They had ridden all day and into the night. Skirting the Painted Desert on a winter night was like a dream. He was an actual badass riding a badass bike, in badass colors, with a hand-cannon tucked into his saddlebag. MoonBeaver was hanging on for dear life whistling at the land as it rushed by.

This is the badass life son. Look at the big biker mama making eyes at Jay. We best get a room—two.

They were rolling past a national park when Jay nodded for them to pull over by an access ramp, one of those places where cops parked with their radar guns. After Mona and Eddie parked and the boys and squirrel stepped up on the bank to stretch their legs, Jay motioned for the big woman to get on the back of his bike, and then took her up the service road a ways and shut it down.

Three-Rivers and MoonBeaver looked back down the road and whistled various tunes as the squirrel scampered off towards the secluded spot where Jay and the biker chief’s wife were no doubt getting it on. Three-Rivers then clucked at the squirrel and the squirrel clucked back angrily. The two held a chattering and clucking session for a few moments before the squirrel came back reluctantly and sulked at Three-River’s feet.

“Yo Thunder-Boy, whuz up whit dat?”

The holy kid, dressed in his road-worn tuxedo, sighed, “A prurient squirrel I am afraid; a squirrel who yet wishes he were a man. I am afraid that my work in rehabilitating the unrepentant transmigrant soul of Mister Gerald Hicks the wino is not yet done.”

That squirrel does look pissed. Oh I got this.

He reached into the vest pocket of the fat dude’s jacket and produced the lighter and joint—shoot, three joints—that he somehow knew would be there. “Yo Thunder-Boy, ole Jay-Bone’s got hisself a handful up in dare. Since we gonna be a while how about a smoke—Mister Hicks too?”

No sooner had Three-Rivers clucked to the squirrel than the little creature was perched on Eddie’s shoulder greedily anticipating the lighting of the joint. As they all stood in a small circle the conversation turned to Vegas and Jay’s deal with Chink. Not wanting to leave Mister Hicks out of the conversation, as the squirrel claimed—or Three-Rivers had claimed on behalf of the squirrel—to have been a big fight fan when he was a wino, the thoughtful boy translated every human word into Squirrel and each squirrel noise into Human.

You know son, I am beginning to believe in this kid. I think maybe he is the American Indian Doctor Do Little and the Jesus Christ of Medieval America.

As they stood for what seemed a long, long time, smoking the three joints that had been in the biker’s jacket pocket—fatboy knows how to live—the conversation turned toward the upcoming show down in Vegas that would be pitting Jay against a bigger Russian fighter who had apparently destroyed all comers in Japan, Russia and Korea.

MoonBeaver: “So, Thunder-Boy how will your demon fare against this other Sunset demon?”

Three-Rivers: “I do not know, and it is against my creed to pray on his behalf concerning such a secular affair. I trust he shall survive though. He is very hard to kill and they shall fight naked without weapons.”

Gerald Hicks: “Shoot boy you gotz youself da stupidess White-boy I eva knowed dare—en fightin’ a big Rooski yet!”

Eddie: “Wrong dare son, I seen ‘is ass whoop a big dude like dat—real big; a heavyweight Yo.”

Gerald: “Boy, you ain’t seen jack. Sheee—I were dumb enough to bet on dat dummy once my own self; when he fight dat big wetback on cable. Sheee, dat spic knocked ‘im down thirty-six times—like ta kill his dumbass! Dey’d a stopped it in da U.S. en whuz more I tink he know it! He up dare wit dat big mama, gettin’ hisself his lass slice a pie.”

Eddie: “Yo son, I’ll bet yo ass—he gonna win. I’m gonna be in ‘is corna yo!”

Gerald: “Well den he fo sho gettin’ ‘is as whooped, wit yo dreamin’ ass in ‘is cona feedin’ ‘im hope. I’ll put twenny bucks—I only got me a twenny else I’d bet da bank—‘gainst yo sixty fool. Three-ta-one; bes odds you gettin’ on yo dumbass-White-fool-fighta boy. Take id o leave it fool!”

Eddie: “I don’ need no favors from a cluckin’ squirrel Yo! I’ll give ya eight-ta-one. Shake on id right ‘ere Yo!”

The next thing Eddie knew he was shaking the squirrel’s claw with his pinky while Jay-Bone rumbled up behind them with Mona. MoonBeaver was folding up the bet money and pocketing it in his buckskin pouch and Three-Rivers was inhaling the last of the pot.

This kid loves his booze and dope for sure! I wonder if Jesus was a drunk?

No, I bet Moses was a wife-beater though.

By the time Jay had turned his bike around and Mona was mounting her pink and chrome crotch-rocket the squirrel had broken into a dance, and was in fact break-dancing and chattering with his tail twitching and little claws raised like hands. Jay nodded for Eddie to mount up and then asked Three-Rivers, “Whaz goin’ on wit da dang squirrel Squirlboy?”

“Oh Bluebird, he is singing.”

“If you so sure he’s singin’ den whaz he singin’?”

Three-Rivers smiled, put his hands in the air, and turned in circles as he chanted, “It’s ma birtday. Dumb-White-boy goin’ down in tree. It’s ma birtday…”

Jay just nodded. Seemingly perplexed, and they turned back onto Route 66 and rumbled up into the mountains towards the place Three-Rivers called MedicinePole. As Jay and Three-Rivers pulled past him and MoonBeaver Three-Rivers pointed up into the dark moon-streaked winter sky, at what appeared to be a bank of dark clouds, kind of like a night within a night.

That’s right where we’re headed son. Shit keeps getting deep.

Thunder-Boy is now in print and available at amazon.com through the link below: