Slab City Nukes, Chapter One

Bananas In Valhalla. I know, I know I said I wasn't going to pub any more fiction here...

So! Who on Earth could manage to nuke the United States…. and why?

I know I said I was taking a couple of wise readers’ advice and taking down most of the fiction I’ve released here, save for teasers… due to the fact that whereas the readers are not on Substack, the Netflix showrunners, who enjoy far more cronyism and nepotism than actual creativity, are all over the Internet, particularly Substack, lookin’ for shit to swipe.

BUT the first chapter of THIS great action novel needs to be published by means of marking my territory, alas, because there is funnel plagiarism at almost every level—

—and I have, already, unfortunately, pitched this fantastic fiction story to a slimeball who said he aas looking for pitches.

Surprise surprise, he was in fact fishing for ideas to steal—as I know, because he’s already done it to me. (Like a bargain-basement Netflix swine.)

You think I’m paranoid? Go on, I don’t see you publishing YOUR great ideas here, now do I?

So, if you want to hear the rest of this tale, and you’re a publisher, drop me a line, and it can be arranged.

Slab City Nukes

Chapter One: Bananas in Valhalla

Be careful with Mitzi over there. Yeah, the one with the shovel. I about had to conk her with it, earlier. She’s one of those psychological types who starts hating you the minute she can’t grovellingly admire you. She used to think I was better than her husband, but now I’m damaged goods.

But Mitzi is still, for the moment, my new best friend—thank the gods, because we’ve had less than an hour this morning to dig my old best friend a sandy grave, and I’ve only got one arm.

It was 120 degrees at 10 AM, so it’s only gonna get worse from here. The sun was uncontested by so much as a puff of cirrus in the cerulean desert sky; I fiddled with my makeshift sling and watched Mitzi’s face as her loathing for my weak, broken bones began to ferment and she worked the shovel. 

I can’t entirely blame her. It was hard work. The sand was so hot, our sneakers were gooey. By now, I think the bottoms might have melted off; I’m scared to look and, fortunately, my right arm hurts so much I can’t feel my feet. It’s not a question of whether it’s broken, but in how many places. We’re still four miles from the nearest town—and it isn’t far enough, considering the situation. If you hadn’t come along to represent the superego, Mitzi and I might have come to blows.

How did I end up burying my nearest and dearest in the Colorado Desert with Captain Anger Issues here and an open grave? Well, you tell me: How’d YOU get here?

You don’t tumble straight into these pickles.

This one was coming at us, unawares, yeeeeaaaars ago—back when I thought I could afford to keep my head in the figurative sand. 

Ah, that’s crap. I had no idea my head was in the sand. I thought it was in the clouds.

I was an academic. Yeah, funny, huh?  I thought I was smart. I’m an archaeologist, actually, so there’s always been a fair amount of digging. Ha ha. Was an archaeologist? Damn. Too bad I couldn’t see past my own shovel.

Ain’t life a funny old thing?

To be fair to myself, a lot of us had our heads in the sand. Millions. Billions, maybe. Bet you did, too. But just because everyone else is letting themselves be decapitated, God won’t put your head back on for you.

No matter the circumstances of your bad decision, the results will be the same.

Having an excuse will get you, I don’t know, some bananas in Valhalla, maybe. No time today for theology.

If I had pulled my own little head out, with everybody else still skipping up the garden path, would I still be out here in a sandy grave? 

I don’t know. I don’t know if we could have stopped it then. All I know is, we’re the only ones who can stop it now—me and Mitzi and the boys. And there’s no more way ya can ignore it. If we lie down and close our eyes, we’ll die of thirst before the sun goes down—not that they’d let us make it that long. 

We’d still be moist enough to squish when they stab us. 

So, we gotta fill in this shallow grave and go. If I didn’t love Oedi so much, we’d  have hidden the body in a gulley and skedaddled already. But if we do survive, I don’t need to be hunted by another ghost of sorrow.

Wait, Christ, what am I saying?—I’ll bet you’re in the same boat! My bad, I’m probably delirious. We haven’t had a drop of water since the sun came up—you either? Well, come on with us then, we could use another hand, and there might be a lawn in Nilsen that still has a working garden hose. I hope we aren’t down to drinking out of swimming pools already…

Oh, you’re not in the same boat? You’ve been trying to sound the tocsin—as the French say—eh? Saw it coming? Tried to tell us? For years? Well, that answers my question, I guess: It didn’t help. You’re in the muck with us dumb-dumbs now. 

When did you pull your head out of the sand, then? For me, it wasn’t so long at all, the first time… It seems like it was a century ago, but it was just last year… I was in Paris, France, of all places! 

Yeah, if there’s anywhere I should have seen all of this coming, it was there. Taught me hard and fast, all right. Outta the sand, into the deep end! 

Well, if you can tolerate the intellectual peasantry, why don’t you come with us? Not like there’s anywhere better to go. We’re from the Slabs. We can trade war stories while we try the hoses. Ha ha! Wasn’t long ago, being hosed was something you avoided. But might I ask that you… try not to annoy Mitzi, please? She’s right on the edge.