…

Step Two: Shut up and drive.

…

Once Leroy was done “awwing” over the little asshole that lives in the hotel parking lot, we got our shit together and hit the road. As always, I drove my snowmobile while he surfed beside me on his conjured snow wave. I tell you, he's in for a rude awakening once all this damn snow finally melts and he's forced to drive an actual car like everyone else. Because guess who ain't gonna chauffeur his lazy ass around town? Me, that's who! Colonel Call-Yourself-A-Cab himself! Yessir, he'll have to pray for rain every single day if he wants to effectively show off his stupid powers to anybody with a pair of eyes stuck onto their face.

Until then, however, he took full advantage of his abilities by indulging in a particularly fond pastime of his.

Guess what that pastime was.

No seriously, take a wild guess.

“By the Goddess! Out of all the snowmobiles you could've stolen, why did you choose the slowest one?!”

That's right, folks; heckling yours truly over his shitty ride.

“Oh, pardon me! I'll remember next time we take one of these long road trips to first eat your precious goddess's pussy out so she'll give me powers, too!” Leroy scoffed loudly, shaking his finger at me. “Now, now! Don't you be jealous because the Great Mother personally handpicked me to be her Shepard! Sometimes, the universe just seems to favor certain individuals over others! Some people are rich, and some are poor! Some people are healthy while others are not! And some people are naturally fast—while others are stuck driving at agonizingly low speeds in the middle of the Winter season!”

I gritted my teeth, shooting him a disapproving glare. “There ain't nothin' natural about surfin' on a wave made entirely of ice! People doan surf on snow, Leroy! They surf on water—fuckin' water!” He flashed me an obnoxious grin. “Snow is water, Genius! That's why I'm able to manipulate it! Besides, what about the children that slide down snowy hills atop their wooden sleighs?! Or the adults who slide down mountains on a pair of skis?! And aren't snowboards basically surfboards made for snow?! Face it, Genghis—all of these activities technically fall under the category of “surfing on snow”!” I rolled my eyes. “No they doan! Those activities all fall under the category of “sleddin'”! Sleddin' is completely different than surfin'!” “How so?!” he called out, holding his arms out, “explain to me, Mister Big Apple, how sledding and surfing are any different from one another!”

Now it was my turn to hold my arm out while shades of bewilderment colored the face behind my aviators. “Dude, really?! I gotta explain this shit to you?!” Leroy crossed his arms and smiled widely. “Indeed! I am so very intrigued to learn about these nature-based sports from a city boy!” This level of stupidity was enough to warrant my palm slapping my forehead—probably hard enough to leave a hand-print. “Snow is static, you putz! Snow doan flow freely at all! Surfin' is a sport that involves riding free-flowin' elements—like water that ain't fuckin' frozen and stuck to the ground! Which brings me back to the original point! People! Doan! Surf! On snow!” My mouth-breather of a partner was quiet for a moment and then nodded. “Rationalize it all you want—snow is still water! Therefore, snow can be surfed on!”

I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the ever-growing headache this goof was giving me.

“Rationalize it all you want—you're still an idiot!”

He flashed me another grin; this one overly smug like he just won a single-leg race.

“I'm a correct idiot, if that be the case!”

I sighed heavily.

I swear.

Once “Operation Armored Raccoons” is done and over with, I'm punching this fuck nugget right in the nose.

And guess what?

That wasn't even the end of the “piss-giving”, as Mister Irish McPot-Of-Gold liked to put it.

And my attempt to change the subject after a minute of silence was completely in vain.

“So! 'Bout how long you thinkin' it'll take to make it to the Breegan Buildin' in Centro District?!” After asking this simple and purely innocent question, Leroy gave me a look like I had just spoken Mandarin to him. “What?! What did you say?!” At first, I thought nothing of this miscommunication. The wind had been hitting our faces pretty hard as we drove through Oeste District during the early hours of the morning—so much so that I had to stop at one point and pack my hat into my bag lest I lose it to the snowy oblivion. Stupid wind; always trying to stunt a man's need to be stylish. And with the sun only barely shining over the horizon, we were both freezing our asses off. All in all, the combination of the strong wind current, the overly brick weather, and the loud rumble of my snowmobile made for a couple of lapses in our overall conversation.

So I raised my voice a bit more and asked him the question again. Unfortunately, he still seemed to have trouble hearing me. “I apologize, but I think the eerie howls of nature keep getting in the way of your question! Can you ask me again, but a little more clearly this time?!” I groaned and repeated myself once more—this time very, very slowly. “How long...'til we...get to...the Breegan Buildin'?!”

