NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: It's just one convertible...! ;D

Eulalia powered up the convertible that her community had retrofitted, feeling the whine and purr of the sleek electrical engine that had been installed. They had been working for months on this thing, steadily replacing inefficient, outdated parts with custom nano-machined machinery and other marvels of the 23rd century. And now it was ready for a test drive - and the people of her community wanted her to do the honours.

She packed all that she needed, including an oldies rock deck, and the convertible pulled out of the drive at the machine shop in Commune 825.

"Eulalia! Eulalia, wait!" came the dulcet voice of her father Stanley as he came running.

"What is it, dad?"

"You forgot these - you can't go on a road trip without these!"

"Wha- what's wrong? Is it the engine?"

"No," her father fumbled with his pockets and brought it out, cracking a smile. He placed them in her hands. Fuzzy white dice.

Eulalia giggled and hung them from the rearview mirror.

"Bye, dad! Bye everyone!"

The commune waved as she departed, down the road, on a voyage that she was sure would become some sort of crazy epic odyssey.

He had been thumb-out on the side of the road for nearly two hours without any luck, sitting on his tattered old faux leather suitcase, occasionally pushing his long brownish-red hair from his face. The weather wasn't bad, at least: not too cool, not too warm, comfortable for the man who sat on the roadside in an unbuttoned blue flannel jacket, a plain white T-shirt, and slightly ripped blue jeans. His guitar case lay at his side, covered in various stickers and bizarre doodles in white ink.

He muttered quietly to himself, thumb out, then pulled a small vile of cologne from his lapel pocket, applying just a bit to cover his scent of sawdust and truck stop restrooms.

He knew he'd get a ride eventually. The Freebodniks had proven nice enough so far. It was just a matter of when, and from whom...

And, as if impelled by an act of God, or more likely a random plot device by some celestial cartoonist, came purring down the road a pink convertible that left no fume of exhaust behind, but nevertheless managed to look sporty and Californian.

Speaking of Californians, the girl at the wheel wore long brown hair in a ponytail and was chewing bubblegum as she played rock and roll music (Hotel California by the Eagles) at maximum volume on the cassette deck. As the convertible pulled closer one could make out fuzzy dice hanging tackily from the rearview mirror, and a little hawaiian bobble doll doing the hula on the crevice between the dashboard and the glass of the windshield.

Being Freebodnik, the girl pulled over to the left side of the road and pushed up her shades, revealing friendly green eyes.

"Hey there! You need a lift?"

Carl had been sitting in the middle of the road for about an hour now. He had been writing the events of the past few days in his journal that he had received with his clothes back in the town "Sunny-Kittens". He thought this rather a strange name for a town with rather a strange sort of people. Everybody was oddly happy. They were only too ready to give him replacement clothes and a journal with a rainbow pen. Before that, he was the stereotypical shipwreck survivor. Jeans, in tatters; ripped shirt; several cuts and bruises, especially one on his cheek. The people of that town cleaned him up, gave him things, no questions asked. And then they just let him leave. These were a strange people and it was wise to keep a journal.

He figured sitting in the middle of the road, someone would stop, and knowing these people so far, they would give him a ride.

"Hey there! You need a lift?"

"Uh... yeah, sure."

As if compelled by some cosmic interest to move forward some ethereal "plot" and allow someone else to post to some intangible "thread," the man stands up, grabbing his suitcase under one arm and his guitar case in the other. He trots to the back of the car, makes the universal motion for "Pop the trunk," and throws his suitcase in, slamming the trunk closed behind him. He then runs to the passenger seat and places his guitar in the middle of the front seat, then vaults over the passenger side door and into the seat.

"I'm Day," he mutters, pulling his guitar case into his lap. "Nice ride. Where ya headin'?"

Before waiting for an answer, Day leans forward, blocking the sun from his eyes with one free hand.

"Uh... is that guy, like, sitting in the middle of the road?"

After hardly five minutes of driving along on the black, glossy surface of the Freebodnik road they happened upon a man sitting cross-legged in the centre of the road, looking quite placid in the afternoon sun.

Day leans forward, blocking the sun from his eyes with one free hand.

