From: caz@owlnet.rice.edu (HWRNMNBSOL)
Subject: America the Beautiful III
Organization: Rice University
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1992 09:53:37 GMT

WARNING: This is not a repost.  However, it *is* dreadfully fucking long.
I will now scoop all the coins from the Trevi Fountain and sneak off, 
dripping, into the warm Italian night.  Killfile me now.

*****************************************************************************

TUESDAY -- NOON
THE INTERSTATE

Frederick "Buddy" Everett grins down from the cab of his truck at the 
apparition standing on the median.  He has picked up some oddball hitchers 
in his time, but never one dressed like the mascot of a fast food chain whose
name shall not be mentioned in polite company.  

Ronald steps up to the window and puts on his most engaging smile.  "Hi,"
he says.  "Need a lift."

Buddy stares long and hard at the stranger, who looks back at him without
blinking.  Unnerving, that.  Especially if you are trying to scope out a
potentially-gun-wielding loony.  Who you have seen cavorting with children
on prime-time television advertising.

Buddy stares some more, then sighs deeply.  "Mister, this has got to be the
nuttiest stunt for getting a lift that I have ever seen.  Hop in."  Ronald
flashes his special smile -- the one with the sunbeams leaking out from around
the edges -- and comes around the front of the rig.  He opens the passenger
side door and buckles himself in.  "Thanks a bunch."

Buddy takes another look.  Christ, the guy is dressed *exactly* like that
goddamn TV clown.  Even has the same silly voice.  Doesn't seem to be packing,
though, unless he's got a piece tucked away up those baggy pants.  "OK, um..."

"....Ronald."

Jesus.  "Right.  Ronald.  I'm headed all the way to the coast, and I've got
a tight timetable.  I'll take you anywhere between here and there, but I won't
pay your way, and I won't make side trips -- not even a hundred yards.  OK?"

"OK."

Buddy puts the rig in gear and pulls back out onto the freeway.  "So, Ronald,
where you headed?"

Ronald looks kind of puzzled.  "I guess I'm not really sure."

The corners of Buddy's lips jack up a fraction of an inch.  "Running away?"

"Sort of.  More like running toward, but I don't know where 'toward' is.  
Does that make any sense?"

"Sounds like the optimist's view of running away."

"Maybe.  I do know that I'm looking for something....something...."

"Ephemeral?"

Ronald flashes a smirk at Buddy.  "You think too much for a truck driver."

Buddy grins back.  "And you philosophize too much for a fucking clown."

"Heh.  Got me there.  What's your name?"

"Buddy.  Nice ta meetcha."  They are quiet for a while.  It starts to rain.

Ronald watches the lights of the cars flash by, their beams muted and diffused
by the water splashing across the windshield.  The rhythmic swish-flopping of
the wipers seems hypnotic.  Ronald thinks awhile, then turns back to Buddy.

"Hey, Buddy?"

"Yah?"

"This is a goofy question..."

"They're all goofy.  Ask away."

"When you think of me, what do you think of?"

Oh, shit.  This is where the psycho makes his move.  This one must be sexually
obsessed or something.  Crap.  "Er.....Whaddaya mean?"

"Well, surely you've seen me on the tube or something.  Hey, I'm famous!  
C'mon -- you can't mean to say you didn't recognize me?"  Buddy half turns
in his seat.

"Mister, I don't know who you really are.  If you want to call yourself
Ronald, that's fine by me.  If you want to wear stupid duds and shoes that
get stuck in escalators, be my guest.  But -- and I hope you are paying 
attention here -- you are not THE Ronald.  I mean, that guy must be just
rolling in dough, being in all those commercials all the time.  Hell, what
a life that must be.  Guy dresses in a clown suit, right? spends maybe a
half-hour a day in front of the cameras, then gets paid millions.  Prob'ly
hangs out by the pool, sipping margaritas, and tells fabulous babes that
he earns a zillion pretending to be a maniac with orange hair. 

"Such a man, I think you will agree, Ronald, is unlikely to be hitching
on the interstate.  Yes?"

Ronald stares straight ahead, a perturbed look unnaturally creasing his
happy face.  He thinks for perhaps thirty seconds, then turns back to Buddy
with renewed intensity.  

