Day 5: Bluemoon Lit Caper

I knew this would happen. Normally, the poison named My Inclusion takes longer to show warning signs. If I can remain on par the course through their retelling of my symptoms from a night of "sleep," the next level of obstacles won’t hit so hard so fast. The roar is brewing beneath the volcano’s lid; the medication will have faded by now, whatever has been waiting to flood my vision is on its way. Testing each other...sure, okay. Maybe I should've force-filled stolen medical records they weirdly had with a prophecy with killer stats, but as doctors suggested, pretending it’s not there is worse as a stressor than communing in the meantime. Guess there's no need to relish. Fighting to ignore childhood bias, home training might be easier with these lunatics at the helm. Don’t get me wrong. No semi-competent crew could hold down one bitchen fort like this. These aren’t dizzy dames and loose cannons playing religion. They’re tough customers. (Explanation for the period in the addition.) Yet, what they expect to happen—what Cornman Ron is spooked about seeing for whatever reason, is loony with a capital LUNE.

Breakfast, which I probably should’ve mentioned earlier, we have together every day, pending emergencies, with trembling forks scraping plastic plates all the same, and bathe in the awkward so it seems. Not in unison, but there was a rhythm I failed to appreciate despite my efforts. Turns out, the 0530 wake-up and chow call was the required spare time for the necessary scrutiny to prep a visit to New Orleans proper. A certain scrutiny in their mystique to roll in with the fog and vacate the realm in the darkness if you pretend the authorities aren't the audience in front of these illusionists. Wolfman Patrick stood, as he did after all meals, and dropped today’s plan, while in the front or standing on the bar, while we slurped our catfish and seasoned, cheesy grits. See, his behavior yesterday explained the ‘we may not return’ vibe in his foot propped on the stool, elbow on his knee, like it’s time to talk about your dog, Skipper, and that farm. Bluemoon June summed up fifteen minutes in my ear thusly: “Supply run in Lafitte.”

On the trip: W. Patrick

Hare Kath

Storm Winters

I. Xavier (mainly to drive)

M. Mary

All in preparation of what I’m calling The First Occurrence, since the experiment disconnects from the lingo most don’t care for, but pairs better with the word ritual or entity. I was tasked with writing down the shopping list before it was ripped from my notebook. This gave me the peek Ron asked me about after breakfast. It put me in a predicament where the need to gossip with someone who will appreciate the strange is missing the stank of jovial, petty nonsense. I hadn’t realized how critical the writing—my writings were to Wolfman Patrick and Blue Moon June, for that matter, meaning, weirdly, he wasn’t the only one noting on my notes. His raging curiosity became a catalyst for an astute recollection to serve as a reference for the others' journals. That’s when Blue Moon June caught my deer-in-the-Mack Track-high-beams look and pulled me away for my duties of the day. I thought I was contracted to the Wolfman. She reminded me that I’m practically Cult Ded Moone Property. They did not elaborate. I heard the military doesn’t either.

I made a few stops before I joined her on the boat. A bag of snacks for a trip, a change of clothes in case of an overnight gig, given she didn’t confirm or deny that it wouldn’t be a possibility, and to leave my journal in my bunk. I was promised that it was unrelated. I didn’t ask. It’s best she thinks I don't write things from memory’s sake. HMMM…

“I’m not bringing you because you’re special,” June said, pulling away from the far dock. “It’s because you think you’re not.” I looked at Harvestman Jerith, who was getting comfortable in the middle of the former police boat. I thought it was weird the five of them took the smaller boat in tow with them, a motorless canoe with paddles. We, however, topped out at 50 miles an hour, cruising south.

“Where are we headed?” I asked.

“If you don’t see Port Fourchon in an hour, wake me.”

