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Bob And The Volcano

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Vawdas Main

In a place once known as Hollerin’ Waters, still known as Hollerin’ Waters; in a place known for its hiking trails, lush greenery and thick forests, and fish hatchery there is a man most would call a redneck, or even a hillbilly. In fact, this man in ripped olive cargo pants and black heavy metal shirt; this man wearing a brown camo hunting vest and a faded black Missouri cap does call himself a hillbilly. Bob Jenkins is the one and only hillbilly assassin. He is a tall lanky man with a scruffy face and shoulder length black stringy hair. He works with a shotgun and sometimes his trusted feline companion, Zella. This is the only man here in these parts to do the work most often known in the big cities. Hell, he’ll kill anyone for you; your momma, your papa, brother, sister, even your grandma—but that’s another story.

This sunshiny day finds the premiere hillbilly ‘ssassin atop a high wooded hill in seek of an artifact. The killin’ business is slow these days, but Bob sometimes takes odd jobs. Before him challenges a decrepit old stump supporting a small, aged metal box.

The hills-renowned Bob looks upon the relic while caressing his furry chin. Stretching on his shoulder is his gray and black striped cat Zella. She yawns and claws painlessly into his upper arm and stands staring with him.

“This is it Zella.” Bob says with a wry smile.

“Meow?”

“That’s right. We found it alright.”

“Meow?”

“Yes, this. This is what we were looking for, remember?”

“Meow?”

“Yes, cat! Yes! I said yes already!” Bob frowns furiously.

Meow?

“Shut-the-hell-up!” As he screams, Zella leaps from his shoulder and to the ground. She eyes him while in a ready-to-pounce stance then races halfway up a nearby skinny tree and simply clings there, still looking wide-eyed at Bob.

Eerily, meanwhile, not even a bird sings within earshot as Bob reaches for the box. He pauses long enough to rub his fingers together and wonder what kind of trap could be set, if any, seeing as how the box hasn’t been moved for ages. Thinking anything could happen at the slightest touch, Bob brings his shotgun out from behind his back where it usually hangs carelessly off of his backpack. He looks at the metal rectangle through the sights then gently pokes it with the barrel and drops flat to the ground with eyes shut tight.

A sweet music fills the air, drawing Bob’s attention to a ballerina figure mechanically dancing within the now open container. She, unlike the outside of her home, is quite beautiful and seems unharmed by time. The sound is glorious. It fills his head with a dreamy sensation, like a déjà vu of sorts as if he knows the melody. The melody that reverberates through him physically. Bob stands in realizing that he can feel the music, every bit as if it were being—

“—amplified into the ground…by the stump?”

The ground begins to grow more active while a recollecting Bob scatters to dig a small piece of paper from his pocket. He reads out loud, “’If music on the mountain played…fire and ash on the land be laid…’ I-I’m on a volcano!

Without more hesitation, Bob shoves the relic into his backpack and runs to the tree where Zella clings still, though more nervously. “Come on Zella! We gotta git!”

“Meow?”

“You stupid damn cat! We’re on a danged volcano! We’re gonna get blasted if you don’t—“As the earth trembles more, Zella finally drops on Bob’s face. After painfully tearing her from his head, Bob races to the sharpest descending slope and swings his cat overhead by her tail. “I’ll meetcha down there!” Zella gives a fading drawn out cry as she soars into oblivion.

Bob instantly takes out a rope already fashioned with a heavy hook on one end and flings it out to a tree branch. Quickly testing its hold he then swings out banzai-style only to fall flailing as it slips free under his weight. The hillbilly tumbles and crumbles down the bumpy slope, torn through briars and bramble patches, stabbed by sticks, and generally knocked around due to his lack of form. At last he grabs hold of something, a tangle of loose roots that have him now dangling on the side of a rocky bluff a good thirty feet above a much-too-shallow stream.

He strains his lean arms and pulls himself up just enough to look over the ledge. Bob begins stammering at the sight of incoming lava pouring his way. He closes his eyes, winces, and mumbles “ow” softly to himself as he releases and falls.

Landing squarely on a flat rock that breaks his fall and nothing else, Bob grins gratuitously. But then he frowns with shaken face as the rock breaks free and starts to slide down the slick moss-bottomed stream.

