I had kind of a busy schedule after getting back from Aberdeen. Mid-term exams at the UW, a concert in Vancouver. And then there was Christmas coming up. I'd missed last Christmas, being with the squatches, so I knew I couldn't get away with that this year. Well, of course I COULD, if I was willing to disappoint Art & Elaine and Melly & Liss and the assembled Monroe Chamber of Commerce, who were begging us to do a Christmas Show. Actually, I also needed to visit Aket for some courses in Sha-haka magic that I really should learn as soon as possible, and to get away with that I'd have to take at least a couple of weeks/a month free of everything here in NokhSoLand. So I had lots of stuff to take care of, people to see, papers to sign. So I was driving alone in my car into town for a scheduled meeting with that same Monroe Chamber of Commerce and came around the bend to the long straight downhill stretch I knew so well. But suddenly I got an odd feeling, which I can best describe as my "spider sense tingling". Actually, I got scared-- although I didn't know of what. I felt some sort of undefined danger ahead and it was strong enough that I instinctively slowed the car to study the road before driving down that half-mile of long straight hill, which for the first time ever felt so exposed. It looked normal enough: mostly wooded on both sides, a couple of houses farther down the hill, a couple of cars parked at the other end, where the road bended again. I recognized one of the cars, the Winslow family's blue Subaru-- but the black Pontiac SUV I didn't. The SUV was equipped for off-road, sun roof and had black-tinted windows. I couldn't see if anyone was inside it, or understand why I was concerned about that. But I was. I had the option to turn at a convenient detour, rather than taking my usual route into town, so I did, wondering why I was being so silly. I arrived to the meeting and it proceeded without incident, so I didn't think much more about being spooked at the time. Except that later that day it happened again, on my way back from town at the same stretch of roadway: although from the other end, now going UP that long hill, which felt even more exposed. Once again I stopped the car half-way around the bend, studied the road, found myself looking for the black SUV but saw no sign of it. Another car came along, a station wagon with an older couple in it, locals who gave a little honk and waved as they passed my well-known Squatchmobil and continued on up the hill I'd been afraid of. Nothing happened to them, I watched their car driving merrily up the road and around the bend on top without a hitch. Although I couldn't see anything to confirm my feelings, I still sensed that there was something wrong-- for me --with that half-mile of the main road between Monroe and home, where I'd driven so many times before. But I tried to ignore it anyway and drive on, slowly continuing around the bend and starting up the hill. But I found myself driving slower and slower as the feeling intensified until I was gritting my teeth and simply had to stop the car about a third of the way up the hill. I'd been trying to tell myself it was nothing, that I was just feeling weird for some reason, but at the same time I knew better: my Sha-haka training had honed some psychic senses, and although I still didn't know precisely how they work, I understood that there really was something wrong-- for me --about this particular chunk of road. And sure enough: that same black Pontiac SUV popped around the bend at the top of the hill. They'd given up being patient. The SUV's sun roof was open and a man was standing up trough it, aiming a roof-mounted high caliber rifle towards me. I was already in reverse, peeling out backwards and swinging my car side to side, trying to get back behind the bend in the road as fast as possible. My windshield exploded all around me before I even heard the shot, but I wasn't hit. Good thing too: big bullets! The second shot sounded very close to my head, the shooter was probably very qualified, being that accurate from a moving car half a mile away. Then I was around the curve and had trees between me and that rifle. But I could hear the SUV accelerating down the hill, coming fast. So I had to think faster: a high speed road chase seemed unwise, especially with me driving backwards, no time to turn around slideways like they do in movies. I yanked on the hand brakes and half-aimed for the side of the road as I jumped out, hoping my good old Camaro would survive, but prioritizing my own survival. Then I was on foot among trees and bushes, exactly where I wanted to be. So I decided not to run from them. Scooped up some fair-sized rocks instead and moved through the trees to meet them before the SUV came swinging around the bend with machine guns blazing. Making sure they couldn't quite see the Bigfoot in the