Thankfully, he understood me that time.

But, for whatever reason, he found my question funny.

Hilarious, even.

“Ah!” he managed to squawk in the midst of his rib-cracking laughter, “So you were saying that!”

Leroy then spent the next minute and a half nearly wetting himself over a joke that I clearly missed. Seriously, what the freshly-picked fuck was so funny about asking for an E.T.A.? Sure, we hadn't been traveling for too long at this point of the journey...but I felt that it was something I needed to keep mental tabs on, you know? It ain't like I'm a kid sitting in the backseat of a car, shouting “Are we there yet, Leroy?! I'm hungry! I feel carsick! I gotta go to the bathroom!” or whatever other stupid, whiny complaint that could be thrown into the mix.

I guess that was another thing I noticed about Leroy that day. He seemed to find humor in everything…and I do mean literally everything. This includes jokes that not even my Nonno Lorenzo would've found funny—and he laughed harder at Saturday morning cartoons than me and Heidi ever did! Now, to all you nerds sitting there thinking, “The fuck's wrong with Saturday mornin' cartoons, Genghis?!”, I want you to keep in mind that whatever shit you used to watch on TV as a kid ain't the same shit I had to watch. I was born in the Spring of '69, which means that I had to deal with the lousy cartoons of both the '70s and the '80s. And when I say he laughed at these shows, I meant that he'd break the silence by suddenly screaming like a wild hyena over Captain Caveman shouting out his incredibly stupid catchphrase.

Yeah, you heard that right.

He thought “Captain Caveman and the Teen Angels” was funny.

Captain fucking Caveman!

Possibly the lamest superhero of all time!

Christ, even Hong Kong Phooey was more of a bad-ass than this clown!

And yet, despite all of that, Ol' Lorenzo still had higher standards than Mister Barris had when it came to comedy. Shit, I'm willing to bet you all the change in my pockets that I could make Leroy laugh by showing him a pen and adamantly calling it a “stubborn pencil”. I mean c'mon—you just know that he'd bust a gut. He'd laugh so hard that he'd likely faint from the lack of breathing! “Genghis Boy, you're too much! Just too much!” he'd probably say in-between breaths.

After about a hundred years had passed, Leroy finally stopped laughing so that he could answer my question. “Okay—alright! I'm good now! I'm good!” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “As we are traveling currently, it will take us a few hours to make it to our first checkpoint! If I had to pinpoint an exact number, I'd say anywhere between three and four! Granted, I don't think it will be any more than three and a half considering that nobody really drives this time of year, which means that there won't be too much traffic for us to contend with!”

I nodded, a satisfied grin plastering itself onto my face. “So we ain't too terribly far from this place, then! Hallelujah! Maybe we can get all this legal shit squared away before noon!” Leroy grinned widely and held an index finger up. “That's where you're wrong, my friend! The capital isn't our first checkpoint—no no! We're making our first official stop at the Centro District border!” I squinted at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Why is that our checkpoint?! We gotta go through border patrol or somethin'?!” He shook his head again, chuckling lightly. “You'll see!”

You'll see, he said again. God, I was really starting to hate that phrase. Why was it so hard for him to just be upfront about things that I was curious about? Things that I oughta be warned about ahead of time? I mean, try to imagine yourself in my shoes for just a minute. You're in a new land where everything is way different from what you're used to. And I mean everything is different; people, language, currency—you name it. Hell, even the animals are a tad shadier than normal; like cats. Especially cats.

Don't you think that you'd maybe want a little bit of a heads-up before trekking off into unknown territories?

I certainly want one!

Christ almighty, I'm a blind guy walking off a cliff here!

…

But alas, I didn't say anything to the rotten bastard. Not yet, anyway. “Oh, and Genghis?!” I sighed, remembering my vow to punch him at the end of this gig. “Yeah, Leroy?!” He shot me yet another shit-eating grin. “It's Breogán Capital Hall! Not “the Breegan Buildin'”!”

...ugh.

Stubborn.

Pencil.

Just saying.

…

Step Three: A long pit-stop in Nowheresville, Centro District, C.D.D.

…

It was around 9:10 in the morning when we arrived at the Centro District border. My initial prediction about this place was that we'd be stopped by a bunch of heavily-armed border patrol goons. After all, Centro District was one of the few places in Casa do Diaño that seemed to have any sense of law and order. There may have not been any cops around, but the con-artists over in the capital were bound to have their own Secret Service—or at least a couple of thugs supplied by their local crime syndicate. And considering that this district was all that was between us and the military's turf, my already chronic state of paranoia only intensified once we started seeing the signs boldly stating “YOU ARE NOW LEAVING OESTE DISTRICT!” in several different languages.

