Not in Kansas. Nebraska.

It was just after midnight when Flantoo entered the longest, straightest, stretch of road in North America. The full moon cast a deathly pale about the land, one could almost see for miles. As he changed the song on his iPod he wondered how this desolate land would look in the daytime.

Not used to being able to see for more than a mile in his mountainous Montana, Flantoo was feeling a bit of Agoraphobia, and unaccompanied on this particular expanse of interstate made him lonely. He wasn’t completely alone; his dog was asleep on the seat next to him, snoring rhythmically to the motions of the vehicle.

But he was safe. Stuffed into the small space between the seat and the center console was his .45 pistol. On the floor behind him was a shotgun, loaded with 10 rounds of alternating double-ought-buck, and steel shot slugs. And not that it would come to it, but his M1A1 was in the back of his SUV, loaded ready to go.

The only other light that Flantoo could see was the occasional yard light, miles away on some distant farm. A small beacon of light to reassure that this empty state of corn fields and miles and miles of grassland was still yet occupied by someone.
It had been almost an hour since he had seen another car.

Having made it through the treacherous abandon of Wyoming with his SUV loaded and pulling his motorcycle on a trailer, the trip was going from boring to wearying. A loneliness that makes one feel like an astronaut. A loneliness that makes one wonder if you are the last person alive on the plant. Has some great calamity wiped all humans from the face of the earth? Am I just so far from civilization that I have yet to acknowledge that I am the last Man to tread his weary SUV upon the great roadways that will never be built again? A loneliness that makes one excited to see a billboard.

Staring off into the distance, piloting his SUV by unconscious thought, the endless miles were passing by like heartbeats, never remembered or missed, an automatic function that continues whether one is cognizant of the fact.

Some miles ahead, an eternity from here, Flantoo could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. As the minutes passed, and he crept upon the lights like covering the distance between stars, he could see that there were more than one law enforcement vehicle ahead. He began to slow.

Flares marked the road, and formed an angled lane, urging the driver into the left lane where one cop car sat on the shoulder, parallel to the road, and the other, perpendicular.

From dim light of the headlights, fighting to be swallowed by the darkness, he could see two highway patrol officers with shotguns resting on their shoulders, commanding him to stop with outstretched hands. The strobes blinding him with every flash, he complied, and brought his SUV to a stop. The trailer holding his bike rattled and creaked as it was not giving up the fight of being stopped.

There were two other officers that he hadn’t seen; they surrounded his vehicle, intently peering through the tinted windows with their flashlights.

Remembering the firearms in his vehicle, a light glaze of perspiration formed on his skin as he lowered his windows. His dog was still fast asleep at his side.

Expecting a barrage of questions from the officer who stood by his window, Flantoo was surprised to notice that he wasn’t the only one nervous. The officer seemed on edge, anxiously glancing out into the darkness. Before the officer could speak, Flantoo began a speech he had practiced since he had left Montana.

“Sir, I have several firearms in the vehicle. Some of them are loaded, but they are all in plain sight.”

It took the officer a few seconds to register what was said. He relaxed his hold on his shotgun. “Good! Somebody’s prepared!”

Flantoo attempted to hand the officer his license, but the officer held up his hand.
“We’ve had some Tusken Raider’s attack some motorists earlier tonight.” The officer looked around nervously again. “We’re just letting all travelers know-“

Flantoo laughed, cutting the officer off.

“This isn’t funny!” The officer asserted. “We’re letting all travelers know. Don’t stop for anyone. If you see a wreck, or someone on the side of the road, do not stop. Keep going. You should be safe by the time you hit Lincoln.”

“Did you say Tusken Raiders?” Flantoo was laughing in disbelief.

“Yeah.” The officer replied. “Tusken Raider.” He held his shot gun above his head shook his arms, making the iconic noise, ‘Awooo oh oh oh!”

“You’re serious?” Flantoo asked, now sure he was a part of some “Super Troopers” prank.

