Upon dropping out of college, I took to riding the rails. I wanted to
see the country thought a hobo’s eyes. I would ride for days with only
my knapsack and a warm bottle of whiskey at my side. It was summer and
the weather was fine. I met many fine men on these journeys; men like
Tiny Joe, Tin-Can Pete, and Tommy the Gimp. These were fine
all-American men; the backbone of a burgeoning economy.
Upon dropping out of college, I took to riding the rails. I wanted to
see the country thought a hobo’s eyes. I would ride for days with only
my knapsack and a warm bottle of whiskey at my side. It was summer and
the weather was fine. I met many fine men on these journeys; men like
Tiny Joe, Tin-Can Pete, and Tommy the Gimp. These were fine
all-American men; the backbone of a burgeoning economy.
These were my
friends. We shared a lot as we rode those rails. We shared cans of
beans, we shared stories of life on the road, and at times we even
shared certain infectious diseases. I remember those days well, for
they were among the best in my life. And although all of my friends
died of either exposure or alcohol poisoning mere days after I met
them, each one of them is near and dear to my heart. But life on the
rails was not all laughs and fun. There were scuffles. Angry bums who
would sooner slit your throat than say a kind word to their own mother.
But there was one traveler in particular…
It was on a fateful night in late October that my mettle was truly
tested. We had hopped a boxcar that was traveling from the great plains
of Idaho down to the crashing seas of coastal Florida where winters
were mild. Spirits ran high. My friends and I were all sitting and
laughing around a fire, sharing a private laugh as the world clattered
by outside. I don’t remember what it was, but something made me look
over my shoulder. There, in the dim shadows, far from the warmth of the
fire, I spied a cloaked figure. He was crouched low and his hood was
drawn up about his face, hiding his features from prying eyes such as
mine.
I swallowed nervously and called out a friendly greeting, beckoning him
to come over and share in our good cheer. He did not respond. Slightly
offended, and still a little frightened, I stood and gave a shout:
“Avant and quit my sight you mangy cur! We shall have none of your kind
in here to spoil the pleasurable mood! Now away with ye!”
Even as I spoke, the figure began to rise. He cast off his cloak, and
the men let out a collective gasp. For we saw that he was none other
than Hades, the horned and terrible Lord of the Underdark!
He strode toward us purposefully, his cloven hooves clacking loudly on
the wooden floor. The other men crowded behind me, mewling softly.
Coming nearer, he raised his beastly head and gave a dreadful bleating.
One man screamed with fright and dove out the open boxcar door. But I
did not falter, I drew myself up to my full height, slowly unsheathing
my sword and holding it at the ready.
“Come on, sweet cheeks!” I snarled mockingly.
The Dark One stopped a few feet from me. He let out a snort, columns of
rank steam issuing from those fetid nostrils. He cackled menacingly and
produced a massive broadsword. Stained a dark crimson and adorned with
savage barbs, this horrible weapon frightened me to no end. But I dared
not reveal this. The beast roared and began to run towards me. The
battle for my soul had begun.
For 9 days and 9 nights we clashed. We two were equally deft swordsmen
and neither would falter. By the end of the ninth night, much blood had
been spilt by both parties, and the beast had been all but defeated. By
and by, he raised his hateful sword above his head for a strike and
faltered slightly. Seeing this I quickly heaved my blade into his flank
with all my strength, cutting deep and clean. Hades bellowed; his body
wracked with immeasurable pain. He dropped to one knee. I swung my sword
again and clove off his left arm, and a putrid fountain of blood issued
from the stump.
Knelt before me was the great and terrible Hades, Lord of the
Underdark. His deep crimson eyes burned into mine. The hatred was
palpable. I spoke thusly:
“O great lord Hades, you came to this place of good humor and men of
fortune I know not why, but now you are beaten, and when you are dead I
will spit on your corpse and then some of us may take it upon ourselves
to do some sort of jig.”
From the back of the group, a tiny voice said,
“But sir, I do not know how to jig!”
“Ha-ha!” I cried, hoisting my sword above my head, “Then you shall do a waltz my friend, and I will hear no more about it!”
And with that I drove my sword down hard, rending the creature in twain.
But I had not escaped unharmed from the battle, for unbeknownst to me,
Hades had delivered a mortal wound to my chest. I collapsed to the
ground and knew that I was not long for this world. I pulled myself up
on my hands and knees and extended my hand to my friends who had been
looking on, but they only turned away with a sigh of grief. Cursing
their names, I spat and fell to the ground.
I have written these final words on this soiled paper napkin from a
fast food restaurant. I was forced to use a wretched mechanical pencil
as well because that was available at the time of my wounding. No
matter, in a short while I will be dead, and in the kingdom of heaven
there will be crisp, freshly sharpened bright yellow number two pencils
as far as the eye can see.
This is the least I can hope for.
Goodbye.