Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [151]
“Whoa,” Morgan gasped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I could tell.”
“We’re stuck here!”
“Yes, we are. And on top of that, we have no place to stay, we’re obvious outsiders, nobody likes us…”
“Nobody?” Morgan whined. “Not even that girl you were going to have sex with?”
“Especially her.”
“Wow.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Not even Sophie?”
“The hotel counter girl?” I asked. “Why would she like us?”
“She seemed pretty nice.”
“She’s paid to be.”
“Really?”
“Really. Hotels give classes on how to be nice to people you hate.”
“Well, when she said she’d go out with me, I thought…”
“She said she’d go out with you?” I asked, floored.
“Yeah. When she came to tell me we were kicked out of the hotel for using someone else’s credit cards. I asked her out.”
“And she said ‘yes’.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m astonished,” I said, astonished.
“Why?”
“A woman believes you to be a criminal, and then agrees to go out with you on a date, and you ask why?”
“Oh, yeah. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Something delightful seemed to occur to him. “Hey. Maybe she’d go with us on our crosscountry crime spree.”
“I’m not going on any…there’s not going to be any…where were you going to take her on a date? You have no money either.”
“We were supposed to meet at the auction later. I told her you were going to buy the hot, hostess chick, and she got really excited. Said something about how it was going to piss somebody off, and she wanted a front-row seat.”
“Well, it’s not going to happen, now that—Oh, my God! Ms. Waboombas!”
“What?”
I said nothing. There was no time for a response. I ran off toward the town, and after an instant of confusion, Morgan followed.
“What?” he yelled. “What’s the matter? And why do you always call everyone ‘Ms.’?”
The town square glowed, warmly, in the waning minutes of evening sun and igniting streetlamps. A platform had been set up around Homer, decorated with festive oranges and browns, and lots of happy, flaming pilgrims everywhere. It must have been a joyous death they’d suffered, God’s angry will making them ecstatically happy in their final moments no doubt.
To one side, a giant, cheery, three-dimensional pilgrim had been set atop a pile of sticks, logs, and paper, presumably so he could be merrily ignited somewhere near the end of the festival weekend. A burning man, kind of thing. Or burning Duck, if you’re a Jimmy Neutron fan. And if you’re a kid, or just very much like one, who isn’t a Jimmy Neutron fan?
A crowd had gathered around the stage, and I could see several people getting ready for both buying and selling. Near the front, unaware that I was anywhere even close, stood River, proud, defiant, and hung (okay, I have issues), looking as though he would be one of the first put up for auction.
My original plan had hinged on this, figuring that Wisper, as one of the organizers, and possible emcee, would likely go last, particularly if she were intended to be a main attraction of the show. This would leave River available to be bought up early, and with Ms. Waboombas doing the buying, she could keep him out of my hair while I tried to work my magic on Ms. Nuckeby.
Now, of course, I had to find Ms. Waboombas and stop her before she began spending money I didn’t have. Whatever River might cost—and I presumed that damned penis of his would go for a bundle—I could no longer afford to pay it, and neither could my comrade in arms, Wendy.
She, unfortunately, was nowhere to be seen, and neither—I noted offhandedly— was Ms. Nuckeby.
As I continued to desperately scour the crowd, I eventually came across Reverend Winterly. It was the first time I’d seen him in hours, and I was amazed to note that he looked somehow more—I don’t know—comfortable in his surroundings. Not that he was nude and dancing or anything, but he was also not on the verge of heart failure either, or hiding in his Bible. In fact, he was moving quickly and apparently excitedly my way, and smiling as though I were a longlost friend.