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xp_logsDoug and Amanda buy all the fruit.
"Well, I'd ask if you got enough to share with the class, but I know better when it comes to the Bottomless Pit of Brighton," Doug quipped as he saw Amanda strolling back from the fruit stand that they'd stopped at. As she got closer, he took a look at the take and chuckled. "Did you completely clean them out of mango?"
A sheepish expression crossed the witch's face. "Maybe?" she replied. "But hey, mangoes grow on trees, so they'll have more tomorrow." She held out one of the several plastic bags she was carrying. "They had oranges and nectarines and the biggest bloody strawberries you've ever seen," she continued, becoming more enthusiastic as she listed her purchases. "Not much in the way of apples, but we're in the wrong part of the country for that, apparently."
Doug examined the strawberries, some of which were almost apple-sized themselves. "Those strawberries thicc," he pronounced. "As for apples...if I remember my Random State Facts portion of middle school correctly, most of the apples in America are grown in the state of Washington, which would be a bit out of our way." He grinned at Amanda. "Doesn't mean we won't find a stand somewhere selling them though, I suppose. 'Most' isn't 'all'." For his part, Doug had gotten a large bag of flavored almonds from the 'nut' section of the stand and was happily munching away.
"There's plenty of stuff here to make up for it," Amanda replied, coming forward to dip her hand into the bag he held, tossing a handful of almonds in her mouth. "Ooh, these are good," she commented after she'd chewed and swallowed. "Maybe I should get some of those as well...?"
"I was going to go with good old butter toffee..." Doug spoke around another mouthful of snack. "But then these said 'funnel cake' and I figured I had to try it." The mouthful was barely gone before he tossed a few more in. "Good lord, what'd they put in these, crack? Can't stop eating them." Between him and Amanda, the pouch was in danger of not even making it back to the vehicles.
"We could always just eat them all and hide the bag?" Amanda suggested with a grin. "Instead of sharing with the whole class, I mean."
"I won't tell if you don't." Doug shook a large amount into Amanda's free hand and tossing back some more himself. He sighed happily. It was nice to just have some quiet mirth and companionship with Amanda - he knew that Hellfire stuff would always make things awkward, but the times when that wasn't an unspoken elephant in the room were the best.
"I'll take it to the grave," she replied, somewhat muffled by the mouthful of almonds. "Fuck, this is more like a holiday than a job, I have to say."
Doug grinned widely. "The road trip for sure. Work will be here soon enough, I suppose."
Marie-Ange and Doug dig a couple of very old identities* when playing bait for speed trap cops. TW: vomit
(*No-Prize for the first comment to identify them!)
As the convoy made their way through a particularly desolate stretch of road toward Amarillo, the CB mounted in the Toyota that Doug and Marie-Ange were currently driving crackled. "Breaker, breaker, be advised, bear trap ahead."
Doug snagged the receiver and asked "What yardstick?" To which the reply came back "hashtag nice" After acknowledging, Doug looked over at Marie-Ange and raised an eyebrow, calculating. They had just passed mile marker 50, so they were less than 20 miles away from the trooper looking for speeding vehicles.
Marie-Ange was already fussing away the book she'd been narrating to Doug. They had run out of cassette tapes, and there was just only so much she could listen to The Best Of Queen One and Two again. The Best of the Monkees had mysteriously disappeared into one of the other cars. She gently tugged the CB out of Doug's hand and switched it to the channel X-Force had been using. "We have it. Fall back please." Then she rolled her eyes. "Yes, I refuse to use the lingo."
Doug shook his head and snagged the handset back. "McClure's putting the hammer down, going offline." He tucked the CB away and flicked the power off before accelerating, leveling the speed indicator off just below 80 miles per hour. Fast enough to be a juicy target for a state trooper, but not so fast as to run into any potential 'anything over 80 is an automatic misdemeanor' ordinances. His posture in the drivers seat changed from lazily alert to slightly urgent, already putting on the role based on the IDs he knew they were currently carrying.
The CB came off its mount easily, and was tucked into the overstuffed bag at Marie-Ange's feet. It was replaced with an older model Starkphone, in a case shaped like Iron Man. Marie-Ange opened the GPS app, tapped in a location in suburban Albuquerque and then dropped a wallet into the cupholder between the seats. "Hat." She said, handing Doug a baseball cap from the bag. "And rings."
Doug slipped the slightly worn Las Vegas Golden Knights cap on, commentary left unsaid because he was already dropping 'into character' as it were. The relatively plain silver band with reeded edges took him a moment, as even playing a part couldn't stop him from thinking about paths not traveled. But therapy had gotten him to the point where a minute sigh of wistfulness was all he needed before he put it on and rested his hand on the wheel again. "What's the play?" he asked Marie-Ange, knowing which IDs were currently in the wallet.
