1. Come As You Are
My options to find a place to sleep for the night are dying with the daylight. Unable to get a wi-fi
connection in Safeway I began to feel stranded in this industrial after-thought of a town: Aberdeen,
Washington. That sticky splotch on maps of the American North-West where the Chehalis River spews
into the Pacific. Outside, I walk by two bums and their mangey doberman panhandling a little too close
to my bicycle.
An arm stretches towards me, "Y'wanna swig? Looks like y'could use one." Slouching against the wall,
he didn't bother to make eye-contact. Foam sloshes within the bottle offered my way.
I really could use a drink, no matter how dubious the source may be. It had been a long day; cycling
110km against the summer sun along a bland section of the 101. I nick a quick nip. Malted liquor,
warm and stagnant as the tired city air. I say thanks and relish it all the same. Nothing recovers both
body and soul like the bite of alcohol and the kindness of strangers.
And how strange they are. Ragged black flannels did a poor job covering their tattooed skin, scraped
and rune-scarred like some desolate, hexed battlefield. Curled copper pieces rattle in their hair, mucked
with grime and grunge. I began reconsidering how wise it was to drink from some dirty, unknown
bottle. Grit grating between my teeth. The dog began scratching itself.
"Wan' enny more?" he asks towards the ground.
I did want more, but who are these spooks? They look like acolytes of some ill-conceived cult.
Harvesters of poisoned bodies and souls for the Great-and-Terrible-Beast that lurks in the toxic depths
of Grays Harbor. Scavenging the belongings of their victims to eke out one more miasmal day. This is a
ragged town and I had received little hospitality even among the well-to-do. Who knew what this duo's
intentions could possibly be. Tiny bones wired together to make a pixie's skeleton was tucked into one
of their combat-boots, no doubt used in Voodoo rituals under a Bloodmoon. Had I drank nothing more
than Olde English or some sinister potion? With the poison already coursing through my veins, my
options were falling with the sun.
I take another swig.
I give them one more look-over and realize whoever they are, they aren't hiding it from anybody.
They're thirsty for grog and unabashedly ask any and all for coin to imbibe. I surrender the notion that
they are probably not malicious occult practitioners, and are more along the line of urban outlaws.
Didn't Dylan say, "To live outside the law you must be honest"? I decide that I admire their perverse
virtue and are worthy of my trust. Besides, I had few options.
I pop a squat and add $5 to the cause. This was enough for them to finally raise their heads and look me
straight in the eye. "This one's Cassie," the one with the pixie's skeleton said, pointing to the one with
the bottle, "I'm Bacon." I was surprised to notice that Bacon's a girl.
"I'm looking for a place to camp, don't suppose you know a good spot for a night?" In a ragged town
it's the ragged who know where's what.
They exchange glances and gather the money, "C'mon. River'll help."

2. ∴
We jump a chainlink fence by cover of night after buying five 24oz cans of The Hurricane: Category 5
and head down to the railyard. Isolated. Empty. If I was in the business of mugging, this would be HQ.
Where am I being lead? Black magik jokes aside, Aberdeen really does harbour some dangerous folk.
My muscles are tense and senses skittish. My heart's beating hard enough to crack a rib. Am I over my
head here? With no cellphone and having not made contact with anyone for days, I reevaluate how
much Cassie and Bacon really could be hiding. People do disappear in the world, and I was setting
myself up almost perfectly to fall right off the edge of the earth. Poof... Nonetheless, I didn't know
anywhere else to go. My options had died with the daylight. I follow them further into the dark.
Under a crooked hemlock growing from cracked asphalt sat two figures looking down the train tracks.
Waiting. Who are these spooks? Walking over the rails, I notice pennies arranged along the steel,
glinting in the moonlight.
The couple under the tree are River and Georgie, boxcar hoppers back home for a spell. They look a
little less like worshippers of Cthulhu than Cassie and Bacon and greet me with arms open. After a bit,
their presence relaxes me. No, I'm not going to vanish without a trace tonight. River's fascinated that
I'm cycling down the coast, "I'm a trav'ller too, y'know. Just home-basin' it right now 's'all." He grins
after a swig of The Hurricane and tells me of his misadventures in Texas, Chicago and Denmark. "I
jump on freights, you bike, but we're the same." He continues to look down the line. Expectant. "I
s'pose, we're all trav'llers."
A horn blows not too far away and a train slowly screeches down the tracks. Bacon pulls out the pixie
skeleton and moves it jagged-like, hair rattling with her motions. The Earth rumbles and the Hurricane
spills as a thousand tons of machinery pass by. The pennies on the tracks scream their demise under
tempered steel on steel; one of the pixie's bones snaps with a sharp crack. The train passes with another
blow from its horn. River rises and collects the coins. Hands four to me, squished copper trinkets
charmed by moonlit Voodoo.
"Let's go. I know a field you can set a tent up for t'night."
∴
In the field I finally find myself in a serene state of mind. Maybe I had stumbled into the calm eye of
the Hurricane, lending a brief moment of clarity. The grungy crew really pulled it together for me, they
went out of their way and even put their trust in me when they didn't have to. Who are these spooks?
Half-asleep, River's words echo in my head, "I s'pose, we're all trav'llers."