To my surprise, there were no guards waiting for us at the entrance. What was waiting for us, however, was the Morning Star in all of his bright, incinerating glory. What was so significant about the sun, you ask? Well! I'll certainly tell you why...but first I want to ask you ever-attentive students a couple of questions. No, there ain't any wrong answers. Yes, all these questions are one-hundred percent rhetorical.

Do you guys remember when I entered Norte District for the first time? How all forms of city-life suddenly vanished once I crossed the border, sending me straight into a goddamn forest? Or, going back further into time, do you remember when I searched Sur District for Leroy? How it was nothing but snowy meadows, despite being right under Oeste District?

Well, let's just say that Centro District had a similar scenario occur.

…

And of course, Leroy waited until the very last second to give me some semblance of a warning.

And holy Toledo, he couldn’t of chosen a worse way to do it.

…

So there we were, just about to reach the “WELCOME TO CENTRO DISTRICT!” sign. Leroy had decided at some point of the drive to start asking me lots of questions about America. Who was the president? How did the justice system work? What was TV like for us? What was there to do in a country with such limiting laws? And naturally, I answered every last one of his questions as honestly as I could; it was really all I could do to keep my nerves in check. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to see that we were making such great time. Perhaps if I was lucky, we could finish this gig within a day or two. Can you imagine that? Fuck over the military and then be home with my lady—all in a span of two days? What a rush that'd be! But still, I couldn't deny that the subconscious fear of walking into a trap kept my heart racing like I had just snorted six inches worth of Bolivian Marching Powder.

Needless to say, Leroy's sudden outburst didn't help matters too much.

“Genghis, stop!” Before I could properly react, I was suddenly met with a giant hand emerging from the bottom of Leroy's snow wave and stopping right into my direct path. “Shit!” I tightened my grip around the brake lever and attempted to ground my feet onto the road. Normally, this would've most certainly helped me slow down…but apparently the remaining patch of icy road on the Oeste side of the border didn't quite feel like letting me brake to a complete stop.

And before you ask, no; leaping off the snowmobile wasn't an option. Not when this thing was only two yards away from me. You see, abandoning ship really only works when you got plenty of time and distance to make the jump. And considering that there's only three feet in a single yard, I was my own height's measurement away from crashing into Leroy's ice sculpture. Six feet might be tall for a person...but it ain't nearly enough space when driving roughly around 50-55 MPH. At that speed, I would've needed at least three or four yards to be able to successfully jump onto the road.

In other words, my only option was to brace myself for the collision.

My eyes squeezed themselves shut...only for them to immediately pop open once an extremely cold sensation wrapped itself around my waist. Before I knew it, Leroy was yanking me away from the slaughter-fest that was the Pay-Per-View match-up between my snowmobile and his giant ice-hand. WHAM! BOOM! Sparks ignited at the point in which Machinery met her grisly end to the handsome stranger known as Nature. Yessir, my piece of shit ride hit the ice hard enough for the motor to short out and die, engulfing the entire vehicle in smoke. But there was a bright side; no fires broke out, which meant that our bags were very much still intact.

Of course, this little twinkle of sunshine would've mattered more to me if I weren't trapped in Leroy's icy death grip.

The noise I let out when he lifted me into the air was probably the closest I ever got to sounding like the vocalist in one of those girly hair-metal bands. The coldness of whatever Leroy had concocted to pull me away from the crash was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. This was the unfathomable point of cold where you're no longer saying things like, “Man, it's so brick out here that I'm turnin' into a snowman”. Oh no. Oh fuck no. This was the point where you're now saying things along the lines of, “Man, I feel like the entire middle portion of my body is being lacerated by fucking barbed wire”.

…

Well, at least things were put into perspective for me...sorta?

Maybe?

Possib—ah fuck it; nothing about this shit made sense.

With all that had transpired, I knew now what Leroy meant by us making our first pit-stop at the border. But now I had a couple more questions that needed to be addressed. Why didn't this stupid bastard just tell me beforehand that I wasn't gonna be able to drive my snowmobile in Centro District? Why did he feel the need to wait until the last goddamn second to bring it up—in the most infuriating way possible, might I add? Did he not realize that our transition could've been so much smoother had he told me everything I needed to know? It would've been a billion times better than just letting me crash into a huge block of ice!

And just how many degrees below zero does ice have to be to lift a two-hundred and ten pound man?