"So what you're saying is that, to you, and to the rest of the American
People, 'Ronald' has no more meaning than a cartoon, or a bumper sticker.
There is no deeper meaning associated with me than with, say, a piece of
food which happens to be for sale.  People associate Ronald with a food
product only, and no deeper meaning comes across, correct?"

"Ummm.....yeah, I guess so."  This one has definitely turned out to be a
crazy, but apparently a harmless one.  So far.

"...And the reason for this, if I may continue, is that 'Ronald' exists
only as a caricature on a television screen.  That character -- me -- has
no reality, objective or subjective, to Americans.  When you look at Ronald
on the screen, you see the well-paid actor, not the symbol behind him.  Do
all Americans share this viewpoint?"

"Well, sure, I guess so.  I mean, it's just an advertising scheme, right?
Only kids believe that Ronald really exists."

Ronald looks sour.  "Hmmph.  Not even them, most of the time."  They are
quiet again.

Up ahead, the familiar Golden Arches can be seen through the downpour.  
Seems like we're in every town these days, muses Ronald.  He presses his
face to the window and peers at the cheerful lights in his restaurant, and
the fairly large crowd of people inside.  Ronald frowns.

For some reason, the people are not moving.

"Stop the truck,"  says Ronald.

"What?!"

"I said STOP THE TRUCK!"

*****************************************************************************

Buzz has watch-duty, and everything looks good.  No cops have driven by.  Lots
of traffic on the interstate, but none of them seem to be hungry.  Just a few
more minutes, and it won't matter.

He turns away from the window and looks at the rest of the crew.  Shithook
is screaming at the manager to stay on the fuckin' floor, and Randy is 
collecting watches from customers.  Larry is covering the diners with the
shotgun.  That was a bad choice, muses Buzz -- the jolt is starting to wear
off, and he's looking a little jerky.  This could get very serious indeed if
Larry gets overly nervous.  Fortunately, Shithook seems to have gotten the
register open, so it will be feet-beating time very soon.  

Turning back to the window, he sees somebody with flaming hair loping through
the rain toward the store.  "Customer!" he hisses, and sits down a the table
nearest the door.  His voice sounds muted behind the Terminator mask.  Shithook
has ducked beneath the counter, and Randy is practically sitting on some fat
lady in a booth.  Larry, who is definitely not doing so good, is still 
standing in front of the counter, the whites of his eyes showing, his shotgun
trained on the door.  "Larry!" he hisses.  "Get down..."  but it's too late.
The stranger has entered the store.

It's Ronald.  

Larry boggles a moment, then starts cackling insanely.  He waves his weapon
at Ronald: "Buzz!  Look!  It's fucking Ronald!  He's caught us in his fucking
store!  EEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK!!!!"

Ronald stares calmly at the bandits.  "Put your guns on the floor."

Larry gets deadly serious and points his shotgun at Ronald's chest.  "Fuck
You.  You stupid fuck.  YOU get on the fucking floor, cocksucker, or I'll
fuck you up."  He fixes gazes with Ronald, who does not blink.

Buzz isn't sure what it is that bugs him.  Oh, sure, it's weird that some
idiot dressed as the local Bozo busts in on them just as they're pulling the
job.  But *this* particular idiot sets off alarms in Buzz's mind.  Perhaps
it's the utter lack of fear in his face.  Perhaps it's the clipped economy
of his movements.  Perhaps it's that, after running through the rain, his
clothes and fluffy hair are still dry.

Ronald steps forward.  Larry's eyes get big as saucers, and he pulls the 
trigger.  BOOM!!!

Fiberglass is wonderful stuff, particularly when it's magical.  The wad
hits Ronald square in the chest and bounces off in a hundred little pieces.
Ronald sees that things have gotten out of hand, and decides that now is
the time for a judicious application of magic.  With a wave of his hand,
gravity is reversed for Larry.  He falls to the ceiling, knocking himself
out in the process.  His shotgun clatters to the floor.  There is a stunned
silence.

Randy comes diving forward off the floor, firing quickly with his Browning.
At the same time, Shithook pops over the edge of the counter and squeezes
off with the Remington.  The bullets can't hurt Ronald, but they might hit
innocents.  Ronald waves his hands, making the mystical 'M' symbol, and
a dazzling golden light fills in the paths of his hands.  The light grows
brighter and brighter, blinding the crooks.

