Perhaps I judged Knox too harshly.
Early on, I said I couldn’t bring myself to work with someone with such limited vision. A high-caliber opponent, to be sure, and a dangerous competitor. Far too driven by an obsession with gold for he and I to ever share a common goal.
But then came Wrestlestock… an event where an abundance of opportunity for achievement presented itself. While I bet on one single race, The Raven threw his hat into any ring that would have him. Five matches, was it?
There’s no doubt Knox was the MVP of Wrestlestock, if not at least on the level with Larry Tact. That’s exposure you can’t buy without shedding blood for it.
The sun sets over the Amargosa Valley, the Bullfrog Hills casting long shadows across the desert. Nevada’s gold rush had scattered ghost towns throughout the state, but one of the most recognizable is Rhyolite.
Crumbling sandstone facades dot the landscape like the sun-bleached skeletons of fallen titans. Thousands of ancient tin cans, blackened by heat and age, collect in gullies and under the sparse scrub. A house made entirely of glass bottles mortared together shimmers eerily in the last orange rays of the dying daylight. Far to the south, phantom sculptures frozen in time rise from the hardpan.
Inside the remains of the Cook Bank building, Montague Cervantes, Jordana Andrews, and Rett sit in camping chairs on top of the vaults. Leaning forward uncomfortably, Jordana pulls her Survey Corps jacket around tighter, turning her collar up against the desert wind.
Jordana: It’s unsettling out here. We should move into the train depot for the evening.
Monty scoffs.
Montague: Where’s your sense of adventure?
Jordana: When you invited me to accompany you on vacation, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
The Showman shrugs.
Montague: The Underlook leads you to where you need to be. Always.
Rett: Rett!!
Monty’s agent fixes him with a side glare.
Jordana: Meaning?
Tilting his head a little, Montague pauses to decide how to put it into words.
Montague: I could try to explain it… poorly… but I’ve come to understand that the passages under the farmhouse sort of… move around me depending on what I need at the moment.
Jordana: For UGWC?
The Doctor-Professor chuckles.
Montague: Sometimes. I’ll be honest, I don’t always understand the lesson that’s being provided.
She nods as if she understands, but then asks;
Jordana: So, when we came up out of that defunct mine up the hill, what clued you in that we needed to camp here?
Montague half-rolls his eyes.
Montague: I don’t know that we do, for sure, but there’s a lot going on out here. Something is going to happen, can’t you feel the anticipation in the air? It might come from the Goldwell sculptures, or up in the Montgomery Shoshone mine, or even the Bottle House. What I do know is we’re not going to know it’s happening if we’re cloistered inside the boarded up train depot.
Jordana sighs in resignation.
Jordana: How cold is it supposed to get out here at night?
Montague: Freezing desert nights are a very common myth that is still being perpetuated. Desert nights are not cold, in fact it’s still hot further down into Death Valley. Up here in the hills though, it’s refreshingly cool at night, even comfortable.
When she doesn’t show any sign of relief at this, he adds;
Montague: I can build a fire in one of the vaults when it gets darker, if you like.
Jordana: That would be helpful…
Rett: Rett!!
He smiles, knowing it’s the light she actually wants. Imagine someone in his inner circle being afraid of the dark… not that he’d ever tell her that he knew.
#
In the dead quiet of the night, a lone coyote belts out a mournful wail. Soon after, the sounds of metallic clanks begin to echo off the hills, along with a woman’s voice, which swears loudly;
Voice: Ah, fuck!
Rett: Rett!!
Jordana and Monty are on their feet and alert in an instant. From within the vault, where the campfire has dwindled down to embers, Jordana calls out to Monty.
Jordana: What was that?!
Montague: Someone’s out here.
He scoops up Rett, placing him on his shoulder, and climbs down from the perch where he’d been dozing. Without warning, he darts into the inky blackness of the desert.
Jordana: Montague! Wait!
Thankful she’s wearing boots and not high heels, she takes off in pursuit.
