chapter 1

Chapter One – Breaking News
Jack Piper and his bike made their quiet escape from the orphanage, gliding smoothly over the roads, exactly like a cinder block wouldn’t.

Anyone who has ridden alone at night will understand how Jack felt, skimming along through the cool night air wrapped in an envelope of muffled stillness, moving quickly but without effort, flying around corners and parked cars without thinking about them while the moon followed high above him.
Jack’s shadow appeared to sprint past him as he rode beneath each streetlight. Over and over again, he would look back under his arm to see his shadow well behind but gaining on him as he approached a streetlight. Jack’s shadow would draw dead even just as he passed underneath the streetlight and then jump ahead of him by several bike lengths, only to fall behind again as he rode toward the next streetlight.
Jack trusted the instructions Sister Kim had given him. The only problem was that Jack couldn’t quite remember them except for a lot of disorganized notions about magic beans, mountains, and moonlight. The worst part was that Jack wasn’t sure exactly where he was anymore. After so many twists and turns on the dark streets, he had become thoroughly lost.
The street signs were nearly impossible to see, and Jack slowed to a stop at a corner while trying to read one of them. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement on a nearby front porch. As Jack watched in amazement, a big raccoon carrying what looked like a Des Moines Register newspaper delivery bag dropped what appeared to be a rolled up copy of the paper on the porch. The raccoon climbed down the steps and waddled down the street to the next house and the next house after that while dragging the delivery bag behind it, tossing a copy of the newspaper on each porch.
The Raccoon (Procyon Iotor) is a widespread, medium-sized, omnivorous mammal native to North America but not known for behaving like a nocturnal paperboy. Curiosity overcame Jack. He carefully hopped off of his bike and crept over to the nearest porch to see if indeed the raccoon was delivering newspapers in the middle of the night. The moment Jack picked up the paper on the porch, he heard a screech and turned just in time to get smacked in the stomach with the delivery bag being swung by the raccoon he had been watching just a few minutes before.
The hit with the delivery bag knocked the wind out of Jack. While he was doubled over, the raccoon jumped on him with such a wild thrashing of claws and teeth that Jack toppled off of the side of the porch and landed on his back in the driveway. The raccoon leaped from the porch and landed on Jack but suddenly froze as the headlights of a minivan swept up into the driveway.
The raccoon paused and stared at Jack’s face, which it could now see clearly in the headlights. For just an instant, a glimmer of recognition seemed to cross the raccoon’s eyes, and then it scurried away through the shrubs, leaving undelivered papers lying all about.
The headlights came closer and then stopped. The doors of the minivan opened, and as he was fading from consciousness Jack heard women’s voices saying things like, “Did you see that?” and, “Is he okay?” One of them said, “Let’s get him in the house.”
These were cougars (Puma Concolor), mammals native to North America, and Jack realized that he might be in even greater danger than ever before.

to be continued...

[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 2

Chapter Two-On His Own?

Jack awoke slowly and painfully as the dim light of morning sifted through the curtains and into the room. He opened one eye cautiously, and then the other, unsure whether or not letting daylight into his brain would be a good thing right now.
Jack could feel a goose egg on the back of his head where he had hit the driveway the night before. He was covered with cuts and scratches. He wiggled his toes. He wiggled his fingers. He moved an arm, then a leg. Everything else seemed to be okay. He gingerly sat up on the edge of the bed, then stood up, and then walked across the room to peek out the window. It was a dreary and overcast morning.
“What happened last night?” he muttered as he ran back through his foggy memory of the orphanage, Sister Kim telling him to escape, riding by moonlight, getting lost, … and…seeing a raccoon delivering newspapers? Getting attacked by the raccoon? Was that real? The bumps and bruises said yes.

