Three-Fisted Punch

I found Oz. Found the Cloud in car form. Found myself lost, yet again, driving aimlessly, directionless, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the stories I hear. As I drive through Kansas, I find myself locked up in jail, at the hospital and then finally, riding shotgun on a trip that started out with me and me alone missing a flight to Ohio.

Three weeks ago I planned to visit family for Thanksgiving. Caught up in conversation with myself, I lost track of time and ended up missing my flight. Silly as I am, I think driving is the solution, instead of waiting for the stand-by flight the next day. Not twelve hours into my trip I am already lost and confused, failing to follow a strait line through the Heartland. As I drive I hear the voices talking, telling me the story of places and the future.

By Day 2, my phone is dead. By Day 5 I’m in the middle of nowhere, calling on a rural neighbor’s phone for help. I’ve got a hotel room and I am waiting for my brothers to arrive. There’s a carload of people and a plan to find Chinese food as a subterfuge for setting the stage for all things greater, all things magic. Christian is in the car with me but he’s not slick , in my shoes, to escape the Sheriff’s questioning. His words fall like bricks and the squad cars surround me as the Authorities nearly tackle me to the ground.

My car is impounded and liberated at the same time. Christian is free to leave me in the dust and continue on with his plan, whatever it may be, while I loiter at the station and the officers sort through it all. He’s pissed, however, because I won’t let him dominate the operation using my car without me. As a show of force, he appears before in cloud form and attempts to play the harpsichord and pluck my life force. In exchange, I play my own magical maneuvers, and ensues the battle between two sorcerers. After demonstrating how I can make him piss and shit his pants, I’m on the floor, passing out over and over again. By now the ambulance has been called and I am whisked away, but not before I can knock my fists together three times and deliver the final blow and he’s not gone when I arrive back at the hotel where my brothers arrive a few hours later.

In tow on the way home, I chatter endlessly as the story of sorcerers, as the story arc evolves from the American’s East Coast/ West Coast Car War to the Spaniard’s bipole Blood War. And the visions are horrific, in my mind, as the war they are fighting is not the war they are winning.

Your Water War is not my Blood War.

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