Elder Archie, the thunderbeast master, had been very indulgent during their journey. He had paid for Three-Rivers to eat corn and green beans and applesauce at a mediocre eating place called diner, and had, earlier on, provided him with a pint of Yukon Jack magic spirits. Although Gerald decried the absence of Hennessey and Crown Royal at the trail-side drinking-house he did admit that Yukon Jack was a fire-spirit of awesome repute that would put hair on Three-Rivers’ chest. Despite the risk of bestial bodily ugliness, Three-Rivers, as a dedicated visionary, drank more than half the bottle, while Gerald, being only a squirrel, sipped from the cap.

Elder Archie was much pleased with Gerald’s drinking, smoking, dancing and trash-talking, all of which Three-Rivers filmed with the remembering eye of the dream walking device called cell phone.

The little brothers of computers are quite nosey, and do not seem to wish to forget anything.

Gerald’s favorite trick was a demonstration of his knocking-a-stone-ball-into-a-hole-with-a-painted-stick called pool skills. For a stick Gerald used a red straw for stirring bitter bean juice, and for balls he used Archie’s medicine for even heart-beating. Although this medicine was obviously of great importance Archie was so taken with the squirrel that he offered up his life-saving pills to serve as pool balls. Gerald did place each pill—or claimed he had—back into Archie’s white-capped gourd.

I think my totem might have stolen a heart-beating pill.

Archie does have many of them, and is generous besides. Surely he will not mind.

Never-the-less I shall confront my thieving totem.

Archie eventually took them across the Good River and into the country of his Fat Whiteman Tribe along an even greater thunder-trail teaming with wheeled people-buckets called cars and the rumbling store-houses called trucks, until they came to Archie’s hometown of Wash Pa. Eventually they came to a great crossroads full of trade-houses and well-lit dispensaries for mashed up bald-bison flesh served between otherwise innocent slices of bread called buns. Archie directed them with his trail-wisdom, even as Three-Rivers began to weave with Jack Yukonian visions of Mother Earth overrun with the Whiteman’s mechanical slave-beasts, “Alright now son, you all can hitchhike along Route Nineteen here and it will take you right into Pittsburgh, where Three-Rivers stadium was.

“You be careful now and stay out of the road. You should also put that pint away. You’ve had enough—good luck!”

Archie rumbled off in his beast smiling, taking home a treasure of squirrel-trick dream-pictures for his grandchildren.

So the way of the thumb it is once again—yes another drink.

“Hey Gerald, can you light me up a Newport?”

“Sho boy,” and the squirrel complied, dedicated his foreclaws to the deployment of the lighter, which he kept behind the red silk band in Three-Rivers’ pimp hat, as he balanced on the drunk boy’s shoulder.

Three-Rivers took a deep drag of the noxious Sunset weed and felt as if his lungs were being burned by a winter gale. But something in his mind liked the weed smoke and screamed for more, so he sucked again, before returning the cigarette to Gerald who puffed away while squatting on his shoulder. Three-Rivers took another swallow of fire-spirit with his left hand as he stuck his thumb out with his right hand.

The roaring mechanical servants and their masters just zoomed by, honking their horns, but not stopping. This gave him an opportunity to speak with Gerald.

“Just? Just! You wanna talk ‘bout justice where Whitey concerned boy? Is you crazy? Stealin’ from Whitey ain’t stealin’ fool! ‘Sides he were nice so I only took one. My ass is ole too, en I don’ got no in-shore-ance. Could have my own self a heart attack lookin’ affer you fool!”

“As you say Gerald, how about another drag off of that smoke?”

“Sho boy—oh loog ad dis shit. Naw boy, cereal killa’ be pullin’ ova ta bag yo cute ass—naw, naw!”

Three-Rivers was now drunk enough that the protestations of his totem gave him little pause as he stood anxiously waiting to get off of his unsteady feet and climb into the big wheeled people-bucket called van, that now pulled over to the side of the road. The driver, a tall young bearded Whiteman, motioned for them to climb aboard. Gerald was protesting as Three-Rivers read the side panel of the white van: Imperial HVAC Service , and climbed into the van. The squirrel became silent and darted onto his head, leaving his cigarette smoking on the side of the trail, as he cowered now beneath the boy’s hat; in darkness, and in fear. Three-Rivers could sense his trembling as the squirrel nervously clutched at his thick black hair with claws, fore and hind.