Because I seriously, seriously doubted that it had to be so unbearably cold that he feels like his organs are being frozen solid inside his body!

Once the damage had been done on my ride, I took a couple of quick breaths to ease my nerves—well, try to ease them, anyway. “W-W-What the hell, d-dude?!” I looked over at Leroy and threw my hands up, trying my damnedest to downplay how uncomfortable I was. As you can imagine, this attempt was incredibly futile. “W-W-Why the f-fuck'd you d-do that?!”

He put a hand over his heart and took a deep breath. “My apologies. I meant to warn you a mile or two ago. I guess I was enjoying our idle banter a little too much.” Leroy then dismissed his snow wave, which made us both descend back onto the ground. Naturally, he landed gracefully on his own two feet while I fell on my ass and rolled onto my side, arms tightly hugging my stomach as I writhed in pain. You know, I've had to deal with quite a bit of painful situations since I came to Casa do Diaño. Examples include, but ain't limited to: getting my abdomen burned by a strange light inside Heidi's belly, getting Leroy's thumb branded into my arm, getting my ass kicked on a number of occasions, and now getting lassoed by the Magical Ice Rope of Death.

It all sucks, but you know what?

The more pain you endure, the more tolerant of it you become.

And at the rate I'm going, all of my pain receptors will probably go extinct by the time I'm twenty-five.

“Here,” I heard the sniveling cocksucker call out, “I'll grab our belongings. Give you a moment for your blood-flow to normalize.” Oh, how thoughtful of him. “Once we're finished with this operation, we'll have ourselves plenty more options when it comes to travel—all perfectly capable of driving through rough weather such as snow. So your slowmobile is right where it belongs.”

Slowmobile.

Cute.

The pain subsided after a few minutes and I turned over to look at Leroy, who appeared to already be making his way down the road without me. “Hey! Hold the fuck up!” I lifted myself off the ground and sprinted after the slimeball. “I gotta serious bone to pick with you, you fuckin' weasel!” Despite me screaming these threats at him, he didn't turn around to acknowledge them.

“I'm tawkin' to you, you sonuva—”

Before I could finish my insult, I ran over the border.

I quickly slowed down and ultimately stopped moving, my train of thought lost to the sight before me.

It was like something you'd see in a movie that's set in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Besides us, there didn't appear to be a single sign of life for miles. The sun was fully aware of our presence, and boy did he make it a point to give us the rudest possible welcome imaginable. However, despite it being abundantly clear that snow and ice had no place in Centro District, the wind still felt like Jack Frost was knitting snowflake patterns into my skin. That's right, we were thrown into an area where water had been forever ousted by fire and air's never-ending rivalry. There was no such thing as warm nor was there such thing as cool; only hot and cold. You can be both hot and cold simultaneously, but never a mix of the two.

Remember my spiel from earlier?

The one regarding the sun and changing territories?

Well, here you go.

This is where that Q and A session was leading to.

The motherfucking desert.

“...bitch?” I turned in a complete circle, eyes darting all over the damn place. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was either sand or cacti. No people. No buildings. Not even trees or traffic lights. Just complete, utter desolation. And when I turned behind me to eyeball the Oeste side again, the snow was still falling.

I could see the snow.

I could see the cold.

I could even see my wrecked snowmobile.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

But I couldn't feel any of that cold, nor could I smell the engine exhaust coming from my totaled ride.

All I could feel was the battle between hot and cold.

All I could smell was the dusty scent of sand.

It was like there was some kind of weird barrier separating the two districts.

“They have any deserts in the United States, Genghis?” I nodded slowly, mouth still hanging open a little. “Yeah...but not where I'm from.” It was true; before that day, I'd never stepped foot in a desert. In the United States of America, the only desert that I knew of was all the way over near the West Coast; within states such as California, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas. And while my folks liked to travel once in a blue moon, they were never ambitious enough to drive all the way to the opposite side of the country. Basic knowledge aside, the closest my Yankee ass ever got to visiting the desert was watching movies or reading books that took place there. So you can make the safe assumption that I felt very much outta my element. To say that I felt like a fish outta water would be simplifying things a little too much. No sir, I felt more like a fish that had been picked from his bowl and chucked into a fucking microwave.

“As you can see, the road here is rather dry.” I forced myself out of my daze and turned back around, being met with Leroy's uneasy grin. “If I were to let you continue driving that worthless contraption of yours, the immediate change between ice and dry land would've made you lose control. I know my means of rescuing you weren't exactly the most pleasant...but I think I'd rather you be uncomfortable than be injured or worse. Forgive me.” I nodded slowly. In all honesty, his explanation made sense. And I could see that he meant well.