And now where was he? Jack looked around the room. There was a bed, a big chair with a little table next to it, a lamp, and a dresser. Everything was so neat and tidy that Jack knew this must be a guest bedroom. There was none of the usual clutter that tends to follow a person around in life.
Jack could smell a pancake breakfast coming from out the door and down the hall, so he followed his nose to the kitchen, where he found the family that lived in the house. Momma cougar was busy wiping syrup out of the hair of two grade-school aged children and didn’t notice Jack as he went to the stove and filled up a plate of pancakes and sausages.
The dad sat behind one of the Des Moines Register newspapers that had been scattered across the front lawn and driveway last night. Jack read the various headlines on the front page as he filled a glass from the pitcher on the counter. There were news stories on political debates, the price of oil, and a new auditing system for the newspaper. Blah, blah, blah.

Jack sat down at the table, still unnoticed, and took a big drink from the glass he had poured. “Splooosh!” went the contents of the glass all over the table. “Ackkkkkkk!” sputtered Jack as he fell out of his chair and ran to the sink, gasping and choking. “Yeaaaaaaay!” cheered the kids at the table as they finally noticed Jack, who by this time was hunched over the kitchen sink trying to drink directly from the faucet.
“What was that?” Jack yelled once he caught his breath and could speak. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“Oh, gee, sorry about that,” said the mom. “I keep bleach water in that pitcher. Lots of messes, you know.” The kids she had just finished cleaning up scampered from the table and ran around the kitchen, still cheering.
“You’ll be fine,” said the dad. “It’s pretty dilute. The kids have been into it a few times, and they’ve always bounced back. Besides, it cleans out the insides, eh?”
They eased him back to his chair at the table. “You’ll want to get that bleach taste out of your mouth. I’ll pour you a glass of orange juice from the other pitcher,” said the mom. “Ooops, I almost got the wrong pitcher. Here’s the juice pitcher.” She poured some juice into a clean glass and placed it before a doubtful Jack. Not wanting to be rude, Jack decided to leave the juice alone and focus on the food. He devoured a couple of helpings of everything put before him, and then in a moment of forgetfulness, took a big drink from the juice glass.
“Splooosh!” went the contents all over the table. “Ackkkkk!” sputtered Jack once again as he fell out of his chair and ran for the sink. “Yeaaaaah!” cheered the kids, who had evidently mixed the two pitchers together when no one was looking so that both pitchers now had bleach water.

to be continued...
[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 3

Chapter Three - The Sun-Dried Stranger

“Oh my, we’re really, really sorry!” apologized the mom as Jack regained his composure at the kitchen sink. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” said the dad in an encouraging way. In between cheers, Jack could hear the kids saying, “Can we keep him? He’s better than TV!” Then one of the kids asked Jack if he would stay for lunch. “No way, kid,” snapped Jack a little too harshly.

“Sorry,” he back peddled. “I’ve got to get going.” Maybe the bleach water was helping to clear up his muddled thoughts the way it would clear up his digestive tract later.

Jack remembered that he had to follow Sister Kim’s instructions and take the beans the kindly nun had given him to the great mountains in the west where he would find Kelby and be safe.
He had stayed here too long. Jack asked for his bicycle, and they all took him to the garage while still gushing apologies. As the garage door opened a young raccoon startled everyone as it darted from behind the lawn mower and out across the yard to the trees beyond. Jack’s bicycle had been waiting patiently in the garage, although its rear wheel was sitting in a pool of fresh raccoon pee.

This brought about a fresh round of cheers from the children and shoulder shrugs from the rest.
With a quick wave and a mumbled thank you, Jack stood on the pedals and rolled down the driveway which was just long enough for him to realize that he was still lost and didn’t know which way to go. The early morning sun was hiding behind a dull gray sheet of clouds and provided no clues, but Jack wasn’t about to turn around and head back up the drive to ask for directions.
Going on instinct, he turned left and cruised up the street, taking it as far as he could before turning onto another street, and then another. Wandering around aimlessly was getting more and more frustrating, until suddenly Jack heard the “Phssss phssss phssss phssss phssss” sound of a flat tire.