“Shut up, Jerith,” she responded.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the character revisions they took on as we left Dos Gris Bay. Very sunny, like the sunrise got skipped and they were awake to the ruse. Like they’d happily slept alongside Bernie, their sunglasses were black, and each had a flavor of gum to keep their silent jaws working. There was a lack of wind, but her captaining proved otherwise over the chop. I wouldn’t dare say she smiled, so I’ll explain that she navigated the chop with the glee of a child riding their first roller coaster for the third time in a row, possibly reliving the childhood event as an adult. If I had to guess, it was closer to the halfway point when she had me wake Jerith so he could switch seats. I wondered if the open-ish waters freaked her out as much as they used to me. I’m all for the lost at sea obituary, but shoot me first. 10 minutes of drowning is just wasted time.

She’s not easy to small-talk—shout with, and Jerith watched his speed to reassure their place in the waters. “Fine, you know what I’m about to ask.”

“I thought you were a believer.”

“Believer or not, you didn’t tell Wolf—”

“Just Patrick out here,” Jerith interjected.

“Why me, why not one of Jerith’s Mercs? Feel bad taking the better boat.”

“What’s your point, Nealson?” she asked.

“I’ll vibe with being a last-minute roster change for your little caper. Ron, on paper, is the freer option, right?” She didn’t like my questioning anymore, as if she ever did. It’s the way she stone faces that deters most other opposition. Behind those glasses, she could be calculating a hands-free neck snap or sleeping.

“You’re not religious but also not a snitch. I don’t know why you're really here—”

“Doesn’t matter, right? As long as you have the extra hands. Just like to prepare for certain adventures; could make me more helpful.”

“You afraid to die?” she asked.

“No.”

“Snappy, aren’t you?”

“Not cancer; what’s the plan at the port?”

She checked with Jerith, although it was more of a warning. “It’s an exchange of goods for your betters.

“Drugs, weapons, some kind of deal for the two? Or are we just moving some boxes?”

“You gonna regret it if there’s a little more than that?” Jerith cut in.

“No.”

“Snappy.”

“I’m sure, June. Do you really think I left my life to live in Ozen Le Manoir basically underwater to be safe and warm every night?”

“You know what I’m going to ask, right?” she asked.

“No.”

“Nice try.”

“We’re in range; lock and load,” Jerith commanded.

We stopped just after entering Bayou Lafourche. Gwen was the first person I realized wouldn’t have liked this endeavor. We’d, June and I, were heading to some environmental office in such a way, it became advantageous to walk in wearing stolen orange hard hats like we owned the place. Jerith ran a lap north. Whatever was in the pack she gave me was loose, bouncing off my tailbone during our brief jogging moments. Through the empty field, we went toward some P.M.I. Tin facility. The meeting was an exchange, ammunition for a location. A red container beyond the Halliburton drilling contractors. I just hoped she remembered the number.

“What number did he say?” she asked.

“What the—VZMF-179386. We passed it.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” she whisper-yelled.

“You passed it so confidently, I assumed there was another motive or job.”

“Son of a bitch, I was focused on the combination.”

“As long as what we pick up fits in the bags—”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No. Do you think I’m always so serious?”

She opened the door with hesitation to baby the rust on the metal squeal of the hinges. It was barely cracked and darted in like the owner’s key was in the lock. I stayed near that opening. She clicked on her flashlight, and I couldn’t help but kept watch through a sliver between the hinges with my foot pressed softly at the base to keep the door cracked. We were far enough down the aisle that excessively worrying wasn’t needed about the sliver of black with a faint eyeball within the red hall. No matter how she may explain it, she didn’t scare me into that sharp, almost scream. Unzipping my bag from behind and shoving, better yet, dropping it inside could’ve ripped me to the floor. Either way, the two workers who passed at the top of the aisle didn’t flinch from it, so no harm, no fowl…foul. “Fuck, those are heavy.”

“Shut up, this way.”

“Swimming might be tough.”

“Then listen, damn it!”

Over our walkie-talkies, she asked for a position. Coming up on five cylinders on the water’s edge wasn’t as thorough a description as he could’ve given, since those were every 200 meters along the coastline. She handed me a bandana from her bag, and with a demonstration of what she wanted me to follow suit in, I tied it just under my eyes. By the time she peeked around the corner to find the proper set and listen for a recognizable engine cadence, Jerith was too far from shore to pull in at the set across the industrial road. “You said we were running, right?” I asked. And then singled for the radio. “You passed us. Meet us at the end of the next five, don’t be surprised if we cut between them in a hurry. Don’t scrape.”