Marie-Ange slipped one earbud into her right ear, and then pulled her hair out of the messy bun she'd had it up in. "I have Changeling in my ear. They are in the limit, we run a Rabbit Test." She pulled a packet of saltines out of the bag and dropped them into the cupholder. "Lucky for you, I just ate. Unlucky for you, I demand repayment." She slid a pair of rings on. "We regroup down the road, Changeling will have a location once we are clear."
Doug winced. "I will absolutely pay you back." He let that slightly concerned expression stay on his face - he knew what Marie-Ange would have to do, and it wouldn't be all that pleasant. A black SUV with reinforced bumpers slid out into the lane behind them, lights spinning up. "There we go," he murmured, letting the vehicle pursue them for a bit before reacting, as though he -hadn't- known it was there in the first place. After a few hundred yards, he pulled into the right lane, slowing down and eventually coming to a stop on the wide shoulder.
Marie-Ange leaned against the passenger door wearily, like she hadn't slept well in days, and swallowed air several times while Doug pulled the car to a stop. "Arm." She muttered, and glanced at Doug's nanite-arm as the wrist and fingers went flesh toned - they must have started even before she reminded him. "Nevermind. Bons amis." She whispered, and continued to swallow air, until the distressed expression was genuine. "Only a few minutes."
Aw, she had called them 'friends' in French. Doug hunched his shoulders and suppressed an out-of-current-character smile. He hit the power window button as the trooper came up to the car. "Um, hi, officer, what can I do for you?" he asked, a touch of nervousness in his voice.
"License, registration, and proof of insurance," the man in green and khaki said sternly. "Do you know how fast you were going?"
"License..." Doug fished a New Mexico license in the name of Joseph Crockett Jr. out of the wallet in the center console. "Maryanne, sweetie, can you grab the registration out of the glovebox?" He handed the small square of plastic to the trooper and shrugged sheepishly. "Not entirely?" he answered the question that had been posed. "I was kinda trying to get to the next exit and find a gas station before..." His eyes flicked to Marie-Ange scrabbling for the door handle. "Aw, hell."
The sound of retching and gagging was long dashes broken up by the dots of gaps of air. Marie-Ange even fumbled her hand on the glovebox a few times before seeming to give up. She gagged and spat several more times after that, and stayed leaning out of the car door for a bit longer. "Aw, sorry. I really tried." She said, breathy and embarrassed. "Officer, I can get the registration but you okay if I can, like, get my mouth clear first. That Whataburger's not half as good coming back up as it was when we had lunch."
The trooper hustled around the car, squatting down to get level with Marie-Ange. "Ma'am? Are y'all gonna be-" Doug handed the packet of saltines and a small bottle of ginger ale around her to the trooper, with the quiet efficiency that suggested this was not the first time and likely wouldn't be the last that a drive was interrupted by a bit of vomit. As the trooper fumbled the items a bit, a black Trans Am roared past. Doug smoothed his hand up and down Marie-Ange's arm, and tapped a single finger against her bicep.
"Oh, I'm gonna throw up at least one more time." Marie-Ange pulled herself up, leaning back heavily into the seat of the car. "Our little cabbage patch kid here doesn't like it if I eat onions, or cheese, or pickles, or anything that tastes good." She patted her stomach, took a single saltine from the package the officer was awkwardly holding and crunched down on it. "Thanks, I'm for sure gonna need, I dunno." She glanced at the road, and a green SUV sped past. "At least two more of those, sorry." She took another two crackers from the packet. "You don't mind closing that up, yeah? It's the salt that helps, but if they get stale, they're just gross."
The trooper managed to close the package of crackers and set it on the dash, cracking open the ginger ale to hand it to Marie-Ange. Then abruptly remembering the license in his hand and why he was holding it, he looked down at it. "So, uh, Mr. Crockett..."
Doug smiled disarmingly. "I mean, I'd pull that line about that being my dad, but it's less funny when you're a 'Junior'. Just please don't call me Joseph. I go by Joe so that I don't have to find a nickname like Indiana to go by." As he chattered, an RV lumbered by at a speed that seemed frankly improbable. "That reminds me, honey, I know we've started talking about names, but we are definitely not letting my folks talk either of us into a Joseph Crockett the Third. I ain't putting that kind of pressure on our kid. I knew a guy who was a 'the third' in college, and he was nice enough, but a bit...yeah."
