Animata under the rotting, fungus-specked redwood deck of the absurdly overpriced suburban home that he rented. The rent was killing him. Ever since his lover had moved out last Christmas, Tug had been meaning to move into a smaller place, but somewhere deep down he nursed a hope that if he kept the house, some nice strong man would come and move in with him.
Next door, Tug’s neighbors were flinging water-balloons and roaring with laughter as they sizzled up a huge aromatic rack of barbecued tofu. They were rich Samoans. They had a big green parrot called Toatoa. On fine days, such as today, Toatoa sat squawking on the gable of the house. Toatoa had a large yellow beak and a taste for cuttlebone and pumpkin-seeds.
“This is great,” Revel opined, examining the earthquake-split walls and peeling ceiling sheetrock. “I was afraid we’d have some trouble findin’ the necessary space for experiments. No problem though, with you rentin’ this sorry dump for a workshop.”
“I live here,” said Tug with dignity. “By California standards this is a very good house.”
“No wonder you want to start a company!” Revel climbed the redwood stairs to Tug’s outdoor deck, and dragged a yard-long plastic pressure-cylinder from within his duffel bag, flinging aside some balled-up boot socks and a set of watered-silk boxer shorts. “You got a garden hose? And a funnel?” He pulled a roll of silvered duct tape from the bottom of his bag.
Tug supplied a length of hose, prudently choosing one that had been severely scorched during the last hillside brushfire. Revel whipped a French designer pocketknife from within his Can’t-Bust-’Ems and slashed off a three-foot length. He then deftly duct-taped the tin funnel to the end of the hose, and blew a few kazoo-like blasts.
Revel then flung the crude horn aside and took up the pressure cylinder. “You don’t happen to have a washtub, do you?”
“No problem,” Tug said. He went into the house and fetched a large plastic picnic cooler.
Revel opened the petcock of the pressure cylinder and began decanting its contents into the cooler. The black nozzle slowly ejaculated a thick clear gel, rather like silicone putty. Pint after pint of it settled languorously into the white pebbly interior of the hinge-topped cooler. The stuff had a sulfurous, burning-rubber reek that Tug associated with Hawaii—a necessarily brief stay he’d had on the oozing, flaming slopes of Kilauea.
Tug prudently sidled across the deck and stood upwind of the cooler. “How far down did you obtain this sample?”
Revel laughed. “Down? Doc, this stuff broke the safety-valves on old Ditheree and blew drillin’ mud over five counties. We had an old-time blue-ball gusher of it. It just kept comin’, pourin’ out over the ground. Kinda, you know, spasmodic ... Finally ended up with a lake of clear hot pudding higher than the tops of pickups.”
“Jesus, what happened then?” Tug asked.
“Some evaporated. Some soaked right into the subsoil. Disappeared. The first sample I scored was out of the back of some good ol’ boy’s Toyota. Lucky thing he had the tailgate up, or it woulda all run out.”
Revel pulled out a handkerchief, wiped sweat from his forehead, and continued talking. “Of course, once we got the rig repaired, we did some serious pump-work. We Pullens happen to own a tank-farm near Nacogdoches, a couple a football field’s worth of big steel reservoirs. Haven’t seen use since the OPEC embargo of the 70s. They were pretty much abandoned on site. But every one of them babies is brim-full with Revel Pullen’s trademark Urschleim right now.” He glanced up at the sun, looking a bit wild-eyed, and wiped his forehead again. “You got any beer in this dump?”
“Sure, Revel.” Tug went into the kitchen for two bottles of Etna Ale, and brought them out to the deck.
Revel drank thirstily, then gestured with his makeshift horn. “If this don’t work, well, you’re gonna think
Next door, Tug’s neighbors were flinging water-balloons and roaring with laughter as they sizzled up a huge aromatic rack of barbecued tofu. They were rich Samoans. They had a big green parrot called Toatoa. On fine days, such as today, Toatoa sat squawking on the gable of the house. Toatoa had a large yellow beak and a taste for cuttlebone and pumpkin-seeds.
“This is great,” Revel opined, examining the earthquake-split walls and peeling ceiling sheetrock. “I was afraid we’d have some trouble findin’ the necessary space for experiments. No problem though, with you rentin’ this sorry dump for a workshop.”
“I live here,” said Tug with dignity. “By California standards this is a very good house.”
“No wonder you want to start a company!” Revel climbed the redwood stairs to Tug’s outdoor deck, and dragged a yard-long plastic pressure-cylinder from within his duffel bag, flinging aside some balled-up boot socks and a set of watered-silk boxer shorts. “You got a garden hose? And a funnel?” He pulled a roll of silvered duct tape from the bottom of his bag.
Tug supplied a length of hose, prudently choosing one that had been severely scorched during the last hillside brushfire. Revel whipped a French designer pocketknife from within his Can’t-Bust-’Ems and slashed off a three-foot length. He then deftly duct-taped the tin funnel to the end of the hose, and blew a few kazoo-like blasts.
Revel then flung the crude horn aside and took up the pressure cylinder. “You don’t happen to have a washtub, do you?”
“No problem,” Tug said. He went into the house and fetched a large plastic picnic cooler.
Revel opened the petcock of the pressure cylinder and began decanting its contents into the cooler. The black nozzle slowly ejaculated a thick clear gel, rather like silicone putty. Pint after pint of it settled languorously into the white pebbly interior of the hinge-topped cooler. The stuff had a sulfurous, burning-rubber reek that Tug associated with Hawaii—a necessarily brief stay he’d had on the oozing, flaming slopes of Kilauea.
Tug prudently sidled across the deck and stood upwind of the cooler. “How far down did you obtain this sample?”
Revel laughed. “Down? Doc, this stuff broke the safety-valves on old Ditheree and blew drillin’ mud over five counties. We had an old-time blue-ball gusher of it. It just kept comin’, pourin’ out over the ground. Kinda, you know, spasmodic ... Finally ended up with a lake of clear hot pudding higher than the tops of pickups.”
“Jesus, what happened then?” Tug asked.
“Some evaporated. Some soaked right into the subsoil. Disappeared. The first sample I scored was out of the back of some good ol’ boy’s Toyota. Lucky thing he had the tailgate up, or it woulda all run out.”
Revel pulled out a handkerchief, wiped sweat from his forehead, and continued talking. “Of course, once we got the rig repaired, we did some serious pump-work. We Pullens happen to own a tank-farm near Nacogdoches, a couple a football field’s worth of big steel reservoirs. Haven’t seen use since the OPEC embargo of the 70s. They were pretty much abandoned on site. But every one of them babies is brim-full with Revel Pullen’s trademark Urschleim right now.” He glanced up at the sun, looking a bit wild-eyed, and wiped his forehead again. “You got any beer in this dump?”
“Sure, Revel.” Tug went into the kitchen for two bottles of Etna Ale, and brought them out to the deck.
Revel drank thirstily, then gestured with his makeshift horn. “If this don’t work, well, you’re gonna think
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