The decline of the ginormous hill has become much steeper since the bluff and is thusly increasing the speed of the rock sled and its rider Bob. The lava chases with a slight burst of speed too, setting aflame the woods as it oozes. The eruptions have become more violent and periodically jump the rock as the hill shakes with explosions. Fiery chunks of stone kamikaze all around Bob, narrowly missing him as if the land hates him while the gods praise him.

Suddenly the stream comes to a waterfall end that drops the surfing stone like a shattered dish while Bob leaps blindly for his life. He comes to a hurtful barrel roll landing on a wooden plank trail high above the catfish pond, a pathway more suited for less hiking-serious friends.

Bob stands like a drunk and looks left to see molten rock devouring the trail. To the right is a mirror image leaving only one way to go. In front of him is the “balcony” section of the trail, the part that steps slightly over the catfish pond below to give visitors a hell of a view of the adjacent hills and the whole of the fish hatchery.

A hissing spits itself from between Bob’s legs. Standing below him is Zella; a very angry look can easily be identified on her non-human face. She forgives this time and allows Bob to lift her up and gently pet her before she is thrown to the water.

Now Bob spits in his hands and runs at the wooden safety rail, hurtling it, and falling, falling, falling, until he smashes into the deep, but not deep enough waters. The catfish are scared shitless and quickly flee to the edges.

Man and cat ferociously paddle helplessly to the parking lot shore as lava dips into the water, almost instantly setting it to boil. Catfish of every size begin floating to the top and Bob and Zella begin to feel the burn shortly before reaching the safety of asphalt land. The mountain has calmed but still burns from the after effects.

The drenched duo stand looking at what is essentially their fault. “D’oh.” Softly groans Bob. Zella climbs up him and stands on his shoulder where she proceeds to stare at him disapprovingly; she mutters a low hateful sound.

A heavy gloved hand grasps Bob’s shoulder and tugs him to turn around and face the three armed men. The two in back are dressed in street clothes but grin and hold lawnmower blades. The owner of the hand, and clearly the leader, is dressed formally but with out-of-place orange work gloves and cap, also holding a lawnmower blade.

“Orangee!” Exclaims Bob angrily.

“That’s Dr. Kee to you, Dr. Jenkins.” Says the man boastfully then dryly.

“Oh yeah, well that’s Mr. Jenkins to you!” Retorts Bob without a thought.

Dr. Kee sighs, “God knows how, but you have a doctorate in parapsychology and archeology, Dr. Jenkins, thus my respect for you as a colleague requires me to properly title you as ‘Dr.’”

“You can’t have it!” Shouts Bob after a moment of silence. Having retrieved the music box, Bob now holds the relic tight and races away, laughing over his shoulder. He looks forward and slams into the stout Dr. Kee.

“Doctor, please, why do you pursue this foolishness? You’re an assassin, not a treasure seeker. Though you’re well versed in the local legends you know full well that this music box belongs in the Hollerin’ Waters Museum of Outstanding Residents. It does not belong on a dusty shelf in some withered old woman’s shack.” Commands the man Bob insists on calling Orangee.

“This relic belongs to Mrs. Lassi, who until she up and croaks deserves to have her property. It ain’t a goin’ in some fancy museum. You can’t have it.” Orders Bob who stands tall and proud. Zella mews her agreement and jumps from his shoulder to strut away.

Dr. Kee adjusts his orange hat and sighs deeply. He smiles past his disappointment and rushes Bob in a slapping frenzy. After three very feminine strikes Bob manages a stout frontal kick to Orangee’s chin. Bob spurts a single harsh “HA!” as Dr. Kee falls to the ground.

“Let him go.” Says Kee to his men while Bob runs off. “The music box isn’t so important. That old crone can’t have much time left. We’ll visit her later, now that Bob’s done the hard part. As for Dr. Jenkins himself, it has come to my attention that he’ll soon be undertaking a very deadly quest for the Sword of Gagnon.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh! You’ve come back young man!” A cheerful old woman, obviously Mrs. Lassi, greets Bob at her door.

“And you brought the music box!” Celebrates Mrs. Lassi’s daughter, Joy, for the return of her mothers’ heirloom.

“Dear me, I hope it wasn’t too much trouble sweetheart. I know that those museum folk wanted this as well, but I just couldn’t stand to let them waltz off with my mothers’ childhood toy.”

“Trouble, no, but there was a bit of fire.” Smirks Bob to the daughter.

“Oh, I can only imagine how much steam those city boys have. Here.” Joy offers a small Ziploc bag of waded bills and coins. “It isn’t much, but surely you’ll stay for dinner too.”

