“Shit, I gave you too much speed, man. Now you’re never gonna
shut up.”
Milo stopped the car in front of an ATM machine. “Okay. Get out
and get me the money you promised.”
“The money? What money?”
“Hurry up, man!” Milo said, “We gotta get out of here! They’re
gonna be looking for us.”
“I don’t have my card on me. I don’t even have a wallet. I’ll write
you a check later. Hey, fuck that, let’s go to a strip joint! You know
any good clubs around here?”
Gareth babbled on and on about how glad he was to be free,
about how Milo had saved him, about how he was ready for revenge,
about far too many things. Milo threw up his hands and turned up
the radio, barely drowning out the voice. He wished the radio was
louder, like the one in his old Monza. It was going to be a long drive
out to Pangaea. Luckily, the doctor had left a gas card in the glove
compartment.
Arriving hours later, they found the place packed with strangers: they
were members of additional kingdoms and orders and phyla of the
Millienial Liberation Front. They had convened upon Pangaea and
were now taking direction from Vlad. He had not only come out of his
coma but had come into his own.
“What you have heard is true. I have received the message!” the
stunted mercenary proclaimed in his nasal glory. “This is the time of
our reckoning! Now let’s get ready to reck!”
General cheering and applause ensued. Milo and Gareth stepped
out of the stolen Lexus and into the shadow of a crowd of utter
lunatics.
“Who are these people?” Gareth wondered.
“I don’t know,” Milo confessed.
Just then a huge Mercedes pulled up herkily-jerkily next to them,
screeching, squealing and fishtailing.
“Man! Learn to drive!” Gareth complained, then cried, “Holy
shit! That’s
my
car!”
Spinoza climbed out from behind the wheel. A slightly-singed
Harvey Futterman stumbled out from the passenger side.
Gareth scrunched his eyes closed and opened them. “I’m fucking
seeing things,” he gasped.
Harvey walked over and gave his old boss a big hug.
H O L Y S H I T !
196
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