"Had you tried, I would have thrown up on you and not the gravel." Marie-Ange said, with a laugh. She took a sip of the ginger ale, and then another one. "I think the nice officer might like to remind you to stop driving so fast right now." She gave a smile, tipped the can in the officer's direction and then popped open the glove box, and finally, carefully, dug out the little folder that held the registration. "Joe's a sympathetic vomiter. I think you might've actually saved us from having both of us throw up lunch."
"The lady ain't wrong," the trooper said to the pair, visibly making a decision. He handed the license back to Doug and the registration to Marie-Ange. "I understand the urgency, and I'll just let y'all go with a warning, but just remember those speed limits are there for a reason. I want y'all to arrive safe and sound - all three of you."
Doug nodded and acknowledged the combination warning and guidance with a little half-wave/half-salute. "That's a promise I'm happy to make, officer. Thank you," he said warmly.
"All right then. Y'all be safe," the trooper repeated as he departed to walk back to his vehicle. Doug started the car back up and waited for a large gap in traffic before pulling back onto the freeway and carefully getting back up to just below the posted limit.
Marie-Ange couldn't help a muffled giggle as they got back up to speed. "I think I have a cavity." She said dryly, after a long drink of ginger ale - no sense in wasting it, and they had a few miles before she could throw out the can - and the stale crackers. She pulled her hair into a ponytail. "Changeling, we are clear. Trap sprung, going dark." She popped the earbud out. "Big Jack Horner is leaving us a package at the next truck stop. We pull in, they pull out, we pull over it."
Once they'd received the 'package' - a new set of plates for the Toyota - and unobtrusively made the swap between a pair of large semis that blocked any view of their vehicle, Doug had disposed of the 'warm' plates that had been at the very least put through a search when the trooper had stopped them. The 'Joe' and 'Maryanne' identities had gone in with the plates, and been carefully buried at the bottom of a dumpster that was close to overflowing.
And then he'd paid off what he 'owed' Marie-Ange for vomiting at the drop of a hat. In this case, the sort of snack food that she would probably only let one other person see her eat. And Amanda was currently in the RV, so... "Two bags of corn chips, big container of chili from the hot dog station, a couple of those little wax covered cheeses, and enough sauce packets to make it all palatable," he announced as he laid out the take on the trunk. Not that he was throwing stones - walking tacos were certainly something he ate himself at times.
"And your solemn vow you never saw me eating this." Marie-Ange pulled one of the bags open, and then liberally spooned chili into the bag. "At least not to anyone who might make fun. So not to Jubilee." She pulled a miniature sword out of nowhere, just like the one on her tattoo, and started breaking the cheese down into shreds. "I got you some of that terrible soda you like, and they had the green cucumber gatorade, so I got that and a hard lemonade for when you are in the RV and not driving." She dumped the handful of cheese into the bag, pinched it shut and shook. "What is the thing you say about the cat and the salami? That, only terrible internet food combinations."
She paused, and then with a triumphant grin, held up a plastic bag, distorted from it's usual shape into neat rectangular edges. "And." And it was clear Marie-Ange was excited, because she had reverted into casual French. "And, the cookie mercenaries were outside. I have the peanut butter ones."
"The cat? Oh, yes. Angie can have little a terrible rest stop snack. As a treat." Doug made grabby hands at the box of cookies. "...we should probably get enough for everyone else, shouldn't we?" He paused as the bit about the hard lemonade caught up to him. "Oh my god, you got me The Flavor? Have you been watching internet cooking videos again?"
"No, buying twenty five boxes is memorable. I told the team on the CB Radio already, Jubilee is circling back. And yes, it was How to Drink. He is educational." Marie-Ange said. "When one does not cook, one makes up for it with bartending skills and knowing everyone's cookie flavors." She hopped up on the trunk of the car, and dug a fork into her bag of chips and chili. "This is a good funeral feast for those identities, since they were born in this part of the country." Well, New Mexico, but close enough, she supposed, as she cracked open her own bottle of Gatorade - light purple, a flavor she couldn't identify except by colour - and took a long drink.
"Lo, there do I see my father...lo, there do I see my mother..." Doug intoned in High Asgardian with a few grand gestures, then stopped and grinned at Marie-Ange. "On second thought, maybe we shouldn't light the dumpster as a funeral pyre."
Jubilee is Jubilee. Kevin is… Kevin. There’s talk of caffeine and music.
The driver swap had taken place at a rest station which was littered with enough bullet riddled beer cans it looked like Budweiser's last stand. Kevin shifted out of the lead car and into Gator. The little green car was his last choice, but someone needed to take the scut work and unlike the rest of them, he was still relatively fresh after days on the road. He tossed his cowboy hat back in the RV and retrieved the brown pork pie hat before sliding behind the wheel.
