She was hot, but behaving so strangely that Lomba was giving serious thought to having somebody escort her away. It wouldn’t be so terrible, he thought. Certainly, no violence would be needed. Spun like this chick, a resourceful man could probably remove her without any kind of physical effort at all. A glassine bag full of white powder, perhaps an acorn-sized knob of strangely named, bat-to-the-head potent weed. and ... It wouldn’t take small, unmarked bills to entice this one, he was sure of it. His name was Chris Lomba. He was 21 years old, scanning for his people to take care of the hot, crazy girl. Chris could see her as he moved around. She appeared to be talking loudly at a tree on the median just adjacent to a busy tank. His busy tank. He walked faster.
***
Hey…
It was a man’s voice from right behind him. Lomba didn’t respond. He was on patrol, walking a long perimeter around his tanks, still wondering what to do with the hot chick.
Hey…Dude!
It was early on the lot, and already people were buying gas. That was a good sign for Chris. There was, however, a scene developing. The gas huddle had now expanded to enwrap the tree-whisperer and her growing entourage. Somebody said she was singing to the tree. She had eight or nine people around her, iphoning from one knee as if she were a queen hearing oaths of service. Lomba had four huge tanks of high-grade gas in a van with like three hundred people teaming around it. Soon the police would come for the girl. His heart hurt.
The same dude’s voice rang out a third time. Lower now, almost secretive. Closer.
Dude. You Lomba?
Lomba took a furtive glance around and before long found the voice-source, a dirty, rank-smelling boy with a long scar down a dicey looking face. It was one he’d seen before. The owner of the face was short, 5’ 7” if he was even that. The owner of the face was skeleton-thin, and when he spoke, a cloud of awful, stank, almost - visibly dense vapor came issuing forth as he spoke. The owner of the face’s eyes were LSD-ified, his pupils .12 gauge. His head was tilted back all the way in an addled parody of a nestling chick. Chris smiled at the thought and tried to brush past the weird kid.
The guy was fast. Lomba found himself looking up at concerned faces before he’d even realized what’d happened. He tried to talk but his wind was spent, pressed out of him from the force of the throw. His hearing was full of helicopters and white noise. Chris’s back began to heat up, he could feel himself tensing. The little guy was staring down at him now as well, and extending a hand. He was speaking, but not to Lomba:
Ho Hoooo! Had enough big man.
The kid was shouting the words, it seemed to Chris. Why would he be…
Bad breath didn’t wait for an answer or an hand. He seized Lomba’s wrist and propped a nike against Lomba’s feet and yanked him up, in close. The breath…It was like a weapon. The dude’s grip was iron and anger, but his voice was barley a whisper. He was smiling. As he spoke, he locked coal black pupils with Lomba’s:
You’re fucking Chris Lomba. You’re fucking going home, or you’re fucking dead…
He walked away then, before any reply or retaliation could be mounted. Lomba stood there in the middle of the dusty lot trying to figure the event for exactly 80 seconds. Then he filed it away in his head and got back to the present.
***
Clegg: It’s what?
X: Silver. Real deal Silver.
Clegg: Silver? ‘the fuck!? You said acid. fuckin’ acid…
X: Fuckin acid dumbass. Fuck. Fuckin’ guy does three years and forgets the names of drugs. Sad. It’s like they took your soul. And your ass-soul.
Clegg: I need a lot of it. One six-foot medical for three full sweet-breath vials. You get one. I get two. Fuckin’ idiot.
X: Two. That’s enough to make a hundred sumo wrestlers see nothing but dragons for the next three months. Making up all those years you spent not taking acid Clegg? Be careful. Shit’spower. You heard what I did just then? Ass-Soul? Asshole? That’s sick!
Clegg: Fuckin’ idiot.
***
Chris Lomba had gotten here early, AND he brought exceptionally potent, medical-grade nitrous oxide delivered in gigantic, heavy duty balloons. The main risk was the exposure. Chris’d brought five tanks for the one night stand at the Greek. Thistle hadn’t played a place as small for a long time, and although the venerable old lean-too only had room for 10,000, excitement was already in hyperspace. People were giggling, taking drugs, smiling goofy smiles. Chris had taken along two guys from the east, getting an additional six from area contacts. Seeing the crazed mob seething into the Greek Theater, he wondered if nine guys would be enough. Lomba hated getting his hands dirty, but he could tell the night was going to be hectic. Checking his watch, Chris began walking toward the box office. It was time to have one of his tanks busted.
