Tevun-Krus #39 - Lost World

Kitsch - A Short Story by @krazydiamond

The gas tank ran empty halfway through the desert.

It was another chalk mark on the blackboard of Wade Parker's extraordinary bad luck. To be fair, as soon as he hit the stretch of highway slicing through the one true wasteland this side of the globe, he knew it was only a matter of time before something shit the bed. An empty tank was an easy fix. The bad luck was the timing and the placement. He attributed that to a balance of bad karma and Kiki Shriver. It was a cosmic joke of the universe that of all the women who have ever performed voodoo and gypsy curses on their exes; Kiki Shriver was the one who had a true spark of power.

After the third freak accident, she apologized, but that did little to fix Wade's karma. Normally he wouldn't risk a trip through the desert, but the siren song of opportunity came in the form of a job he couldn't pass up; working at one of the fat cat casinos. He was always a sucker for glitz and neon lights, and the job had the added bonus of being across the country from Kiki Shriver.

So, of course his car sputtered to a stop at 5am in the middle of the desert.

Wade drove from noon onward the day before, hauling ass across as many states as he could manage without stopping. Now, as he kicked the silent front of the car, he knew he should have stopped at that stucco ruin of motel twenty miles back. It was a reverse witching hour, the sunlight creeping over the sand, nothing on the barren road but a few under caffeinated truckers.

In a cloud of curses and road dust, Wade snagged his water bottle and empty gas can, heading back toward the motel. There was a two pump station attached to that motel, a necessity of isolation, and there might be a small greasy spoon joint in the mix too. He'd take cheap diner food over the can of pringles in his passenger seat. All he had to do was trek twenty miles in the wrong direction. He sighed. If he was lucky he'd be there in time for lunch.

He stomach grumbled, reminding him of the half congealed burger he wolfed down well before midnight. It continued its burbling symphony as he walked, an off kilter harmony in time to his scuffed steps.

Wade held out a half hearted thumb to a few passing trucks, but he might as well have been invisible for all the exhaust he was eating. He couldn't have been walking more than forty minutes before he'd soaked through his short sleeve polo, a heavy shirt made for a cooler climate. It wasn't that hot out, but the exertion and thick clothing made it feel like a sauna. Hot enough for the heat to shimmer and bend the air as it rose off the pavement.

Wade strolled into that waving air without a second thought. It was simply heat, an air distortion, nothing more.

From one step to the next, the world inverted on itself.

He blinked, staring across the rosy pink sands and dune washed sky. Maybe the hunger was getting to him more than he cared to admit. He shook himself, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand, the other loosely holding the gas can thumping against his thigh. He looked again. If possible, the sand was more pink than before, a vibrant cotton candy pink against the bleached out sky. He wrote it off as a trick of the desert.

There was also...something down the road he swore wasn't there before, a clutch of low buildings an eye-smarting shade of antifreeze orange with key lime trim. A mounted neon sign lazily spun high in the air on the only structure more than a single story off the ground. He couldn't make out the lettering from here, but it was a welcome sign of civilization. Wade broke into a flailing trot. He was never much of a runner but the promise of a burger and fries turned him into a regular Usain Bolt.

The cluster of building came up fast. Wade's steps started to falter as distance gave way to clarity, revealing to full scope of the small town he approached. How the heck had he missed this sideshow? It looked like Pee Wee's Playhouse threw up in his Aunt Marcy's front yard. Lawn ornaments ate up available inch of space in the sandbox yards of each building, framed by haphazardly planted blooming cacti and potted colorful flowers. Plastic flamingos, ceramic lawn gnomes, singing frogs, guitar playing turtles and a multitude of other creations made up a garden party devoted to every poor taste in decor that ever existed. Wade found himself gawking as he drew closer, the riot of color making his eyes swim.