“No, no, really I can’t ladies. But just be sure to hang onto that.” And with a quick goodbye and two kisses on the cheeks Bob leaves with Zella in tow.

“Such a lovely lad, don’t you agree dear?” Asks Mrs. Lassi. She presses on before her daughter can answer, “I hear that he’s not a married man, nor does he have a girlfriend.”

“Mother!” Exhales Joy to Mrs. Lassi’s flirtatious voice. She rolls her eyes while putting the music box atop a dusty shelf. “Besides, one can only wonder what kind of man he is outside of that adventurous gentleman everyone sees.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Zella! Get da’ tongs!” Instructs a stripped-to-shorts Bob. He stands next to a low fire capped with a flat stone cooking steaks.

The nearby stream is deeper than any water source Bob and cat have come across today and is one of many sounds of nature in the secluded piece of land known as home. No roads, no buildings, no other people within at least a mile of the good doctor’s shanty of a cabin.

Bob drinks deeply from his beer and pours what little is left over the meat cooking knee high from the ground. He inhales deeply the scent of dinner and breathes out while drumming on his stomach.

Zella comes from the house with a pair of cooking tongs in her mouth. She drops into a ready-to-run stance as Bob approaches telling her, “Don’t you dare.”

The striped cat twitches and darts away leading Bob through a weave of trees and around the cabin twice before dropping the utensil and scaling the wall of the home to march across the roof. Bob shakes the tongs at her and wipes them on his shorts.

“You know,” Begins the voice of Jase Iksord, long-time friend of Dr. Jenkins, “My cats are better disciplined than that. They’re prettier too. And smarter, neutered—“

“Shut up! Ain’t nobody gives a shit about your damn cats.” Snorts Bob.

“Oh, come on, you know they are, just admit it.” Jase persists and accompanies Bob to the fire.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

Jase watches him flip the meat and brandishes a book and a heavy smile before he speaks. “Having studied so vigorously the subject of Ozarkian treasures, you have without a doubt heard of the Sword of Gagnon, yes?”

“Oh, nooo.” Bob answers sarcastically.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so you dumb shit. It’s a weapon of ageless beauty and was often worshipped before battles. Warriors thought it was unbreakable and would bring them strength. However, it was lost in this area in a little known skirmish during the Civil War.” Reads Jase from his book.

“I know, I know. One survivor from that battle, man’s greed brought him back to look for the sword, never found it; ghost haunts area, blah, blah, blah. And then they built a theme park over it all.” Concludes Bob with a mocking tone. He pokes idlely at the cooking meat and goes to get another beer from his battered foam cooler.

“Good. You do know of it.” Says Jase and he closes the book slowly, returning it under his arm.

“Yeah.”

“Find it for me.”

“All right.”

“Okay, later.”

“See ya.” Waves Bob.

Jase gets a little way down the stream and turns upon hearing his friend.

“Wait!” Screams Bob. He catches up to Jase and asks, “You want me to find something that’s been lost for over one hundred years?” At Jase’s nod Bob continues, “I mean, that’s no big deal I reckon, but how come you want this all of the sudden? I mean, you’re a big sword buff, collectin’ and whatnot, you had to have known about this one for some time. Why the sudden interest?”

Jase shifts his weight and gaze and takes a moment to answer, “Lack of priorities. I started collecting stuff I could simply buy and that I didn’t need to seek through impossible odds. I’ll reward you well for this, and not just because we’re old friends.”

Bob considers this while staring at his burning food. Orangee is more of an expert in Ozarkian history than he and must know of this sword. This would be the perfect time to get yet another one-up on the old bastard by finding it first. The only nagging problem is how vague Jase seems to be. After weighing the consequences, Bob decides it best to trust his friend. “I’ll want some answers afterwards you know.”

“We’ll see bitch. Do your homework and head to Copper Penny Town. I want your first progress report in a week. If you need help—“

“I ain’t gonna need no help. I don’t want some newbie outsider in it just to put that sword up in some sort of Hollerin’ Waters Outcitizens stuff museum…” Bob gets only a smile and Jase is off. The hillbilly assassin stands thinking, lost deep in thought at what this is asking of his skills as a tracker. Only when Zella meows and jumps off the roof and onto his back does Bob snap out of it. He runs into the woods shrieking in both fear and pain with his cat following, meowing just as loudly.

Email: Tzelldias@aol.com