The Haunted Traveler: The Final Ride

carnival of madness, rushed through the city’s veins night after night like a mix of adrenaline and Speed.

Ignoring the shouts of the Crazies, Smolley whooped and cheered like the cowboys he had seen in the old Viddies: “We’re bloody champs; we’ve got balls like gold bricks...”

Chops jammed his hand- controlled accelerator even harder, yelling at his sidekick, “We’re running for our miserable lives you toad. This ain’t no joy trip,Smol..! The geeks are trying to bugger us!” Two shells shattered just behind the fleeing pair accidentally hitting a couple of street crazies who shrieked insanely, their clubfeet dancing in a swirl of fire. “Well”, Chops commented almost reflectively, “I hope our bloody balls are tough enough’ cuz they’re sure trying to blow them off.” Suddenly frightened, Smolley peed his pants.

After about 25 minutes, the fleeing insurgents parked in a smelly cavernous alley in The Rocks’ inner city area. Chops killed the engine and strapped on his automated artificial legs (with poisontipped darts buried in each shin’s portal); they both sat still for a few moments collecting their rattled nerves while the sounds of the pursuing TOCP gun-van faded in the distance.

Flipping on a small search light, Chops ran its beam over the garbage-littered passageway, then up and down graffiti-stained rear doors and barred windows; black rats, sprouting long, prickly hair, loudly sniffed about Skeleton’s Baby’s steaming tires.

A groan: Chops flung the beam on to a pale, bloated creature flat on its back, reeking of urine, and clad only in dirty-white disco suit ripped at the crotch. Blood trickled down its forehead.

Smolley and Chops moved slightly closer, Chops’s legs humming softly. The light fell on to a white plastic tag clipped to the wet chest hair between stumpy tits. The tag read: “Hi I am Amego, your proud, loving Child of The New Tide. Let me tell you about my life.”

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