On The Road Again

Some days a reputation can be more trouble than it's worth.

I bet you're wondering where I've been.

I got a visit from a government boy back near the end of May. It seems someone had just been in their office causing quite a stir about some fishy business in a seaside town not far from here, and demanded they investigate.

Well, I don't need to tell you that the government boys don't much like these little poverty stricken hovels, and if they can get someone else to check it out, they will. (Side note: Matthews once told me about how back in the mid-90s the Clinton administration contracted him to single-handedly get rid of a Likho that had somehow wandered out of the forests of Eastern Europe and set up camp in the Oval Office. For two whole weeks not a single government agent would go near the White House, he says, and they were keeping Clinton in a bunker somewhere. Though how far you're going to trust Matthews on that should be proportional to how far you can throw him.)

It just so happened this field agent of theirs had heard about my little golem stunt, and a bit about all the boneys I put in the hurt locker, and decided to pay ole Jonesy a visit.

Now you all know me as a calc hunter first and foremost, but business has been a little dry, (heh), rent was coming due, and I am also a licensed Adventurer.

I took the job.

Catch was, I had to keep it real hush-hush, not tell anyone about it. That's big government for you.

A day's journey by dirtbike saw me in the old dilapidated town, and I was none too impressed from the start. The buildings were falling down, many abandoned, the streets were shockingly empty and the few people I did see were downright ugly, and thanks to the local fishing trade, the whole town STANK.

These folk never blinked neither. Creepy.

So I found my way to The Gilman, the only hotel running in this dump, and unpacked my stuff. Let me tell you, this place was a wreck. No pool, no cable, no internet (looks like keeping quiet for Uncle Sam wouldn't be a problem), one dingy old electric light in the room, no running water, and a lot of scuffling around and muffled noise at night.

All I got out of the locals were stares and general avoidance, and I didn't even dare go near that god awful factory of theirs. Who knew smoke from a GOLD REFINERY would smell so damn disagreeable?

Anyhow, all these people were downright rude. Nearly two months there and the only words that pass between me and the hotel owner, for Pete's sake, is a "Good morning" on my part and and some kind of bubbly grunt on his part. An old drunk was the only company I found when he accosted me one day as I came out of the grocery with a newly purchased fifth of whiskey.

Now, recall that I'd been hanging around this forsaken place without so much as a lead for about a month. I mean, they have a GOLD REFINERY, remember, so if anything's going to attract the stick-body no-meats it's probably THAT. But so far there'd been nothing, no hint of calc or golem or what-have-you, just a quiet little fishing village with a population that didn't take too kindly to outsiders.

I was understandably starting to feel like a fish out of water, so you'll understand how I reluctantly gave the old drunk a belt of my whiskey with his promise of information. Not a sparkling gem of a plan, as it turns out. He spilled out a long and boring story in a terrible accent about only God knows what. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. At one point I thought I actually caught him talking about having sex with fishes. Wonderful.

Anyway, time went on, things stayed pretty boring, and the whole town stank of fish.

I never saw the bum again, but it's just as well, because after a while, even booze stopped being a distraction from the mind-numbing boredom.

Once my investigatory period was up, I gathered my belongings, went home with the paltry sum I got for my services rendered, and told the Feds in my written report the only problem with the town was the uppity people and the smell.

Their man on the inside didn't keep quiet, though. From what I understand, they went in and bombed some reef off the coast of the town just to shut the guy up. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do I care.

It's not all high adventure.

Stupid dream.

I had a dream about the mess in Boulder last night. It was exactly the way it was seven years ago: I was a bright-eyed young Adventurer, the ink not even dry on my degree, and I was giving my first-year thesis presentation to a PACKED auditorium. Like in real life, I was giving a revised theory of the Olstermann Hypothesis (for those of you not of the Life, the theory that instead of our bodies being supported by "skeletons" that become Calcs on death, our muscles and organs etc are in fact supported and protected by a BONE-LIKE structure of hyper-condensed meat). Since this was a dream I'd come up with some startling new conclusion that made sense at the time, but I can't recall for the life of me what it was.

Anyway, everything is going along just as it should. It's like when I take the dirtbike over a hill and soar through the air, time just seems to slow down and my moment of glory will last forever. Or whatever.

And then, just as I start in on my synthesis of Aquinas and Olstermann, it starts.

TOE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- FOOT BONE
FOOT BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- SHIN BONE
SHIN BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- KNEE BONE

Soft at first, and I think someone's pranking me. Maybe it's Matthews or Thompson... but no. It gets LOUDER. I realize it's coming from EVERYWHERE, a chorus of people standing up from their seats, singing in unison.

Young people, my age or not much older. Everyone is just dead silent, watching as these jerkoffs march out to the center aisle and proceed to dance toward the stage. There's about two-dozen of them in all. Are they CRAZY? Who would be ballsy enough to make a mockery of the National Adventurers' Conference?