Three-Rivers looked up at the tall man, belched silently, and said, “Mucho thanks dude.

I am Three-Rivers—they call me Thunderboy. I apologize for the rudeness of my squirrel. He’s an ‘old school hood rat’ and ‘don’t trust no Whitey.’”

The man seemed curious and tolerant and his voice had a deep droning quality, “Nice to meet you Thunderboy. I’m Jeffery—headin’ into Pittsburgh to a job site. You good with that?”

Three-Rivers piped up, “Three-Rivers here we come—a-okay Whiteman.”

The man smiled and drove off toward sunrise by winter and then Gerald began plotting, peeking out from under the hat now and again, and chattering quietly to Three-Rivers from beneath his pimp-hat. Jeffrey for his part seemed very interested in the conversation between squirrel and boy, but kept to himself, devoting most of his attention to avoiding the other hurrying thunderbeasts.

Three-Rivers was feeling quite visionary by now, “How do you say oh wise totem?”

“Loog boy, loog down dere to da lef, behin’ da stick shiff. Dere a box a cereal fo lurin’ kids to dey doom! Dat’s what cereal killa’s do boy—en ebray body know dat cereal killa’s is all White dudes!”

“Gerald, perhaps the man just likes his crunchy cereal, I do.”

“Exacly fool! You jus’ try en reach fo dat box whit da evil green-hat liddle midget on it, en you a gawnna! Loog, loog behin’ ya, on da flo—duct tape—a whole tray a da stuff in tree color! Ebray body dat watch cable crime shows know what duct tape fo fool.”

“Yes, that is the same kind of sticky binding that the hip-hop man-hunters used to ‘tape’ Eddie’s ‘ass to a chair’ in the House of Bad Medicine. Perhaps you have a point. What do you suggest?”

“Give me a shot—well a lick—a dat liquor. Stick you finga’ in it and let me lick it off, so I can grow some balls. Dis scary White somebitch is a hundred times bigga’ den me…

As Three-Rivers indulged his totem Jeffrey asked him, “Is that like a circus act? Or are you a magician?”

“Yes, and yes Mister Duct-tape-binding Jeffrey, I am all of that and more. I am in fact the Master of Squirrels!”

Taking the raising of the boy’s voice as a cue the squirrel leaped out from beneath the hat, jumped to the dream-catcher that Jeffery used to guide his van, chattered ferociously, and then jumped onto the man’s face!

Whiteman Jeffery panicked and took his hands from the guiding device to pry the now furious Mister Hicks from his face, for the squirrel was digging at the evil ‘cereal killa’s’ eyes with his foreclaws!

My totem is a wise and furious protector—yes, a swallow of the fire-spirit for courage.

As Three-Rivers pressed his lips to the mouth of the transparent gourd to gain some of his squirrel’s courage the world began to spin and they were all thrown about inside of the big rolling box. Soon grass and dirt were flying before his eyes and glass was breaking.

The next thing he knew he was laying on the groaning Jeffery looking up out of the window that he had been sitting next to a moment ago, out at the clear blue spring sky.

Am I hurt? Can I move? Did I drop the medicine gourd?

For answer he had a squirrel squatting on his chest and peering down into his eyes with crazed eyes of his own.

As Jeffery moaned beneath him Three-Rivers managed to climb out of the injured box-like beast without losing hold of the gourd. He did however suffer the double tragedy of a torn lapel and a lost cufflink. He was soon climbing down off of the beast onto the grassy trail-side with Gerald riding on his shoulder encouraging him like a proud uncle just returned from the warpath with a victorious young warrior.

He was soon up on the side of the trail with squirrel on shoulder and bottle in hand once again plying his thumb for a lift.

Yes, my magic pimp hat did save me. It did not even fall from my head. Why my Newports and liter are still even tucked behind the band.

You must say a prayer for Mister Medicine Vest for making you this fine life-saving hat.