However…

“I see.” I removed my aviators and clipped them onto the collar of my wife-beater. I know, I know—it's a stupid move taking my shades off when we're in the middle of a bright, sunny desert. Don't you worry about me, kiddos. I just wanted to remove them long enough to get a clear look at the hell I was about to raise.

“But you see, Leroy, there's somethin' that I just...don't get.” I stormed up to him, my knuckles popping at my sides. All the wonder that been in my system just seconds ago was now gone—allowing my anger to resurface. The look in Leroy's face changed drastically once he realized what was about to happen and he began backing up. “Woah! Hey now! Wait a—” Before he could even get the words outta his mouth, I socked him hard in the jaw—breaking my vow to wait until the end of “Operation Armored Raccoons” to punch him.

He fell to the ground instantly.

And with no water around to save his ass, I climbed on top of him and unloaded on his chiseled face.

“You sonuvabitch! Why couldn'ta you fuckin' said somethin' 'bout this before we left the hotel?! Huh?! You too good to give necessary details, Mister I-Can-Surf-On-Motherfuckin'-Snow?! Still think it's cute to say “You'll see!” when I ask a question?! You still think that's funny, you stupid, cock-sucking bastard?! Well fuck you, you fuckin' fuck! We're in the desert! You hear me?! We're in the motherfuckin' desert! And tawkin' 'bout injuries, you nearly injured me with that little stunt you pulled with...”

…

Once me and Leroy's little “talk” was over, we spent the next couple of minutes in silence as we prepared ourselves for the next portion of our journey. I re-equipped my aviators as well as my gangster fedora. Despite the wind being fairly cold, I knew that I'd hate myself if I insisted on wearing my jacket while walking through the desert. So I removed it and tied it around my waist, stuffing all the contents into my jean pockets.

Once I was all set, I lit up a cigarette and motioned for Leroy to get a move on down the road. And this was how we spent the rest of the day; just the two of us wandering the lone, open highway of Centro District. He was at my left, keeping up the pace. And like I had done, Leroy had also removed his jacket and wrapped it around his waist, which allowed the oozing blood from his busted bottom lip easier access to his gray t-shirt.

Unlike our drive to the border, our conversations were nonexistent. Every now and then, I'd look over at him to see if he was contemplating apologizing to me for the bullshit he'd caused. While I managed to catch a few covert glances, he primarily kept his eyes on his feet like he'd just been scolded by his mother for accidentally dropping one of the plates from her fine china set. But despite him trying his best to hide his face, the sun still illuminated his swollen eyes, bruised cheeks, and the lovely red essence that enhanced the shame written in his expression.

I smirked at the sight of my handiwork.

I'd like to see him brag about his stupid powers now.

I know what you guys are thinking. You're thinking I'm being childish about this whole thing. “Oh c'mon, Genghis! He said he was sorry already! Just let it go, man!” Correction; he said he was sorry about waiting until the last second to warn me about the change in weather. He did not say he was sorry about blatantly refusing to tell me about the change in weather at a reasonable time in which I could've prepared myself. I meant to warn you a mile or two ago, he said. Well fuck me, Leroy—that ain't good enough! You should've told me sooner than that! Like when we were in the fucking hotel, drinking coffee and making plans!

I mean sure, he dropped hints. I now understood why he assigned me to be the designated carjacker. But here's the thing, how can I jack a car when there's no cars to jack? I considered that maybe he had something planned. Perhaps he knew a place we could go to find a set of wheels. Though I had to wonder if there were even any gas stations in the desert to begin with. I already had a hard time believing that Breogán Capital Hall—the Washington D.C. of Casa do Diaño—was located here of all places. Was there a city further into Centro District? A place sorta like Las Vegas in the sense that it's heavily populated and tourist laden despite being smack dab in the middle of nowhere? Or was it basically a district of its own—with its own magical barrier protecting it from the hot desert sun?

Once again, I didn't know. I didn't know any of this shit. Leroy knew more than I did, and yet he got a kick outta skirting around my questions. Here was hoping that he finally learned his lesson and knew well to keep me perfectly informed on every little detail, building, climate transition—fucking any and every goddamn thing that I needed to know. I mean c'mon, he'd have to be pretty dense to forget the lesson I just taught him!

…

But shit, what if he didn't learn a damn thing?

What if he decided to be petty and fuck with me even more?

…

But…why the hell would he, though?

He was just as stuck in the desert as I was!

He'd be an idiot to do such a thing just to get back at me!

…

But Christ did his face look like shit.