“Deadly.” The officer rasped. The officer stepped back and motioned with his arm, “Move along. Don’t stop for anyone.”

Flantoo tried to respond, unsure of what to ask, but the officer repeated his command, and motioned with his arm again.

Putting the SUV in gear, and slowly pulling away, the trailer squeaked as if it was pleading not to move. He half expected the officers to protest, explaining their joke, but they all returned to defensive positions around their vehicles. Flantoo grabbed his phone from the center console, and flipped it open. No service. Only in the flattest state would there be no cell service.

His dog awoke and looked around as if to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ Flantoo petted him and ruffled his ears. “You hear that buddy? Tusken Raiders!” He laughed at the absurdness.

Once again, the miles turned into eons, and the interstate continued off into infinity, only to be revealed a foot at a time by the headlights. Time no longer had any meaning. Here, distances were not measured in miles, but in hours.

As if awoken from a dream, Flantoo was jerked from his complacent groove behind the wheel as he suddenly realized there were headlights in his rearview mirrors. At first thinking it was the police chasing him, he grew alarmed as the headlights began to swerve on the road behind him. The lights were gaining on him.

His dog began to bark, but it was just background noise now, pushed to the far bellows of his consciousness along with the telephone poles and mile markers that seemed to randomly pass by.

It was a car, and a large one, like a Ford LTD or a Cadillac, and it crept up to him like a lion peering through the grass. Settling in behind him, the car seemingly attached to the back of the trailer, it began to weave back and forth, as if the headlights were peeking out on either side of the trailer.

Flantoo gunned his SUV, and it leapt away from the car behind him. Following suit, the car roared to life and quickly closed the gap Flantoo had created. Hesitant to damage the trailer, and his precious bike safely strapped inside, Flantoo was tempted to slam on his breaks.

Flantoo went on the defensive. Pulling his .45 pistol from in between the seats, he racked a shell into the chamber, and gave the breaks a quick tap.

The car behind slammed on the breaks and swerved to avoid rear-ending the trailer. The older car’s breaks locked up, and the car went fish-tailing on to the shoulder of the interstate, kicking up clouds of dust.

Frantically looking over his shoulders like a fighter pilot, Flantoo was keen on keeping on the defensive, and keeping the car from ramming into him. He likened his bike in the trailer to a child’s seat strapped to the top of a minivan.

Veering in and out of the rumble strips, the pursuing car blasted to its previous position of drafting the trailer. Suddenly the car was alongside the trailer, almost colliding as it floated in Flantoo’s blind-spot.

There was an eerie calm, like the moment when it suddenly stops raining, or right before a nuke hits and suddenly the car was alongside the SUV, just inches from Flantoo’s window.

It was a piss yellow four door Chevy. 30 years of rust and dents pot-marked the sides of the car like the face of the moon. A hub cap shot off like a flying saucer and disappeared into the darkness. Almost like they had been there all along, the occupants casually looked from their vehicle like kids in a minivan watching traffic go by.

Ragged face wraps like bloody gauze used to wrap up mummies flapped in the breeze and long robes caught the wind like curtains. Black and silent goggles and breath masks protruded from the wrap like insect eyes. They held wicked jagged pieces of metal, long pipes, and scavenged spears. These were Tusken Raiders.

One had quickly climbed out of the back passenger window and now stood on the trunk of the car. The creature’s iconic war cry was lost to the wind noise, but it’s effect was still heard as the Tusken Raider shook his spear above his head in rage.

Flantoo fired two quick shots into the front wheel hoping to blow the tire and send the car careening into the ditch. The +p rounds lit up the night like a camera flash, and the explosion from the gun made the occupants cower for a moment. His dog was now cowering on the floor.

Flantoo felt the weight shift and the trailer bounce and the Tusken Raider leapt from the roof of the car to land somewhere in the trailer. A string of obscenities flew from Flantoo’s mouth and he wished the Tusken had gotten hurt when he landed.

