REEVES WAS seated on the floorboard in the taper lit dining room; he was cleaning his sniper rifle, dismantled parts of his weapon were spread on black oilcloth. Troy yawned, removed his headphone and he turned off the translation voice software volume before he stood up stretching himself at the dining table. Reeves probed...
"Anything new?"
"Nah, it is just dope Rastafarian shit-talk, they can go all day talking about it—and on how they miss smoking it," Reeves noticed that he looked a little pale...
"You okay, Troy?" Troy nodded and yawned with chuckles. "I am fine, my mind had gone overdrive. I am gonna take a power nap and will be up for dinner," He excused himself and slumped on the old coach in the living room.
On the table, the muted computer screen continued to show the text of the translation of Jamaican Patois to English—with more Rastafarian shit-talk...
*
Zinga was also taking a nap on a bunk while Kujo and Vishon repartee on hanging hammocks on the cabin porch.
"You got some nerve defect, you moron!" Kujo burst out in laughter.
Vishon replied. "It is true, Mon, that both dis weed and alcohol does not have any effect on me—no matter how much I consume it I don't get di high nor drunk. But I get them terrible migraines di next day morning though."
"You are really some weird piece of work, Vishon—and that is why you don't get high on dis heaven-sent shits. Maybe your Mama doesn't have a coochie and you must have been born out from her fart-hole!
"You dog, you really are missing out on life's greatest pleasures—like dis one time, I was inhaling the smoke of Mary-Jane's red-hair yo, using di bitch's big fat booty-ass—with di bong deep inside the woman's butthole—that was total heaven, Mon—going down on di bitch and getting high at di same time..."
Kujo guffawed out and then sang a reggae song in their own native language, stroking his penis on the swaying hammock.
*
Joe was still keeping a lookout from the window that evening; he spotted in savoury at Busta who was using a machete to sliver the outer layer meat of the marinated barbecue leg of the baby stag—with the sebaceous dripping of fats sizzling on the flames—it made Joe gulp up the spume of his own saliva...
In contrast nearby him was True Bob, shallow frying some fish fillets in a pan on a butane stove fire—Joe who had past his feeding-hour, he grumbled out piteously...
"Look at them, they have been having good nom-nom-nom juicy red meat for the past 2 nights in a row—and here I am having fish every day like Jesus."
The annoyed Bob corrected him...
"Hey ding, have you forgotten to take your 'brake-fluids?' You had rabbit meat yesterday, remember?"
"That shitty yucky stuff that tasted like a kiddie cat—I wish I am invited over to their camp now. I bet I can finish that whole leg all alone. Yes sir, I can!"
The turpitude greedy red-haired glutton was still marvelled, mesmerized by the roasting on the spit-fire at the cabins out by the lake. True Bob goaded back at him...
"Go ahead Joe, open the front door and walk over there for dinner—I bet you will come back with that groid's crossbow arrow sticking out of your pooper."
They both looked up to hear a sudden alarm signal coming out sharply loud from the laptop. Troy who was half-awakened when he scrambled over from the couch while the rest followed him...
"Some incoming transmission for the Jamaicans," Troy said in a daze, and they all heard Zinga from the speakers...
"It is Leach calling from Mexico."
Reeves's team listened to the audio transmission directly from the speakers without the need of the translation software...
"Zinga, it has been almost a month there, how are things over there?" Li Chi inquired and Zinga immediately griped, "those white fuckers are a bunch of troublemaking idiots who can't take orders—especially dis Jensen asshole...
"By the way, how is the Preacher doing?"
"It's 50-50—not so good, he will go into another surgery tomorrow because his wounds are infected...the doctors here are more like a bunch of fucking veterinarians," the Chinese filled in the status from across the border.
"Will he make it, Mon?" Busta's voice then said back.
"I don't know, he is in terrible shape; most probably he will not." The reply from the Li Chi made everyone throes in silence in the cabin. Zinga slowly responded again...
"Then what do we do here? Hajja called last week and told us to lie low and keep on with di training here at the lake."
"I think before the Preacher dies, it is best for you all to return back to camp." The Chinese suggested. He had new gameplay to implement for the next fundraiser; even though his recalcitrant call may defy Hajja's mandate...
"What about di training here to take Cory out at di Los Angeles fundraiser?" The Jamaican leader questioned out of curiosity, after hearing the new edict...
"It looks like Cory has postponed all her election campaigns dates with the current city riots happening everywhere—and it is pointless to remain at the lake because no one knows when she will resuming her elections plans again in California; it will probably be weeks or months from now on."
The plan brought bliss to the four black Intersexuals—now they can return back to civilization, and have their regular dosage of weed, booze and sex—Similarly, Joe was rejoicing at the lake-house. He too was bored at the placid life at the lake—especially when the food sucks.
