts had inflicted so much violence on their opponent, that their opponent gave up. Choosing to cut his losses and cash in by fucking over some weaker, more timid tribe. One without the Teastian Death Claw at the disposal of every eager man woman and child.

***
Brad learned of the Teasts and their art on the internet, and he’d been an apt and cunning pupil. He’d learned and mastered six of the seven moves that defended Teastmen these many years, and one of the seven was - what else - the Teastian death pat. His sister was dead before she slumped over on the seat. Within seconds, the mayhem and panic that had formed the basis of Brad’s master-plan began to take effect. His mom said (predictably):

Honey! Honey!? Brad what…Marshall! Marshall what’s going on.

Her husband, clicking open his seatbelt and lying across the console, said:

Soph! Soph!

Then more frantic:

Sophia, Sophia Honey! Please!…

He turned back to Brad’s mom, still driving on a busy, fast-moving road…

I don’t think she’s breathing…

His mom hit the breaks right then, thinking stop and investigate. When Brad’s dad turned back around though, the evil toddler managed to run his thumb over a stubbly spot under his fathers chin. His dad said:

I don’t think she’s…Brad stop it no…

And then he died slumped across the car. When his corpse voided the smell, sound and scent were all focused on his mother. She began to loose her bearings in the frantic situation. She started speeding up again, shocked and confused in the shit-smelling driver’s seat. Brad had predicted everything down to the smell. He used the moments to get free of his chair and bound over the lifeless corpse of his father. From there he dove - head first dove - into the tiny space between her moms thigh and the dashboard of the Buick. Mission accomplished. He pressed all his forty pounds down as hard as he could. His mom, on the verge of fainting and still very confused, began to scream, outright and tactless, at the very top of her register. The Buick accelerated to over 100 miles per hour.

***

The one thing that Brad hadn’t planned for was the bridge. There are three suspension bridges in Rhode Island, and the bridge that Brad and his mom came rocketing onto was the longest and highest one. The Newport Bridge, at it’s highest point, was over 370 feet. Nothing protecting the shoulder up there but a low jersey barrier and - in some spots - heavy gauge cables. Brad hadn’t planned it, but he must have been proud. The Buick hit the bridge going about 110 miles per hour. Brad’s mom was driving, but only by default. She’d given up and was basically awaiting death, holding the wheel for support instead of steerage. Somewhere in her mind, it must have registered they were slicing across lanes too aggressively. If it did though, she left no indication. Witnesses say the van - still at speed - drifted across eight lanes and freight-trained through the barrier at the very top of the bridge. One guy, fishing below the bridge, just happened to look skyward at the right moment. He said he saw the van…

Shoot out a HUNDRED feet if it went a foot. I watched it, and the way it was bookin when they went off made the thing fly. I bet they was in the air almost a minute. Seemed like an hour!

Actually, for Brad - ecstatic and beaming in his triumph - the fall lasted an eternity. The fall filled with promise and hope. A moment unto itself.