Bum Magic: A Tale of Sludge and Slime

My luck was finally starting to turn around. Nobody had tried to murder me in at least three days, the sky had been clear all the way up into the Smoky Mountains, and I even found $30 in some guy’s wallet. The sun was coming down, and I had some pocket change, so I stopped at a bar in Bryson City.

Compared to the shithole that I came from, this town was a sight to behold. There wasn’t much to it, but that’s what made it so nice; there was just enough civilization to keep the bears away but not enough to detract from the mountain views. The main street was just a row of little brick coffee houses, mom-and-pop shops, and dive bars. It was cold as all hell, but that’s one of the many problems that liquor can fix, and I had money to spend.

I managed to find the dingiest dive bar in town on my first try. The walls were peeling and the floorboards creaked as I walked on them – my kind of place. I was the roughest looking person in the building, but not by much. A gang of weathered-looking men sat at the bar, taking up every seat but one. They all had matching shirts that said "Schole and Son Construction" on the backs. I took the last available stool and ordered a glass of Wild Turkey. I threw it back in one gulp and ordered another.

“Looks like you’ve been havin’ a tough time of things,” the man next to me said. He was even more weathered up close and had a salt-and-pepper beard with a little bit of beer foam in it. “Name’s Artie Schole. Where you from?”

“Gus McCall. Nowhere in particular,” I said. It felt strange to have a conversation after spending so much time alone on the road. I finished my second glass of whiskey hoping that it would loosen me up a little.

“That your ride over there?” the man pointed out the window to my shitmobile. I nodded.

“You must have some stories to tell,” he continued. “You runnin’ from the law, or somethin’ worse?”

“Worse,” I said. I decided to switch it up and order a Natty Light. I was going to have to drive later, after all.

I piqued the interest of a couple of other guys at the bar. One of them, younger looking than the guy next to me and rocking an impressive brown moustache, looked down at my arm. I put it down at my side so that he couldn’t see it anymore.

“Like something you see?” I said. I didn’t appreciate being stared at.

“Yeah, those crazy ass birthmarks or whatever they are,” he said. It honestly didn’t seem like there was any malice behind what he was saying, but it pissed me off anyway.

“You think I was born with this on my arm? Man, you’re dumber than you look,” I said, and took another sip of my beer. His expression changed immediately. The whole group had their attention on me now.

“Someone else came around here not too long ago with somethin’ like that on their arm,” Artie said. “Killed a man in broad daylight, took the jacket off his body, and ran off.”

“Yup, sounds like Mickey,” I said. That was not the right response. I probably should’ve assured them that I was not like him, that I wouldn’t end someone’s life because it was a little chilly outside, but I was too tired and buzzed to care about what these people thought of me.

“Y’all friends?” the moustached man asked.

“Actually, I'm on my way to kill him. Did he say where he was going?”

I couldn’t win with these people. I tell them that I’m going to enact some vigilante justice on the man who just murdered someone in their quaint little town, and they start looking even more nervous. Give me a fucking break.

“Naw, he didn’t, and I think it’s best you head on out of here. We don’t need this in our town,” Artie said. All five of the men looked at me through squinted eyes, anticipating my next move. I took another sip of my beer.

“Look, I’m just trying to relax a little,” I said. “So how about you guys just shut the fuck up and let me black out in peace, alright?”

They all stood up at once. Most of them were bigger than I thought they'd be, though the moustached man was a full head shorter than everyone else.

“Boy, if you don’t get out of here, you’re gonna be sorry,” Artie said. It didn’t sound like a threat. He really just wanted me to leave. But fuck him; who the fuck is he?

“It’s a free country. I can drink wherever the fuck I want,” I said. I went to take another sip of my beer, but it was empty. I probably would’ve been on my way out anyway if they hadn’t said anything to me. Not anymore.

I stood up, stumbling a little, and looked Artie in the eyes. Two of the men put their right hands behind their backs, ready to pull out their guns if the situation called for it.

“What are you gonna do?” I said, “Shoot me for sittin’ here drinkin’?”

“Naw, we wouldn’t do that,” Artie said, “but I bet the law would have a few questions about how you got those holes in your scooter if we called them up. I think you better get out of here before that happens.”

I looked at the two armed men. “I bet you guys have some nice guns,” I said. “I bet the serial numbers aren't filed off or anything. If you're gonna go around threatening people, I hope you know how to use them.”

With that, our conversation was over. The moustached man pushed Artie out of the way and swung at me. But his swing was slow, clumsy, and easy to dodge, even after a few drinks. You don’t live long on the streets if you can’t handle yourself. I’ve dealt with much worse than this guy. He swung again, and I dodged it again and countered with a punch to the gut. The little guy fell to the ground and curled into a ball, acting like he couldn't breathe. I wondered if he had ever been in a fight before.

The others decided at that moment that they didn’t want to brawl anymore. The two armed men pulled their guns out and pointed them at my chest. I put my hands up and they started to throb.

“Woah, woah,” I said. “He swung first. I was just defending myself.”

“Get out of here, NOW, or I swear to God I’ll shoot,” one of the armed men said. He was bright pink, and his sweaty blonde hair clung to his forehead. The other one breathed hard through his open mouth and shook his head up and down vigorously as if to emphasize his friend's words.

I held my hands up a little higher and put on a half-assed smile. “Alright, how about we all just calm down? Let’s all just breathe and count to three. It helps with anger management. My school counselor taught me that. Let’s just try it, ok?”

They did not look like they wanted to do any breathing exercises, and they did not lower their guns.

“1…”

They shook their guns at me.

“2…”

They started to squeeze the trigger.

“3.”

Two thick streams of slime shot from my hands and knocked the men into the table behind them. The people sitting there screamed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. I got closer to the fallen men and hosed them until they were completely unable to get up, slipping in a pool of slime every time they tried. The pink one fell hard on top of the mouth breather, and their guns slipped from their hands and out of reach.

The last two men came at me – Artie from my left and a young, skinny boy from my right. I made double-barrelled finger guns and shot them both in their eyes. They screamed like dying animals. It must’ve burned like mace the way they were hollering – or they were just pussies. While they were blinded, I slicked the floor beneath them and they fell, cracking their heads on the hardwood floor.

I casually walked up to the slime-soaked table, picked up the two guns, and tucked them into my pants.

“Thanks, never know when you might need one of these,” I said. “See you boys later. Thanks for the warm welcome.”

Goodbye, Bryson City.

It wasn’t too far to Chattanooga now; just another day or so, and one good thing came out of this pit stop: I knew Mickey had passed through here and that I was on the right track.

I rode through the night, trying to get as far away from that place as possible. In the dark, I could see that my markings were glowing a faint red. Taking on five men at once wasn’t quite enough to impress the slime this time, it seemed. Something about knowing it wanted more from me made me want to do more. I wanted to see what the next level was, what new power I would be given. I thought about stopping at a few more towns and getting into a few more barfights before I got to Tennessee, but I figured that killing Mickey – another marked man – should be enough to satisfy the slime.

Now I had two reasons to kill that motherfucker.