The Damned Highway by Nick Mamatas Page A

Nobody can make any calls. The other guests are complaining. Even the pay phone is just howling like an amateur-night microphone.” Then his eyes, wide and froggy as ever, spot the Mojo Wire. “And what the hell is that! Are you one of those Red Chinese spies? I should have known.”
    â€œYes,” I tell him. “I’m a Red Chinese spy. You’ve found me out, you bastard. I’m here to track down President Nixon and give him a special herbal remedy that he mistakenly left behind in Peking. It’s very important—without it Trish may go mad-dog crazy on her Secret Service detail. We don’t want that now, do we?”
    He’s excited. “Yes! Please, may I see it? Will you be delivering it to the man in person? Will you? Oh, boy! Won’t you tell Mr. Nixon that I love him? Please!”
    â€œYes, yes, I’ll do all that. Get a grip on yourself, man. Now let me see . . .” It’s a gamble, but I’m pretty sure this cat has never seen real-life marijuana, and I’m sure I have a reefer somewhere. I consider giving him some of the mushrooms, but I want to experiment with them more later. Such medicine would only be wasted on a rube like this. He stays prostrate on the ground where he landed, almost worshipful, as I dig through my sweaty bags. I find a bit of hash wadded up in the bottom of my knapsack, and then he is on me. He slams against my back, slides an arm under my chin, and starts choking me like a judo expert. I throw myself backwards. He howls, “Lies, lies! You goddamn son of a bitch, you think I don’t know who you are? I know damn well who you are! You’re that guy who rode with the Hells Angels! You’re the one in the comic strip. You’re what’s wrong with this country. You think I won’t be rewarded for bringing Nixon your fucking stone heart!” as we roll around. He’s a little guy, this Korean War–vet motel manager, a real Renfield, but scrappy as hell. I manage to dig my chin into the guy’s forearm and get a little breathing room, but then he sinks his teeth into my ear. I reach out and yank the power cord of the Mojo Wire hard as I turn onto my belly. The corner of it must have got him right in the temple, because he goes limp. I bite my tongue as my own head slams into the floor, and then my mouth fills, not with my blood, but with something blacker and sticky. Ichor. It takes a minute or so for me to crawl out from under him. He’s alive, twitching even, and bleeding. It was his blood that gushed into my mouth, but it wasn’t blood at all.
    â€œSweet Jesus in a jumped-up sidecar.” Muttering, I fumble a cigarette from a crumpled pack and light up, catching my breath. It’s a good thing the credit card I used to check in wasn’t mine. I don’t know how much of the story I managed to file via the Mojo Wire, but I know I have to leave—and quickly. I am better off putting on a shirt and walking right back out onto the highway. Nothing good can come of sticking around, of trying to explain myself to the authorities, or paying the bill. I snuff the cigarette, wash the manager’s ichor from my mouth, pack up quick, put the hash in my little bowl, and hit the parking lot, toking up good, wishing I had some Ibogaine, some something else, anything better to take the edge off this evening of revelations and assault. I am a marked man now, and the long tentacles of the Republican establishment are uncoiling my way. Twice now, in my journey to find the American Nightmare, I’ve rubbed shoulders with them. They will not be pleased. But the Democrats . . . Moloch? I am already a journalist; I may as well throw myself into the fiery maw of Moloch, if only to avoid the suspense of a future assignment. I turned pro a long time ago, but the world grew weirder than I ever knew it could be.
    As I walk by it, the pay phone rings a plaintive ring, and I pick it up.
    â€œHello, Super