I really did a number on him.

I had to wonder what was going through his head.

If I had powerful water manipulation skills and still somehow got my ass kicked by a man with no powers, I'd be absolutely mortified.

And, as experience has taught me, extreme humiliation often leads people to do some really stupid things in the attempt to redeem themselves.

…

I know what you're thinking I should do.

You're wanting me to tell this schmuck that I'm sorry.

Sorry that I pounded his face like a slab of meat.

But see, that just ain't gonna happen—not when this prick had it coming.

Apologizing would completely ruin the lesson I had to teach him.

It would only reinforce him to continue beating around the bush on questions I needed answers for.

So if you're thinking I'm gonna tell him I'm sorry, you can think again.

…

No sir, I ain't uttering those words to him.

Not today, not anyday.

Let the fucker ruminate on his ass-kicking for as long as he needs to!

…

…

…ugh.

Goddammit.

Fuck my intense paranoia.

Fuck it right in the ass.

So, yeah…we were nearing the two hour mark of our walk when I finally cracked and spoke to the poor bastard. “Leroy.” He quickly looked over at me, eyes widening as much as they could through all the swelling. I looked at him for a moment, trying to think of how I should express myself. “How's—uh...how's the face doin'?” He shrugged. “It hurts. But it could certainly be worse.” Leroy then nodded over towards Myra, who was holstered in my jeans. “You could've shot me...then left me to die in the middle of the desert.”

I chuckled lightly. “C'mon dude, I wouldn't do you that way.” I quickly lifted my backpack and flung it onto my right shoulder, giving my left a break. “Sure, you're a stupid bastard...but I ain't gonna kill you over it. Alright?”

Oddly enough, this insult put a smile on Leroy's face—a genuine one with teeth; not one of those fake, closed mouth smiles. So far so good, Genghis. Butter up this walking piece of toast as much as you possibly can. “Though, I guess maybe I could've stuck to just one swing instead of several. I—uh—guess I got a little carried away back there.” Leroy laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Genghis, my friend! If you're about to say that I think you're about to say, then you needn't bother!”

Oh, he ain't accepting apologies today.

I guess I was right in saying that a firm hand was all it was gonna take to make him learn.

…

Wait, why am I guessing?

Of course I'm right!

I'm always right!

And lemme tell yah, I never doubted myself for a second.

No sir, not me.

Not Genghis Dillinger Boy!

He then playfully punched my shoulder. “I'm hurt, but not hurt. I've given you the piss all marning about your snowmobile. And I suppose I was being a little too careless with some of the details regarding this operation. I know you're under a lot of pressure…and I guess I wasn't helping matters by keeping need-to-know information to m'self. If we're going to be working together, then we can't keep any secrets from one another. I told you this once upon a time...and in the end, I honestly needed to follow my own advice. So really, I more than deserved to be clobbered in the head.”

A smug grin spread across my face, but my voice remained casual. “So you're finally ready to apologize?” That's right, bitch. I'm making you apologize for this fuck-up—your fuck-up. “I was ready to apologize the moment you threw that first punch.” Suddenly, Leroy acquired a shit-eating grin of his own. “But you were so busy screaming at me like an angry housewife that I figured it would be best to wait until your temper simmered down a bit.”

There we go.

I knew he wouldn't be able to say he's sorry with giving me shit at least one more time beforehand.

“So, now that you aren't red in the face, I am sincerely sorry for doing you wrong. And let me also go on the record and say that you hit like a fucking truck!” Ah, the weasel wants to flatter me, does he? Sweet-talk me into forgiving him? Well, that plan certainly worked on me.

I brought both of my fists to my face and planted a loud kiss on both of them. “You can brag about your powers, Leroy. Shit, you can even brag about how you didn't grow up in a big city. But just know that at the end of the day...” I looked over at him again and gave him an exaggerated wink behind my aviators. “…those of us that did grow up in a big city hit much harder than you cousin-fuckin' rednecks do.”

That got a whooping laugh outta him. “Keep telling yourself that! You just caught me at a bad time was all! Next time I'll be ready, and I'll make you hurt worse than Heidi when she squeezes those two babies out of her body!” Now it was my turn to laugh obnoxiously. “Oh-ho ho! Listen to this pussy right here! Well guess what—you're on. You name the time and place and I'll prove to you again who's in charge around here!” At that point, we both looked each other in the eye and bumped our fists together. “Challenge accepted, friend! Granted, it should wait until after “Operation Armored Raccoons” is completed.”