In the midst of the exultant Jamaicans, Zinga spoke up again to Li Chi...
"Yo Mon, so I will go and tell dis news to Jensen that we are returning back to Hajja?"
"Listen here Zinga, if he finds out, Jensen will definitely find a way to escape. They are all just a bunch of liabilities to our future cause—it is for the best that you kill Jensen and the rest of those white fuckers—and you dump them over there—you go do that tonight before you all return back to Hajja tomorrow morning; that is the order for now!
"In the meantime, I will activate Wu Leong's cell group in San Francisco. If there was a fundraiser coming up next in LA—then, Wu Leong is our best candidate to execute it.
"He will take out the Snake-woman for us this time."
*
Troy slammed the laptop lid down heatedly and he cursed at the unwarranted discovery; Reeves observed that all of the members in his team were in a state of panic and were all speaking at the same time in nervous din voices. Troy expressed back to the ungrateful news...
"Goddammit! This is not what I signed up for—since when do we kill each other after the entire Preacher's effort was to unite us all together as one army?"
"That fucking Ching-Chong Leach—I will shoot the fucker if he was here," Joe was also enraged. True Bob uttered, "we need to work something fast—we don't know when those darkies will hit us later tonight!"
Reeves gestured them with open arms to get their attention...
"Okay-okay guys, settle down! Sit, we have to discuss a strategy on how we are going to stay alive rather than panic." But Joe still panicked, interrupted him in high pitch trepidation voice, "Reeves, you are a sniper—you can take them all out," he said while they all seated down at the dining table with the two seated skeletal Howdys.
True Bob who seems agitated and he picked on Joe. "What dumb shit is that fat bug—when Reeves hits one guy, do you expect the next darkie to sit still and say, 'Me next, please'?" Troy burst in laughter, even though he seemed tensed, "fuck that! I noticed since they ran outta weed—they are looking sharper now compared to when we first arrived here a month ago."
"Yeah, they can hunt and bring down an entire moose for dinner and yes—they are fucking good with their weapons too when compared to most of us. We are also no match to their guerrilla warfare attacks if we were to confront the blackies later, especially at night," the bad eye-sighted Bob seconded in agreement to Troy.
Reeves understood that True Bob was implying to his own lacking of killer instincts to even kill for their food for their table. He turned to notice Joe whom he knew since his schooling days; the pusillanimous redhead was having with the looks of crippled calamity like he once had while facing the stumbling wall at Wesleyan during their escape, with police snipers targeting their rifle-scopes at them from the rooftops. Joe clasped the skeletal hand of Mrs Howdy for security...
Reeves started thinking out loud...
"What about the case of Capt. Howdy's moonshine that we found in the basement—that hooch is really strong and if we offer it to them. We can get them drunk." Joe disregarded the thought...
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"That was the reason we agreed not to give it to them in the first place before, remember? What if they get violent after they are drunk? That shit in the basement is a total time-bomb, even we don't dare drink it ourselves."
Reeves ignored Joe's alleged reasoning—he kind of agreed to his own idea...
"Yeah, but if we give the moonshine to them some way—we will surely have an advantage, what you think, Bob?" True Bob adjoined after a pause...
"Fatty is right here, they will get violent—but that will work even better to our benefit if we used the alcohol and spike it with the Hoasca."
Now the chatty Joe was baffled. "The-whore-ask-what-car? What the fuck you talkin' about, Chiefo?"
Reeves straightaway remembered of the scheme True Bob had in mind when he was unearthing the shrub at the ridge a couple of days ago.
"Are you sure about that, Bob; will it work?"
Troy who was equally lost, he spoke up next...
"Whoa, hold on, wait for a sec, Reeves—what is going on here?"
"Bob found this herb called Ayahuasca the other day which can cause severe hallucination," Reeves clarified to the others before reconfirming again with Bob...
"Is it as good as the weed that these fuckers smoke up?"
"Much stronger, and they will be in the state of helpless and will be crawling on the ground—then all we have to do is walk up from behind them and..." True Bob made his hand like a pistol and clicked his tongue, "...tock!"
"Yeah-yeah, a very sexy idea, guys—but how on earth are we gonna convince them to drink it?" Troy was now apprehensive.
True Bob patted Joe's shoulder and poked him...
"Big Joe here can go over and deliver them the case of the booze and make a trade—he has an eye on the spit-roast that they are having."
"Fuck you Chief, I just lost my appetite, man—and I rather eat fish if I were to die tonight like the Preacher," the tantalized red-haired youth retorted; they all were laughing nervously at his cowardice at the table...
That internally reflected their own similar tantamount of fears of dying tonight.
"I will go then," the spirited Reeves grinned.
Joe contested the idea. "Are you're crazy, man? Zinga hates you the most!"
"All the better—I will go over and make peace with Zinga because I have been pissing him off lately by not training for the past couple of days."