“Great,” thought Jack. “Just what I need now.” But as he slowed and moved toward the curb, another rider passed him, grinning and laughing. Jack looked down at his tires and saw that he didn’t have a flat after all. The other rider up ahead had made the sounds of air leaking from a tire to trick Jack.
Forgetting everything else for the moment, Jack began chasing the other rider. The practical joker had been looking over his shoulder and was ready for this. He picked up the pace, but not in time to keep Jack from jumping to his rear wheel and sitting in his draft. Try as he might, the other rider couldn’t drop Jack or shake him off of his rear wheel. Sister Kim had taught Jack well.

Finally, near the outskirts of town, the other rider slowed down and Jack pulled along side him. “Hey, jerk. What’s the big idea?” yelled Jack between breaths.
The other rider ignored Jack’s insult and instead of answering Jack’s question, he simply said, “Hey, you’re pretty strong. I haven’t seen you riding around here before.”
Jack was still ticked off and said, “Whatever. Now I’m really lost.”
“Where are you headed?” asked the other rider.
Jack replied cautiously, “I’m supposed to head west.”
“How far are you going?” came the reply.
“Oh, pretty far, pretty far west,” said Jack evasively.
“Hmm,” said the other rider.

And as they passed a sign showing the towns of Prairie City, Monroe, and Pella ahead, the stranger said, “My name is Scott Dickson. I know a short cut. It only adds about ten miles. What’s your name?”

to be continued...
[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 4

chapter 4 -- the miracle of the mini-mart

At last, Jack felt like he was making progress in his escape to the safety of the great mountains to the west. He had found a fellow cyclist named Scott Dickson who was willing to show him the way. Meanwhile, several miles behind them, three raccoons were busily tracking the scent left by the raccoon pee on Jack’s rear wheel.

The miles went by quickly as Scott led Jack through the back roads in order to avoid most of the traffic. This was fine with Jack because he wanted to stay out of sight as much as possible anyway. They passed through the towns of Reasnor and Sully before stopping after about forty miles at the Zip’n Mini Mart in Lynnville. The pit stop was Jack’s idea. He had the feeling that Scott would have been fine without stopping. As Jack refilled his bottles he noticed that Scott’s lone water bottle was still pretty much full.
They got back on the road and the next thirty miles through Searsboro, Montezuma, and Deep River went by just as quickly but not as easily for Jack. He took fewer pulls at the front and spent more time sitting in the draft staring at Scott’s rear wheel. The day was still overcast with no hint of a break in the clouds. Jack could only guess at the time of day, but he took comfort in the fact that at least he was finally headed in the right direction.
With his bottles empty once again, Jack suggested another rest stop, but Scott didn’t seem interested. Scott mentioned, “making it to Iowa City in time for the group ride,” and this was Jack’s first hint that something was wrong. He had lived at the orphanage for as long as he could remember and hadn’t traveled very far until now, but it seemed like Iowa City was a bit out of the way.
Regardless of direction, Jack had to stop. His legs were cramping, and the big breakfast he had eaten that morning was long since used up. In a last feeble attempt to get Scott to stop, Jack tried the flat tire trick on Scott, but he didn’t have quite enough extra breath left to make the sounds very loudly. By then, Scott was pulling away. Jack was thoroughly cooked and was suddenly left all alone.
There was nothing more Jack could do. He barely coasted into a town called Parnell and found a little gas station with a soda-pop machine. Fifty cents was all that stood between Jack and a Coke, but he had no money. Sister Kim had taught Jack and the other orphans to be resourceful in situations like these, and just as Jack decided to go inside and raid the “Need a Penny – Leave a Penny” tray he heard singing.
“Hey nickel, bicycle, here and there I’m G-Pickle.
Paved or gravel, I’m not fickle.
Hike or bike, but no motorsickle.”
To Jack’s surprise, a tall, friendly-looking, Tom Bombadil sort of character rolled into the gas station parking lot on a bicycle and stepped off smoothly right next to Jack at the soda-pop machine. He reached into his jersey pocket and pulled out a crisp dollar bill, which he fed into the slot and punched the Coke button twice. Two ice-cold cans dropped out and the fellow, who evidently called himself G-Pickle, handed one to a very surprised Jack.
G-Pickle sat down on the curb and opened his soda with a loud snap while munching on a Pop Tart he had pulled from another jersey pocket. Jack was still standing there sizing up the stranger. He was stranger than most strangers, with mismatched socks, shorts, and jersey. He had squarish glasses and flames tattooed on one arm. His hair was the color of freshly cooked pasta before you put the sauce on. That last comparison reminded Jack that he was very hungry and thirsty, so he sat down next to G-Pickle, who handed him an extra Pop Tart.
Jack refueled and then leaned back and closed his tired eyes. G-Pickle sang another curious little song that nearly lulled Jack to sleep.