From the eerie red glow from the back of the vehicle he could see the Tusken flailing around. Another Tusken Raider was now on the roof of the car, and this one was judging the distance to the roof of the SUV.

The creature leapt into the air, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. It’s greasy hands almost touching the SUV, the Tusken Raider was stretched out in the air like a diver. Flantoo jerked the wheel to the right and went onto the shoulder. The creature hit the pavement with a sickening wet sound right where the SUV was milliseconds before. The trailer hopped in the air as the outboard tire ran over the creature, and the other Tusken Raider was thrown ass-over-teakettle in the back of the trailer.

The other occupant of the car voiced their anger. Flantoo could hear their shrill screams and the din as they beat their weapons on the sides of their car.

Pulling the SUV back onto the road, Flantoo was now alongside the car again. A spear was thrown, but it clattered to the ground uselessly and disappeared into the night.

Flantoo emptied the rest of his magazine into the car. Six more thumb-sized pieces of metal pierced the car at 600 feet per second. Glass and pieces of metal filled the car like a mist. He didn’t know if her had actually hit any of the occupants, but the car seemed out of control as it swerved into the ditch.

Looking in his mirror, Flantoo could see the car veer back onto the road, it’s headlight searching like predator for its prey. The trunk had come open and was flapping up and down with every bump, the passenger door was open and he could see legs dragging on the ground. He got the shotgun from the back seat and racked it, resting it out the window on his arm.

Just as quick as before the car was alongside him again, though there was no longer anyone hanging from the door. Flantoo couldn’t tell how many more Tusken Raiders were in the car still. He joking thought maybe they were all lined up in the car to hide their numbers.

Controlling the wheel with his knees, Flantoo fired the shotgun at the driver, he could see the creature duck and flinch and the wail of a report that it was wounded. He fired one more shot at the driver, but there was no witness of its effect.

Pumping in another shell he fired at the front wheel again and it exploded in a mess of thread and rubber like black spaghetti thrown from an airplane. The car, losing its ability to stay straight nearly clipped the trailer as it spun out of control.

It went sideways in the road, and Flantoo watched it roll from the rearview mirror.

Like a slow motion Michael Bay stunt he watched the vehicle roll on it’s axis down the interstate. With each revolution, doors would fly open. Trash and rubbish, bit of things, bits of Tusken Raiders were thrown from the vehicle. Glass flew in the air like confetti, and the muffler sent a shower of sparks as it vanished into the night. The car faded from existence into the red glow of his brake lights.

Screaming to a stop, Flantoo jumped from the vehicle and walked a tight radius around the trailer. He could see a crumpled mass of Tusken Raider’s robe next to his motorcycle. His dog began to bark from the open door.

“It’s a trick..” He said to no one in particular, “…get an axe.”

Like a horror movie villain, the Tusken Raider jumped up, its stick raised over its head. It only managed to get out one ‘Arwooo’ before he ate a pound of steel balls fired from Flantoo’s shotgun. Flying with the impact, and out of the back of trailer the crumpled Tusken Raider landed in a heap on the ground. Flantoo ran to the mass of robes lying in the dull red light of the trailer, and put one more shot into what he thought to be the creatures head.

There was a moment of silence where Flantoo thought he could relax. That was quickly brought to a halt as somewhere down the road, off into the darkness, he could hear a Tusken’s war cry. He ran to the back of his SUV and opened the hatchback, and tossed the shotgun inside. Dramatically pulling his M1A1 rifle from the vehicle, he chambered a round as he walked to the back of the trailer. He dropped prone on the ground, aiming his rifle down the interstate, ignoring the abrasions on his elbow and knees.

He heard the “Arwoo oh oh oh!” again from the darkness.

As the minutes passed, his eyes adjusted somewhat to the night. He thought he could see the dim headlight of the wrecked car off in the distance, pointed towards the ditch. He began to second guess himself, and he thought he heard sounds. The tension was building.

Seeing movement, he adjusted his aim. He heard the war cry again, much closer. Movement again.

