Chapter Six

 This is is slightly less safe, mostly for grossness at the end. There is a Dead Person. A Dead Person who has been Dead for a While. And a vibrating bed. Don't say I don't warn you.


For your information, this chapter has been highly researched and personal experience has informed almost all of it. For example, it is completely possible to eat all the foods listed in this chapter, except for deep-fried chocolate covered bacon, at the Wisconsin State Fair, as of two years ago.  I have, in fact, eaten all of them, within the same four-hour fair-going period, before I went vegetarian. The deep-fried chocolate covered bacon on a stick has likely been created since then. It's a little-known fact, but eating all of them that close together is a cure-all, in the kill-or-cure sense. I went to that fair with the flu, and I left without it.

I will admit that I've never found a dead prostitute under my bed, but that's only because I've never actually used the vibrating thing on sketchy motel beds. The rest is all drawn from actual hotel rooms I've stayed in.


Once George found out that they were at the self-proclaimed Best Cheese Fest, he had to get out and look around. After a long internal struggle, Stranger decided that he had numerous things he'd rather do than sit in the car and people-watch here, like go spend more time with the unnamed or get toothpicks shoved under his fingernails, and that he'd go with George. Of course, this required finding a safe place to put the Caddy while they went and enjoyed the strange and surprising sights and smells of a village completely devoted to cheese. The men in the orange vests used some sort of complicated semaphore to wave them into a wholly unoccupied lane, which Stranger was wondering about, until that lane took them into the midst of hundreds of other classic cars, some in even better condition than the Caddy. Stranger felt a bit like a disguised infidel entering a High Cathedral during Mass. The people all around him knew cars; they worshiped at the altar of Ford and his spiritual kith and kin; they could probably tell the difference between the noise the Caddy was supposed to make and a noise signalling immanent destruction, and tell him how to fix it, or even fix it themselves. Here he was, with a car that could stand amongst these without feeling ashamed, and his knowledge ended at putting gas in the thing. Cruising along between the lines of cars, parked neatly at an angle to display the wonderful bodywork restoration, surrounded by crowds of admirers, he felt the moving call of the Motorhead faith, and felt himself respond in kind. He was converted, in a moment, to the Cult of Classic Cars.

This lasted up until, and only up until, he discovered that it cost thirty bucks to enter a car into the show, and then his natural streak of money-grubbingness kicked in and he snapped out of it. To George, it was nothing, of course, so he just gave them a fifty and a winning smile and all was well.

Then came the issue of trying to secure a convertible with a cloth roof against being stolen. This was achieved by Stranger asking the quite scary Hell's Angels member displaying his Model T next to them to make sure it wasn't. Then, everything taken care of, Stranger was dragged off to the fair.

He suspected that George had never, in his entire life, been able to really go and enjoy a fair. That was sad, yes, but it was also specifically and quite irritatingly bad news for Stranger, because it meant he was the one George ended up tugging around like an unfortunate balloon, rather than George's parents or some other relative. Where George wanted to go, he went, and if Stranger seemed reluctant to follow, he got hauled along anyway.

Their first stop was the cheese-rolling hill. They were in the middle of a race when they go there, and George was enthralled by the concept of racing cheese. "It's the perfect stoner sport," he said. "It has sticks, not a lot of effort other than whacking something to keep it upright, and when everything's done, there's munchies."

"Of course that's what your first thought would be," Stranger said. "Not something along the lines of, 'oh, this is pointless,' but 'this is so pointless that my brethren would love it!'"

"Hey, they're your brethren too," George said.

"There's a difference between myself and the kind of person who would take up cheese rolling as a sport and buy Mary Jane lollipops."

"Yeah, one's fun and interesting, and the other's you."

"Yes, be immature, everyone loves the irritating genius," Stranger said, rolling his eyes. "You're lucky I put up with you.

"Aren't I just, though?" George asked. "Hey, there's a photo booth, with costumes."

"Dear god in heaven."