“A kindly nun, a worried one,
Had forty-six orphans,
And one on the run.

The Market Place, a classified space,
Secret notes for Jack,
About the chase.”

“Whoa! What was that? I’m being chased?” Jack sat bolt upright as the words to the song connected in his brain. He looked around, but G-Pickle was gone, and in his place was a copy of the Des Moines Register with a big feather sticking out of the paper like a bookmark. Jack turned to the bookmark and found himself staring at the classified ads.

.....

to be continued...

[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 5

chapter 5 -- the unexpected act of kindness

Jack leafed through the classified ads of the Des Moines Register while the sugar from the Coke and the Pop Tart worked their magic and helped him recover. The wandering minstrel named G-Pickle had showed up at just the right time, singing a strange song about a secret note and a chase. But then he had disappeared just as mysteriously, leaving behind a copy of the Des Moines Register.
As a matter of fact, Jack was being chased. At this very moment, nearly 70 miles behind him, two raccoons were running along the roads Jack had ridden earlier this morning, following the scent of raccoon pee on Jack’s rear wheel. There were three raccoons at first, but a UPS truck had hit one of them. So it goes. As Jack replayed the words of G-Pickle’s song, it occurred to him that there might indeed be a secret note for him somewhere in the paper. It even made sense that if there was a note it would be in the classified section of the paper, since anyone could place and ad there. But as Jack scanned the classifieds he saw thousands and thousands of ads, in column after column, with most of them in very tiny print. It would take the rest of the day to look through them all.
Maybe the message was in one of the large adds with bold print so that Jack would be sure to find it. No, thought Jack. That would also make it easier for anyone chasing him to find the secret message. It would be a small ad and it would blend in with all the rest.
Jack tried to picture what the ad would say. Maybe he didn’t need to read it. Maybe he could just guess what Sister Kim would be trying to tell him without finding the ad. “He’d probably go off on some tangent about an old Volkswagen or something anyway,” said Jack out loud. “Wait a minute!”
Jack quickly leafed through the pages to the used car listings and then found the oldest cars in the list. Sure enough, there was a small ad for a 1962 VW Beetle Cabriolet convertible, coffee bean colored interior. Jack missing but runs good. Yes, that was definitely a signal from Sister Kim. The contact information didn’t refer to Jack’s home at the orphanage but indicated an address in Iowa City. Jack tore the little ad out of the paper and tucked it neatly in the now empty Pop Tart wrapper to keep it from getting sweaty once he started riding again.
“What now?” thought Jack. Thanks to Scott Dickson, Jack had spent hours riding east instead of west, and he was too far from the orphanage to make it home by nightfall. His only option right now was to track down the address in Iowa City. It was still overcast, but a tail wind was picking up from behind Jack as he set off again. Jack felt a lot better, and the miles started passing by more easily now that he was riding at his own pace.
Suddenly a lone cyclist blasted past him riding about twice as fast as Jack was. The rider was in a low tuck and turning a huge gear as he disappeared up the road. Then a group of four other riders shot past Jack going just as fast, and Jack recognized Scott Dickson among them. “This must be the group ride Scott wanted,” muttered Jack as another two dozen riders streamed past him.
Jack picked up the pace so that he could jump in with the next bunch of riders that came by. Within a minute, another group of five riders closed in and Jack quickly jumped on to the back of the group. After a few minutes of sitting in, one of the other riders looked back at Jack and in a guttural growl yelled, “Hey, butt gunner. What’s the big idea? Get up there and pull.” Jack dutifully did a short turn at the front just as the group made a left turn up a sharp hill toward a town called Cosgrove.
It was too much. Jack had already put in over one hundred miles today, and he couldn’t match the pace. Two hills later, Jack found one of the riders from his group along the side of the road fixing a flat.
It should be noted that this rider was trying to fix a flat, because that is all you can do when your spare tube has a hole in it as well. It should also be noted that this was the very same rider who had ordered Jack to the front just before the first hill. Maybe it was the influence of G-Pickle, who had just acted as a good Samaritan by helping Jack earlier, but Jack surprised himself by pulling over and handing the other rider his spare.