A trident of flame sprouted from the barrel. A glowing meteorite of death streaked through the heavens. A concussion kicked up dust into the air like a helicopter.
So close, but so far off into the darkness, a bullet the size of an index finger traveled 1,700 miles per hour and impacted the Tusken Raider’s chest.

Flantoo heard the dull thump as the body flopped to the ground.

He waited.

After what seemed like an hour, Flantoo got to his feet and stalked down the highway. He could see the wrecked car lying on its side, indistinguishable as to what make and model. Essential components to the car’s function lay scattered over an area the size of a house. At his feet lay the body of a Tusken Raider with a hole through it’s chest. He could see the head, canted to the side, tattered wrappings encasing the creature’s visage.

What were these creatures?

Flantoo knelt to the ground and began to unwrap the head.

Don't go in the Big Hole River (Tale of the Wer-fish)

It was seven years ago this summer, that my views of life was obscured and altered forever.

It was a hot August afternoon in Butte, and Poey and I were sitting on my front porch enjoying a Dirty Thirty of Hamm's. We were bored and stoned and getting slowly drunk, and no ambitions for the rest of the day.

My brother, Brian was in summer school, and had ditched to hang out, and was currently washing a sink full of dishes for 4 and a half beer's.

Dave, a friend from down the street, walked up the hill with his basketball, tempting us to go shoot some hoops, but seeing our beer, decided that it was too hot to play.

Finding activities for hot summer days is hard to do. Once one has started drinking, one is inclined to stay drunk, and the odds of finding something to do whilst drunk greatly decreases from there.

My brother joined us for a few moments as he poured empty beer cans, half full of mold, on to the neighbor's lawn. To this day we can't remember her name, but she will always be known to us as Crack-Bitch Neighbor. Her lawn was a personification of what we though of her, and many a puke buckets, two-week-old left-leftovers, and booze swelled bladders had been emptied onto her lawn.

Shielding his face, and gagging at the stench, Brian suggested, while retching, that we go floating.

We were all too lazy to suggest something else, or object, so our plan was set in motion.

I loaded up my mouth with gum and mouthwash and distracted Poey's aunt with questions about her art collection, while Brian and Poey backed up in the alley, and "liberated" her raft into the back of Poey's truck. Dave was on a specific mission to get a bottle of booze, but was rejected from the State Liquor store for being too drunk. Maria at Maloney's was kind enough to sell him a bottle of Bacardi Gold.

After a quick rendezvous, we loaded up into my convertible and Poey's truck and headed south for the Big Hole.

Back in the good old days of open containers, we preformed several James Bond-ish acts of passing beers from vehicle to vehicle while barreling down I-15. The long boring drive from Butte flies by when your holding on to your passenger's legs to keep him from falling out of the vehicle.

We parked my car at the pull-out point by the bridge, and headed west to a good place to put in. Poey forgot to get batteries for the pump, as by default, Brian then spent the next half-hour hand-pumping up the raft.

Bungie-ing in the cooler, we set off at a lazy pace down the Big Hole.

We passed by several fishermen until we got to the "Sink". I had almost drowned the summer before trying to do a little Kayak tricks in the "Sink". On the brake of the Sink is a nice deep hole, perfect for swimming.

As we pulled up, it dawned on us that we were in such a hurry, none of us had bothered to properly dress for swimming, as we were all wearing our civilian clothes. We were by no means modest, Brian and I had grown up the "country way", and Poey was just an expositionist, so none of us had problems going skinny dipping. Plus it was a quiet day on the river, the odds of running into someone was slim to none.

As we were stripping down, a huge, two foot long fish jumped out of the water and landed on Dave, nearly knocking him out of the raft. I had my back to him at the time, and I heard him scream. I turned to find the fish sucker-locked onto his arm, and Poey attempting to grab the slimy thing. Blood began to pour from the fish's mouth, and Poey then began to whack the fish with an aluminum oar, which was difficult to do, because:

1) Poey was drunk, as in Poey Drunk. The half hour that it took Brian to pump up the raft, Poey had argued with both Dave and I that he "knew what he was talking about". Neither Dave nor I knew what the argument in the first place; we just nodded, knowing that he was Poey Drunk.