"Ah, Lee. I see I get you for this stretch. Did you sleep or is this a mix of Red Bull and gummy candies?" He said, settling his coffee thermos between the seats and flipping through the grab bag of cassettes this car could play.
“I like to think of it as like, opening my mind to all the opportunities of the universe.” Jubilee replied as she took a moment to fasten her seatbelt and eye his choices. “I have a cassette to aux adapter, you know.”
Kevin looked her dead in the eye as he slotted in a cassette without looking at it. "I'm trapped in this roadtrip with you people. The utter randomness of the music is the only thing keeping violent thoughts at bay."
“Dude, you love us,” Jubilee said with a grin but she settled back in her seat with only a token roll of her eyes. “Just know that your coffee is only as safe as your speed in defending it.”
"Touch the thermos and you spend the rest of your shift in the trunk while I find the off-road detours." He revved the engine as the voice of Paul Simon emerged from the speakers. "If you need coffee, we'll stop and get you some. This is still from my private stash that I brew."
“I still think it’s treason that you don’t share that,” Jubilee muttered with a fake pout as her fingers tapped to the beat. She had no idea who this was but it wasn’t bad. Something about leaving home and family. “It’s not the same if I buy it.”
"Yes, I know your life mission of stealing absolutely everything. But there's only three places along this route I know of that will brew it right and we passed the last one nine hours ago." He rolled his shoulders for a second, settling in as he pulled out on the highway. They were the tail car tonight, there to stay back and look for anyone potentially following the RV. "Graceland... that's the song." He muttered.
“Everybody should have a hobby,” Jubilee replied with an idle grin as she crossed her legs on her seat. Sometimes she did it just because she could and being in small spaces made her happy. “But fine, scarcity does make something a little less stealable then say, McDonalds fries. I’ve never been to Graceland, always wanted to go. Supposedly you can get a peanut butter and banana sandwich at this place called Glady’s diner.”
She watched their surroundings through the front windscreen, enjoying the wide openness of them. It was different to cities, even if cities were easier to move through.
"The song is Graceland. Not any of that Elvis junk." Kevin said, dropping back an extra couple of car positions to get a closer look at a black van that concerned him.
“Not a fan of the King?” Jubilee asked idly.
Her attitude had shifted slightly however as he dropped back, her eyes trained to the cars around them. She didn’t have Kevin’s years of experience but she wasn’t unskilled either.
"The King. Sure." Kevin sniffed. "Compared to Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Wilson Pickett, Little Richard... Elvis was the King of good marketing and even better copying of black musicians and dancers to imitate them to the white audiences they were prevented from playing for."
“Wilson Pickett?” Jubilee let the rest pass, she’d heard of them, listened to some of their songs even but it wasn’t her music. She’d mostly grown up listening to whatever the musac version of popular tunes were, or on the rare occasion she was somewhere better, classical music.
Kevin muttered one of his favourite and more importantly long Korean curses under his breath. "Let's just say there's many better options than Elvis to enjoy."
“Dude, you kiss your mother with that mouth,” Jubilee replied with a laugh as she continued to watch the cars around them. It was a busy Highway at this time of the day. “You’ll have to introduce me, Kev. I’m only a heathen till better knowledge comes along.”
"My mother died in 1937."
“And my parents died when I was eleven. I cried a lot. Pretty sure that’s why I have no concept of appropriate conversational topics.”
Jubilee eyed the dropping light as the drove, her eyes drifting off to the side of the road to look out over the mountains.
“So who was Wilson Pickett?”
"The seventeenth President of the United States." Kevin said wryly.
“Was he the one with the really tall hat and beard?” Jubilee asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Didn’t he throw tea into a Harbour or something?”
"No, you're thinking of George Clinton."
“Nah dude, he was that funk Music guy, you’re thinking of George Carlin, sure of it,”
She tapped her fingers on her knees as she leaned her head back against the headrest of her chair and watched the sun go down.
"I saw Carlin in the Village once. Played The Bitter End in '67. Hell of a show." Kevin said offhandedly.
“Duuuude. For serious? I’m like jelly big time. I never got to see him live.”
Her eyes were locked on the landscape around them now, their car seeming to be racing the sun as they drove. Valley stretched out to either side, dips and mountains catching shadow and light in halos of fiery oranges and deep purples.
“You know, all serious business aside and forced bonding time being whatever. It’s this kinda stuff that makes long drives totally worth it.”
"Never been through the Painted Desert before. It's... yeah, it's something." Kevin said, spoiling the moment only slightly by pouring himself a coffee.
“It’s beautiful,” Jubilee replied, her tone softer, as if anything louder might disturb the moment. She nodded at the coffee. “Sure you won’t share?”
"I swear to god, one of these days, Lee..." He muttered and handed the cup over.
