Hurricane

Hurricane!

by

Evan Williamson

from Banned Library Books

This ebook is licensed and sold for your entertainment and enjoyment, and is a complete work of fiction. Any resemblance to names, characters, trademarked products, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. Please do not resell, share, or otherwise break the copyright of this book cause that would be evil and take booze from my mouth. If you somehow have a copy of this book, the author did not give it to you, and you did not pay the measly sum of a X to buy it, the author hopes you die and go to whatever eternal punishment you believe in. If you are an atheist, he hopes your children believe in some kind of eternal punishment and refuse to see you ever because of your bastard ways.

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Copyright 2013 by Evan Williamson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Chapter 1: A Night Out

The truck swerved in and out of traffic. With a chipped yellow paint job and headlights that stabbed in opposite directions, the 1992 Toyota truck created a vortex of black smoke where ever it went. Those close could make out a little plastic figure of the Virgin Mary with a grass skirt bobbing along. This was nothing to say of the driver. He drove like an bee flying through a flower garden. Dodging traffic and crashing into mail boxes.

Finally the Toyota careened off the street and into the parking lot. As the Toyota rolled to a stop, I jumped out.

Dammit, Seamus, I said, You just wait, the Dukes of Hazzard DVDs are going under lock and key when we get home.

Aww, com'on, he said, we would have made that jump off the curb if that ditch had been a little, um, not so wider.

I decided not to respond. Better we get into the bar, get alcohol into us, and focus on the job at hand. See, a funny thing happens when Seamus and I get together. Drunk, we may talk about doing lots of things. We may do lots of things, but rarely are they elaborate. But get us sober and we tend to get into trouble, build things, break things.

Enter the bar. Dillinger's is comprised of memorabilia from all walks of life around the globe, if that life happened to walk into this particular building and forget something. Named after the gangster and thief of early America, Dillinger's prides itself as not having any type of lost and found. If something is left after the 2 a.m. closing, it is claimed as bar property and gets nailed, super-glued, or otherwise permanently affixed to the walls and furniture. As a result, the trappings of Dillinger's include any and everything, from the bras covering the Pac-man machine to the wall o' cell phones. If you are sneaky and discrete, you can sometimes get your property back, but more often than not it is there to stay. People often leave things just to be a part of the tradition.

Months ago, Seamus and I had been in Dillinger's and consumed one too many pitchers of beer. He had left his cell on a table when we left. We knocked on the door and asked for the cell back, but something told us it was already on the wall. Seamus located it on our next visit. Ten feet up, right next to a speaker, was his shiny red Motorola. Ever since, we've been trying to get it back.

On the first attempt, Seamus jumped off a pool table and landed on his face. The second attempt included a pole-like device that we never got to use as it was confiscated to invent the new parking lot game Beer Pole-vault, a sport much like Beer Pong but with much more excitement and emergency room visits. The third and fourth visits included drunkenly whacking at it with a pool cue. The fifth visit involved rushing the bar with a ladder, setting it up and quickly dislodging the cell with a hammer and chisel.

This last plan failed when Seamus dropped the hammer after the speaker started belting out Black Sabbath, and the hammer hit me in the head. Seamus, the son of a bitch, then had the nerve to get all fuzzy on me before I blacked out.

So here we were, the sixth time. What was our implement this time? Pure drunken determination. No more poles, no more ladders, and definitely no more damn hammers. We were going to drink and stare until something told us how to get that damn phone back.

Then she came in.

She was not striking to look at. Cute, I guess, in blue-jeans and a white t-shirt that read Mama's Bitch in big black letters. I smiled at the big grin on her face. I watched her come in the front door, hug a guy and girl, make her way to the bar, hugging, dancing, always smiling. Everyone smiled around her.

I pointed her out to Seamus.

Huh he said, Happy, ain't she?

He was focused on his phone and his beer. Only one was in reach at the moment. He took a long sip and continued staring. I decided to play some pool.

Three games in, Seamus came over.

Hey, lemme borrow your pool stick? he said.

I said okay and watched him walk into the back room. After a moment he came back, then went away again. He kept doing this, holding the pool stick like a spear. I figured whatever he was planning he would tell me eventually, so I went over to the rack to get a new cue.

She was there. She had her back to me, holding a cue out and looking down it like sighting down a rifle. I froze. Then, she swung the cue around and smacked me on the side of the head. Dazed, I stepped back to the nearest stool.

Oh, God! I'm so sorry, I was just looking to see if the stick was straight and I needed better light and I didn't think and there you were and bam! Oh, are you all right?

Her words came at me like high-pitched machine gun rounds. I lifted a hand up, hoping to stop the rush of words. My other hand went to the sore spot now growing on my temple. I smiled.

So, um, hello… I managed to mumble.

Oh, hey. I'm sorry, she said.

It's okay, better to be bludgeoned by a cute girl than a hammer any day.

What? I don't really know what that means, well, I know what that means, I know what a hammer is and the word bludgeoned and did you say I was cute?

I staggered at the barrage of words again but managed to speak.

Um, yeah. I just have a tendency to get hit with stuff here. I like your shirt.

She looked down at her shirt, Oh, well, yeah. I'm Carrie.

Elliot, I said.

And thanks, I made it myself. That's what I do, screen-printing.

She smiled up at me.

Holding out my hand to shake, she ignored it and hugged me. Startled and a little weary, I smiled. We talked a while longer and forgot our perspective pool games. I learned she was working on a degree in Graphic Arts, supporting herself through home screen printing, mostly t-shirts, but hats too.

We smiled a lot. Then the banging began.

It started low, a tapping over the bass thump and guitar of Rage Against the Machine. When the jukebox took a break, you could hear the banging clearly. As the wall o' cell phones started to shake, people took notice.

Oh, God, I said.

What's going on? Carrie said, looking at me with big hazel eyes. I had forgotten about Seamus.

Listen, I said, Can I call you sometime?

Sure, but we can hang a little longer, can't we? I like you.

She smiled again and put her hand on my elbow.

Um, I might kinda need your number now. I think my ride is leaving soon.

Another smashing sound accompanied by splintering.

What in hell is going on? She laced her arm into mine and we watched with the crowd as the Wall o' Cells bulged by the speaker.

The Doors Break on Through started to play, but the music was warped by the wall bending outward.

HUZZZZAAHHHH

The shout came from the back room. A pool cue punched its way through. I left Carrie and pushed through the crowd. Seamus came walking around from the back room, covered in plaster dust. Looking down, he