2) Dave was screaming, flailing his arms, seemingly intent on flying then on removing the fish from his arm.

Brian saved the day by stabbing the fish in the side with a golf club that had been broken, and we were planning to use to anchor the raft to the shore. The club handle impaled the fish, and Brian grabbed both ends and pulled, while Dave punched the fish on the head.

Finally the fish relented it's suckering of Dave's arm, and Brian threw the fish to the rocky shore. Still a man on a mission, Poey jumped from the raft in his underwear, and began to assault it further still with the oar. Maybe it was his drunken state, but he reminded me of the Monkeys at the beginning of 2001 Space Odyssey, thrashing about with the oar.

As I attended to Dave, applying my entire First Aid knowledge, and pressure to the wound, Poey made sure the fish was dead.

Dave had gone pale, which I assumed to the loss of blood, and I made him lay down with his feet elevated, and we covered him with our clothes.

Not wanting to let a friend nearly being killed ruin our day, Poey, Brain and I left Dave and jumped into the water.

The current had carried us down-stream a few yards, and we were having fun playing, but keeping it respectable since we were all naked.

A while later, Poey grew cold from the water and ventured back to the raft to get a beer and warm himself in the sun. I had found a large rock that had a stair shape to it, and had settled down with my feet in the water. From our vantage point in the swimming hole, the raft was out of our view, obscured by the large rocks.

I then heard Poey yelling, and scrambled to the top of the rock to see what he was yelling at. Time froze as I realized that he was yelling for us to hide, as a raft full of women of varying ages had come upon us. There I stood, naked and reflecting the sun like a flagpole, as the heads of eight or so females passed the rock I stood upon. Not a word was spoken as they passed, and I can only imagine they had the same thought process going through their heads as when Marge saw Mr. Burns getting out of the shower.

The water was extremely cold.

I heard that some dudes shave their cocks to make them look bigger.

I just used to put doll furniture in my bedroom.

That is until my latent Italian genes kicked in when I was about 20, and I began to get an Austin Powers-ish rug sprouting from my chest, and something akin to a wild animal that obscured all of my genitalia. Since then, I have had to do routine maintenance, keeping the animals at bay, so to speak.

So standing there, soaking wet on the rock, I might have been nothing more than a gangly first grader, looking like a deer in the headlights as the ladies passed. My brother, all the encouraging and sympathetic fellow, nearly drowned from laughing so hard.

I then decided that I would deal with soggy underwear on the way home, and went back to the raft to put them on.

Dave was not doing so well, he was shivering despite the sun and clothing piled on him, and his face looked ghastly. He was going into shock. We decided to pack it in.

As we gathered our things, we noticed that the remains of the fish were gone. The only evidence was a bloody golf club. Poey was given two demerits for being unable to kill a fish.

When we arrived at the bridge and drunkenly pulled the raft to shore, I realized that I had brought my keys with me on the ride to the put-in, and had left them on Poey's dash. I was cursed and berated by my friends, and given four demerits for being a fucktard.

We pulled Dave from the raft, and some bystanders saw his condition, and offered to give Poey a ride to get his truck. The gaping sucker-wound on Dave's arm hadn't coagulated, and blood still oozed forth when the makeshift bandage was removed.

We raced back to my house, and I gave Dave a proper wound dressing, and made him some Ramen Noodles. We propped him up on the couch, and discussed taking him to the hospital to get checked for Rabies.

I had no idea that we were so close, but so far away.

Dave slept on my couch that night, and in the morning, seemed well enough, but complained about having wicked nightmares.

A while passed to late September when the subject was brought up again. The Weathaman and I were preparing for another BBQ, and the girls watching movies on the Dan'aCinaplex, as the sun set.