"Well, I'd ask if you got enough to share with the class, but I know better when it comes to the Bottomless Pit of Brighton," Doug quipped as he saw Amanda strolling back from the fruit stand that they'd stopped at. As she got closer, he took a look at the take and chuckled. "Did you completely clean them out of mango?"
A sheepish expression crossed the witch's face. "Maybe?" she replied. "But hey, mangoes grow on trees, so they'll have more tomorrow." She held out one of the several plastic bags she was carrying. "They had oranges and nectarines and the biggest bloody strawberries you've ever seen," she continued, becoming more enthusiastic as she listed her purchases. "Not much in the way of apples, but we're in the wrong part of the country for that, apparently."
Doug examined the strawberries, some of which were almost apple-sized themselves. "Those strawberries thicc," he pronounced. "As for apples...if I remember my Random State Facts portion of middle school correctly, most of the apples in America are grown in the state of Washington, which would be a bit out of our way." He grinned at Amanda. "Doesn't mean we won't find a stand somewhere selling them though, I suppose. 'Most' isn't 'all'." For his part, Doug had gotten a large bag of flavored almonds from the 'nut' section of the stand and was happily munching away.
"There's plenty of stuff here to make up for it," Amanda replied, coming forward to dip her hand into the bag he held, tossing a handful of almonds in her mouth. "Ooh, these are good," she commented after she'd chewed and swallowed. "Maybe I should get some of those as well...?"
"I was going to go with good old butter toffee..." Doug spoke around another mouthful of snack. "But then these said 'funnel cake' and I figured I had to try it." The mouthful was barely gone before he tossed a few more in. "Good lord, what'd they put in these, crack? Can't stop eating them." Between him and Amanda, the pouch was in danger of not even making it back to the vehicles.
"We could always just eat them all and hide the bag?" Amanda suggested with a grin. "Instead of sharing with the whole class, I mean."
"I won't tell if you don't." Doug shook a large amount into Amanda's free hand and tossing back some more himself. He sighed happily. It was nice to just have some quiet mirth and companionship with Amanda - he knew that Hellfire stuff would always make things awkward, but the times when that wasn't an unspoken elephant in the room were the best.
"I'll take it to the grave," she replied, somewhat muffled by the mouthful of almonds. "Fuck, this is more like a holiday than a job, I have to say."
Doug grinned widely. "The road trip for sure. Work will be here soon enough, I suppose."
Marie-Ange and Doug dig a couple of very old identities* when playing bait for speed trap cops. TW: vomit
(*No-Prize for the first comment to identify them!)
As the convoy made their way through a particularly desolate stretch of road toward Amarillo, the CB mounted in the Toyota that Doug and Marie-Ange were currently driving crackled. "Breaker, breaker, be advised, bear trap ahead."
Doug snagged the receiver and asked "What yardstick?" To which the reply came back "hashtag nice" After acknowledging, Doug looked over at Marie-Ange and raised an eyebrow, calculating. They had just passed mile marker 50, so they were less than 20 miles away from the trooper looking for speeding vehicles.
Marie-Ange was already fussing away the book she'd been narrating to Doug. They had run out of cassette tapes, and there was just only so much she could listen to The Best Of Queen One and Two again. The Best of the Monkees had mysteriously disappeared into one of the other cars. She gently tugged the CB out of Doug's hand and switched it to the channel X-Force had been using. "We have it. Fall back please." Then she rolled her eyes. "Yes, I refuse to use the lingo."
Doug shook his head and snagged the handset back. "McClure's putting the hammer down, going offline." He tucked the CB away and flicked the power off before accelerating, leveling the speed indicator off just below 80 miles per hour. Fast enough to be a juicy target for a state trooper, but not so fast as to run into any potential 'anything over 80 is an automatic misdemeanor' ordinances. His posture in the drivers seat changed from lazily alert to slightly urgent, already putting on the role based on the IDs he knew they were currently carrying.
The CB came off its mount easily, and was tucked into the overstuffed bag at Marie-Ange's feet. It was replaced with an older model Starkphone, in a case shaped like Iron Man. Marie-Ange opened the GPS app, tapped in a location in suburban Albuquerque and then dropped a wallet into the cupholder between the seats. "Hat." She said, handing Doug a baseball cap from the bag. "And rings."
Doug slipped the slightly worn Las Vegas Golden Knights cap on, commentary left unsaid because he was already dropping 'into character' as it were. The relatively plain silver band with reeded edges took him a moment, as even playing a part couldn't stop him from thinking about paths not traveled. But therapy had gotten him to the point where a minute sigh of wistfulness was all he needed before he put it on and rested his hand on the wheel again. "What's the play?" he asked Marie-Ange, knowing which IDs were currently in the wallet.