shadowy woods, of course. The SUV was moving too fast to take that curve in the road, had to brake hard. The gunner on top had to hang on, the driver was busy. Two moving targets. I lobbed a five-pound rack at the gunner, caught him in the chest: putting him out. The ten-pound rock went into the windshield right in front of the driver. Crunching glass. Considering how fast they were passing me, how did I have time to do both, you ask? By simultaneously tossing one with each hand, that's how. Yes, I'm ambidextrous, but most squatches are, so it's no big deal. The SUV went straight across the bend in the road and crashed into the trees on the other side. Then stopped, rocking and wrecked. Nobody came jumping out right away. I didn't know how many men were inside nor how many guns they had, but I figured I'd better act fast while they were stunned. The side door was bent so I ripped it off and held it as a shield in case there was anyone capable of shooting me. There wasn't. A third guy was groaning in the back, the top gunner was unconscious and bleeding, the driver was pinned by the steering wheel, hurt and cursing in Spanish. I was immediately pretty sure I understood what this was about: that these were Mexican assassins working for drug cartel boss Salvador deVega, who was evidently not satisfied with how things had worked out between us. Guess he no longer believed in the "curse" we had put upon him was valid-- that he would die "a thousand deaths" if he had me killed-- him not being a superstitious man. Actually, I wasn't sure either if that ssysk would really work at long distance. Could be fun to find out. But I had to decide what to do with these guys pretty quick. The gunner had been battered by trees and would bleed to death without medical help. But before I called police and ambulances I gathered up all the guns and cell phones lying around on the floor of the SUV to keep the bad guys from shooting anyone-- especially me. When I called the police I asked for Chief Earl Chesterton specifically, since we've developed a good rapport, told him what happened and where I was. He said he'd come on out himself along with a couple of ambulances, I said I'd wait. Several cars came along, saw the wrecked SUV and stopped to offer help, but I told them that this was a crime scene and that cops and ambulances were already on their way, so they drove away relieved not to get involved. The driver was the least damaged of them and conscious, so once I´d bent the steering wheel shaft enough to pull him free I began to question him. "Ustedes están trabajandos por Salvador deVega, sí?" "Yo no se nada. Nos somos turistas, nada mas." "Turistas que estan probando a matarme?" "Yo no se nada." Meanwhile the guy was discretely patting himself, hoping to find a pistol to shoot me with, but I'd taken it away, so he was disappointed. However I did give his cell phone back, saying: "I want you to call your boss and give him a message. I can't lie, but you can: tell Señor deVega that you killed me." "But he will easily find out that I did not." "That doesn't matter; he only needs to believe it for a moment to remind him of my little magic spell. If he sent you to kill me he must believe it has expired. Call him now." It was about 5:00 in the afternoon for us in the Pacific Northwest, Guerrero State in Mexico is 2 time zones to the East, so it was 7:00 for Salvador deVega. I hoped he wasn't watching something good on TV, because his evening was about to get ruined. Actually, I take that back: spoiling his evening would be pretty cool. "I don't dare lie to el Señor," the heartless assassin said, "that can be dangerous for me." "It's more dangerous for you if you don't." "You won't hurt me," he sneered, "we know about you: you're big but not macho, they say you have no cojones." The guy pissed me off. He'd just tried to kill me and now he insulted me. No balls, eh? I don't like to bully tiny people around but I knew the cops were coming soon. So I slapped him. He was a big guy, for a Mexican, but tiny to me. He flew across the road and landed in the bushes I'd aimed for, since I was trying not to kill him. Then I crossed the road and grabbed him by the shirt collar with one hand at arm's length to shake him like a rag, pretty violently I have to admit, enough to give him a taste of whiplash. And then I lifted him high above my head, upside down, as if preparing to dash him down to the ground head first with all my strength. He screamed,"Bueno, bueno, all right, I'll do it!" I wanted to keep him scared, confused and off balance, so I handed him the cell phone while dangling him upside-down by one ankle and ordered him to "Make the call." It took a few minutes for the international connections to go through, the phone rang four times and a voice said, "Pronto?" My captive started speaking Spanish rapidly, probably hoping to confuse me. But