.....

to be continued...
[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 6

chapter 6 -- sunset brings new uneasiness

Jack stood along the side of the road while the other cyclist fixed his flat using Jack’s spare. Jack noticed that the tube the other rider had pulled from his flat tire was freckled with patches. Jack could see that the spare the other rider had attempted to use was covered with just about as many patches.

The other rider’s bike was battered and dirty with a mixed batch of components and a scraped-up paint job. Jack cringed while he watched the beat-up bicycle seem to absorb his brand new spare inner tube the way a crotchety old man might greedily take in a fresh young kidney transplant.
After pumping up the tire with just enough air to get home, the other rider stood up and said with an impish grin, “Hey, I’m Randy. Thanks for the tube. Sorry about that trick on the hill back there. Didn’t mean to get you dropped.”
“Whatever,” said Jack as they started riding again, “How far is it to Iowa City?”
“Aren’t you part of the group ride?” Randy asked.
Jack answered cautiously, “No, I’m just on my way to Iowa City.”
“Hey, I know who you are,” said Randy as his impish grin widened into a big smile. “At the start of the group ride my brother Scott was talking about riding with some kid named Jack almost all the way from Des Moines today until he dropped him. Scott must have been talking about you. He said we might blast by you on the group ride.”
“That was your brother?” Jack burst out. “You guys must be inbred or something.”
“Lighten up,” growled Randy. “Look, swing by my house on the way to wherever you’re going, and I’ll get you another tube to replace the one you gave me. Where are you staying anyway?”
Jack hesitated. He had an address from a classified ad tucked in a Pop Tart wrapper in his pocket but didn’t know where to find the address in town. “Keep the tube. Don’t worry about it,” said Jack as they came to the city limit sign for Iowa City. At the next intersection Jack mumbled unconvincingly, “I’ve gotta turn here,” and ducked onto a side street.
Once Jack was sure he was alone again, he made his way back to some busier streets and found a convenience store where he could look at a map in a phone book. As luck would have it, Jack wasn’t too far from the address he needed to find, on Miller Avenue between Benton Street and the highway. Even though the sun was beginning to set, Jack figured he could get there with some daylight left.
Jack rehearsed the directions one more time before closing the phone book, but then it occurred to him that he really had no idea what he would find at this address. It could be a house, a store, or just an empty building. Would it be a safe place?
Jack had been on the run for only about twenty-four hours, but already he had been attacked by a raccoon, nearly poisoned with bleach, and misdirected over a hundred miles out of his way. He had received a weird sort of singing telegram about being chased and found a mysterious message from Sister Kim in a classified ad. Now Jack was running out of options as his second night of escape was drawing near.
His mind made up, Jack hopped on his bike and pedaled out of the convenience store’s empty parking lot. It was dusk, and the street lights were just beginning to flicker to life. He found the streets exactly where the phone book map claimed they would be and was soon standing at the curb in front of a small green house that matched the address he had in his pocket. On the opposite side of the street was a big field with some trees growing along an old fencerow. Lights were on in the windows, and Jack could see the outlines of people moving around inside. He took a deep breath and then walked up to the front door and knocked.
Nothing happened.
Jack knocked again, louder this time, and he could hear someone from inside yell, “It’s open.”
Jack leaned his bike against some scrubby bushes along the front of the house and took one more deep breath. Then he opened the door and took a step inside.

to be continued...