Marie-Ange slipped one earbud into her right ear, and then pulled her hair out of the messy bun she'd had it up in. "I have Changeling in my ear. They are in the limit, we run a Rabbit Test." She pulled a packet of saltines out of the bag and dropped them into the cupholder. "Lucky for you, I just ate. Unlucky for you, I demand repayment." She slid a pair of rings on. "We regroup down the road, Changeling will have a location once we are clear."
Doug winced. "I will absolutely pay you back." He let that slightly concerned expression stay on his face - he knew what Marie-Ange would have to do, and it wouldn't be all that pleasant. A black SUV with reinforced bumpers slid out into the lane behind them, lights spinning up. "There we go," he murmured, letting the vehicle pursue them for a bit before reacting, as though he -hadn't- known it was there in the first place. After a few hundred yards, he pulled into the right lane, slowing down and eventually coming to a stop on the wide shoulder.
Marie-Ange leaned against the passenger door wearily, like she hadn't slept well in days, and swallowed air several times while Doug pulled the car to a stop. "Arm." She muttered, and glanced at Doug's nanite-arm as the wrist and fingers went flesh toned - they must have started even before she reminded him. "Nevermind. Bons amis." She whispered, and continued to swallow air, until the distressed expression was genuine. "Only a few minutes."
Aw, she had called them 'friends' in French. Doug hunched his shoulders and suppressed an out-of-current-character smile. He hit the power window button as the trooper came up to the car. "Um, hi, officer, what can I do for you?" he asked, a touch of nervousness in his voice.
"License, registration, and proof of insurance," the man in green and khaki said sternly. "Do you know how fast you were going?"
"License..." Doug fished a New Mexico license in the name of Joseph Crockett Jr. out of the wallet in the center console. "Maryanne, sweetie, can you grab the registration out of the glovebox?" He handed the small square of plastic to the trooper and shrugged sheepishly. "Not entirely?" he answered the question that had been posed. "I was kinda trying to get to the next exit and find a gas station before..." His eyes flicked to Marie-Ange scrabbling for the door handle. "Aw, hell."
The sound of retching and gagging was long dashes broken up by the dots of gaps of air. Marie-Ange even fumbled her hand on the glovebox a few times before seeming to give up. She gagged and spat several more times after that, and stayed leaning out of the car door for a bit longer. "Aw, sorry. I really tried." She said, breathy and embarrassed. "Officer, I can get the registration but you okay if I can, like, get my mouth clear first. That Whataburger's not half as good coming back up as it was when we had lunch."
The trooper hustled around the car, squatting down to get level with Marie-Ange. "Ma'am? Are y'all gonna be-" Doug handed the packet of saltines and a small bottle of ginger ale around her to the trooper, with the quiet efficiency that suggested this was not the first time and likely wouldn't be the last that a drive was interrupted by a bit of vomit. As the trooper fumbled the items a bit, a black Trans Am roared past. Doug smoothed his hand up and down Marie-Ange's arm, and tapped a single finger against her bicep.
"Oh, I'm gonna throw up at least one more time." Marie-Ange pulled herself up, leaning back heavily into the seat of the car. "Our little cabbage patch kid here doesn't like it if I eat onions, or cheese, or pickles, or anything that tastes good." She patted her stomach, took a single saltine from the package the officer was awkwardly holding and crunched down on it. "Thanks, I'm for sure gonna need, I dunno." She glanced at the road, and a green SUV sped past. "At least two more of those, sorry." She took another two crackers from the packet. "You don't mind closing that up, yeah? It's the salt that helps, but if they get stale, they're just gross."
The trooper managed to close the package of crackers and set it on the dash, cracking open the ginger ale to hand it to Marie-Ange. Then abruptly remembering the license in his hand and why he was holding it, he looked down at it. "So, uh, Mr. Crockett..."
Doug smiled disarmingly. "I mean, I'd pull that line about that being my dad, but it's less funny when you're a 'Junior'. Just please don't call me Joseph. I go by Joe so that I don't have to find a nickname like Indiana to go by." As he chattered, an RV lumbered by at a speed that seemed frankly improbable. "That reminds me, honey, I know we've started talking about names, but we are definitely not letting my folks talk either of us into a Joseph Crockett the Third. I ain't putting that kind of pressure on our kid. I knew a guy who was a 'the third' in college, and he was nice enough, but a bit...yeah."
