Rosy Cheeks (3)

The ride was bumpy and chaotic. We almost capsized twice. I had to slam on when a mad stag crossed our path in a single bounding leap. We heard its forefeet slam into the ground like two mechanical pistons, saw its breath dissolve in a snorty cloud in our beams. It resembled raw biological power. Stags were my spirit animal, I had knowledge of them crossing dangerous, fly-by-night turbulent river systems with their young, who didn’t always make it, when they were migrating for a living. I saw it on the Blue Planet show. They had to swim to avoid drowning, some of them after only having just been born. They also fought impressively, clashing their antlers epically. And they appeared in movies books TV and folklore all the time. Really, they were as mysterious as the wolf. Well, maybe, not quite. It was cool to see, but risky with it being so close to taking us out. There was only one winner in a stag and my dirtbike collision.

 The banshee (I was unable to summon the courage to ask of her name. that seemed overly personal) continued to drool and hold me tightly. One of her fingers lodged in my belly button. It tickled me a bit. She muttered unintelligible mantras under her panty breath, probably pleas for assistance from the noble gentry she was in the process of calling, this mutual aid bloke who could take her back to tinsel town. It was neither English or Spanglish, but a nasal utterance of pigeon broken mixed-up dialects. At one point I got emotionally caught up in a divine purpose on my hands; if I crashed, it was the end of her and I. I would be stuck with Banshee for the foreseeable. We’d be forced to live on cereal in my shanty house, I could never show her a good existence. If I held my nerve, I could impress her with some slick and fanciful once-in-a-lifetime wheeling and a quick escape.

Because something was coming for us.

That’s what I deducted from her voice. That something was coming for her. Banshees are a rare commodity in this universe, and they are always hunted when out of their natural habitat. I supposed she had trinklets on her or crystals or something she could rub together to garner the attention her grandfather, the noble gentry; honestly, I had no idea what communication device she owned. Maybe it was the power of her mind, the power of thought alone.

She made it clear to me that that method would a last meal, at any eatery at the bottom of the mountain. A celebratory last meal sealed the deal. The devilish foe on her trail who meant her harm, and perhaps me too, was the Mothman, He Who Could See Farther, and he who had a penchant for the taste of blood from Banshee. She called me the Faring Patron, one who could settle a deal between noble gentry and Mothman.

I had seen a movie called Mothman. Apparently he gained his strength from creativity, which he rather stole cheaply from female Banshee. This was way back in my youth. All I remember about the Banshee in that movie is sleeping with the light on for three weeks after the film. In my mind’s eye, she looked like an angel who had seen better days and ended up in the dole queue, all bashed and tattery, but no less likeable for it.

Finally we reached the bottom of the slope. There was a diner at the end of a car park, lights on in the windows, waitresses attending customers within. The halogen didn’t stray far from the glass, and the neon sign outside was down most of its letters, keeping the build shrouded in an air of shadowy secrecy and foreboding.

We parked up, took deep breaths, and prepared to go in for our final meal.

Stay tuned for more Mothman, Noble Gentry, Banshee, and Faring Patron.