I put the pedal to the floor on my 1992 Camaro and stared straight into the fuel charged haze of the HOV lane. The place: suburban Dallas…Irving; the time: 11:00 am. DJ’s eyes were wide with nodoze terrors. His arms gyrated seemingly out of their sockets to the salsa rhythm on the radio.

“Take a look at this map, fucker!” I tossed a crumpled piece of vintage computer paper in his lap.

He pulled the fuzzy long hair out of his eyes and smoothed the paper frantically with his momentarily useless hands.

“Whaa-whoo-where are we going anyway?!” he grambled.

“Gimmee that!” I snarled — snatching the paper from his hands. “The Museum of Living History…it’s too good to be true. I can’t even imagine the madness they must have going on in there.”

I knew the Camaro well — Suarez was the green monster’s name — he would be overheating any minute. The music on the radio turned ominous.

H-H-H-H-ERE’S SOMETHIN’, H-H-H-HERE’S SOMETHIN…B-B–B-B-ABY, YOU JUST AIN’T GONNA FORGET!

DJ was looking sick and anxious. His face beaded with sweat; the sun sent drops from his slight beard sizzling down onto the dashboard.

“Damn you! What are you good for anyway?!”

DJ hurried through his pockets like Garth searching for an empty snowcone. He pulled out a multi-colored pipe. It was full of green and his face began to change colors. The sweat moved from a downpour to a drizzle. He handed me the pipe with great satisfaction.

Any love is good lovin

So I took what I could get

I deftly extricated a lighter from my suit pants pocket and set the pipe ablaze. DJ steadied the wheel with suddenly calm hands.

And then, and then, and then she looked at me with those big brown eyes and said

You ain’t seen nothing yet
Baby you just ain’t seen n-n-nothing yet

I exhaled a great cloud of smoke and the hazy road ahead came into focus. But, DJ was pointing wordlessly — pipe in hand — behind us. In the rearview, white smoke blanketed the road. I swerved Suarez across four lanes of traffic — no time to brake. We hurtled down the exit ramp toward an unexpected curve accompanied by many honking horns.

“WE’RE HISTORY!” coughed DJ clutching the door.

But, the green monster hugged the curve — expertly shrouded in a white cloud. I held the wheel steady and slammed on the brakes. We Tokyo drifted into the Citgo station to awe struck faces. They held their noses and flapped their arms like upset mother hens. A fire was emerging from under the hood and I knew it. I grabbed my emergency canteen, popped the hood, and doused the engine. I jumped back just in-time to avoid the vicious blast of steam and landed on my back near the overflowing trash can.

My neck was rubbed raw — plasma oozed down into the neck of my shredded leather jacket. I was one lucky jacket away from road rash. I scrambled a few yards away from Suarez — unsure of his level of combustibility. DJ still sat inside; his crazed silence escaping with the unending layers of steam.

Heat radiated from the car giving me a tanning bed sensation on my already sunburnt face. Wincing, I made my way over the to the passenger side and pulled him from the car. The contact startled him back into his frenzy and I had to smack him sensible. Still, he kept his hand on his face and walked gingerly — a few steps behind me.

I eyed the station. It was no larger than a tollbooth. The sign outside advertised cold drinks: 2 FOR 5 TWELVE PACKS! My arm rested on the door as I waited for DJ. I paused to wonder where they kept all the drinks…

A man stood leaning on the counter scratching lottery tickets with rural malaise. His eyes stayed focused on the tickets and the cashier looked in our direction impatiently. Had she noticed our near explosion? I wondered.

We grabbed our drinks. DJ obeyed his thirst and I reached for an exotic cold coffee malt beverage. The conversation had turned to us.

“You fellas headed to the party?” asked lottery man. We attempted to mask our confusion.

“Y-y-es,” I stammered — convinced he had read my mind.
A major vein in DJ’s forehead looked as though it might collapse. I went with the flow.

“Where are we going to park?” I wondered aloud.
The cashier was disinterested. “Cephus, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do for this boy’s birthday party. I mean…” she continued.

“I just don’t think we’ll find a place at this hour. I mean…where?”

Apparently, their extrasensory perception had failed or they didn’t care. We placed our drinks on the counter, paid, and left with some dignity in tact. Low and behold, the car was still in one piece…albeit, still smoking.

We carefully slid inside. The dark leather singed my neck like fresh baked blacktop.

“Sweet Christ! Pass me that BOWL,” I growled.
Third gear before we were out of the parking lot. There was no question: we would make it — still a half tank of gas, still no cops.

Suarez roared past every car in sight. I was in the arcade zone — knowing somehow that if we flipped there were continues available at a low price. Fists and fingers flew out of open windows. We had startled highway slumberboxes into action — even if only for a moment of rage.

This time I took the exit gently. Our speed would not go over well in the dense urban jungle of Dallas. Nevertheless, I parked hurriedly on the street and beckoned DJ.

“Feed the meter!” I shouteded crassly. I stiffly jogged toward the entrance still feeling the retched sting in my neck. Keys, change, and miscellaneous bulk scratched my sweaty thighs. Huffing and puffing, I reached the top of the stairs.

Large, grey marble columns greeted me. I dashed past them distractedly and slammed into an exiting patron. The books in her hands spilled all the way down the steps. DJ stopped his ascent to assist. One high heel appeared to be broken; she limped toward me with a savage grin. Her eyes bulged with disproportionate anger.

“YOU ought to WATCH…where YOU’RE going!” she frothed.
I sneered and pushed her down the stairs. DJ looked up in horror. He dropped the books on her chest and quickly followed me into the museum.

A carnival for the eyes besieged us inside. A tall burly man in short red shorts stamped his foot repeatedly in front of his three year old son. An echo slapped around all four monstrous walls as the child wailed. He stared at a clipboard full of x’s and o’s while his face reddened.

I realized then that these were no ordinary exhibits. This was a collision of space and time.

DJ wandered awestruck to his left where a frenzied group of middle-aged men clamored for pole position. Their prize: a giant foot statue. Sharp elbows sparred, knuckes were bitten; grown men rolled on the floor — all to kiss the great tantamount to their shared sexual obsession.

A crowd of middle-aged women to my left stood staggered in trapezoid formation chain smoking their torches of freedom. Their heads bobbed like pigeons as they checked their watches and repeatedly powdered their noses. Tight tops clung to their silocon breasts muted only by the bright light shining off their Robin McGraw porcelain veneers, half carat diamonds rings, and leather botox skin.

In time, DJ and I wandered to the center of the grand hall. A giant wood cross emerged from a deep hole in the ground. Blood flowed along its entirety while ambitious climbers slipped their way to the top and through the roof. Continual shrieks and moans started soft and ended in sanguinous, bone-shattering thuds.
A calm voice patched through to my brain — a resounding intercom loud enough to drown out the rest.

“Repent, repent, repent…” it pleaded.

Up walked an 8 foot man dressed in black flowing robes. His bald head shone brighter than bling, waxy skin, and sparkling teeth substitutes. He opened his mouth and a black snake gurgled silenty forth. I turned to look for DJ, but my neck moved slowly. A dimmer switch slowly strangled my sense. The man placed the snake around my neck.

“She won’t bite,” he promised with death on his breath.

“Who are…you?” I rattled.

“You’re my psychic vampire.” he answered.