"Had you tried, I would have thrown up on you and not the gravel." Marie-Ange said, with a laugh. She took a sip of the ginger ale, and then another one. "I think the nice officer might like to remind you to stop driving so fast right now." She gave a smile, tipped the can in the officer's direction and then popped open the glove box, and finally, carefully, dug out the little folder that held the registration. "Joe's a sympathetic vomiter. I think you might've actually saved us from having both of us throw up lunch."
"The lady ain't wrong," the trooper said to the pair, visibly making a decision. He handed the license back to Doug and the registration to Marie-Ange. "I understand the urgency, and I'll just let y'all go with a warning, but just remember those speed limits are there for a reason. I want y'all to arrive safe and sound - all three of you."
Doug nodded and acknowledged the combination warning and guidance with a little half-wave/half-salute. "That's a promise I'm happy to make, officer. Thank you," he said warmly.
"All right then. Y'all be safe," the trooper repeated as he departed to walk back to his vehicle. Doug started the car back up and waited for a large gap in traffic before pulling back onto the freeway and carefully getting back up to just below the posted limit.
Marie-Ange couldn't help a muffled giggle as they got back up to speed. "I think I have a cavity." She said dryly, after a long drink of ginger ale - no sense in wasting it, and they had a few miles before she could throw out the can - and the stale crackers. She pulled her hair into a ponytail. "Changeling, we are clear. Trap sprung, going dark." She popped the earbud out. "Big Jack Horner is leaving us a package at the next truck stop. We pull in, they pull out, we pull over it."
Once they'd received the 'package' - a new set of plates for the Toyota - and unobtrusively made the swap between a pair of large semis that blocked any view of their vehicle, Doug had disposed of the 'warm' plates that had been at the very least put through a search when the trooper had stopped them. The 'Joe' and 'Maryanne' identities had gone in with the plates, and been carefully buried at the bottom of a dumpster that was close to overflowing.
And then he'd paid off what he 'owed' Marie-Ange for vomiting at the drop of a hat. In this case, the sort of snack food that she would probably only let one other person see her eat. And Amanda was currently in the RV, so... "Two bags of corn chips, big container of chili from the hot dog station, a couple of those little wax covered cheeses, and enough sauce packets to make it all palatable," he announced as he laid out the take on the trunk. Not that he was throwing stones - walking tacos were certainly something he ate himself at times.
"And your solemn vow you never saw me eating this." Marie-Ange pulled one of the bags open, and then liberally spooned chili into the bag. "At least not to anyone who might make fun. So not to Jubilee." She pulled a miniature sword out of nowhere, just like the one on her tattoo, and started breaking the cheese down into shreds. "I got you some of that terrible soda you like, and they had the green cucumber gatorade, so I got that and a hard lemonade for when you are in the RV and not driving." She dumped the handful of cheese into the bag, pinched it shut and shook. "What is the thing you say about the cat and the salami? That, only terrible internet food combinations."
She paused, and then with a triumphant grin, held up a plastic bag, distorted from it's usual shape into neat rectangular edges. "And." And it was clear Marie-Ange was excited, because she had reverted into casual French. "And, the cookie mercenaries were outside. I have the peanut butter ones."
"The cat? Oh, yes. Angie can have little a terrible rest stop snack. As a treat." Doug made grabby hands at the box of cookies. "...we should probably get enough for everyone else, shouldn't we?" He paused as the bit about the hard lemonade caught up to him. "Oh my god, you got me The Flavor? Have you been watching internet cooking videos again?"
"No, buying twenty five boxes is memorable. I told the team on the CB Radio already, Jubilee is circling back. And yes, it was How to Drink. He is educational." Marie-Ange said. "When one does not cook, one makes up for it with bartending skills and knowing everyone's cookie flavors." She hopped up on the trunk of the car, and dug a fork into her bag of chips and chili. "This is a good funeral feast for those identities, since they were born in this part of the country." Well, New Mexico, but close enough, she supposed, as she cracked open her own bottle of Gatorade - light purple, a flavor she couldn't identify except by colour - and took a long drink.
"Lo, there do I see my father...lo, there do I see my mother..." Doug intoned in High Asgardian with a few grand gestures, then stopped and grinned at Marie-Ange. "On second thought, maybe we shouldn't light the dumpster as a funeral pyre."
Jubilee is Jubilee. Kevin is… Kevin. There’s talk of caffeine and music.
The driver swap had taken place at a rest station which was littered with enough bullet riddled beer cans it looked like Budweiser's last stand. Kevin shifted out of the lead car and into Gator. The little green car was his last choice, but someone needed to take the scut work and unlike the rest of them, he was still relatively fresh after days on the road. He tossed his cowboy hat back in the RV and retrieved the brown pork pie hat before sliding behind the wheel.
