16

Trucking Hell.

As he had stepped off the roof of the building a silent prayer had passed Dredly's lips. There was a brief but wonderful feeling of weightlessness and then a loud 'flump' as he landed. Within a second the hoodlums were crowding at the edge of the roof, swearing as they watched him being carried away in the open topped dump truck. The company name which adorned the back of the vehicle told them everything: 'NED'S USED CUSHION RECYCLING'. Dredly had been very lucky. The next truck that passed was 'BOB'S BROKEN GLASS AND TIN-TACK SUPPLIES'. But Dredly had taken the chance and it had paid off. As he had stood on the brink of death he had heard the rumble of the lorry and thrown himself back into it. Now he was as comfortable as an eastern potentate. However, he was rattled, truly rattled. He didn't much care for being attacked or having his hair cut against his will. And after all that he was still left with uncomfortable squeaky shoes stuck to his feet. He was too upset to think about the 'whys' and 'wherefores', and resigned himself to lying on the great heap of cushions until they reached their destination.

Ned's Used Cushion Recycling had their main office in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. That was their destination. Luckily for Dredly, the driver had a chronic bladder problem and was forced to pull in at a truck stop a hundred miles out of New York near a place called Ticonderoga. Dredly waited until the truck driver had gone into the greasy looking diner and then scrambled down from the back of the truck. He dusted himself off, straightened up and walked firmly towards the diner, totally forgetting that he was now sporting the most hideous hairdo ever. Thus, when he stepped through the door of the grease-soaked fleapit, the waitress's head turned, then her stomach, then the milk in the jug she was holding. The sudden look of revulsion that overtook her was followed by an angry:
"We don't want your sort here!"
Dredly looked over his shoulder to see whom she was talking to, then remembered his bizarre barnet.
"Oh no, it's all right. You see..."
A trucker the size of Mount Rushmore loomed up from one of the booths.

"I don't think you heard the lady. She said you ain't welcome."
"Actually, she said 'We don't want your sort here'. So of the two of us I think I heard her better than you." Dredly wondered whether he was in the midst of making a terrible mistake. He always stood up to bullies, but usually he didn't do it sporting hair that made people angry. Maybe he should retreat?
"You fuckin' limey weirdo..." The trucker was poking a fat, stubby finger into Dredly's chest.
"Now steady on..." Dredly stood his ground and allowed the finger to jab him. His defence seemed to faze the trucker for a second. He cocked his head exactly like a rotweiller figuring out whether to maul or maim.
"You on drugs boy?"
"Hey, you're the one with the coffee and the cigarette." Dredly retorted looking up into the man's ruddy, powerful face. There is a time and a place for pedantry - usually on late night 'review' shows where the worst thing that can happen to a man is being verbally roughed up by a strident feminist - but a truck stop in Ticonderoga is not one of those places.

The Tarmac was cold, hard and wet, and Dredly had a short unpleasant introduction to it.
"And don't come back!" Shouted the enormous trucker before going back into the diner. The door slammed.
"And if I catch you round here again you'll get more of the same!" Dredly retorted once he was sure the brute was out of earshot. He gingerly picked himself up and limped towards the highway. He held his handkerchief to his mouth. His lip was split, bleeding and swelling up already - great start to the day!

By the time he got back to New York it was noon. He had been forced to walk the five miles to the nearest town and from there he had taken the train. However, the looks of horror he had received from every person he met hinted to him that his hair was too scary to view. Since there were no shops open where he could buy a hat, he was forced to utilise an old sack and cut a pair of eyeholes into it. Now, as he hobbled off the train at Grand Central Station, he had to push his way through the commuting crowds. The crush of humanity was oppressive enough, but it was multiplied tenfold by the hot dusty sack smelling, as it did, of mouldy potatoes. The eyeholes obscured most of his field of vision, so as he shuffled along he could only see some things at the last moment and have to make a sudden manoeuvre to avoid them. Glimpses of startled faces melting one into the next; bumping shoulders and exclamations of annoyance stifled by fear; the sickening smell of potatoes; a child crying in agitation. He could feel the eyes of every commuter burning into him. Who was this bent, dirty, lame figure? Why was he wearing that sack? What was his guilty secret? Dredly passed a guard. Then he could hear footfalls following him. Dredly quickened his pace. So did the footsteps. What was this? Why was someone following him?