I shook him again, causing him to spasm instead of talking. I could recognize Salvador deVega's voice in the cell phone. "Carlos? Es tu? Que pasa?" He too had been confused by the guy's rapid outburst just before. I turned the dangling hit man so that he could see my face-- and my Bigfoot teeth inches away from his own nose. He stammered, then blurted out what he was supposed to say: "Sí, es yo. Esta hecho! El Bigfoot está ya muerto!" Then he did not dare say more, looking to me for mercy. I could hear deVega saying "Fantastico, buena traba..." and then he ran out of breath. Just like he was supposed to, the syssk was obviously still working just fine. Then deVega wasn't talking any more, only other voices in the background, family or friends expressing concern. "Salvador, what's wrong, Salvador?" Sounds of panic, women shrieking, children's voices. Porcelain clattering to a floor somewhere in Mexico. I'd like to say revenge is sweet, but it really isn't. He wasn't really going to die, although it would seem like it-- again and again. I was only out to teach him a lesson, remind him about our "curse", and then when I was satisfied that he'd had a good enough scare I'd just fess up that I wasn't really dead, nya nya nya. But I did want to let it go on for a while. An hour, a day, let it sink in. But then a young female voice came out of the phone, slightly hysterical: "Quien es? Que dicho a mi padre?" The thing is, deVega deserved to suffer, he'd meant to murder me, but his children didn't. I didn't want to speak, but couldn't help it. "Crap... okay, this is Adam Leroy Forest," in Spanish, of course, "your father just tried to murder me, but he failed. Put the phone to his ear and I'll tell him so, that should revive him." There were sounds of fumbling and heavy whimpering, chairs scraping over a floor, a glass breaking. Then someone said "Ya! Habla!" "Hola Salvadore, este es tu amigo viejo Adam. No soy muerto, es sola una broma." I heard him coughing, then dragging in a deep, rough, unsteady breath. Women's voices were now shrieking with relief, and men's voices, bodyguards, whatever. I heard the phone clunking on the floor, dropped in the shuffle. I was about to hang up when a young boy's voice came on, speaking pretty good school English: "Is this really Adam Leroy Forest? Of Squatch & Friends?" "Yes, it really is," then I realized the tone of his voice, "what, are you a fan?" "Oh, man AM I! I LOVE your music, it's my absolute favorite." "That's nice. What's your name?" "I am Roberto Sierra Octavio deVega." "How old are you?" "Twelve, but I am mature for my age." "Hey, so am I!" We both chuckled at that. He sounded like a good kid. "Muy bien, listen Roberto, tell your dad not to kill me, okay? As you can see, it won't work out so well for him." "Why would he ever... kill YOU?" Now he sounded upset. "Ask him, not me, adios." Then I did hang up. Let the kid think about what his father does for a living. Maybe he'll make a difference someday.
The police and ambulances arrived ten minutes after I'd hung up. Chief Chesterton had his guys arrest the three Mexicans for attempted murder. Usually the cops were after me, so it was nice not to be the one being arrested this time, and a relief to let the medics take responsibility for the wounded hit men. A tow truck grabbed the wrecked SUV. I was glad to see that my Squatchmobil had not been trashed. It needed a new windshield, of course, and there was a dent in the right back panel where it had bumped a tree before stopping completely, but I gave it a little hit with my hand and it just popped back out-- more or less. There was some paperwork; I made a statement to Chief Chesterton. He wanted to know more than I was willing to tell him about what had happened in Mexico and why a drug lord was after me. About maybe having killed a few carteleros in self-defense, although I wasn't sure of that. Actually, Earl Chesterton is an okay guy, whom I've known for years and we'd been through enough drama together to trust one another. He knows I can't lie (although I did manage to once), so I offered to confide in him, but only off the record. He agreed to that and I could hear that he intended to honor the pact. So I told him about our adventures with Mexican carteleros and Salvador deVega's intentions, about how it did no good to arrest any of them for murder (or drug trafficking) because the "legal" authorities were corrupt and simply set them free again. The cartels also had lawyers here in the States, so their corruption was not limited to Mexico. I thought it best that at least the local Chief of Police knew what was going on, say if the entire Forest family should suddenly be found murdered. Even though there was probably nothing the Monroe Police could ever do about it from this side of the Mexican border. So there was that attempt on my life. It's fun to be popular.
|