27 Strings

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My body slowly started to awaken. My hands rubbed my eyes, divorcing my eyelids from each other, and scooping the handful of sand that the Sandman had left in the wells of my eyes. I stretched my arms into a tense position and appearing as if I were Atlas, holding the world on my shoulders, before I roared a yawn. Perhaps this wasn't too much of an exaggeration as the burden of my future was on my shoulders and any stumble could fuck up the balance of things. I scoped the room for any sort of timepiece, be it an alarm clock, a pocket watch, a sundial, even a Mayan calendar. I spotted a round wall clock, accompanied with Roman numerals and fleurs-de-lys as hands, something that you may find in the antique shop situated on Louis Chauvin Avenue. The long hand had made its way to the third line past VII and the short hand was resting on IX. It was time for me to leave, time to check-out this motel and to continue the journey. I climbed into my boots; slid my leather jacket on; swung the one-string drawstring bag over my left shoulder, before hauling the duffel bag and resting it on top of my left shoulder; held the demonic radio in my left hand; shoved the keys into my right jean's pocket and grabbed my Gibson Les Paul by its fret board. This was it, this was goodbye. The curtain call, the final round, the last dance, the dramatic end. I settled the Les Paul down outside the "Honeymoon" suite; locked the door; this time I stuck my right index finger through the keyring and picked up the Les Paul again. The rubber soles of my boots did a drum roll as I descended the stairs and entered the reception area. I leant the Les Paul against the reception desk. I slammed the keys onto the desk like a judge would with their gavel, finalising my departure and destiny.

I shook the hand of the owner, who still had suicidal thoughts on his mind, and bid him farewell. I travelled across the parking lot to my Chevy Chevelle SS. I rambled to the rear and unlatched the trunk before swinging it open and off-loading the emotional burden of the duffel bag. I slammed the trunk shut and prayed that it would disappear down a worm-hole before I had to open it again. I laid the Gibson Les Paul on the passenger seat; discarded the drawstring bag and demonic radio onto the back seat; lit up a cigarette, and turned the ignition key to hear the rumbling of the Chevelle's engine. I exited the motel's parking lot and turned left onto Louis Chauvin Avenue. I made a quick-stop to purchase a 6-pack of bottle-cap beer; a packet of peanuts; two packs of Roger Lee Durham cigarettes and a portable alarm clock from Jacob Miller Liquor-store before continuing the journey. I turned right down Rudy Lewis Road and followed the middle tarred-pathway. The car that I had witnessed crash into the guard-rails of a toll booth had been towed away to the police compound; but a few blinks after the scene, I had noticed a car with the number plate Valentin and peppered with bullet holes and yellow ballistic markers. The car was surrounded by a swarm of squad cars and paramedics pushing occupied gurneys to the back of their ambulances. I focused on the road before me and kept on cruising.

It was dark, a moonless night, just like the legend had required for the attendance of the devil. I could barely see the diamond sign on the side of the highway that indicated that I was travelling on Route 27. The crackling sound of course sand crunching underneath the tyres had awakened the silent skies as the asphalt highway had degraded to a dirt road. I was on a hot trail to hell. Street lights morphed into sycamores, and the only thing civilised in the area was a pair of zoot shoes hang on the telephone wire that ran adjacent to the road. The area started to look like the one described in the legend, I had arrived. I decided to park the Chevelle on the side of the dirt road, a walking distance away from The Crossroads. I still had time to kill. I tore the cardboard casing of the 6-pack open. I grabbed two bottles, one to drink and the other to wedge the bottle-cap off like a bottle-opener. I placed the second bottle next to the Les Paul and took a swig from the first bottle. I examined the quartz glass and label of the lager distilled from Winehouse Breweries while I tantalised my tastebuds with the cocktail of barley malt, maize, hops and water. I could sense a belch bubbling after the third swig.