"Stop him!" The shout was muffled by the sackcloth, but Dredly knew it was directed at him. He broke into a pathetic limping half-run, his bruised knee hampering him. Now people were pulling at him, then suddenly the crowds parted and he was face to face with two more guards. A hand came from behind and pulled at the sack.
"No, pleathe!" Dredly lisped. His split lip stung and his mouth was overproducing saliva, which was already drooling down onto his chin. The hand tugged harder and the sack was finally wrenched from his head. Shrieks of terror! A woman fainting! The menfolk shrinking back and shielding their loved ones from the creature before them. Dredly tried to calm the situation, but the words were slurred and punctuated by long rasps as he tried to suck the saliva back into his mouth.
"I am a manm... Schllup!... My nmame ith... Schllup!... Thalokinm Dwedly... Schllup!... I am vewy pleathed to meet you... Schllup!"
The leaden silence was broken only by Dredly's laboured breathing. Finally a man who was well back in the crowd shouted:
"He's a freak of Nature!"
It was the trigger for a deluge of exclamations and abuse. Then, from the heart of the maelstrom a woman in a smart suit appeared and held out her hand.
"Hi, I'm Ann Palmer and I'm a TV producer - do you want to come on Oprah?"
Dredly shrank back.
"Nmo! Schllup!... I am nmot a thidethow fleak... Schllup!" He started to shuffle away. He could not countenance being caught up in a media circus, but she was after him, offering cash for an appearance.
"Schllup!... I will nmot debathe mythelf for the amuthement... Schllup!... Of your viewerth... Schllup!"
"But this is America - everyone debases themselves for television... It's the law."
"Go away!" Dredly pushed her aside, pulled his sack back over his head and hobbled away into the decaying backstreets of the Big Apple. The woman looked at him as he left.
"Who was that guy?" Asked one of the guards.
"I don't know, but he just turned down the chance to go on Oprah."
"Weirdo!"

Dredly made his way across town on foot, keeping away from the big roads. He did not want to risk any more close encounters with television executives. When he got back to the hotel he hesitated. His instinct told him not to go in through the front door past the desk clerk. There was something about the man that Dredly didn't trust. He pulled off the sack and headed for the alley down the side of the building, hoping that all those New York cop shows he'd watched had been accurate in showing that every building had a metal fire escape via which you could get to people’s windows. He was pleased to find that fiction had not lied to him and within a few moments he had ascended the fire escape to his floor and was tapping at a window. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his window and the disgruntled couple whom he disturbed in the middle of their carousing, gave him a short lesson in some of the more colourful colloquialisms to be found in American English. Two windows and two equally colourful conversations later, he finally got to his room. He tapped on the window and there was a muffled shriek from within. A few seconds later the sash went up and Sage was helping him into the room.
"Sorry about the scream, Dredly. It's just that we're a bit tense and you look... You look terrible!" Sage's razor sharp powers of observation had hit the nail on the head again.
"For sure, your hair cut makes Ruud Gullit’s most outlandish hairdos seem logical." Greta said.

Dredly told them the whole story, missing nothing about the Stasi gnome, his evil hairdressing antics and his assault by the trucker.
"...But what about you two? Why are you so jumpy?" Dredly asked. He knew something was wrong. Sage told him all about the desk clerk and his theory about the moustache and its vile treatment of houseplants.
"Then our plan is obvious..." Said Dredly after Sage had finished his rambling saga, "We deal with this moustache first, then go back to Biff's and sort out that gnome, then I get my hair re-styled."
"Then we have a pizza!" Greta added.
They formed a circle and put their hands together in the centre of it. As one they cried:

"One for all, and all for the as much as you can eat buffet option!"

Can our heroes really sort out the mad moustache, take on the dangerous gnome AND get to the pizza parlour with enough time to allow them to gorge themselves into a stupor before closing?

Find out in the next anchovy, black olive and pepperoni laden chapter...