Everyone was speechless and looked at each other's expression until the maverick Reeves looked at the half-Cherokee...
"Bob, go now and prepare that booze. We are gonna have a party tonight."
**
True Bob was keeping a lookout from the kitchen window—the four Jamaicans were feasting on the meat roast on the spit outside their cabin—the meat that could have been theirs if only Reeves had taken a shot at Bambi.
At the exterior to their own backdoor, there was a pot over the slow-burning wood—the Ayahuasca leaves and vine were brewing in it.
Reeves watched Troy taking some medicine for his headaches.
"So what are your plans, Reeves—you will be going off to LA tonight to find Mimi Jensen?" Reeves nodded.
After another brief discussion earlier, the four of them unanimity were in agreement of deciding to call off the hit on Cory in LA—and it was best that they all will concord to go their own separate ways, and live their lives as free-males...
"Isn't your mother's name Laura?" Joe jumped into their chat, Reeves nodded to him before continuing his conversation with Troy Norton...
"How about you; where are you heading off to, Troy?"
"Chief and I are both are going the same direction. He is off to the Cherokee Reservations village in North Dakota and I will then take off from there to my sister's place in Chicago."
There was some sadness in Reeves that he will be departing with his close friends from Tombscradle, just like the moment he went through with Marlin before they went their separate ways from the Mojave Desert. Troy too felt the same wistfulness, saying farewells were always hard—he looked at the secluded fat guy beside him...
"What about you, Big Joe? Where are you going? MacDonald's-land?"
Joe was clueless and was tongue-tied...
"I-I-I am tagging along with you, right Reeves?" Reeves smiled and nodded to the red-haired buddy's vagary. The brazen Joe then started to swank loudly to Troy with vaunts...
"We made a pact back then when at Wesleyan that we are gonna stick together to find his mother, yeah man—and the time is finally here!"
Reeves smiled politely to Joe's imaginary concordat while he recalled backed-off Joe's reluctance to run away from Wesleyan some years ago because he strongly believed they were all orphans who have no place in 'civilization.'
Reeves in return did not abandon him when he had the chance to escape alone at the Wesleyan wall because Joe was the closest person as a brother to him, just like the Preacher with his monks. The 'alone-time' on the prison bleachers also had taught him to be venial to all of Joe's annoying flaws and mistakes he had committed in the past.
But it has always been Joe since day one—hearing to all of his 'escape plans' in Wesleyan University; wishing and hoping that the both of them can escape, and together they make it out there and find Laura Jensen.
That was also why Reeves has been focused to be out in the road ever since they broke out of prison—to taste his libertarian freedom as a free-male that he had reveries while looking out above from the Wesleyan campus wall. That was the reasons why he had rejected the offer of the Caucasians leadership position as Doran's general to lead the white rebels in the Council of 13 nor he was too keen to be a sniper for them—he also hated taking orders and was even worse in giving any too. He just did not want any of those obligations but instead longed the freedom for himself—and now, with Joe...
Joe, on the other hand, has his medical problems with his ADHD—he has been off his meds since his 'med-line' in Tombscradle—and he cannot control his puerile 'bug' behaviour which had worsened with his association with his other classmates in TC. The borderline 'illing' condition he is in, he cannot make it alone out in the real world—Joe was also getting too callous in his actions and maybe dangerous—he was given a pistol for self-defence which he nearly used and nearly blew Spooky Kujo's brains out the other day at the lake.
Reeves needed to be there to control Joe, and it was now his responsibility to do so...
His mind was on overdrive all the thinking and possibilities, and making those last-minute decisions of dealing with the present death risks before hitting the road later tonight.
**
A couple of hours later, everyone gathered near the kitchen sink, witnessing True Bob carefully pouring the psychoactive potion into one of the grey moonshine clay jars. He then sealed the cork and placed the jar in a small wooden crate of six single gallon jars.
True Bob turned towards Reeves. "I only have enough Hoasca to only spike 3 jars—so Reeves, you wanna give them the whole case?"
Reeves thought for a second, "hmm, yeah, we give them all the 6 jars."
Joe countered immediately, "but Reeves, what if they drink the moonshine that is not spiked—then we are fucked, am I right, guys?"
No one could justify that except Reeves...
"No worries—I will find a way."
Reeves noticed some moonshine in a bowl that was removed from the jars so the Hoasca was substituted, he asked. "Is this hooch?"
True Bob nodded, thinking Reeves wanted some to calm his nerves and mantle his courage, "one for the road, partner?" Reeves instead splashed the moonshine on to his shirt and dapped some on his neck.
He then picked up the small wooden case and walked to the front door while everyone followed him. The caitiff Joe was now worried-sick and he reached and gripped his buddy's arm...
"Don't go, Reeves! There are four of them out there, this is suicide! At least, tell us what is your play, man?"