------

They had their photos taken (Stranger had found, of all things, Spock and Kirk costumes in the racks of clothes, and there had been no argument from George. It was a chance to record his phaser as being a real thing, for posterity.), then attacked the mounds of food that were sitting out at every stall. Samples were free, following a tradition that Stranger had to admit he could appreciate. There were enough stalls there for them to completely gorge themselves on cheese and never pay a cent.

Of course, that would have been far too simple. No, there was fried food, real fair-style stuff, mixed in with the cheese, and as soon as George saw the sign for deep-fried twinkies and oreos, he lost a little bit of his mind.

Whirling to Stranger, he grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Why did you not inform me that deep-fried twinkies are a thing?" George asked, looking both outraged and betrayed. "I have live for nearly thirty years without having tasted what must be Man's triumph and greasy perfection."

"Because you have the internet, and I assumed you knew they existed," Stranger said, removing hands from his shoulders. "The same way that you found out about deep-fried turkeys, or turducken, or any of those monstrosities that you feed to people at parties."

"Is there any end to what people will deep-fry?" Geoge asked, like a man going into raptures, and moving with a purpose towards the fair food stalls. "I want to try it all."

"Save room for the chocolate covered bacon," Stranger told him. "Your appetite is a precious thing, here. Ration yourself out."

"Chocolate covered bacon is a thing?" George asked. Stranger would have sworn he saw tears of joy coming to his eyes. George was definitely not supposed to be a multimillionaire. He was supposed to be a hick, living in a trailer, doing things like this for fun. Alas, cruel fate had not agreed, and George had to get kidnapped along with Stranger then sent on a road trip without a cellphone to discover any of it.

Stranger finally caved in, seeing that look of utter happiness. "Yes, it exists. Just follow me, I went to enough of these things as a kid to know the general layout of all of them. You are about to take the Charles B. Stranger Fair Foods Tour of Doom and Gastrointestinal Distress."

"You're awesome, man, you know that?"

"Yes. Now don't make me eat anything, because I put a lot of work into never wanting to touch fryer grease again, and I don't want it all for naught."

------

George tried everything. Deep fried twinkies, oreos, butter, kool aid, mushrooms (non-hallucinogenic, luckily), cheese, string cheese, and bacon. Chocolate covered bacon, cream puffs, and mushrooms. Spaghetti-and-meatballs on a stick, irish stew on a stick, mushrooms on a stick, cheese on a stick, candied watermelon on a stick. Deep fried chocolate covered bacon on a stick, with a side order of mushrooms. The only place George drew the line was at deep fried chocolate covered bratwurst on a stick, because, as he declared, "That's no way to treat a good bratwurst."

"Dude, it's just a weird hot dog," Stranger told him. "You'll allow bacon to be treated that way, but not an oddly textured meat cylinder?"

"You were obviously not raised in the midwest," George told him, haughtily. "Or you wouldn't need to ask that."

"No, I was raised in upper New York, and you know that. Are there any other alarming foods you can smell that you haven't eaten?"

George, greasy-handed and almost a little wild-eyed by this point, sniffed at the air. "I haven't had a giant pickle yet."

"Then get one and let's go back to the car," Stranger said. It was a testament to exactly how full George was that he only nodded and wandered over to the man with the huge barrel of pickles. If it had been anyone else eating this much, Stranger would have been worried for the Caddy's upholstery, but he'd seen the things George would eat and inflict on his party guests. Bacon flavored caviar would have been a relief. There'd been pickled python, peppered sheep spleen, owls' eggs, and even bees served to unsuspecting stock brokers and physicists. The ones who sincerely just laughed off the surprise were the ones that George did business with.

A pickle nearly ten inches long gripped firmly in one fist, George wandered back, and they headed back to the car show. Stranger was looking forward to the calm of a nice drive and then a very, very nice hotel on George's dime. George would doubtlessly call whoever it was that kept him from wandering off to a private island and his minders would come pick him up, and the insanity would be over. Some calm before the media storm of being kidnapped with Boston's Most Eligible Bachelor would be appreciated.