Speaking of “Operation Armored Raccoons”…

“That reminds me...you know where the hell we're goin'? How far will it be until we start seein' signs of life around here?” Leroy looked up for a moment, eyes focusing on the sky. “Let's see, it's about noon now. We've walked about five miles thus far. Our first gas station is around ten to fifteen miles from the border. So, if I had to guess, I'd say we'll reach that point anywhere between two and four hours from now.” He looked back over at me and flashed me another grin. “So it'll unfortunately be a while before you can sit down and enjoy a nice meal.”

I scowled at him.

Either the bastard read my mind, or my rumbling stomach was loud enough for him to hear it.

…

And so we were back to where we were before. Just the two of us traveling on down the lone road with Leroy asking me a gazillion more questions about my home country. What religion is predominantly practiced? What's our take on gay marriage? Do we have celestial entities guide our every decision like in Casa do Diaño? That last one I couldn't give him a straight answer on, considering how I got to this cesspool in the first place.

Of course, this portion of our journey did have its differences that set the experience apart from the first portion. We left Winter Wendy to go spend time with her bipolar sister, Summer Sandy. And instead of freezing our asses off at a constant rate, we were now alternating between two extremes. For the first half hour of every hour, we would be hugging ourselves for warmth. Well…Leroy was, anyway. Guess he couldn't take the cold when there wasn't any ice or snow for him to control.

As for me, I was a trooper. After having my innards nearly frozen solid, my eyes were opened wide to what cold really was. Was the strong breeze still unpleasant? Sure. However, having your best friend almost freeze you to death is even worse. Besides, I'm a New Yorker. We're sorta bred to bare with the agonizingly cold northern winters. Yeah, we'll bitch about the weather...but we kinda bitch about everything, regardless. It don't change the fact that we're goddamn Winter soldiers.

You say there's ice all over the roads? Ha! We laugh at such trivialities! You say the kids oughta stay home from school on snowy days? Shit—get on our level, you bunch of pansies! We were not only forced to attend school on snowy days, but we had a mandatory recess period during that time as well. Did we cry about it? Hell no! We built our little snowmen and then signed our initials at the bottom with our piss. We owned that shit, for we were the undisputed champions of cold weather.

So needless to say, I was a-okay for the first half of each hour.

The second half, though?

The part where Hot took over Cold's shift?

…

Well.

You see.

What would happen was…

Well…

…

Man, shut the fuck up.

We were three minutes shy of 4:00, so I was presently seeing little flashes of color dance to the ambient noises of the desert. I was soaked from head to toe in sweat, and you can bet your ass that I made it a very strong point to ignore Leroy's little jabs about how weak my heat tolerance was. “Remember when you took a shower this marning? How nice and clean you were when you walked out? How good your body-wash made you smell? Those were certainly better times, weren't they?”

Joke's on him.

The moment I noticed the gas station off in the distance, I sprinted off and left his ass behind.

“Hey, wait a minute! Genghis!” Alas, my friend's words fell on very deaf ears. See, I knew that I oughta stop running and wait for Leroy to catch up with me, but my brain was on autopilot at the time. I was hot. I was hungry. I was delirious. Friendship is great, but it ain't shit when your body's constantly screaming at you—telling you, “Make me feel better, you lousy sonuvabitch!”.

With that being said, my leg muscles were working at one hundred and ten percent. It wasn't long until the air current began working with the sweat pouring down my face, cooling me down a little and thus making my lap that much easier to finish. The last time I ran this fast, I was running from the cops. In my humble opinion, resisting arrest and ending your own starvation are both excellent incentives to ignore any and all other limitations your body might have—such as your lungs being weakened by your excessive smoking. However, as I've said in the past, my collection of fucks to give on that subject would make quite the excellent dust collector for your home.

And thanks to my superior resolve, I managed to make it to the gas station long before Leroy did. Upon my arrival, I couldn't help but admire the gracious award before me. Rustic. Old wooden structure. Rotting. Lights mostly burned out, including the neon signs advertising cheap liquor. As awful as this place looked, I wouldn't of been shocked if there was a meth-lab in the men's restroom. However, to somebody who was in desperate need for a pit-stop, it was quite possibly one of the most beautiful things you'd see all day; I was no different.

Unfortunately, I was only able to bask in the glow of salvation for a grand total of one minute and thirty seconds.

As soon as Leroy caught up with me, the adrenaline that had sustained me for my run began to fade away.

Cool skin, gone.

Strong lungs, gone.

Powerful leg muscles, gone.

All that remained was an overheated man who had spaghetti legs and exploding lungs.

“Well! Looks like we made it, Genghis!”

I would've loved to respond to him.