“Does he think I’m some fuck-head,” Jerith asked with a delayed, “Over.”

“No, he’s just one; bring her in.”

I don’t think 150 meters ever felt so uncoordinated. It got so bad I grabbed the base of the backpack to keep the swinging in within the boxing rules so the kidney shots weren’t so excessive. I had been waiting for it a while now, but right on schedule, that ‘hey you, STOP!’ caught us just before the fuel cylinders. She ran around the last, smallest fuel cylinder as I cut through 3 and 4. The last, ‘get back here,’ was overshadowed by what was later called an excessive leap from the edge, three feet above the waterline. Making it hurt, and when she reached the edge, Jerith was right under her. There was a stray shot as he gunned it, but as long as no one looked back, it would be fine.

“If we make it past Grand Isle straight, we’ll be able to set things for the sale before Patrick gets back.”

“E.T.A.?” I asked.

“Always after dark; we’re good.”

“Then why does it matter?”

They looked at each other and for all that’s holy, they laughed. No point in pretending to leave me to wait for whatever toxin was making this situation so funny. It had to slowly peter out in both of them with hints of blowfish, like remembering the punch line minutes later at the worst time in the faculty meeting. I intended on ignoring them to get a load of the immense view at an end of the United States from the other side of blackened lenses when she nudged the bag at my feet. If you’ve ever seen a literal wink & nod in the wild, blessed with the shittiest of shit eating grins, you recognize the bully taunt vibe I’m referring to. That ‘trust me, I’m a doctor’ coming from a third-rate hospital run by a man with several gold teeth and an AOL degree that doesn’t remove their gloves until after the fourth patient in a row. ‘Sure, I’ll cure your cancer; 300 Pesos.’ Since I felt its outline, my curiosity had turned me into a rube; why not, right? “Don’t take it out,” Jerith said abruptly as my fingers gripped the zipper. I wasn’t going to put my fingerprints on it anyway, so I shut my mouth and got my answer. Well, I should say multiple answers. What keeps the island funded, security detail enticed, Patrick aloof, and their smiles. It’s a pretty good racket to tell you the truth, if they remained efficient. For this purpose, it both shouldn’t have been this open to visitors, and we could’ve done this at night for this level of potential retaliation. However, in that moment I could only say, “Whoa.”

Dinner was late, in order to set up an entrance for everyone’s favorite leader, no less. Our bags had been taken by Storm-man Winters, the only reason anything that needs wielding isn’t a rusted edge that would be the first break in a catastrophe. That’s why he was late and a little absent-minded during dinner, I believe. During the meal, bubbling with Wolfman Patrick’s stories of the mainland. I slowly realized most of the residents shied from or flat-out refused to leave. Blue Moon June put her hand on my thigh. She leaned in quickly to whisper one thing as her nails dug into my meaty-filled jeans. “Why you’re here doesn’t matter. You better watch what goes in your fucking journal.”

Nightmare addition:

A public enemy on fire, robbing banks, somehow, the consistent smoke of it. Unknown source. Gone up and down the coast, leaving chard bar stools and bystanders at the speakeasys. Gun explodes in his hands before the ‘no body moves.’ Walks through vault door locks, hugs the wannabe heroes, and leaves the ash in their resting place at my feet. Pain forever worsens; waking up is not an option. There I am, just-a-cowering behind the counter, they love us hostages so much they needed one for the road, the hand on my shoulder, deleted my left arm, yet they can force me to drive. I’m screaming don’t shoot, we’re on a mission; no one can hear me. Heat from their side is melting the seats of the suped-up Model T Sport. Bullets shredding inside and out, forever putting living my only useless purpose, but this is prophesied, but not until the fire consumes my last words—steals my final words. I don’t hear me anymore, no one does, but I know I fear it more than I currently see burning to death on repeat, "why can’t I stop laughing?"