"Ah, Lee. I see I get you for this stretch. Did you sleep or is this a mix of Red Bull and gummy candies?" He said, settling his coffee thermos between the seats and flipping through the grab bag of cassettes this car could play.
“I like to think of it as like, opening my mind to all the opportunities of the universe.” Jubilee replied as she took a moment to fasten her seatbelt and eye his choices. “I have a cassette to aux adapter, you know.”
Kevin looked her dead in the eye as he slotted in a cassette without looking at it. "I'm trapped in this roadtrip with you people. The utter randomness of the music is the only thing keeping violent thoughts at bay."
“Dude, you love us,” Jubilee said with a grin but she settled back in her seat with only a token roll of her eyes. “Just know that your coffee is only as safe as your speed in defending it.”
"Touch the thermos and you spend the rest of your shift in the trunk while I find the off-road detours." He revved the engine as the voice of Paul Simon emerged from the speakers. "If you need coffee, we'll stop and get you some. This is still from my private stash that I brew."
“I still think it’s treason that you don’t share that,” Jubilee muttered with a fake pout as her fingers tapped to the beat. She had no idea who this was but it wasn’t bad. Something about leaving home and family. “It’s not the same if I buy it.”
"Yes, I know your life mission of stealing absolutely everything. But there's only three places along this route I know of that will brew it right and we passed the last one nine hours ago." He rolled his shoulders for a second, settling in as he pulled out on the highway. They were the tail car tonight, there to stay back and look for anyone potentially following the RV. "Graceland... that's the song." He muttered.
“Everybody should have a hobby,” Jubilee replied with an idle grin as she crossed her legs on her seat. Sometimes she did it just because she could and being in small spaces made her happy. “But fine, scarcity does make something a little less stealable then say, McDonalds fries. I’ve never been to Graceland, always wanted to go. Supposedly you can get a peanut butter and banana sandwich at this place called Glady’s diner.”
She watched their surroundings through the front windscreen, enjoying the wide openness of them. It was different to cities, even if cities were easier to move through.
"The song is Graceland. Not any of that Elvis junk." Kevin said, dropping back an extra couple of car positions to get a closer look at a black van that concerned him.
“Not a fan of the King?” Jubilee asked idly.
Her attitude had shifted slightly however as he dropped back, her eyes trained to the cars around them. She didn’t have Kevin’s years of experience but she wasn’t unskilled either.
"The King. Sure." Kevin sniffed. "Compared to Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Wilson Pickett, Little Richard... Elvis was the King of good marketing and even better copying of black musicians and dancers to imitate them to the white audiences they were prevented from playing for."
“Wilson Pickett?” Jubilee let the rest pass, she’d heard of them, listened to some of their songs even but it wasn’t her music. She’d mostly grown up listening to whatever the musac version of popular tunes were, or on the rare occasion she was somewhere better, classical music.
Kevin muttered one of his favourite and more importantly long Korean curses under his breath. "Let's just say there's many better options than Elvis to enjoy."
“Dude, you kiss your mother with that mouth,” Jubilee replied with a laugh as she continued to watch the cars around them. It was a busy Highway at this time of the day. “You’ll have to introduce me, Kev. I’m only a heathen till better knowledge comes along.”
"My mother died in 1937."
“And my parents died when I was eleven. I cried a lot. Pretty sure that’s why I have no concept of appropriate conversational topics.”
Jubilee eyed the dropping light as the drove, her eyes drifting off to the side of the road to look out over the mountains.
“So who was Wilson Pickett?”
"The seventeenth President of the United States." Kevin said wryly.
“Was he the one with the really tall hat and beard?” Jubilee asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Didn’t he throw tea into a Harbour or something?”
"No, you're thinking of George Clinton."
“Nah dude, he was that funk Music guy, you’re thinking of George Carlin, sure of it,”
She tapped her fingers on her knees as she leaned her head back against the headrest of her chair and watched the sun go down.
"I saw Carlin in the Village once. Played The Bitter End in '67. Hell of a show." Kevin said offhandedly.
“Duuuude. For serious? I’m like jelly big time. I never got to see him live.”
Her eyes were locked on the landscape around them now, their car seeming to be racing the sun as they drove. Valley stretched out to either side, dips and mountains catching shadow and light in halos of fiery oranges and deep purples.
“You know, all serious business aside and forced bonding time being whatever. It’s this kinda stuff that makes long drives totally worth it.”
"Never been through the Painted Desert before. It's... yeah, it's something." Kevin said, spoiling the moment only slightly by pouring himself a coffee.
“It’s beautiful,” Jubilee replied, her tone softer, as if anything louder might disturb the moment. She nodded at the coffee. “Sure you won’t share?”
"I swear to god, one of these days, Lee..." He muttered and handed the cup over.
