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Date Posted: 21:13:07 07/14/99 Wed
Author: .Wildfire.
Subject: Okie doke...Not much to do with the story, but it's a start..



John’s arms were sore, and the tanks he carried seemed heavier than they had a few miles ago. He’d filled the two five gallon gas containers as high as he dared, just high enough that the gentle motion of a fifteen-mile walk wouldn’t spill them. At the prices gas was going for in rural Mexico these days, a spill could cost him a few weeks of work…normal work, at least. John…or Johnny, depending how and when you know him, didn’t do normal work though. The sun continued to beat down mercilessly as he crested another rise, the twenty-third on his way back home. Only three more to go.
John stepped off the road, and onto the gravel path that led home. As his boots crunched onto the stones, he heard the sound of running feet, and a distant growl. Quickly, the gas cans were put down, out of reach; so that they wouldn’t be knocked over in what he was sure would be a scuffle. He wiped the sweat off his brow and put his sunglasses in his pocket just as the source of the noise cleared the top of the rise, the sun at it’s back. It leaped through the air, and landed in a heap against John’s chest. As the wind was knocked out of him, and he hit the ground, John rolled, and came immediately to hit feet, in a fighting crouch. His face was mere inches from Paco’s. Paco was a Great Dane.
“Why can’t I have a Chihuahua like normal people.” John muttered, just as the beast knocked him over again, this time pinning him with it’s front paws. “Oye! Dios mio! Get the hell off me…” Paco danced away as John got back to hit feet, dusting off his fatigue pants. With a loud ‘woof’ Paco took off down the path, towards home. John picked up the cans and followed. Within a few minutes, he crested the last hill and was in full view of the Cabaña Diablo; the Devil’s House, as the locals called it…John called it home.
From a distance of less than a mile, the place looked like nothing more than a dilapidated old capilla, a church dating back at least a hundred years. There were a few signs of life, the well ot front was clean, footsteps and tire tracks lead towards the place, and an old World War II motorcycle leaned against the wall near the front door. But as one walked closer, as Johnny did now, it took on a more sinister aspect. Lines of aged graffiti marred the walls and doors. The few windows that were not completely broken were riddled with holes. Above the gaping frames char rose, as if the building had been set aflame time and time again, but refused to burn. Rumor had it that it was at one time cursed by the devil himself. The locals avoided it like the plague, which suited John just fine…he preferred the peace and quiet anyway.
By the time John was within earshot of the place, Paco was already lying on the front steps, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “Eh! Pequito!” John shouted towards the house, “I got the goods, pull her out!”
After a few seconds, the dull roar of a 318 engine cut through the still air. Paco darted away from the doors to the capilla just before they nudged open. The grille of John’s ’73 Dover Lightning peeked through and emerged at a slow walk. The front tires edged down the three aged steps towards the dirt path, and the figure behind the wheel turned so that the car rolled, slowly, towards where Johnny was standing. The car rolled to a stop after several more feet, and a small figure leapt out of the driver side door.
“HolaJuan elradioes…”
“Speak English, Ricky,” John laughed, “I can’t understand you at all when you get excited.”
The boy stood up to his full height, and breathed in, “The radio, J.W. There is this a message. It sayes that there is this code! A code for the Vigilate des Auto…”
“Calm down, little man…what code?”
“Is a code five!” The boy looked exasperated, “It sounds like a big one! What’s a code 5 mean?”
John swore, and threw the gas tanks into the back of the car. “I’ve got no idea, vato, but I don’t think I like it. Take the bike, get the ramp up…Looks like I’m heading back home for a while.”
Ricky jumped on the old motorbike and took off across the scrub desert. John climbed into the front seat of the Dover, and gunned the engine back to life. Placing his sunglasses on his nose, he pulled out onto the dirt road. He proceeded at a slow pace at first, but when he came in site of the gorge, and Ricky standing next to the ramp waving him the all’s clear signal, he gunned it. The car shot forward on the gravel, spitting stones all over the road. Slowly the speedometer climbed towards 70mph, the speed he needed to clear ‘the Scar’…the gorge that separated Bastardo Mexico, from Southern Texas.
The speedometer shot up towards 80 as John slammed the car into fifth. He hit the ramp dead on, and soared into the air. The last thing he heard before crossing the national border was ‘Adios, Senor!’.
The Lightning hit square on the packed earth of the Texas side of the Scar.
“No problems,” Muttered John. He rifled through his jacket for a cigarette, lit it from his zippo, and breathed out a plume of smoke. “Welcome to Texas.” He sighed, as he reached for the c.b.
“Breaker, Oh-One-Niner, this is Johnny Wildfire responding to an A.V.A. code Five, anybody with their ears on?”

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