"Uh... is that guy, like, sitting in the middle of the road?"

Goodness! thought Eulalia I'm hardly a few minutes away from the town and already have picked up two hitchhikers!

Eulalia pulled over near the man in the middle of the road, dressed in casual, used-looking Freebodnik clothes.

"Hello there! You look like you need a lift, sir. Could I help you?"

He dots the period for his last sentence, closes the journal and stands up.

"I would LOVE a ride."

Placing the journal into the inside pocket of the unzipped jacket, he hops in the back.

"So, where are you going?"

The pink convertible started up again, and Eulalia loaded another song into the deck. Soon, Bob Dylan was playing through the speakers, singing about that House in New Orleans, that they call the Rising Sun!. Eulalia snapped a pair of fetching brown sunglasses on and smiled at the man.

"We're going to the opposite end of Freebodnik V, to the very northernmost tip of the island!"

"Huzzah."

He stared down into his lap.

So I'm in a convertible going to the far side of an island where every hippie left dwells. Woo. Might as well make the best of the situation.

"How long do you expect this trip to last?"

"Oh at least three or four days, I think, if nothing untoward happens to us."

Eulalia smiled and laughed as they purred down the road, the engine's electric motor sounding not unlike a jet engine, the wind caressing her hair.

Day leans his head on his left hand, his left arm on the car's door, the wind blowing his long reddish-brown hair behind him. He doesn't say much--just drums on his guitar case along with the music.

"Uh... I don't think I, like... caught your names," he mutters, barely audible above the music. "I'm Day. I'm a... uh... musician."

"Oh, right! I'm Eulalia, and I'm well... uh... I work in public service."

With a THUMP, the car suddenly jolts upwards, sending the fuzzy dice flying straight into Day's lap.

"Gaah!" cried Eulalia, stopping the motor. "What was that?!"

Day looks out the window of the car with a nonchalant turn of his head.

"Uh... I dunno," he replies. Standing his guitar up next to him, Day stands up, hurdling over the car door yet again and clumsily landing on his feet. He kneels down, investigating the cause of the bump.

Eulalia did likewise, peering under the convertible. The rosy colour draining from her cheeks, Eulalia gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Oh no! There's a person down there! We have to help him!"

"Don't worry!" cries a shaky voice from under the car, "I'm just fine!"

"Umm... are you sure, sir?" said Eulalia.

"Other than the fact that I have been run over by three maniacs in a convertible, yes. If you don't mind, please drive the rest of it forward, that I may get up."

Eulalia looked at Day in astonishment.

Carl leaped out of the car as if spring-loaded.

Who survive being run over by a convertible?

He stood there and blinked, not able to comprehend the events.

It turned out to be a man in what looked to be a green suit of armour made of some padded ceramic material covered in leaves and plant detritus.

He wore a helmet and was chest down to the ground.

"Hallo there! And who might you be?"

Carl blinks and extends a shaky hand.

"I would be Carl. Who are you?"

"My name is Winston Churchill Ebenezer Wilcox the Third 21984, and I am a Ranger. OOMPH!" he said as the car inched forward.

He stood up, dusting off his entirely green and leafy attire. He wore a green helmet and copious amounts of padded armour on his chest and legs, giving him the rather ridiculous appearance of an overprotected skateboarder who had recently fallen into a vat of green paint and marched through a rainforest during a thunderstorm.

The man looked down and yelped, picking up two halves of something from the ground.

"AAAAH! My BOW!"

He clutched the broken bow and squashed quiver in his hands, shaking them, tears of sorrow flowing freely from squinty eyes, running over red, scruffy cheeks.

Carl took a step back.

"Could we, er, maybe... Is there something we could do?"

Carl felt a sinking feeling. He looked so heartbroken. He thought of his shipwreck and felt worse.

So, I'm stuck in a country full of hippies, my wife is gone, I've lost most of my possessions and now we run over a random stranger and break his bow.

He began to cry almost in unison with Winston.

"Awww, there-there, you two," cried Eulalia, jumping out of the car and embracing both of them with a long, slim arm, "It's okay. There-there."