My back door flew open with the evening breeze, and there stood Dave, both hands holding his neck as if he was about to choke himself.

"I can't breathe!" he rasped. I laughed and made a flippant comment about his attempt to strangulate himself. When he dropped his hands from his neck, I knew he was serious.

His neck had bloody cuts beneath his ears.

The Weathaman looked wide-eyed, and sent the girls to the store, while I shoved Dave in the bathroom.

Jenny looked at Dave sitting on my toilet, and made a wretched face and exclaimed, "Ewww! What happened to him!" as Dann shoved them out the door.

Dann and I examined Dave closely. He had three parallel cuts beneath his ears running almost to his collarbone. It looked as if he had worn a razorblade turtle neck.

"I can't breath!" he rasped again. Dann poked one of the cuts, and noticed that they moved when Dave tried to take a breath. "They look like gills!" Dann yell and then dumped out the cup that held our toothbrushes, and began to fill it with water.

"And look at this..." Dave wheezed, showing me his hands. A slimy flesh colored webbing expanded between his fingers.

Dann pulled Dave's head over the sink and poured the cup of water on his neck. Dann and I looked at each other in horror as the water was sucked into the cuts, and expelled out of his mouth.

"He's turning into a fish!" Dann screamed. He stopped and cocked his head to the side and thought for a moment, before looking wide-eyed again. "He's turning into a fish!"

We grabbed Dave and drug him into our shower, turning the shower on, crammed the end of the shower head into his face. Dave's chest began to expand, and a look of complacency filled his face.
Dann and I never spoke a word as we removed Dave's cloths, even when after his socks revealed his feet atrophied and seemingly dissolving into a fleshy mass. Dann called a family meeting.

We left Dave gurgling in the shower, and retired to the kitchen. We discussed what was seemingly going on, what we thought and what we could do. Then Dann looked at the calendar. It was the day before a full moon.

Dave was turning into a Wer-Fish.

I called Poey and DC, and within minutes they had arrived. As we led them to the shower and opened the door, Dave was no more. A hideous creature lay on my shower floor, bulbous eyes, bony fins and sickening gaping mouth.

A gargled scream or a hiss roared forth and the form that was our friend shot its head out and tried to snap at Poey. DC, was standing near the corner, and was able to push the door closed, on the creature that once was our friend.

We, reconvened to the kitchen again, and discussed what we were going to do. All of us knew the curse of Lycanthropy, and how the affected individual that was our friend, for the next three days, was an evil being, our friend no more.

DC raced to Wal*Mart, and purchased a large inflatable kiddies pool, While Dann, Poey, and I constructed lassos out of rope and zip-ties.

DC filled the pool in the garage with the hose, while Poey reinforced the door and windows with 2x4s. We intended to hold our friend captive, until the three days of the full moon passed.

It was hard work, but we managed to lure the creature from the shower with a can of sardines, and lasso its fins and head. DC, being the strongest, acted like Steve Irwin, as we wrestled the creature through the kitchen, out the back door and into the garage, all the while it hissed and bellowed like a ravenous blue whale.

Placing the fish in the kiddie's pool, we bound it with zip-ties and a net made of clothesline, and replaced the water that was lost during the struggle to get the creature into the pool. We had to keep our distance because the fish would lunge and try and bite us with its gaping maw of razor sharp teeth.

For the next three days and two nights, we kept watch over Dave, draining the refuse from the pool, and refilling it with fresh water. We didn't know what to feed it, but we figured not to, since if it was weak with hunger it would be too weak to attack.

In a twisted, yet funny sense of irony was DC sneaking the creature Fillet 'o Fish from McDonalds, until Dann caught him. DC said Dave was already evil, and since he wasn't really a fish, cannibalism wasn't that bad of a thing.

I awoke for my shift to find Dave slowly deforming back into a human. Sad disfigured eyes looked at me, ashamed, embarrassed, and scared.

Once he could speak, we interrogated him, making sure that his mind was once again rational and free of Lycanthropy.