The car show was wrapping up when they got back, everyone going home after a long day admiring other people's vehicles. It made it a little tricky getting through the traffic and to their own Caddy, but get back they did. The Hell's Angel nodded at them when they arrived, and stopped glaring at the crowd surrounding the car. Stranger, feeling a bit like he was coming home, opened the door and slipped into the driver's seat. He slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and listened for the lovely growl of a really nice car starting. What he got was a sickening grind, crunch, and thud, and the car bounced on its suspension. Stranger looked at George, who looked as ill as he felt. George slowly leaned over to look under the front of the car, and the expression that crossed his face spoke volumes.

The engine had fallen out.

"I don't think sonic is going to be able to fix this," George told him, unheeding of the crowd around him.

"Tough luck, mate," said the Hell's Angel. "It was a gorgeous car. I swear no one touched it while I was here."

"I believe you," Stranger said. His voice didn't crack, but it was close. "We... borrowed it from a friend, and he didn't exactly take the best care of it. Still. Can we have a moment of silence, please?"

The moment was respectfully observed. Leaving the key in the ignition, Stranger got back out, patted the hood, and looked at the Hell's Angel. "Could you get us a ride? Our get up and go just got up and went."

"Yeah, mate, sure. Anywhere special?" he asked. "I'm going back to Gary, Indy, myself."

"Why?" Stranger asked, aghast and momentarily distracted.

The Angel laughed. "Because that's where Gary and I live," he said. Seeing their blank looks, he said, "My boyfriend."

"What I don't understand is why you two couldn't find a nicer place to live," George said. "Like, Pittsburgh, or Cleveland. You don't get murdered by pollution and people at the same time there."

The Angel laughed. "I like you two," he said. "I'm Jack. So long as you're headed the same way I am, I'm glad to take you wherever. You'll need to ride in the T-Bone here, though."

"We're going to Chicago," Stranger told him, looking at the car with desirous eyes "and we would not mind a ride in the least."

------

As they drove along the back roads of Wisconsin, Stranger riding shotgun and George sprawled in the back, Jack told them about himself. He'd been military for a while, and hadn't much liked it. His boyfriend Gary hadn't been really okay with the whole Don't Ask, Don't Tell, bit. When they repealed it, he'd been one of the first to come out, and had left as soon as his enlistment was up. But he and Gary had been happy, with their bikes and cars and such, living in relative peace. He just went on and on, not asking them any questions about their lack of luggage or somewhat bedraggled state, and Stranger was infinitely glad of that. They drove for three hours, with stops for gas, before Jack said, "Do you to mind if we stop for the night? There's a motel coming up, and I'm falling-down tired right now."

Dreams of a nice hotel burst into little pieces of imaginary confetti when George said, "Sure, yeah, I've never stayed at a motel. You getting your own room?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "I snore something awful, and 'sides, I was expecting to anyway."

"Got it. Stranger, we're bunking together tonight," George told him.

"Great," Stranger said, wearily. "Abso-fucking-lutely wonderful."

"Ignore him, we're just getting a little sick of each other's company," George told Jack. "It's been a long couple of days."

"Road trips can be like that," Jack said wisely, and then they were pulling into the motel parking lot and Stranger flashed back to the gas station where George had phased the cashier. This place was like the old, slightly more sedate, better mannered, but alcoholic uncle of that gas station. In other words, it was sketchy as hell, but just wasn't openly racist.

"Nice place, isn't it?" Jack asked. "I stay here every time I come up to Wisconsin. Love it."

Stranger Kept his Mouth Shut, and followed him into the building. They were given keys by the ancient desk clerk, sternly warned not to smoke in the rooms unless the fans were turned on, and that an exterminator had just come through so of course there were no bugs or rats left in the place. Stranger heard a squeak and a rodent-y tussle come from behind a dead potted plant, but continued to Keep his Mouth Shut.

His mouth Stayed Shut, in fact, until he actually saw the room that they were staying in, and Jack was well ensconced in his own. Then he said, almost in awe, "This room is quite possibly the prototype for all nasty motels ever. It's the Platonic ideal, made real here on earth. It is, in fact, the sketchiest motel room on the planet, and I've stayed in enough bad ones, and exacerbated their awfulness in my memory far enough, that I can definitively say that."

