Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

36. Tornado, Tornado (Part 2)

Somewhere, off in the distance, things were approaching. There were two, one large and one small. Whatever the one further away was, it coursed over the landscape with all the grace of a raging pigcow bull, a hazy smudge just on the horizon foreshadowing ominous things to come. Nobody at Smack-dab had noticed this phenomenon yet, nor the feint black smudge of the second, entirely different but far smaller thing, slowly shifting along the undulating Back Road from the south.

But yet, with or without being noticed, both of these mysterious things approached nonetheless.

* * *

"So what the hell, Brown? What's it gonna take to make you go away? Everything was fine until you showed up."

"I told ya th' last time I was here. Ya owe me."

"Why?"

Brown shook his head. For a second, he almost looked taken aback by the question. "Wadda ya mean, why? I'm th' lord, woman! Ya owe me Tax."

Bert frowned. "We didn't pay Ashy any Tax, or Captain Fantastic before him. Why the hell do you need it?"

Farmer Brown seemed to think hard again, that same sawing motion moving across his square jaw. Then his look seemed change; it softened, as much as his face could soften. The wrinkles shallowed, his anger visibly abated, and his teeth stopped trying to pulverise each other.

"Look around ya, woman. Wadda ya see?" he asked, the gravel in his voice seeming less course than before.

Bert was uncertain what was happening, but she couldn't help but glance in two quick circles around her. She arched an eyebrow. "Two armies?"

"Naw, ya stupid bitch. Beyond that."

Bert scowled. "Fuck you, it's just the Waste."

Farmer Brown held up his finger and nodded as if this was a profound statement of great philosophical importance. "Aye, woman, the Waste. Jus' a big sea o' dirt. Nothin' to it but death an' more death, right?"

* * *

Terry the bandit was still in his position atop the truck, gazing out into the aforementioned sea o' dirt. His vision seemed fuzzier than before, and he wondered lazily if the parasites had gotten back into his eye. He blinked twice, then wiped at his eyeballs with grubby fists, then blinked again because his grubby fists made everything worse.

When he could see again, the world still seemed fuzzy. Except ... everything close by was fine and in focus. It was only the horizon that seemed fuzzy, like it just sort of blurred away as it got too far for his brain to comprehend.

"Huh," he said to himself, then rested his chin on his hand and stared out into the fuzz.

* * *

"Imagin' if someone could fix up th' roads, an' bring some proper industry t' the place," Brown continued, leaning forwards to rest on the pommel of his weapon once again. His face had lost all semblance of its sharpness and rage. It seemed almost intelligent, now, which is never what you want your opponent to seem.

"What the hell are you talking about, Brown?" Bert replied.

"Yeah what the hell, Brown?" cut in Terrance. He was visibly trembling with rage, knuckles white. "Let's just end this!"

"Shut up, both of ya! Lemme finish mah speech, damn you. If ya stop thinkin' with yer selfishness an' pay me some fuckin' Tax, woman, I c'n pay t' repair th' Waste. Bring more trav'lers, farmers an' the like. Get some real good inferstructure goin', ya hear me?"