Page 19 of Road Refugees

“Are you talking about growing, or taking?”

“Both, man! They force you to face your fears, which is incredibly cathartic! Government’s been talking about studying them to cure depression.”

At that, I perked up. “Seriously? They could be looking for a supplier?”

“Exactly. That, or you service the local one percenter crowd.”

I shrugged. Why not? Why the hell not?

Navarro handed me the water pipe, but I was done. I waved it away. He said, “Doing shrooms makes you realize how you’re failing in life. What you need to do better.”

I nodded. “Nothing wrong with that.” Then I thought. Maybe there was something wrong with that. “But it’s still illegal federally?”

Navarro squeaked, holding in his smoke. “Yeah. Illegal Schedule 1. But cops have better things to do with their time.”

Would I, a highly decorated military veteran, stoop to growing things people could “trip” on? Why the fuck not? So many things were FUBAR already, and if Navarro was right, maybe it could help depression. I’d first have to get ahold of some to try it out myself. “Where can you get them?”

“There used to be a guy around here. I know Crybaby knows someone who grows them in his apartment. Ask him.”

Growing mushrooms inside your apartment? No, thanks. What would you say to guests? “Don’t go in that room. There are fungal spores that can invade your lungs, start growing mushrooms inside your nose”? Nobody would come to visit you. And I wanted a new life as a sociable, sober being.

“Fungus is pretty cool,” croaked Navarro.

I was about to disagree somewhat when a tumult arose on the sidewalk. A woman spoke in a high, maybe terrified tone. It was her! But this time she was being dragged along reluctantly by yet another fender fluff, a powerful woman in a black leather jacket with wavy hair down to her butt. I’d be afraid of her. And it seemed as though my love was, too.

“That’s her, Navarro,” I said in a stage whisper, and I nearly sparked the pavement with my boots getting up to the building’s corner, Navarro staggering behind me. At my side, Linus peeked around the corner tentatively.

My love cried something about a phone. “Why can’t you bring the phone out here?” I thought she screeched.

Now another lamb popped out of a store entrance and grabbed my love’s sleeve. She was not going willingly, that was obvious. And what would two women be doing to one another?

The bigger biker gal shoved my woman into the doorway, and I made my move. The scene around me became kinetically charged, as though I flowed through a Van Gogh painting, all color and movement. I’d sprinted halfway up the distance between us before I realized I must’ve torn Navarro’s .45 Ruger from the waistband of his jeans. My love let out a shattering scream. I pulled back the slide to check the chamber. Loaded.

“Get your hands off her!” I roared, Linus galloping alongside me. I’d dropped the leash, but he followed me anyway.

I admit I wasn’t Roosevelt stampeding with his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill, with my gimpy leg and my faithful, fluffy Goldendoodle at my side. But it was enough to shock the two deceitful women into action—the wrong way, as it turned out. They stepped up their kidnapping, shoving my angel into the darkened storefront. Her scream echoed as though she was entering a frightening amusement park ride.

I’m not trying to sound big when I say I didn’t hesitate. I had no idea what faced me inside. But I kicked open those wooden swinging doors and entered in a strong Weaver stance, one hand palming the other in a powerful grip.

“Let her go, you twats!” I shouted.

Instantly, my gal wobbled off from the two biker chicks. I sidestepped over to cover her, but as the two lambs fell away toward the other wall of the wood-paneled room, two men stepped out of the shadows.

And one was armed. Wearing a leather cut of the Friends of Distinction.

FUBAR.

“She’s not your girl, you fucking Bare Boner.”

I squinted to view him better. He held the Glock 19 gangsta-style in the manner I’d always scorned. Although it looked cool, it made it harder to line up the sights and manage the recoil, just spraying and praying. I must’ve scoffed, because his squinched-up, puffy face took offense.

“Leave our turf,” he growled from a tight mouth. “This is our business, not yours.”

I nodded toward my woman. “Not without her. Lady. Take the dog and leave this room. Linus, out.” Linus pogoed around off-leash like he was at a punk club. I needed to protect him, too. It was going to be an epic Mexican standoff.

My lady whimpered behind me as she followed my orders, my dog obediently showing her the way out. Now all I had to do was back out slowly toward the door, not letting my arm down a fraction of an inch, and—

“You shit for brains,” snapped the big girl. I darted my eyes to the left in time to see her whip out a piece from inside her own leather jacket. She gripped it in an Isosceles stance, as though she’d trained at a police academy. “We’re fed up letting you infringe on our turf.”

I scoffed again. “It was our turf first.” I was obviously no Bare Boner, but I knew Flagstaff was their home turf. “This is our power base, fucktards. You’ve been shitting on our campfire for a long time. We draw the line when it comes to abusing our lambs.”

It was intriguing that no one denied the woman belonged to us. I reached out behind me blindly with one hand to get the door and make a safe exit. I had faith the Friends of Distinction didn’t want to risk the exposure involved with burying a rival in a downtown store.

Just then, as everyone shot daggers into each other with their eyes, the door behind me slammed open. Astonished, I jumped to one side as Navarro, Fred Birdseye, and a guy I’d never seen barged in, guns blazing. And I mean they were blazing, all in animated technicolor, like a western shootout, rounds ricocheting and thudding everywhere.

The Friend with the scarred head went down, limbs flailing. The unarmed girl ran for the back of the room. The unknown Boner shouted, “This is our beef. You outsider, bug out!”

I guessed that was me, and as a round blasted the support beam next to me, I took his orders. The bright flashes and loud cracking reports of firearms all served to bring me back to a combat zone. I knew I couldn’t take that for long. I squatted low to present a more difficult target and said, “I’m taking the girl to be safe, put some distance here.”

“This is our blood feud,” shouted Birdseye, squeezing off another round. “Get on out!”

So I did.