KNEE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- THIGH BONE
THIGH BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- HIP BONE
HIP BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- BACK BONE

They march right up onto the stage and start ripping off their clothes. (It's not what you think, trust me.) Underneath their regular clothes they've got some kind of black Lycra or Spandex painted with Calc-pieces, as if they were a PART of their OWN BODIES. It's disgusting. Even remembering it makes me feel like I'm gonna spew a bit. Hell, I'm surprised I didn't upchuck right there on the stage back in 2001. I know there are even some Calc hunters raised Protestant that would've lost their lunch at this grotesque... well, whatever it was. The jerks keep singing:

DEM BONES DEM BONES DEM DRYYYYY BONES
NOW THERE'S THE WORKING OF THE LORD

And as I'm standing there, dumbfounded, one of them steps forward and GRABS my MIC like I wasn't just giving a presentation. He starts rambling on and on about civil rights and the decomposition of flesh and some crap like that. I realize what this is. A God-damned DEMONSTRATION. Here, of all places, and DURING MY THESIS.

Even now I can still see him, burned into my mind like he was seven years ago. Short, shorter than most. Thinning brown hair. Stubble. Wire-rimmed glasses. Southern accent. Southern accent? Ha! A damned DRAWL is what it is.

Calaveras, he says his name is. Calaveras.

And in the dream, just like on the stage seven years ago, I can't hold it in anymore. I take a running jump at him, make contact with his lower chest, and we both go flying off into the aisle. I'm punching the everloving crap out of this guy, showing him what's what, and I know if I had The Bat with me then Calaveras wouldn't be the thorn in my side he is today.

But this was a dream so of course Calaveras basically folded in my hands like wet construction paper. Then I got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but a bridge was in the way so I jumped over it. Don't remember any more.

Yeah, it got stupid there at the end but for a good while it was pretty vivid. I wish I could remember what sort of discovery I'd made in my dream, maybe it was something that would get Calaveras off my case once and for all.

News and a Hangover

So last night, after the crap haul, Matthews and me went out for some drinks to wind down. He tells me about this Anti-Calc Coalition that's been talking to Calc hunters in some sponsorship thing. What I want to know is when these people are gonna talk to me about it.

EVERYONE knows when you want some boneys cleared out and done right you call up ol' Jonesy. I suppose they're too busy issuing cease and desist edicts to Hollywood fatcats who like making picture shows that tell goddamn lies about the clinky fuckers. Well, fellas, when you get SERIOUS about getting rid of those Calcs, you just ring me up.

Till then, I've got to check my couch for change to try and get enough cash to buy some hair of the dog and a liter of juice for my dirtbike. Then I'm off to clean out some crappy hole in the ground.

Literally.

I got the mayor over in New Springburg calling me up every half hour complaining about all the rattling sounds coming out of his drain. I swear, I miss the days when these dicks were taking over towns in the Midwest, at least you didn't have to get waist deep in human sewage to crack some skulls.

But, well, my landlord has been yelling at me this week that he's not gonna take 20 dull, rusty knives for rent this month, so I gotta pony up some cash or I'll be living in my van for a while again.

Keep it fleshy.

Calc Hunting

I can't even begin to describe my day today, but I'll start nonetheless. The mansion, of course, was the perfect breeding ground for Calcs. I say "breeding ground" but we don't really know where they breed, or even IF (hoping on not), so let's just say that I see these assholes in places like this all the time. Clumsy and slow, (like always) and they seemed to be standing still staring at a wall when we entered the room, (again, as always). These guys were of the "fur boots and horned helmet" types, carrying what looked to be about-a-billion-year-old maces. It's like they're making fun of us when they try to wear human things; doubtless these artifacts were taken from the last poor souls these bloodless Calcs encountered.

Matthews prides himself on his proficiency with the rifle but the repeated ricochets off of the helmets just knocked these guys off balance. This gave them something to look at and soon enough, it was time to earn our money. We've found that simple blunt force works best against these guys, so most of us carried a favorite item from the tool shed; others, the sports department. I myself work with a treasured wooden baseball bat. Matthews claims that there is a certain spot on Calcs that, when hit with a bullet, will bring them down in one shot. We have yet to see that actually happen.

Afterwards, we hauled the maces and helmets back to the store, and I mean HAULED. Lord knows how those things could even move their heads anywhere except straight down, staring at their stupid boots. We left the boots. Tony is a good man and he generally gives us a good deal, but for some reason we never have been able to make a profit off of Calc loot. Ever. He actually laughed when he saw the helmets as we grunted them in. Appraising them, he hefted the mace to clang against the helmet, either because he could or because he wanted to prove a point.

"A buck a piece."

I was shocked. They were rusty, sure. They were heavy, DAMN sure. But they were also OLD. That had to be worth something. Tony countered with the argument that, on top of the extremely poor quality of the merchandise, nobody wanted to buy "Calc shit." So it was either argue all day or just take the ten bucks.

One day, a Calc is going to drop something that's actually worth something. And I'll be there.