Really, I would've.

But at the time, my eyes were too busy rolling to the back of my head.

…

I don't know how long I was out. Shit, I don't even know if I had officially woken up or not. What did I know, though, was that I found myself inside an air-conditioned place, seated at a table. And right across from me was Leroy, appearing to have fallen under the same spell I had. “Leroy? You awake?” When he didn't respond, I grabbed his arm and shook him a little. “Hey. Leroy? Hello?” He let out a quick snore and I let go of him, accepting that he was out of it.

After spending a minute or two trying to differentiate between reality and dreamland, I began to examine my surroundings. To my left was my hat and aviators, the latter resting on top of the former. To my right was my green bomber jacket, neatly folded and resting against the wall. Huh. I guess Leroy took them off for me so I could sleep comfortably. But as much as I wanted to believe that it was a genuinely kind gesture, I was more inclined to believe that he was still partially in damage control mode after what had happened earlier in the day.

Once I was able to look beyond the table, I saw four other tables—all empty. The white-tiled floors looked damp, like they had been mopped within the last thirty minutes. In the forefront of the dining area was an unattended counter, decorated in yellow posters showing off these big tasty cheeseburgers. We appeared to be the only people in this place—so much so that the workers had even forgotten to turn off the lights before driving home in the desert.

This place reminded me much of the family road trips I used to be a part of as a kid. Dad, being the lazy drunk he's always been, refused to ever take me or my grandparents anywhere whenever he utilized his vacation time; said that it was more work driving cars than it was fixing them. When Roy and Heidi came into the picture, however, he had no choice but to get off his fat ass and at least pretend that he enjoyed traveling. You see, Roy was a huge country boy at heart, despite being born and raised in Queens. When there was even the smallest chance to escape the city, he took it and ran.

And so he'd take us anywhere that he felt was as “one with nature” as possible. Such places included upstate New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and even Maine one summer. Regardless of destination, each trip all had one thing in common; the inevitable disappearance of any and all big name companies and restaurants. What we'd get instead were these weird, family-owned gas station/diner two-in-ones. You know, the ones that are always grungy, but nevertheless end up being extremely practical?

I mean, think of all the uses these places have.

Outta gas?

Fill up for eighty cents a gallon.

Hungry?

Go grab yourself a barbeque sandwich for one dollar.

Need a little pick-me-up?

Coffee is free of charge.

Need the can real quick?

Then go—it ain't exclusive to paying customers!

This place, too, had rather grungy innards. But, in all honesty, it was still more pleasing to the eye than what the exterior had to offer. You know something? I was beginning to notice a trend with a lot of the businesses on this island. You know that old saying, “Don't judge a book by its cover”? Well, it was becoming pretty obvious that Casa do Diaño followed this philosophy religiously. Seriously, were there no skilled architects on this island? Was everyone too good to take into consideration the condition of the buildings their precious ambitions relied on? Christ, the only building I've seen so far that looked like any effort was made into building it was the Diamond Hotel...and even then it looked fucking terrible! Granted, it wasn't terrible in the half-assed way like ninety-nine percent of the buildings on this goddamn island were, but more so in the “we're rich and you can bet your pauper ass that we're gonna piss away all of that cheddar on stupid shit” kinda way.

But I digress.

There was something more important for me to worry about at the time, anyway.

And that thing came in the form of a voice familiar enough for me to recognize, but too different for me to trust.

…

“Nice change of pace, isn't it?”

…

Catching me off guard, I turned to look in front of me. Leroy had woken up...and possessed a rather eerie gleam in his eyes. “After a long, hARd day in the desert, I think WE deSERve a liTTLe brEAk, DON'T YOU?” I cocked an eyebrow. The man in front of me looked like Leroy...but he sure as shit didn't sound like Leroy. After all, the Leroy I knew never spoke like two people were talking within the same breath—one person being him and the other being...somebody else. Something else.

“Leroy? What's wrong with your voice?” He flashed me a big smile, but it wasn't one of Leroy's trademark shit-eating smiles. Oh no. This was no smile I knew. What makes me say that, you ask? Oh, I could probably list off a couple of reasons. However, I suspect that razor sharp fangs is a good enough reason by itself. It was certainly a good enough reason for me to jump outta my seat and whip out my revolver.

“ALL IS WELL, my PRecIOUs aLLy.”

He stood from his seat and stepped toward me.

“YOU HAVE NO REASON TO FRET.”

I pulled the hammer back and readied my finger on the trigger.

His smile only widened in response.

“I'm just enjoying a nice, relaxing nap with my best friend.”