A blessing arrives in the form of the nearly-full moon cresting the edge of the cloud which had been hiding it, and Jordana can make out the Mothman’s cape, billowing as he races past the remains of the Overbury building. As Rhyolite Road veers to the southwest, Monty veers to his left at the gutted schoolhouse and crosses the road. He continues southward toward the Bottle House, and Jordana risks allowing herself to feel relief that he might be stopping there.
It’s a premature feeling.
Just before another gray cloud moves in to cover the moon, Montague bolts past the Bottle House, giving no sign of slowing.
In the total darkness of this wasteland, she’s forced to rely on her ears, straining to catch her client’s footfalls, or the occasional call of his robot kitty.
The problem is, those metal clangs ring out like hammers falling on her skull more often than she hears her quarry. Each time, Jordana winces and curses along with the rough, but feminine voice.
Voice: Shit!
Jordana: Shit!
Their voices echo until they’re punctuated by:
Rett: Rett!!
Laughing despite herself, the absurdity of the situation she’s in hitting her like a pillow to the face, Jordana slows to a brisk walk to catch her breath.
Jordana: If I can hear Rett… then they can hear me…
After panting for another minute, she leans back and cups her hands around her cheeks, intending to bellow out to Montague until he answers. Instead, she freezes, eyes wide in panic, as an amorphous form towers above her. The moon makes a return appearance, revealing the figure in stark relief, a pickaxe in its upraised arms.
She can also now see the giant penguin behind it, and realizes where she is. This is the sculpture garden. Chuckling with relief, she wanders south, assuming that’s the general direction Montague was heading. She’s fascinated by how the Ghost Rider and Last Supper sculptures glow in the moonlight.
Rett: Rett!!
Daring to hope she was catching up, she spies the red glow of Rett’s dot matrix eyes peering back at her from the distance. It’s eerie as hell. It also indicates that Montague is no longer moving.
With a renewed effort, Jordana picks up the pace again, determined to catch up this time.
There’s a stitch in her side when she catches up to Montague, who barely acknowledges her presence at first. As she stands there, impatiently catching her breath, the Showman finally gives a theatrical sigh.
Montague: Welcome to Bullfrog-Rhyolite Cemetery!
Straightening up, she looks around, noticing tall, thin slabs rising from inside cages. They lean this way and that, like broken, rotted teeth. Some are wooden, some sandstone, very few granite.
Montague: That voice we’ve been hearing… that husky, woman’s voice with the colorful language? It must be Panamint Annie!
Rett: Rett!!
Jordana: Peppermint Pattie?
Montague: Panamint Annie, a tenacious female prospector who thrived here despite the dried up gold mines. That’s who we’re looking for.
Jordana: How will we know which one is hers?
Montague: It’s the one with all the tributes.
They split up and wander about, Jordana following Rett to make use of his eyebeams. Soon, they come to a pile of stones beneath a Joshua tree. Scattered all over the mound are potted plants, liquor bottles, and women’s high heeled shoes.
Jordana: Montague! I found it!
The Doctor-Professor joins her at the foot of Mary Elizabeth Madison’s grave, reading the headstone in reverent silence.
Jordana: 1910 to 1979? She moved here after the mines went bust?
Montague: And prospered. She was very progressive for the early twentieth century, and very enterprising. Anyone who crossed her or told her no found themselves cut under her blistering tongue. She pulled no punches and suffered no man who saw her as inferior. It wasn’t about the gold, little as she found here, it was about turning a hostile environment into her vision board. You have to admire that.
Looking at her client she makes up her mind.
Jordana: I think I know what you need. Can we make a stop on the way back to Gnaw Bone later today?
Montague studies her face, intrigued that she’s puzzled out the lesson.
Montague: Sure. Let’s get some rest.
Jordana: We’re sleeping in the Bottle House!
For what it’s worth to anyone, he’s earned my respect.
I’m not ready to sing his praises, by any means. He still needs perspective, he still needs… something creative.
The Suplex Cops is a start, tame as it may be. It does indicate a spark of cynical expressiveness in there somewhere.
I’m sure all Matt sees in our next dance is my glittering belt, and he can’t see beyond it. This could be the start of so much more.
He just needs that spark cultivated… he just needs… the proper motivation…