Lomba’s method was simple, easy to execute, and though this was the undiscovered left coast, Chris felt confident in his ways: He would deploy three tanks at first, positioning them between cars in a fifty yard triangle between three rows. One of the tanks would be loud and conspicuous, let people huddle and congregate, let them walk back and forth countless times getting high and acting loud and stupid. Later on, after the hot tank had been dealt with, the two others plus an additional two more tanks would be tapped. They afternoon tanks would be relocated, and operating in almost total silence until the sun came up.
***
Lomba: Just that.
Nat: Just that? That’s it?
Lomba:
Nat: OK. Ok, we gotta go.
Lomba. Ha! I made almost thirty grand last night. Now I’m gone because some vagrant says? Fuck no. Uh Uh. Run? Me? They warned me once…You don’t know…
Nat: Twice
Lomba: Twice?
Nat: They warned me night before last. A girl. You saw here. Remember, the girl talking to the tree?
***
Chris Lomba had been going to Thistle shows for 20 years, and for 15 of those years he’d been an enthusiastic seller of the gas. Chris’d whiled the first six years of the 1990’s following the heavenly ether of an amazinglytalented rock band in the prime of the career. He still believed that that Thistle, the Thistle he chased and stalked like a crazed ex for all those years, was probably the greatest rock band in the whole entirety of space and time. As ‘94-‘95 became ‘98-‘99 though, there was a weird sort of changing of the guard out there in the lots. Most of the people who’d been in orbit around Thistle began to drop off, victims of legalities, matters of the heart, and hundreds of other odd decisions and circumstances. But instead of bailing along with 90% of his friends on tour, Lomba stuck it out, still digging the band, still selling gas. By 2000, Chris was netting over 50,000 dollars for the annual, twin, six-week periods of Thistle tour. The band had winnowed it’s schedule down to a science, targeting maximum profit and minimum energy expenditure. The years flipped by like seconds.
In the year 2010, Chris Lomba made $958,045 dollars in profit, moving gas at 27 Thistle shows, all on the eastern seaboard, all within six hours driving distance. It was his biggest year financially, and during it, he’d seen exactly one show by the legendary Thistle. Near-million dollars for half the tour.
Lomba resisted the left coast – more out of habit more than actual reason - for as long as he could, but in 2012 he caved, hard. Tickets were purchased for himself and three friends. Thistle’s west coast dates were just like the east: built by the years, prioritizing convenience, subbing LA for NYC, San Diego for Key West. Four weeks in April, and Four in September. Another million for Lomba, earned outside, in hot weather. Lomba packed“Crocs”.
His system was pure and efficient and time tested. His operation was state of the art, Jamie and Kai had been with him ten years, were at least reasonably competent. He brought the girl as well, of course. Natalie he brought to all live music events, because concerts, for Natalie, meant blow jobs. Something about the loud music got her mouth “O”-ing like crazy. The rest of her wasn’t enough of a problem to weigh against bringing those willing lips.
Natalie’d made over 250,000 dollars last year helping Chris, selling soft drugs far away from the tanks. She was excited at the attempt on the opposite coast, and excited by California. Lomba was developing a rug-burn rash on the end of his prick and they’d only been here a week. The tripping slut out at the tree wasn’t making it any easier. The girl was just ridiculous. Entertainment level. A ten? Lomba considered it, watching her from way to close to his sacrificial tank. He heard it blasting away every few seconds. Every minute or two there was a loud “Pop!”
Lomba was watching her. And in the far end of his field of vision he could see Nat, way at the end of the next row, taking to some wook family. Nat was no slouch. This other chick though…Wow. She was wearing a black headband over her tits, and what looked like skimpy black panties and nothing –not a damn thing – besides. Her skin was a miracle. Lomba was tasting good tastes just looking at it.
***
K: Where did Clegg say they…
L: (whisper) shut the fuck up.
K: It’s 4:30. Nobody…
L: Shhh
K: Jesus.
L: I’m concentrating.
K was keeping his eyes peeled. The two of them were walking around a musky tent city tucked about a half-mile from the stages.
L: What did he…
K: “she”
L: She?
K: Yeah “she”. It’s always “she” now. Haven’t talked to the man in almost three weeks.
L: Fuck.
K: Yep.