We had a long sad discussion of what to do, and how to help cure Dave. The only solution was to kill the creature that infected him.

Many afternoons and weekends we spent on the shores of the Big Hole, dressed in makeshift armor, armed with firearms, and fishing poles with silver hooks.

But to no avail, the full moon in October was quickly approaching with no sign of the evil fish.

Dave said he would rather commit suicide than change again, as the reversion was so painful, and the thought of harming someone else was sickening.

We put in place a contingency plan; similar to how we had kept Dave the last time he changed.

But, days before the full moon, Dave disappeared. We all mourned him, knowing that he had committed suicide. We found his apartment empty, save for a few items that he left for us, and a note. He said he was going off to the river to live by himself, and hunt the evil Wer-Fish that made him so.

Every time since that I go floating the Big Hole, I take along my .45, loaded with Silver bullets, hoping that I might find the cursed spawn that infected Dave, or by chance, find Dave and put him out of his misery.

I talked to some fisherman last summer that had seen a disheveled and erratic naked man swimming upstream near Wise River.

I wish that it wasn't Dave.

Daydream

The car was moving too fast for the old headlights to keep up. I let off the gas and the behemoth began it's lazy coast. Even with the reduced speed, it was still a struggle to keep the nose between the lines. Potential energy gave out quickly and I feathered the gas. Like jet taking off, the 454 roared to life, and once again shot us like a sling shot down the moonlit road.

I look over at her like a spy. Her too tight shirt was too low cut. I tried to hide my smile as my mind wandered. "Your dad let you leave the house like that?"

The on-running joke made her laugh and adjust her cleavage and her shirt.

"You never had a boyfriend tell you to go back and change?" We were both grinning like idiots.

"No," She let it drag out. "Do you think this is too much?" She was toying with me.

I Let off the gas again as we made a tight corner like a school bus. "If I was your boyfriend, I wouldn't let you go out like that."

She sighed and gave me that all too familiar look. "You don't want to be my boyfriend."

Was that a warning, or was she shooting me down?

The road straightened out like a ruler and went on for infinity. The stars and moon turned the sky into a concave look at the center of the universe. The trees between the road and the scattered houses made yard lights look like flashes from a paparazzi camera.

"This isn't going to be one of those..." She looked coy, "...'Oops I ran out of gas' tricks is it?"

I laughed sinister, and turned to look at her with a sober face. "You should be more worried about the shovel and bag of lye in the trunk."

"Ooo!" She played along, "Do I get to be on the news?"

"I'm so good," I teased, "You'll be the next Natalee Holloway. The next Ann Frank."

She mimed a sad, distraught face. "Are you going to force yourself on me before you kill me?"

I patted her leg reassuringly. "What kind of two-bit psycho killer do you think I am? I'm going to wait until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in and you force yourself on me!"

We took the joke to far and she glanced at the back seat. "Have you ever "done it" in the back seat of this? These old cars have lots of room!"

I methodically checked all the mirrors. "Nope." I struggled for something witty.

"You really need to." She gave me a cute face, "These old cars are so hot..."

I pointed out an old trail that ran parallel to the road, offset by tangles of willow trees. "That used to be the old highway. It's all just dirt now, but I used to ride my grandpa's four-wheeler down that. One summer, we didn't know, but, there was a huge mud puddle, and we almost crashed we were going so fast. We swamped that four-wheeler, and my cousin and I had to spend ten minutes getting it out. It slammed to a halt right in the middle of this huge puddle. We were up to our knees trying to get it started and drive it out, but it was stuck so bad."

She laughed as I talked with my hands. "We got in so much trouble when we got back from being so wet and covered with mud."

She began a story that started nowhere, and ended everywhere. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road.

I gave her a warning and held her arm as I turned off the road and onto gravel.

"So where are we going?" She asked, enjoying the surprise.

"Just wait," I reassured her, "You'll see."

After a while, I parked the car, and got out. She dug through her purse like a rescue worker looking for victims.

