Queen of the Power Slide

Snow had returned to High Country and along with the ethereal, quiet beauty came the uncertainty. As told in the Mayan codices of Copán, the Chihuahua is the trickster and winter means change. Like the building storm clouds on the other side of the mountain, who can foresee the events yet to unfold? Pablano’s mutant power had always been the ability to see and comprehend events a full seven minutes after they occurred. Useless. At some point underneath the fresh snow trickling water slowly turns to ice. An agent of chaos just waiting on the next opportunity. You just might have to throw out the baby with the bath water. Welcome to the Appalachian winter wonderland and the Queen of the Power Slide.

Sunday, The Villages: Skeet and Pablano had left the pool chairs and the Par 3 golf courses of the sunshine state and headed straight north. Leaving in their wake a curious retired population of golf cart aficionados whose general attitudes regarding the present global pandemic could best be described as lax.

They’d stuffed the hatchback with Big Betty, the upright bass and grandpa’s Martin but there would likely be no busking on this trip. The immediate storm was still ahead of them. The best they could do was get closer to home. He was still just learning to walk on ice and the Oldsmsowagon didn’t have a hand break. Not that it would matter here. The crunching of a fender into a tree makes a sound like the signing of a check. The sing-song of bad insurance.

Monday, Boone: Just south of Blowing Rock the snow was waiting. The powder had been coming down for three days and the mounds were extending onto the road. Pablano was still wearing flip flops. To soften the blow they still had some Virginia White Rhino, a half bottle of El JImador and an apparently bottomless Visine dropper of acid. They would hole up a few days and take a vacation from their vacation. What else is there to do when it’s blowing outside? Light a fire. It must be time for Santa’s Workshop.

The Queen of the Power Slide

Tuesday, Craig’s Creek: The Kamp Happiness Roanoke Mafia had recently procured land just outside of Salem somewhere in the Virginia mountains and it was easy to see the spectrum of possibilities. Chickens and hillbilly hippies everywhere, the creek and the rolling land would someday host gatherings of colorfully lit thugs. It was the kind of place where laws were meant to be broken. In a released statement, ATF officials denied any increased presence in the area in spite of mounting evidence to the contrary. At present, scurrying hither and yon were beautiful women carrying beer cans and power tools. Just as Allah foretold. They slung chainsaws, planed their own timber and used diesel fuel to start bonfires.

Sans Souci-

Luke was yelling but could barely be heard over the hum of the engine and the crackling of pebbles scattering into the brush. Lucienda laughed, “My car doesn’t even have a hand brake. This reminds me of my ’74 Ford Pinto.” Everything she’d learned about power braking she’d learned on the lawless back roads of Honduras. And not on purpose. Necessity is the mother of invention. She’d learned the skills sliding down dirt trails, dodging pregnant dogs en route to bars deep in the jungle. Years before microbreweries would gain popularity D&D Brewery sat at the end of the dirt road, deep in the jungle, playing Eric Clapton. Near Lake Yojoa this bar/hostel served homemade cervezas in a multitude of fruit flavors and was a meca for hippies, drunks and travelers looking for a spot off the grid. With a medley that included pineapple and mango it was great beer and they drank it until they hurt.

“Just stop power sliding! You’re no good at it.” he barked as he grabbed the door handle, not as a method of escape as much as for balance and support. She would say she was excellent at it, but the fact was she was more lucky than skilled. Mostly unsafe. She just didn’t really care about her life or anyone else’s. She would slide straight into a cornfield and once tried to take out a windmill. Anytime she rented a car in a foreign country she made sure it had a hand brake and good speakers.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ve been practicing power slides for years. I had a Big-Wheel when I was a kid so you know what that means. I’m kind of an expert.”

Night On Bald Mountain

Wednesday, Blowing Rock:  An informational/safety meeting had be scheduled for Savanah’s Oyster Bar around sunset. After missing the designated rendezvous it was inferred that Luke and Lucy had headed back to the Tiki Bar on Lake Watauga. There was that cocktail waitress who was really good at the ring-hook game. On their way to Butler they would have to go through Johnson City and right past the last American strip club.
Right past Fuzzy Holes.

This premier gentlemen’s club was located in a part of the country where such things weren’t easy to come by. Sit and be well. The journey to Meca is riddled with strife. Pretty girls, private rooms, parachutes and a fusion lunch buffet with country and Chinese chicken. Something for damned near everyone.

Luke wasn’t expecting what he saw when he entered the dark room. As his eyes adjusted he realized the decor was horror themed. Wall to wall. What the actual hell? Most of the girls were really skinny and with the horror decor, they looked like skeletons dancing around. Luke thought it was a little terrifying. Just like Night on Bald Mountain.

At some point in the evening a portion of the congregation migrated out back for a buyer’s market of generic narcotics and the “dumpster dance” audition of Kloreene and Aja who both were promoting their resume in hopes of landing a job on the main stage.

“With this being my first visit to an adult entertainment club, I thoroughly enjoyed it. The dancers were very nice, on and off the pole. I got a couple table side dances that were very enjoyable. All of the dancers talked to me. I’ll be back.” -TR

Pablano really wanted to get there before they took off. The later it got the greater the chances Luke’s driving would be drastically impaired. He had made that drive from Salida to Telluride but everything was different now. He was getting older and the mental safeguards he had previously used to protect himself from getting too wasted had begun to crumble and fail.

The thing about it was that Luke enjoyed driving on nitrous oxide. He probably understood that it wasn’t safe but would have suggested that he was in a “weird place” so it could be tolerated. The most accomplished of degenerate thugs would agree there are a select group of “vices” that shouldn’t be consumed while operating heavy machinery. NO2 is probably one of them unless you can handle the tinglies and everything going black. There was no getting around it. He enjoyed the open road with a cream charger in his lap and a full box of “Mr. Clinkies” sitting close by. Warning! This product may induce unconsciousness or seizure. Sitting next to some stranger’s tire in the shadows of a parking lot, who can deny the occasional fish? The eyes roll back and the balloon shoots away, spewing the gas back into the either from whence it came. If that’s the case then the idea of driving reveals a self-fulfilling prophecy that at some point reveals itself as the vehicle wrapped around a bridge. Some people just have an itch on the roof of their mouth that only a shotgun can scratch.

All of this made Pablano drive faster through the winding Tennessee mountains…

Lucy’s Corner

Top Ten Dirtiest Onomatopoeia

10. Squirt
9.   Boing
8.   Smash
7.   Pop
6.   Meow
5.   Cock-a-doodle-do
4.    Slap
5.    Spray
4.    Gurgle
3.    Drip
2.    Bang
1.    Sploosh

The new wook wranglers stickers are in. Thanks once again to Ray the Red for the help. It’s well known that in lieu of original content, stickers add business legitimacy. Request your swag today. Check out some of our other articles including Free Camping in Buena Vista.

Tony Rice 1951-2020