[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 7

chapter 7 -- miller avenue: discomfort inn?

It’s difficult to describe what Jack saw as he stepped inside the house. There were lots of bikes, which was comforting because they reminded Jack of life at the orphanage. Jack also saw an electric guitar and a bass along with some amps next to a beat-up black vinyl couch and a fireplace.

Beside the fireplace was what looked like an Army surplus bomb that stood about two feet tall with some lacy underwear draped over the nose cone.
The bathroom door down the hall had a city sign that read, “NO DUMPING.” Fireworks, textbooks, and empty beer cans were stacked on most of the horizontal surfaces.
A candle in the shape of Charlie Brown was lit on a shelf by the door and had burned down so that just a little bit of the black and yellow zig-zag shirt showed above the shorts and shoes. Melted wax had anchored the candle firmly to the shelf.
A velvet picture of Elvis presided over the home from his place above the fireplace mantle.
The biggest surprise for Jack, however, was sitting at the kitchen table. The voice that had yelled that the door was open belonged to none other than Randy Dickson. This was the rider Jack had come into town with at the end of the group ride.
They stared at each other for a few moments before Randy spoke up. “I thought you were Bananas. Whatdja do, get lost?”
“Maybe I am going bananas,” said Jack, mostly to himself, as he grabbed the little classified ad from inside the Pop Tart wrapper he was carrying. He read and reread the address listed in the ad as he stepped back out to the porch to compare it with the house number. They matched.


Jack stepped back inside and fired off angry questions one after another like bottle rockets. “Is this 938 Miller Avenue? Is this the only Miller Avenue in town? Do you have a 1962 VW Beetle Cabriolet convertible for sale?”
Randy was a person with a lot of bottle rocket experience. He deftly handled the barrage of questions while returning fire. “Yeah, that’s the address. Can’t you read? There’s only one Miller Avenue, but we’ve got a bunch of Pabst Streets, and no, I don’t have a piece of crap VW for sale.”
Whooosh! POP! An actual bottle rocket sailed past Jack’s head and out the open front door. Jack hit the floor while Randy grinned through the haze of bottle rocket smoke.
Jack gathered himself up and stood once again in the doorway. He had one more question and it would determine whether he stayed or left. “Do you know a nun named Sister Kim?”
Randy looked puzzled for a moment but grinned again and started dropping questions one after another like firecrackers, “You mean Kim West, right? Des Moines? Lawyer? Dresses like a nun? A backyard full of dead Volkswagens?” Pop! Crack! Pow! Crackety-crack! Crackety-crackety-crackety-CRACK! Now Jack was smiling through the smoky haze while Randy ducked behind the kitchen table. Jack was a quick study. He had used the burning Charlie Brown candle to light one of the little packs of firecrackers before tossing it toward the kitchen table. “Yep, that’s Sister Kim.”
Randy emerged from behind the table cautiously, but he was still grinning. “Sure, I know who Kim is. You need a place to stay?”
“I guess so,” said Jack, relieved that he was done traveling for the night. He had someplace to stay. He and Randy opened some windows to help clear the thick gray smoke from the room. Then Randy motioned to a chair at the table and while Jack sat down he brought out a couple of plates and a frozen pizza that had been in the oven. Jack brushed a dead moth off of his plate and pulled a slice of pizza toward him. It had been a long day and he was exhausted.
Jack would have enjoyed supper slightly less if he had known that there were now several raccoons following the scent trail left by the raccoon pee on his rear wheel. They were still very far away but they were relentless in their pursuit.
Jack would have enjoyed supper slightly more if he had some dessert. Just as he was pondering this, he heard someone pound on the front door while shrieking, “Little Debbie has a treat for you!” to be continued...
[a serial by little orphan dbax]

chapter 8

chapter 8 - a rose by any other name would still smell like bait

Randy didn’t wait for the shrieking and pounding on the front door to stop before yelling, “The door’s open!” In walked a shady looking character who said, “Hey Dog Bait, here’s the tubes you needed. Do you have those pedals?” “Bananas!” growled Randy as he got up from the table. “This is Jack.” Randy disappeared down the hall and they could hear the clanking of metal against metal as Randy rummaged around for pedals.