The cold air and smell of standing water enveloped us. She zipped her jacket up more.

I led her up a small rise, the tall grass hitting the tips of our fingers. A chain link fence barred our way. I lifted up a corner and we both squirmed under.

We walked for a while, and a flat grassy plain opened up before us. The moon shown down, making it seem as though we were standing on the brink of an endless sea. The grass blowing in the breeze looked like waves on an ocean.

Huge sections of pavement cut their way at odd angles across the ground, disappearing in the distance. Blue lights trimmed the pavement like picket fences and seemed to curve up into the midnight sky life futuristic space lanes.

A lighthouse guarded the far end of ocean of grass.

"An airport?" She grabbed my arm and pressed her head to my shoulder. "We're not going to do that "Wayne's World" thing and sit under the landing planes, are we?"

"If you want to..." I put my arm around her.

We sat down, and I held her cold hands and tried to warm them. We lay down and stared at the stars.

We got lost in the moments where you think you can actually feel the earth move. A sense of vertigo that our grandkids will feel when they look back at the earth from orbit.

Satellites, shooting stars, jetliners. A myriad of heavenly objects occupied out minds with child like wonder.

"Wow." I said under my breath. She violently squeezed my hand, and gave a sharp intake of breath.

"I think I was falling asleep.." She turned on her side to look at me. "I think I was dreaming."

I pushed the personal space boundary and put my hand on her side. When she didn't react, I inched closer.

"Do you..." She avoided my eyes and looked back at the sky. "Do you ever daydream before you fall asleep?

I looked at her quizzically.

"Like before you fall asleep, you daydream about your hopes and dream. What if you were someone else? Could do cool things..."

"Yeah, I think so..." I started warming her hands again. "What do you daydream?"

"This is silly." She looked sheepish, but I prompted her. "I daydream that I'm a young girl getting trained how to use magic."

"Harry Potter?" I chuckled, "You daydream your at the Harry Potter school?"

She pulled her hands from mine and covered her face. "No. No. I told you it was silly. This started way before Harry Potter, when I was a kid. When you're so young and you think magic is real and can fix all of your problems. Child stuff."

I laughed. "I guess I still have child stuff then."

"Why?" She smiled, her eyes glinting in the starlight. "What do you daydream about? Everybody does it, so just tell me?"

"I don't know..." I sighed and searched the stars above for answers. "It goes in phases. Sometimes like a dark Jedi. Getting revenge on the world. Exacting cruel justice. Knocking over corporations and taking them over. Training evil minions and taking over the U.N. Making the world leaders grovel at my feet while I cackle like the Emperor."

"Your disturbed." She looked at me horrified, then started laughing. "Oh God, your such a nerd. Star Wars?"

"Hey!" I mocked protest. "At least it's not Harry Potter stuff. Little kids running around with wands. I'm Harry Potter!"

She laughed and playfully slapped my arm.

"Sometimes..." I began after a moment of silence. "Sometimes it's...I'm like a super hero, with, like Superman powers. Saving hostages from the pirates in Somalia, or using x-ray vision to see bombs in Iraq. Stopping wars. The iconic carrying of the flag and setting it down on the White House. That stuff."

"I think," She smiled at me, "That Superman would be a lot cooler to be than a bad Jedi."

"They both have their pro's and con's." I took her hands again. "As a Jedi I could slink around and still have a normal life. As Superman, I'd have to wear a disguise, and wouldn't be able to have normal life. I wouldn't get to hang out with you..."

"Aww." She pouted her lips. "You couldn't swoop in and fly me off to some remote island?"

"Nope." I shook my head. "With all the cell phone cameras and satellites, it would be a matter of time before someone got to you, and you'd be hounded by the media and sought by my enemies."

"You wouldn't come and save me?" She laughed, "Like Lois Lane?"

"No." I smiled. "You don't even want me as your boyfriend..." I leaned in closer.

"You don't want to be my boyfriend." she whispered as we kissed.