With his right hand, Ronald waves at the garbage can.  It animates, its
gaping opening snapping like the jaws of a pit bull, and it wheels forward
to engulf Randy in its maw.  It somehow sucks Randy's upper body into its
mouth and holds him there, his screams echoing hollowly.

With his left hand, Ronald waves at the food preparation areas.  Scores of 
hamburgers, french fries, and hot apple pies fly out of the back and engulf
Shithook in a screaming mass of junk food.  They drag him out of sight and
pin him beneath the grilles.  "Hold him there until the police arrive," 
commands Ronald.  "You betcha, boss," says a box of chicken nuggets, and
salutes smartly.

"Hey," says Buzz.  Ronald turns to look.  Buzz seems to have a knife out
and is menacing a little girl.  He is also backing towards the doorway.
"I'll cut her," he says.

"Nope," says Ronald.  The door magically transforms into a gateway to another
place.  Buzz steps into it and disappears.  The girl remains in place. 

Buddy steps through the doorway.  He saw it all, and can't believe his eyes.

Ronald guides the little girl back to a table.  The rest of the restaurant
continues to sit in utter shock.  Ronald reaches behind the girl's ear and
produces a milkshake.  She takes it.  "Are you Santa?" she asks.

Ronald smiles.  "No, darling.  I'm Ronald."

"Oh.  What did you do with that bad guy?"

"He's in my special land.  He'll have to stay there awhile.  I figure the
locals will persuade him to act nicer in the future.  The Fry-Weeds can
get vicious when threatened."

"Oh.  Okay."  The girls sets to work on the shake.  Ronald gets up from the
table and spots Buddy, who is still gaping.

"Ready to go, Buddy?"

"Uh?  Oh, uh, yeah.  Sure."

**************************************************************************

Back in the truck:

"You seem so distant, Buddy.  What's the matter?"

"What's the matter, he says.  Huh."

"That's right."

"I'll tell you what's the matter.  I go through forty-some years of life,
content to be a trucker, never questioning the lessons of life that I have
been taught, and then in thirty seconds everything goes crazy.  It's as if
everything has been turned on its head."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you, for instance.  You're not real.  Everybody knows that.  But...
but just now you....you...."

"I manifested myself.  I made reality of icon.  I became part of this world."

"Er, well, yes."

"Buddy, I can see it clearly now.  I have been behind the scenes too long.
It's time to work in the trenches for once -- on a layer of reality closer
to that of the American People.  I can't do any good as a cartoon."

"Suppose not."

"I'll need help, though.  There's a lot I don't know yet.  The world's a
strange place, and most of it's fairly new to me.  Also, I don't have any
wheels.  Buddy, I need some help.  Will you...."

"Will I what?"

"Will you be my disciple?  Will you come with me, and help me spread my
message?  Will you assist me in bringing meaning back to my existence?"

Buddy stares out at the open road.  After forty-something years, it looks
pretty dull and uninteresting. 

"Why the fuck not......"

***************************************************************************

UPSTATE


He's smashed all the lights out in the room.  Only the glowing screen of
the TV illuminates the room.  The dim light highlights the more morbid
details of the motel suite: the bloodstained sheets, blackened stain on
the floor, the squat figure hunched at the end of the bed.

At the moment, he's watching Sesame Street.

"Near.....<puff-puff-puff>....Far!"

The figure stirs.  "Nnn.....rrr.....ff.....rrr......Rrrggh!"

"Near.....<puff-puff-puff>....Far!"

"Nnn...Eee...Rrrr...<whuff>....Ffff..Aaahhh...Rrrrr...<hunh-hunh>..."

"Near.....<puff-puff-puff>....Far!"

"Nnnn....Eeee..<huff>....RrrrrrrrRabbleRabbleRabbleARRGGGHHH!"  The cloaked
figure pulls a shiny new Colt from his waistband and empties the weapon into
the television screen.  Grover disappears in a flash of blue sparks.

For the first time in his life, Hamburglar begins to weep.....

****************************************************************************

TO BE CONTINUED

-- 
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