"Okay—once I am out there, I just want to be a complete goof-ball like you, Fat-boy!"
They were all puzzled by his reply, the team now observed the chuckling enigmatic Reeves walking out alone into the dark towards the Jamaican campfire; in temerity for an ado-fuss with his death...
He has a pistol tugged at his back.
*
He gazed at the pale full moon above him that was swathed by clouds when he headed towards the Jamaican campfire in the darkness. They lazed around on the sand, jousting out aloud until Busta saw a wraith silhouetted figure approaching—and he alerted the rest around him...
"Hey, see there—someone is approaching!"
All of them stood up transfixed into the gloom with their guns pointed up at the stature walking unsteadily before they heard a familiar laughing vivacious voice calling out...
"Hey Mon! Hey Monnn... don't shoot me, yo, you motherfuckers!"
"It is Jensen—what dat white damn shit wants?" uttered Kujo in surprise when they saw a transfigured dusky visual of Reeves stepping into the campfire luminosity.
"Jensen, dat is far enough," Zinga voiced out and seeing him trying to sit on a boulder nearby but slipped sideways; Reeves was knockdown on to his butt in his drunken thespian act while he hugged the case of jars closely to his chest like he was cradling a child.
"Guess what we found, Mon—booze—we are having a fucking party over there and I thought why not share some of this good piss with you guys—ain't we, not the God's Army, am I right, fellers ?" he slurred and he chuckled.
"You are drunk Jensen!" Zinga indicted but the sportive Reeves responded back. "Nope, I will be once we all start celebrating together." Zinga was not swayed and he still held bitterness.
"I don't trust you, Jensen—you have been the biggest asshole ever since we got here."
"That why I wanna make it up to you guys, okay? Yeah, I swear and I agree that I've been a dick and all—and I did not show up for target practice, right? So I promise, yeah, if can wake up in the morning, I will come and practice," Reeves said and picked one of the un-spiked jars by its ear handle...
"Come, let celebrate. Mon!" Reeves bit off the cork off—and uttered more tantalizing babble...
"Very soon we will celebrate bigger success when we kill the fuckin' Snake-woman."
He stumbled backwards and accidentally hurtled the clay jar on the boulder and it broke—and that made Vishon laugh out at him, and Reeves joined the laughter...
"Oops! The party has not begun and I am blotto." He picked up the second jar and uncorked it...
"Zinga, dis whitie is trying to poison us?" the tempestuous Busta spoke up with his eyes widen, pointing his pistol. "Don't trust him!" said the Jamaican whom Reeves saved from the cougar attack two days earlier...
Reeves laughed again when he heard the accusation—he has to prove to them to get his specious act to work.
"Hey okay, I will drink it, now what shall we drink to, Mon?" Reeves sway unsteadily and nattering in wry...
"Let's drink to that kill the Snake-woman before she turns into a dragon."
Reeves choked while he took a mouthful of strong moonshine—the piquant tang shot up to flare his nostrils and flamed up his throat. He instantly spewed out the hooch vomit into the campfire—it emitted fire-spitting flames like a dragon. He was whooping coughs out, and then tossed the jar of hooch high up in the air and pulled his pistol to shoot...
His shot was off target, but he remained amused when the jar fell and broke on the ground.
"I missed it like a motherfucker, I am drunk, yo. Let me try again."
The transfixed Jamaican saw him reaching for the crate, Reeves picked the third un-spiked moonshine jar by its ear—he tossed it high in the air and shot it in midair. This time the potshot sent it to explode into a blue fireball. The spirited Reeves celebrated with a little crazy jig...
"Woo-hoo-hoo, I hit it, Mon. You sure you guys don't want it? It is fun to target practice at night; it makes blue fucking flames like a shitty blue moon."
The wily Reeves next bend to pick the next crock from the crate—which was the Hoasca spiked jar—Busta and Kujo looked at Zinga for his consent, Zinga pointed his gun at the idiotically behaved Reeves...
"Enough of your shit-face nonsense, Jensen—we accept di booze—I am ordering you now to get back to di house and sleep it off!"
"Okay, Mon, fine, I think I had drunk enough, and I guess I go back now—hey yo, hook me up if you want some more, okay? See you at sunrise, yo Mon, peace out!"
Reeves maintained his souse thespian act—knowing for a fact that the nonpareil Jamaican bodyguards were given orders to kill them all tonight.
They witnessed Reeves staggering as he walked away from the cabins by the tarn towards the lake-house in the gloomy overcast; he was singing out Marley's 'No Woman, No Cry.'
The chuckling Jamaicans each unsuspectingly grabbed the last three remaining jars that were spiked with the Ayahuasca—the hooch was a good wean substitute for their out of stock of weed-smoking urges.
They heckled back at Reeve's bad drunken singing in the dark.