It was, indeed, a sketchy hotel room. It put one in mind of a place where illicit drug deals happened regularly. It smelled vaguely like something had died there, several years ago. The room was painted white, but years of neglect had turned it the dingy brown of teeth unbrushed for a month or so. The carpet was pale orange shag that seemed to suck at the feet. The bed - there was only one - was a monster of a thing with an enormous box spring and some sort of coin-operated bit near the headboard, and was covered in black satin. Stranger suspected this room was not often used for platonic duos. There were cracks in the ceiling, and little bits of popcorn ceiling material were scattered across the carpeting. The television, perched atop a dresser that should not have been able to support its weight was one of the big lumbering box sets, but as far as Stranger could tell it was entirely for show - from the spray of cabling coming out the back, all its guts had been removed by some long-ago tennant. The place had, in general, the feel of a seventies love shack that was ignored and ransacked regularly during the four decades since. There was a thick layer of dust on everything in the room.

"Oh, it's not so bad," George said. "Hey, the bathroom has a Jacuzzi!"

"Don't use it," Stranger told him, peering cautiously into the bathroom. It was pure eighties glamorous ugly, lots of black marble and gold matte. There seemed to be a miasma of... something, over every surface, dullin1g the shine of what must have originally been the almost-blinding features of the room.

"Why not?" George asked, frowning at him, turning one of the faucet handles.

"Do you have any debilitating STDs?" Stranger asked him, watching with morbid fascination as the faucet started spurting slightly syrupy red liquid every five seconds or so.

"No." George turned the other handle, and the flow increased, becoming steadier and slightly less congealed, although it did turn green instead of red.

"Do you /want/ some?" Stranger asked, backing out. It was one thing to want a shower, and it was quite another to risk leprosy to take one. He wasn't quite at that point yet.

"Do you think this place has room service?" George asked him, shutting off the faucet to follow him out into the room and throw himself onto the bed. A cloud of dust thick enough to make it hard to see was thrown off the sheets. "Hey, this is comfortable."

"I don't know. We don't appear to have a phone, so even if the living history that checked us in is able to toddle along and get you a sandwich, we can't call out for it. And it means we're still off the grid," Stranger said. "I wish you kept your credit cards on you - at least then your minders would be able to find us by following the locations you've paid for stuff at."

"Maybe - the bed vibrates when you put a coin in the machine!" George was filled with child-like glee, while Stranger desperately tried to avoid picturing the bed's history. There was a low-pitched buzzing, then a small thump on the far side of the bed. George leaned over to see what it was, went very still, then said, "Do you think this is the kind of place where a halloween party might be held?"

"No," Stranger said, having an awful sneaking suspicion of what George had discovered. "Except maybe a very private one."

"Would one of those have decorations of the gory variety?" George asked. His voice was beginning to shake, just a little.

"Definitely not," Stranger said. The scent of elderly decay was suddenly stronger now, and going through his mind was every urban legend he'd ever heard involving sketchy motels and skeevy hotels. He suddenly knew exactly what George had found. "What body part is it?"

"The hand," said George, "the left hand," then he launched himself off the bed and into the bathroom, from whence retching noises emanated.

Stranger said, sounding a little absent even to his own ears, "I'm going to go and see if Jack has a cellphone or a room phone, alright?"

A sound of affirmation, then more retching. Stranger wandered out of the room and down two doors, where he knocked at Jack's. When Jack opened the door, he went from curious to concerned immediately. "What happened, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost. Did something happen to George?"

"Could I use your phone?" Stranger asked. Things were beginning to go a little fuzzy around the edges, and he heard a strange, high-pitched ringing in the back ground. "George and I seem to have found a dead prostitute under the bed, and I need to call 911."

Jack's eyes had gone huge. "No, mate, I'll do that for you. You look like you're about to fall down. Sit, come on." Stranger went and sat, over on the edge of Jack's (much nicer, cleaner, and overall presentable) bed.

"But tell them they don't need to hurry, I don't think it's going to matter to her," he said, and then he passed out.