Doorways to Everywhere (Tourist Trap Book 2)

Chapter 2

About twenty minutes later, Max walked out the front door feeling ready to blend in with the world, although lacking the traditional human shaped ears, nose and eyebrows, he looked somewhat like a burn victim.

Maurice puttered up in his automobile, which was some beat up rusty old Eastern European relic from the Communist era.  It sported a cracked windshield, chipped paintjob, and brakes that squeaked loudly.  “Get in!” he called out.

Max eyed the vehicle with disdain as he slid into the passenger’s seat.  “What in the hell is this thing?”

“It’s a car,” Maurice said sheepishly.  “They’re the main method of transportation in our world.”

“You mean everybody drives around these noisy, polluting, motorized chariots?” Max asked in disgust.  “Don’t you have a Roto-bus or anything?”

“We’ve got public transportation, but it’s just regular buses.  They’re kind of just bigger, elongated versions of this.  Don’t misunderstand.  Most cars are much nicer than this one.  I know it’s not much, but it gets the job done.”

Max stared out the window at other cars on the street.  “I’ll concede other of these ‘cars’ may be slightly more aesthetically pleasing, but they all look like primitive little metal wagons to me.  No offense, but your world’s really crappy.”

“I kind of like it,” Maurice sniffed.  “Besides, it’s the only one I know.”

It didn’t take them too long to reach their destination, even in Maurice’s car, which could barely reach above twenty miles per hour without trembling and rattling violently.  Max leaped out as quickly as possible, glad to be free of the car.

Maurice followed slowly after, first having great difficulty getting his makeshift seatbelt to unbuckle, then discovering his keys were jammed into the ignition and wouldn’t come loose no matter how much he jiggled.  Finally he gave up with a sigh and wiggled his way out of his seat belt which he had never quite been successful in getting unlatched.  “Oh well, it’s not like anyone’s going to steal this thing anyway.”

Max pushed open the door and walked boldly into the Watering Hole.  It was a dark and smoky establishment, with sticky concrete floors.  A couple of pool tables were set up in the corner and a long bar lined with stools straddled the back wall.  Several neon lights advertising various brands of beer flickered on and off around the room and a juke box cranked out old classic rock songs.  The place was fairly busy, but nobody gave Max and Maurice a second look as they walked up to the bar.  

“What are you drinking?” Max asked.

“Milk,” Maurice said.

“All right, we’ll get two of those,” Max said and tried to catch the bartender’s attention.  “Wait a second,” he paused with his index finger halfway extended.  “Is that some fancy name for an alcoholic concoction or are you talking about the white stuff that shoots out of breasts?”

“Well, the kind I’m talking about comes from cows, but yeah.  It’s the white stuff.  I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Don’t drink alcohol?” Max repeated in shock.  He grasped his head as if he had a migraine.  “Good lord!  What kind of pansy has Sarah stuck me with?  And more importantly, where the hell is Zeke when you need him?”

“It’s just that my old boss, Dr. Wentworth, used to hit the whiskey bottle pretty hard whenever his experiments failed, which was quite frequently.  He’d just turn into a horrible, violent shell of himself whenever he drank.  Seeing him in that condition, I’ve never wanted to touch the stuff.”