Jack must have had a confused look on his face because the person Randy had just called Bananas spoke up and said, “I’m Mike, but the guys around here call me Bananas. Most of the time Randy gets called Dog Bait or just Bait.”
“How did he get the name ‘Dog Bait’?” asked Jack, but before Bananas could answer him the front door banged open again and a whole troupe of scoundrels stomped in making the house suddenly feel much smaller and much louder. Jack didn’t recognize any of them at first, but when Bananas yelled for Scott to come over, Jack recognized the rider who had tricked him into riding the wrong direction all day today. “Hey Scott, how did Dog Bait get his nickname?” asked Bananas.

“Dog Bait was named by current Iowa City resident Bruce Reynolds back in 1975-6 while Bruce was a student and cyclist at Western Illinois University in Macomb,” explained Scott, sounding like a tour guide just warming up. “I was managing a laboratory in Macomb and training with Bruce, John Bolton, and QCBC cyclist Bill Olmstead.

Randy was only a junior at the time and tended to drift to the rear of the training peloton where the trailing farm dogs would look to cull out the weak for an easy supper. No broken bones to report but plenty of nips to the heels.”
Bananas chimed in with more introductions. “There’s Mongo and Dean Wright, but we call him Dean Wrong for reasons which will become more obvious the longer you know him. That’s Rat. Van Man will be here pretty soon. He’s coming in from Europe. Tom, Blockhead, and Paul are around here someplace. So is Bart. Sluggo is over there talking to Lowell. Watch out for Buzzsaw, a.k.a. ol’ Snaggletooth. We’ll meet up with Brendan and Bill later on. You’ll have to figure the rest out on your own.”

A moment later Randy reappeared holding two rat trap pedals. He handed them over in exchange for the new inner tubes and then tossed one to Jack, saying, “Thanks for lending me a tube to fix that flat.” Meanwhile, Bananas was spinning each pedal slowly to feel for roughness or play in the bearings. “These will work,” he said and then explained to Jack, “I tore a pedal up on my cruiser last weekend. We were on a midnight beater brigade around campus town.” “What’s a beater brigade?” asked Jack. “You’ll find out,” chuckled Bananas in a very unreassuring way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some pedals to install.”
The low hum of a guitar amp rippled across the room and Jack turned to see Sluggo and Dog Bait plugging in. They only got about half way through tuning up before launching into some chords that were familiar to Jack. The tune sounded something like “Burning Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash, except that the words were all jumbled up and changed. Everyone knew the chorus and sang, “I fell in with a burning ring of liars…”
The song seemed to fit because most of the bits and pieces of conversation Jack was hearing around the room couldn’t possibly be true. The party was gradually shifting up through the gears as it gained speed, helped along by the ever increasing ratio of empty beer cans to fireworks.
Someone started calling for “The Blaster” and Tom disappeared down the same hallway Dog Bait had used earlier. He came back with a big shotgun and a box of shells and went out onto the front porch. Jack didn’t know much about guns, but this one looked more like an old fashioned cannon. BOOOM! The gun drove Tom back through the front door and echoed like thunder across the field on the other side of the street. A few seconds later Jack heard the sound of a huge tree limb crashing to the ground.
This house wasn’t quite like the orphanage where Jack had lived up until last night. It was more like a detention center for juvenile delinquents.

The shotgun blast acted as a signal calling everyone out of the house like Keystone Cops while they scrambled for battered bicycles scattered all over the front lawn. Within seconds Jack was on his own bicycle again, swept up in the group, pedaling furiously up the big hill at the end of Miller Avenue and disappearing into the night.

to be continued...
[a serial by little orphan dbax]