L: She’s a fuckin…
K: Yeah. She is. Is that?? Ah…
L saw K pointing in the dark five feet away. The girl had told him to come after 3:30 flashing the black light at “tents in the middle”.They’d made two passes, K waving the big black light around his legs, checking the tents they passed. It took minutes. The words “these fucking guys”, big, on the side of a nice Bean four-man job, SPF-graffiti scrawled in the girl’s penmanship. They were five feet away making the tent. L stopped. K kept going. Then he walked a little farther on before looping back. L just stood there.
K: Fucking idiot
L: What?
K: You’re just standing here, idiot.
L: They’re sleeping.
K: Just give me the off.
L: Here.
K: ”Deep Woods”?
L: It works! Remember Merriweather.
K: No. Give it…
Khris took the tiny can of aerosol and sprayed it on his hands and around his legs and arms, then around the bottom of the L.L. Bean four-man and all over the top. Then on his hands and all over the fly until he could see liquid Off beading up and rolling down, dripping. He could hear snoring from inside, and when he stood up, he could see one of the dudes faces. He was snoring away, mouth open, and did not move when K reached into his pocket and snapped a bic to the Bean 4-man.
They were on the outskirts of the tents, almost 100 yards away when the first cries went up. Moments later the screams began, male and female, pain and horror. L and K heard it all from the dark borderland in the shadows around the camp, and before long they could smell what they’d done: a porky essence hanging over the tents, shot through with smoke and fat. L was starving.
***
Lomba: I think…How did it happen?
Nat: We gotta get the fuck out..
Lomba:
Nat: Pack shithead. we gotta go.
Lomba: Accident. Right? I mean, right?
Nat: Pack!
There was a loud knock. Both Chris and Natalie jumped. To Nat, the sound was no kind of knocking. It sounded to her more like somebody ramming a backhoe against the wall of the hotel from the outside. The wall, she felt, might only hold out for another few minutes. She was mistaken.
***
Jedra: They’re still at it
Clegg: Wow.
Jedra:
Clegg: Who’s DOES this?
Jedra: He’s caking out. I watched him all day from close up. He was running conspicuous decoy tank, he had pop-proof balloons…Who’d you send to talk to him?
Clegg: Well they all say “pop-proof”. I sent Sol.
Jedra: Really? Sol. Huh.
Clegg: You were close?
Jedra: I was fucking two feet away, talking to a tree. I wore underwear.
Clegg: Go get the boys. Use K & L. work it out. Fuck. Who fucking DOES this!?
***
The “office” was a garage. They brought the two of them in, and found Clegg lashing Coke into his nose as if it were free, and of unusual potency. There was a crow-bar on his desk. Nat and Chris were wrapped head to toe in heavy-gauge duct tape, with only faces showing, just as Clegg had instructed. Sol dragged them in like duffle bags, Lomba face-up, Nat face-down. Chris could smell the evil breath like a poltergeist in the room. Sol stood away and waited for his boss to speak. Clegg sat tapping away at his iphone for a while before speaking, like he was so busy he could hardly make the time. Finally, he looked up, put the phone down, and addressed his guests:
You’re chris?
Lomba just stared.
This is…Kristen. No…Don’t say it…Meg. GWEN! Gwen?
Lomba stared.
Sol said:
Natalie.
Clegg said:
Shut up Sol. Natalie. Right. Ok, so whatever. You guys came here, and I was polite. I spoke nicely. Agreed?
Nobody moved or spoke. Clegg went on:
OK. So, that in mind, you sort of leave me no choice here. You must know that, they tell me you do business in New York. They say you’re a success.
Lomba just stared. Clegg picked something out of his pocket. He held it up, looked at Nat:
You see this? You know what this is?
Nat just stared.
Clegg grabbed her by the chin so fast, Lomba would have sworn he had seen a special effect. He squeezed her cheeks, and Chris saw him holding the thing from his pocket over her open mouth. She began to mewl and lo like a new calf. Lomba saw a bluish liquid splashing down Nat’s face and all at once he understood.
Clegg finished up and held the empty Sweet Breath container up in Lomba’s face. Nat was weeping. Clegg said:
I got another one big guy, wouldn’t want you feeling left out.
He grabbed Lomba’s chin.
***
When they’d finished up, Clegg locked the outside gate, ran over to Sol’s running Crowne Vic, and motioned to the still duct-taped couple in the back seat:
Walk them out into the Desert at Livermore. Leave the tape.
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